Charles Cumming - The hidden man

‘So what else did he say about her?’

‘That she’s a writer. A journalist of sorts.’

‘For the Standard, yes.’

‘Actually, he gave me a photograph of your wedding day.’

The revelation hit Ben with the full force of betrayal. He was not even conscious of the speed with which his temper flared.

‘He did what?’

Keen realized instantly that he had made a mistake.

‘I have it hanging in my flat,’ he said, feigning innocence. ‘You didn’t know?’

‘You had no right to take that.’

‘It was a present.’

‘It was an invasion of our privacy.’

‘Well, I think you’re over-reacting. It looked like the most wonderful day. There’s really no need to be upset.’

Several heads now turned to look at Ben, yet he was aware of nothing but his own anger. Every promise he had made to Mark and Alice, every private undertaking to give his father a second chance, had evaporated.

‘You think you have any right to tell me that?’

‘Mark informed me that he’d asked your permission.’

‘Oh, come off it. You trying to play us off against each other? Is that how this works? Divide and rule? You think that by making me angry with Mark I’ll somehow come over to your side?’

The thought had occurred to Keen, but he said, ‘Of course not, don’t be ridiculous,’ with as much credibility as he could muster. Flushed now with the awkwardness of a very public row, he searched for a means of salvaging what was in all probability a lost cause. Mark had been biddable and eager to please, as accommodating and straight forward as his mother. But Ben was a different proposition. Looking across the table at his son, Keen might almost have been faced with himself.

‘I don’t know what exactly it was that you were expecting from me this evening.’

Ben looked at him, almost breathless in the wake of his outburst, and realized that he did not know either. He was sure only that their reconciliation had come too soon, or that Mark should have accompanied him to dilute the awful sense of occasion. He wanted very much to leave, to go back to his old life, to the simplicity of the abandoned child. And yet in the square just a few nights before he had been so sure, and really only waiting for Mark to provide him with the excuse he needed to reach out and take the step. His mind was a cross-hatch of contradictory emotions: of loyalty to Carolyn; of anger at himself for lacking the maturity and good sense merely to sit the evening out; of frustration at Mark for betraying his trust. Most oddly perhaps, he felt affection towards Keen for craving a simple photograph of his wedding day. There was love contained in such a gesture: perhaps that, above all, was what had upset him.

For five minutes they ate their soup without saying a word, until Ben could no longer stomach the awful metal silence of cutlery and glass. With the conviction of a man seemingly faced with no other choice, he pushed his bowl to one side and cleared his throat.

‘You know, I just think I’m going to have to go,’ he said, and Keen seemed to have expected it.

Calmly, he picked up his napkin, wiped the corners of his mouth and with a slow, physical deliberation said, ‘Fine, yes, I think that’s a good idea. I can understand that this has been very difficult for you. I invited you here this evening because I hoped that…’

But Ben did not even hear him finish. He rose from the table, took his jacket from the chair and walked the short distance to the lobby. Eyes followed him; there were murmured expressions of surprise. His entire body felt hot with shame and regret as he pushed through the revolving doors and went out on to the street.

Mark was lying on the hard, starched bed of his Moscow hotel room, nursing a stomach cramp brought on by two days of cheap Georgian wine and deep-fried meats. Thomas Macklin was downstairs in the lobby cracking jokes with an entourage of deal-hungry Russians wearing badly cut suits and explosive aftershave. Neither of them had any idea of the where abouts of Sebastian Roth.

Ben telephoned him from a booth outside Charing Cross Station. At first Mark thought about ignoring the call, but he had given his number to a good-looking French television journalist whose eyes had worked him over at a bar on Tverskaya. There was just the faint possibility that it might be her, bored and lonely on another cold night in Moscow. He cleared his voice by saying ‘Telephone’ into the room and moved off the bed. His body felt slow and lumpen, a searing pain across his abdomen when his feet touched the floor.

‘Yes? Hello?’

‘I fucked up.’

His brother’s voice was so clear he might have been speaking from the next room.

‘Ben?’

‘I couldn’t do it. Couldn’t sit there and listen to his bullshit. I didn’t have the patience just to ride it out and let everything take its course.’

Mark rubbed his face.

‘What happened? You went to the dinner?’

‘Yeah. Lost my rag. Flew at him. Why d’you give him the photograph, brother? Why d’you do that?’

Dissembled by fatigue, Mark rubbed his head and said, ‘He told you about that?’

‘Yeah.’

‘It was just a present, a way of showing him…’

He heard Ben sigh deeply, then the noise of passengers going into the station.

‘Fuck it,’ he said. ‘Look, don’t worry. It’s not important. I just needed to talkto you. I think I would have walked out whatever.’

‘What happened?’ Mark asked again.

‘Nothing. Everything. He was confident, tricky. I never felt comfortable. So I got upset, started asking awkward questions, putting him on the spot. I don’t know why I did it, Mark. I never felt comfortable letting Mum down.’

‘Sure. Sure.’

‘It was like I was just looking for an excuse to lose my temper. You know how I can do that?’

‘I know how you can do that,’ Mark said softly.

‘I mean, I’m not looking for a fight, but sometimes…’

‘I know. I know.’

Ben stopped talking. He was dimly aware of the piss and grime of Charing Cross Station. He fed the last of his coins into the pay phone and said, ‘Look, I’m almost out of money. How’s Moscow?’

‘Don’t worry about Moscow.’ ‘Just go home. Is Alice there? We can talk from your house.’

‘No. In the morning.’ A woman walked past Ben with snow on the shoulders of her coat. ‘Call me when we both know what we’re saying. It sounds like you were asleep anyway. I didn’t mean to wake you up.’

Mark rolled his neck until it clicked.

‘You didn’t wake me up,’ he said. ‘I was just lying here. It’s been a long day. Look, I’m sorry it didn’t workout. Maybe we shouldn’t have forced you into it. It just seemed the best thing to do.’

‘It was the best thing to do, it was,’ Ben said. ‘I’ll speak to you tomorrow.’

Christopher Keen emerged from the Savoy and squeezed a smile at the doorman as snow began twisting into the forecourt. A cab pulled up and he stepped inside, instructing the driver to take him to his flat in Paddington. It was not yet ten o’clock but he felt dejected and worn out.

The driver said, ‘Enjoyable evening, sir?’

‘Not particularly.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Dodgy meal, was it? I have heard, sir, that The Grill is not quite what it used to be. You know, in the old days.’

‘It wasn’t the food,’ Keen replied tersely.

‘I see.’

It took more than half an hour to reach Paddington, thirty minutes of regret and silent reflection. The snow began falling more heavily, coating the streets in a thin viscous film of grey slush. Keen was still surprised by how much of the basic geography of London he recalled: short cuts, obscure streets, the facade of a fondly remembered building. Nothing about England ever changes, he thought. There are just more cars on the roads, more people and litter in the streets. He considered stopping off at his club in St James’s, but his mood was too bleak and forlorn. When the driver reached the entrance to his apartment, Keen tipped him three pounds and grimaced at the freezing wind. Tightening his scarf, he walked up the steps to the foyer and rode the lift to the fourth floor.