Tomorrow's ghost (12 page)

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then why do you think you and Paul were sent to Yorkshire?’

‘To watch Colonel Butler.’

‘What makes you think that?’

Require
was still in force.

‘Because that’s what we did, in effect.’

‘Yes?’

‘Because nothing else makes sense.’

‘Go on.’

‘And you are here now.’

‘Which you think makes it a matter of internal security.
Go on.
’

She was tired, and the thick serge material of the old dressing gown no longer kept the night chill from her shoulders.

‘Which still doesn’t make much sense … sir.’

‘And do you think Colonel Butler could reach the same conclusion—that you were sent to watch him?’

‘I don’t know Colonel Butler well enough to answer that. I didn’t have long enough to watch him.’

‘But I require your opinion.’

Require.

‘I think … no, I don’t think so. I think—Paul thought—that he wanted to know why we’d been sent to him, and that was why he sent me back home. If you want me to go back again to watch him I’ll have to have a much better cover story.’

‘He smelt a rat, then?’

‘I wouldn’t put it as strongly as that.’ Frances thought hard for a moment. It occurred to her that Butler would have to be damn good to have worked out what they had been doing, since they hadn’t known themselves what they were doing.

But then Butler
was
damn good.

‘Yes?’

‘I think he simply didn’t know what to make of us … I suppose it depends whether or not he’s expecting to be watched. If he is, then … yes. If he isn’t … then I don’t think so.

He had a lot of other matters on his hands.’

Silence.

‘Good.’

More silence. It was almost like being blind: she could sense the presence of the things she knew were around her. Sir Frederick two yards in front of her, the incinerator on her right, the cricket stump at her feet, and on her left the scatter of Marilyn’s proofs of identity bulging out of the plastic handbag—Birth Certificate and National Insurance card. Post Office Savings book and Agency references … even the misspelt letter from ‘Dad’ and the holiday snapshot of Marilyn in her bikini, posed self-consciously against the alleged beach umbrellas of Torremolinos. So much effort for nothing!

‘What is your opinion of Colonel Butler?’

It was a logical question after her last answer. And it required—required—the truth.

Nothing else would do.

‘I think he’s good.’

Well, that was nothing more than the truth, anyway. If she was expected to have noticed more than that it was their hard luck, they’d have to go to Paul for that.

‘But you said you didn’t see very much of him really, did you?’

‘No, I suppose not.’ The truth requirement roused her obstinacy. ‘But I liked what I saw.’

‘Yes. But that wasn’t a great deal, was it?’ He pressed the point again, like a man committed to pushing a door marked ‘Pull’. ‘I’m afraid things didn’t go quite according to plan there. We were expecting him to keep you alongside him a little longer—as he did with Paul.’

If by ‘things’ he was referring to a certain briefcase, then things had certainly not gone quite according to plan, thought Frances. Yet she had never observed such insensitivity in him before, and he wasn’t the sort of man who pushed ‘Pull’ doors. So he was after something else.

‘I think he sent me to the Library because it was supposed to be safe. Sir Frederick.’

‘Because you were a woman, d’you mean?’

He was goading her, quite deliberately.

‘Possibly. I gather he doesn’t altogether approve of women, that’s true … But I’d guess it was also because I’d never worked for him before, so he didn’t want to have to worry about how I’d perform.’

‘Yes?’ He’d wanted more, and now he knew it was coming.

‘You can check with Paul—as you say, he saw more than I did…’ And what would Paul say? she wondered. Well, Paul was no fool, and even with no straw for his bricks he’d been way ahead of her this time. In fact, he’d had the answer in the palm of his hand—he’d grasped it, but he simply hadn’t recognised it. Which wasn’t really surprising, because it was an almost unbelievable answer.

The enormity of it—her answer, her conclusion—hit her again.

They had been watching Colonel Butler.

And it was a matter of internal security.

She knew she was right. Even if Sir Frederick hadn’t yet confirmed it in so many direct words, she knew she was right, just as she knew that Colonel Butler was formidably good at his job even though she had observed him directly for only a few minutes. But she also knew that there was something not right—something not wrong, but nevertheless not right either—with her conclusion.

