The Crash, page 25
‘It’s cold,’ she says. She’s wearing a thin blouse. Her silk camisole is visible underneath. She guides me, her arm still wrapped around me.
Shit. I hope Jess can’t see us. She might misinterpret. We’re nearly at the lake, its black glassy surface lit up with reflected rockets and starbursts.
‘I can’t see Jess,’ I say.
‘This way.’ The woman steers me around the lake, away from the crowds. I am confused. Why are we going away from everyone? It feels bad, but I don’t know why. We’re heading towards the water. Water. My head is trying to show me something, something important I’ve forgotten, but there’s a fog in my brain and I can’t see it.
Above us there’s a kaleidoscope of a thousand colours. These are the most beautiful pyrotechnics of my life. I want to share the preciousness of this moment with this woman, but I am struggling to find words. I’m woozy, wobbly. I want to go back, I want to go home. I can’t.
‘Where are we going?’ I mumble.
‘Don’t worry, darling. This is what you want.’
I feel planks under my feet. I’m on a pontoon dock. It’s familiar. Why?
Hampstead Heath, Highgate Ponds. Muller.
I need to leave. I turn and try to walk back to the house, but my legs won’t do what I’m telling them. The woman is no longer at my side. She’s in front of me. Facing me. I look to left and right. Water on both sides. We’ve come a long way down the pontoon.
Should I shout? Or wave? I look to the shore and we’re hidden by willows around the edge of the lake.
She moves closer towards me, circling her arms around me. I can feel her warm breath on my face. Her breasts are now pressed against me. This is wrong. ‘Don’t worry, darling,’ she whispers again, close to my ear. ‘It’ll all soon be over.’
The fireworks above are exploding in a concatenation of fire and thunder. I look up and then down at the angelic face so close to mine, lips slightly parted, eyes fiery and wide.
Please let me go.
There are hands on my chest. Pushing gently, firmly. I shuffle back, and then there’s nothing beneath my feet. And I am tumbling. Falling backwards. Down. Into cold and darkness.
Chapter 21
H
AVE YOU EVER HAD ONE of those nights where you want to wake up but you have lost all power to move your limbs? This happened to me a lot when I was a child. It was terrifying. I was paralysed, and I knew for certain I would die if I couldn’t shake myself out of it. It took the most monumental effort of will to thrash about and force myself awake. That’s how I feel now, except I’m not clammy under the blankets but colder than I’ve ever been. And I have this inescapable fear that if I do what I am desperate to do, which is breathe in, I am finished.
Kick, Gil, kick. There’s a voice in my head. It’s familiar. It’s not mine. It’s a woman’s voice. Who? It’s Mum. It’s Jess. It’s Marilyn. Whatever you do, don’t breathe in.
Despite myself I am still sinking. Nothing works. Nothing works! Down I go. Deeper and deeper. I seem to be falling forever. Perhaps I want to die. I couldn’t save my sister Clare, I couldn’t save Marilyn, I abandoned them. I don’t deserve to live.
Now I’m back in the chemotherapy room with Mum. She’s grey. Something very bad has happened. What? I try to say to her, It’s all right Mum. You’ll be all right. And I see Jess on the bench of the playground in Queen’s Park. Amy plunges head first down the slide. But Jess just stares blankly into nowhere.
Fuck it. Elliott’s not going to win. I can see Alex Elliott’s face, transformed into Charles Laughton’s leering Quasimodo, brandishing a photograph. Fuck you, Elliott. Fuck you. From somewhere, a shot of adrenaline is injected into my system. I can barely hold my breath. Water is seeping into my lungs, despite myself.
Then it happens. The miracle. I will myself to kick and the neurons spark a reaction. Kick. Again. Kick. Again. My arms, too. They are pushing me higher. I have the power: to move, to save myself. Fuck you, Elliott. My head breaks the surface.
I gulp in great lungfuls of air. It’s not enough. More. I need more. Where’s the pontoon? I panic. Have I drifted out? The fireworks are over. It’s too dark. Where’s land? I flail, and my left hand hits the wood of the landing. Hard, though it’s not really pain I feel because the icy water has anaesthetised my nerves.
I need to haul myself up somehow. I’m weak, too weak. I’ve swum a hundred miles. First I pull desperately with fingers on the edge of the pontoon. Then swivel from fingers to palms. Push. Push. Push. One more. Then slither. And wriggle. Like a fat walrus. I am the walrus. I laugh at my joke. The walrus has landed. I’m on my side, on the pontoon.
I’m freezing. I’m not sure I’ve ever been so cold. Safe now. But I’ll have a quick sleep, a quick schloof and then I’ll go back. Just a little nap. I curl up and drift into sleep. It’s a nice sleep. Because someone I really like is here. Gil, I hear. It’s that voice again, the one who saved me when I was in the water. Gil, for God’s sake wake up. I don’t want to wake up. It’s nice in my dreams. I am safe here. Gil. It’s me, Jess. Please wake up. Jess? I remember now. My girlfriend. What a nice thought. I have a girlfriend. She’s brainy, and pretty, and we like each other.
What on earth?!!! Someone’s hurting me. Pushing down hard on my chest. I seem to be on my back now. There are hands on my thorax. Pressing. Pressing. Pressing. I open my eyes. ‘What’s going on?’ I splutter. ‘Stop that, please. It hurts.’
‘Gil, you’re OK.’
I push myself up into a sitting position. Jess is on her knees just in front of me.
‘What were you doing?’
‘I panicked. I thought your heart had stopped. I was trying to give you CPR.’
‘CPR?’
‘Well what I thought was CPR. I had first-aid training ages ago. But truthfully, I’ve forgotten how to do it.’
I laugh. She laughs. And then she sits down beside me and throws her arms around me. Just for a minute, we hold each other, till I start to shiver uncontrollably.
‘You’re soaked through,’ she says. She takes off her jacket and wraps it around me.
I sit back on my haunches, legs tucked under me, and start rocking and crying. I seem to be crying all the time at the moment. What’s got into me?
‘I’ve got water all over your beautiful dress. I’m so sorry.’
She snorts. ‘Don’t be an idiot. Who cares. Are you OK?’
‘I don’t know. I think so.’
‘How did you end up in the water?’
I try to piece it together. ‘I was looking for you. That girl we saw at reception brought me here.’
‘The girl with the legs?’
‘Yes. Sorry.’
Jess sighs.
‘She said you’d be here. She tried to kiss me. And the next thing I remember is that I was in the water.’
Jess is frowning. ‘So you made a pass and she pushed you in?’
‘No, I promise. That’s not what happened. It was like I was really stoned, but I didn’t take anything. I was totally out of it. I had no interest in her. I swear. She had some game, some plan.’ I’m spluttering incoherently, but it’s the best I can do.
‘We can talk about this later. Now we need to get you dry.’
‘You are the best thing that has happened to me for years, maybe forever. I’m not going to risk losing you. Please believe me.’
‘You’re good with words, Gil.’
But she hauls me to my feet and wraps herself around me again.
‘I think somebody wants to kill me.’
‘I think you may be right. But how much did you have to drink?’
‘You think I’m pissed and fell in.’
‘I don’t think that. But it’s what other people will think, and it’s what Elliott will say.’
We’re walking slowly back to the lights of the house. Jess has her arm around my back, just like the long-legged angel of death. I’m still shaking.
‘I had a glass of Krug when I arrived, then a glass of wine, and then a slurp of a Sazerac as I came out. Normally that would not be enough to knock me out.’
Jess shrugs. She’s not convinced, and nor am I.
Every few steps, I stumble.
‘You do seem pretty drunk.’
‘I swear I’m not. There’s something else in my system.’
There are people milling on the terrace. I have a horror of being seen like this. ‘Can we go straight to the car park, please?’
‘Isn’t it better if we get you dry first?’
‘Please Jess.’
‘OK. But we need to find the girl.’
I never want to see her again.
‘No.’ I am thinking rationally again. ‘If I make a complaint, she’ll just say I made a pass. Elliott will spin it, and after what’s been in the Globe, everyone will take her side. I’ll be a laughing stock. A sex pest. Finished.’
Janice would never stand by me after a second such scandal. That would be a risk too far for the corporation.