And part of that not-rightness lay in the way Sir Frederick was waiting so patiently for her to put her thoughts together, too patiently for the circumstances, as though she had all the time in the world; time which he couldn’t have, otherwise he wouldn’t be here, in the dark of her garden.

‘I don’t know …’ What he wanted her to explain couldn’t rationally be explained; even in the dark it would be like taking her clothes off in public before an eager and critical crowd. Yet his patience hemmed her in on all sides. ‘I suppose you could say I saw him when he was up against it—first on a job he hated and then when everything was going wrong … and you can’t measure time in minutes at times like that.’

‘So you had enough … of that sort of time to observe Colonel Butler to your satisfaction?’ He sounded unsatisfied.

‘I thought so, yes.’ She knew it wasn’t going to be enough.

Thought?’

‘After what you’ve said—‘

‘Forget what I’ve said.’ He cut her off quickly. ‘I haven’t said anything.’

‘But you have.’

‘Then you must consider the possibility that you may have misinterpreted it.’ He paused. ‘You were very impressed with Colonel Butler’s performance under stress.

That’s understandable—he’s an extremely competent man. He wouldn’t be where he is, doing what he’s doing, if he wasn’t. You’re only telling me what I already know, Frances.’

‘What else do you want?’ She heard her voice sharpen defensively. ‘What else do you expect?’

‘From you—I don’t want sentences beginning “I suppose you could say”. I know what I’d say. I want to know what you can say. I want to know what you
felt.
’

Now he was spelling it out, what she had already sensed. And now she could also sense the urgency beneath his patience, like blast-furnace heat through thick asbestos.

But how did he know that she had
felt
anything about Colonel Butler? And even if he thought he knew—he couldn’t know a thing like that, it wasn’t possible to do more than think it—why did he want to know what she felt? Of what conceivable value would that be to him?

‘Come on, Frances—‘ the voice out of the dark was gentle, but inexorable ‘—just tell me what you felt about him. It’s quite simple.’

‘It isn’t simple—‘ Her own voice sounded harsh and uncertain by comparison. ‘No, I don’t mean that—it’s very simple. But it isn’t rational. I mean, I can’t explain it rationally.’

‘Then don’t explain it. Just describe it.’

‘But it’s too fanciful.’

‘So … you wouldn’t put it in a report to Brigadier Stocker—I accept that. But you are not reporting to Stocker now, you are reporting to me. And I want an answer.’

Frances felt a stirring of fear again, but this time it was a fear she could handle.

Indeed, it was almost—or not almost, but actually—a sensation she found pleasing: if fear was a habit-forming drug then there were some varieties of it to which she was immune, like the briefcase fear; but this variety was indistinguishable from pure excitement, like the recurrent dream of bird-flight she had had in the old days—in Robbie’s days—when she had not understood how she could fly, or why she was flying, but only that the ground was falling away from her and she was free of it.

So now she was in the middle of something she didn’t understand, something which was very perilous—to be off the record with Sir Frederick must be altogether perilous: if she was flying, then it was as Icarus had flown, towards the sun—but at least for a moment she was free of restraint, and of the shyness which always clogged her opinions. ‘You want me to be—you require me—to be fanciful?’

‘Require? Oh yes, I see—“require” according to David Audley—is that it?’ The smile was there in the darkness again. ‘Well, then—yes. I require it, Frances.’

‘All right. Then I had a feeling—a fancy—about Colonel Butler. If you like … an instinct.’

‘An instinct … Yes?’

‘I said I thought he was good.’

She hesitated.

‘So you did.’

‘It was a Freudian choice of words. I didn’t mean simply good at his job—efficient, formidable—I meant
good.
’

This time she understood his silence. It was an awkward word to digest, even an anaconda might think twice before trying to swallow it whole.

‘Good .. . meaning virtuous?’ He surprised her by not even attempting to belittle the word down to manageable size with an easier one.

‘Yes.’

‘I see. Which accounts for your disquiet—whatever side a virtuous man is on, that’s the right side. Do you think that is invariably the case?’

‘Of course not.’