Jess gives me a squeeze. We skirt around the front of the house. Although I calculate it’s well after midnight, few guests are leaving the party, and the only observers of our eccentric retreat are a couple of car park stewards and a security guard. I am terrified they will offer to help, but none does. We’re just another pair of entitled rich bastards off their heads.
Jess puts me in the VW, turns on the engine and puts the heater on full blast. ‘Take off your clothes.’
‘I’m not in the mood.’
‘You’re always in the mood.’ She pecks me on the cheek. ‘I’m going back to the terrace,’ she says. ‘Elliott put out blankets for smokers and anyone who wanted to sit outside. I’ll grab a couple.’ She turns and takes something from the back seat, a North Face anorak. ‘Drape this over you till I’m back.’
I wriggle out of my trousers in Jess’s front seat, mourning the wretched state of my beautiful suit. I assume the crappy Nokia is dead. It takes all my strength to get the horrible, clinging clothes off. By the time I’ve finally dumped all the wet things on the back seat, Jess has come back with three blankets. She wraps them around me, then clips the seatbelt over them. They are surprisingly soft.
I’m so exhausted, my eyes keep closing. I try to keep awake by turning to look at her. She is sombre, angry.
‘I’m sorry,’ I mumble.
‘It’s not you. It’s that everyone denied any knowledge of your leggy temptress. The girls at the front said they didn’t know what I was talking about. I ran into Elliott, so I made up some bullshit about her telling me she wanted to get into journalism. He said he didn’t have the faintest idea who I was talking about. It’s as though she never existed. They are such liars.’
I’m relieved. I’d feared she’d be wheeled out by Elliott to allege that I made a fool of myself coming on too strong. I assume at some point he’ll ramp up his campaign against me, the way he did with Marilyn. But I am too tired to talk about it. I close my eyes.
Some time later, I’m woken by the stirring refrain of ‘Lilliburlero’. Jess has put on the World Service. We’ve come into London, on the A40 flyover, passing White City on the right-hand side.
‘Welcome back,’ she says.
‘Thanks.’
‘How are you feeling?’
I think about it. ‘Surprisingly OK.’
‘Headache?’
‘Funnily enough, nothing.’
On the radio, there’s a report about the contest between Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama to be the Democrat candidate in the forthcoming presidential election.
‘Do you think the lake water was clean?’ I ask. ‘Do I need a tetanus injection?’
‘Play it safe and go to your GP in the morning.’
On the radio, the reporter is saying that the nomination is Clinton’s to lose, but that the relatively unknown Obama is picking up momentum.
‘I’ll take you back to mine,’ says Jess. I’m grateful. I’m scared of being alone tonight. ‘You’ll have to sleep in the spare room: I haven’t had a chance to talk to Amy about the two of us yet.’
‘Of course. Thank you for looking after me.’
‘You’d do the same for me.’
‘I worry that in practice it’s always you rescuing me.’
She smiles. I feel warm, for the first time in hours.
*
I thrash around in the bed all night. I’m back in the lake, frantically trying to swim to the surface, but someone is holding my feet, trying to pull me down. At 7.15, I am roused by Amy, who comes in with a cup of black coffee.
‘Are you moving in?’ she asks.
I don’t know the right answer. Before I make a fool of myself, Jess appears at the door. ‘Is that what Mum wants, Amy?’
‘Yes Mummy, I think you do.’
‘What Mum wants is for you to find your school rucksack and put on your coat.’
‘OK grumpy Mummy.’
After Amy runs out, Jess comes over to kiss me, checking immediately afterwards that we’ve not been observed.
‘How are you this morning?’
‘Probably better than I deserve to be.’
‘You need a shower: you pong of stagnant water. We’ve got a lot to discuss, so get a move on.’
‘Have you got anything I can wear?’
An hour later, we’re in Jess’s airy front room. I’ve just rung my neighbour on Jess’s phone to ask her to feed Dog and take him out the front. I look absurd in leisurewear that’s several sizes too small. Jess is in jeans and a clingy black cashmere polo neck. I can’t take my eyes off her. It’s embarrassing. We’re next to each other on the sofa, and I still can’t believe that it’s OK for her body to be in contact with mine.