‘But in this case you hope so—even if it makes your other guess wrong?’

‘Is it wrong?’

‘A good question. Do you often have instincts like this about people?’

He was playing with her, thought Frances bitterly. And yet she could have sworn that a moment before, when he had required her to tell him what he felt about Colonel Butler, he had been deadly serious.

But that moment was over. ‘Why are you so interested in my so-called instinct. Sir Frederick?’

‘Not only yours, my dear.’

‘But mine in this instance.’

‘True … Then for two reasons.’ He paused. ‘You see, everyone has the faculty of instinct, more or less—it’s a survival from our animal past. Our pre-prehistoric legacy, if you like.’

‘And I have a special legacy, do I?’

‘As it happens, we think you do, Frances. Unfortunately, however, it’s a legacy in a very doubtful currency. Because in modern human beings it is heavily devalued—grossly distorted, more accurately … by reason in the first place—the Darwinian essential of instinct is independence from reason—and by emotion in the second. In the male of the species reason is the main problem, and in the female it is emotion—generally speaking, of course.’

Chauvinist! thought Frances.

‘Is that so?’ she said coldly.

‘Now in your case, Frances, reason and emotion are probably both problems.

Whereas in Paul’s case reason is undoubtedly by far the larger problem—‘

They had probably been unable to find any emotions at all in Paul, except possibly anger and pride, decided Frances.

‘—so much so that he’ll probably have to make do without instinct altogether, and manage with experience and knowledge. But then fortunately he has an exceptional memory, and very considerable powers of observation … But that’s beside the point. In
your
case, Frances, it’s almost as though reason and emotion sometimes cancel each other out, and you are left … as it were … with pure instinct.’

‘Sometimes?’

‘Yes. In the controlled tests we gave you a few years ago—and as confirmed by subsequent field observations—we gave you a score of four out of ten on a notional scale.’

‘Four?’ Frances felt deflated. If she was a pre-prehistoric female animal under the skin, she wasn’t a very efficient one, clearly. ‘Four?’

‘Four out of ten.’

‘So I can’t rely on my instinct, then.’

‘You certainly cannot. If you could you’d be an animal, my dear—you wouldn’t be talking to me here in the dark, you’d be hunting me for supper. There’s a million years of evolution, not to mention a few thousand years of civilisation, between nine-point-nine out of ten and four out of ten.’

She stared at him. Four-out-of-ten lacked night-vision too. And four-out-of-ten was cold and confused.

‘Then … if my score is so low … why -‘

‘Low? My dear Frances, it isn’t
low.
The consistent mark for instinct—among experienced officers—is
two.
And anything near three is exceptional.’

The chilly fingers between her shoulder blades were not those of the night. ‘And four?’

‘Four is phenomenal. Literally … because we’ve never had a four. Which means sometimes—no, I’m not going into the details. One day I’ll arrange a meeting between you and our psychological people. Only you’ll have to be careful with them—four years ago they wanted to keep you and take you to pieces to see how you worked. Huh!’

Frances frowned into the darkness between them. Four years before there had been a lot of tests—everything from conventional I.Q. papers and ink blots to weird guessing games and an elaborate version of hunt-the-thimble. They had seemed to go on for an unconscionable time; in fact, hers had gone on longer than anyone else’s, which she had assumed was either because she was a woman or because she was a borderline candidate. But she had nevertheless taken them all for granted.

Well, her phenomenal four-out-of-ten instinct hadn’t worked then, that was for sure! she decided grimly.

‘The fact was—and is—that you are more valuable to us, my dear,’ concluded Sir Frederick. ‘But let’s go inside—you must be perished with cold. It was altogether thoughtless of me to keep you out here in the dark, beautiful though it is, your night sky.’

In the dark, thought Frances. She had been in the dark and she was still in the dark.

‘No—wait. You said there were two reasons. Sir Frederick.’ In the light she would be over-awed by him: out here the odds were evened up.

‘So I did. Very well … you had never served under Butler before. If we’d told you to go and observe him then I believe your instinct would have been distorted. You would never have had that one clear vision you had today. And that was what I wanted you to have, Frances. It was the first thing you had to have.’