‘Did you tell Elliott I fell in the lake, when you saw him?’ I ask.
‘No. You said you didn’t want anyone to know.’
‘So if he organised it, won’t he think I’m dead?’ I’m wondering if that could be used to our advantage.
‘Seems unlikely. Won’t he work out why I was looking for the brunette?’
‘Yeah probably.’ I’m feeling a bit let down. Being dead briefly felt glamorous. ‘Where are my trousers?’ I ask.
‘Utility room at the end of the kitchen. They’re still unwearable.’
I find them and rummage through pockets until I locate the photo I stole and the Olympus recorder. The recorder won’t switch on: the water killed it. But the recording is on a smart media card, which should be intact.
‘Do you have an Olympus recorder, or some way of playing this media card?’ I ask Jess.
‘I’ve got a gizmo that will allow me to play it through the laptop.’ She fiddles around with a box that plugs into her computer. ‘What’s this?’
‘I eavesdropped on a conversation last night. I recorded it.’
The recording is muffled by the thick curtain I was behind, but we can make out most of it. Jess listens intently to Ravel, Blackwell and Elliott discussing their plan to save PTBG by extracting £25 billion from the Saudis. We then play it again, and Jess makes notes.
‘So PTBG is almost bust and looking to the Saudis for a rescue, to avoid being nationalised by Tudor,’ Jess says, and then sucks on the end of her Pilot pen. ‘But why would Blackwell and Ravel prefer a takeover by the Saudis? Why does it matter so much to keep out the British government?’
‘Presumably the Saudis would leave Blackwell at the helm. He’d keep his multi-million-pound salary. He’d avoid public humiliation. That wouldn’t happen if Neville Tudor was in charge. Tudor would sack him and pillory him. And under Saudi control, there’d be the illusion for the board that the bank was still an independent operation.’
‘But with that much money going in, it would effectively be nationalisation by Saudi Arabia. Why’s that better than UK nationalisation?’
‘Never underestimate the importance of appearances to these people. They live and die by self-delusion,’ I say.
‘But why should Ravel care about any of it?’ Jess always wants all the answers at once. Uncertainty induces almost physical discomfort in her. ‘If he was being consistent, he’d take the view that PTBG had been incompetent, like NewGate, and ought to be allowed to go bust.’
‘Play the recording back again. There is half an answer.’
She does. Midway through we hear Blackwell’s strong Glaswegian accent: You want to keep the government out just as much as I do. Neither of us needs government-appointed auditors looking at our books.
She presses pause. ‘Blackwell implies there are transactions in PTBG’s ledgers that could embarrass Ravel.’
‘Now listen to the next bit.’
The Sheikh says there’ll be no cash unless and until we deliver Athena.
‘What’s Athena?’ I ask.
‘I think I know.’ Jess opens up her browser on the laptop, and Googles. ‘I’m right. Athena Tech, based just outside of Cambridge.’
‘What do they do?’
‘Privately owned. There’s a limit to what’s in the public domain. The paper’s been interested in them for a while. They’re reputed to have cutting-edge military technology, something to do with missile defence systems.’ She clicks on a link to the FC website. ‘There’s been talk they’re about to sell themselves, for a lot of money.’
‘Another great British intellectual-property success that’ll be flogged off to the highest foreign bidder. Presumably to the Saudis.’
Jess is still reading. ‘Guess who is close to Athena?’
‘Ravel?’
‘In a way. It’s actually Johnny Todd. His peace institute is sponsored by Athena.’
The Johnny Todd Institute for Peace and Global Justice is a think tank set up by our erstwhile prime minister. Ostensibly it researches and promotes solutions to conflicts in the Middle East and Asia. Or – as his critics say – it provides a cover so that Todd can extract massive fees from billionaire sheikhs for commercially valuable introductions.
‘I’ll email Athena and ask for an off-the-record chat about its plans.’
While Jess taps away, I get up from the sofa to stretch my legs. Looking at the photos lining the mantelpiece reminds me of the second thing I learned last night.
‘There’s something else.’ Gingerly, I unfold the photo of the Malmsey Club I nicked from Elliott’s living room. Immersion in the lake has left it blurred, but recognisable.
