Gerald Seymour - Beyond Recall

He was elbowed aside. Latecomers, going to be lucky if a free table were found for them.

The door stayed open. The manager advanced on him.

He would have been determining how considerable his annoyance should be at the cold air, at the open door, at the noise and fumes of Rostocker Strasse entering his premises. But the remark was swallowed. He would have seen what Gaz was confronted with each morning on getting into the bathroom, wherever he had slept, and staring at the mirror, barely recognising himself. The manager would have known he faced a man who had stood his corner, had looked death in the eye, had turned his back on it, had survived, had come a long road. Would have faced a pale complexion, and seen eyes that were deep set and dull and lips that were thin, almost bloodless and chapped, and hair that had lost lustre. There was a presence about the man, as if he had been in a bad place but had turned away from an inevitability and had crawled out. Other customers waited for admission behind Gaz but he waved them back imperiously. Did he understand? Might have done, might have made the link. How could he help and how could he oblige?

Gaz told him, hesitantly and in a soft voice. Spoke her name. Not easy for him to say it. He thought of what the manager might have known… of the customers who had pored over a laptop and had read a local blog from far up in the Circle: that she had been tracked by an intelligence officer, had been ferried up to the small frontier town, had been there for a few hours before being sent back to her job. The manager said, poor and accented English, that she was in the kitchen. Should he get her? Gaz shook his head.

Was as frightened of seeing her as he had been nervous of speaking her name. The door was closed behind him. He stood close to the line of hooks on which bags and coats were hung. In front of him was the entrance to the kitchens, those swing doors that waitresses kicked open. The manager had left him… Being here, in the Rostocker Strasse bar, marked a late stage in his planned, hoped for, journey. The place was at full capacity. She might look through him. Might acknowledge him but seem disinterested. Might scowl, glower…

He had finally been turfed out of hospital. Had been there several weeks, seen out the summer there. His pick-up from the Barents was usually described by the nursing personnel as a miracle: a fishing boat that had been idling in that area, no reason given, had spotted him, needle in a haystack, and him unconscious. The second miracle was that he had survived a poisoned wound. One of the girls had come to take him back to the UK. She’d said on the journey, rather casually, that whatever overstretched umbilical cord had linked them was now being scissored. They, the department she now worked for, did not expect to see or hear from him again. He would not have asked her, would have thought it demeaning. Had said, instead, that he would have enjoyed a beer, a chat, a reminisce, with Knacker, who had not visited him while his wound was being cleansed and his health rebuilt. She had said that he had left the Service, no longer required, spent his time up at Hadrian’s Wall, where his wife was a digger, a site close to Hexham: should not have told him, probably could have bitten off her own tongue.

He had flown back, was allowed a month’s free stay in a one-bedroom apartment in Hereford, close to his old barracks, and she had waved him off. Gaz had taken a train north, then a taxi, had been left at the Roman town of Corbridge, had walked among flattened ruins, then had come to an archaeological site. A score of men and women were scraping and digging and brushing. He had called out, a loud voice, though still with a croak, ‘I am looking for Knacker, can anyone help me?’ One woman had looked up. Pleasant enough face, a resigned smile, had wiped her muddied hands on filthy clothes but had not bothered to shake earth out of her hair. ‘You one of his old chaps? They booted him out, surplus to needs. Got you into trouble, did he? Not here, up by Turret 36B. You have transport?’ He hadn’t. She would have seen that he was on two sticks, thin as a rake, pale as parchment. Nice woman, and he wondered how she survived alongside Knacker. Transport was arranged. He had been driven close to the location, then dropped. Not a farmhouse in sight, open rolling countryside. He had walked to the Wall. Seen a hunched figure, gazing out into the middle distance from close to the small square base of the turret… and nothing much to say. ‘‘How are you… Good to see you… On the mend I hope?’’ He asked about the girl, was told where to find her. Without her, on the ground and above Deir al-Siyarqi and when the goats had stampeded, he would not have lived, and without her picture in his mind his life would have failed in the dinghy. Knacker had said, “Was always proud of you and of the operation. Matchless was good, one of our best results. I like that image of my ‘rough men’. Don’t suppose you know what I’m talking about.’’

Gaz, in his hospital bed, no visitors other than tight-lipped staff, and short times of day for talk with the guards, had made the big decision: no more the island and Aggie – no more the dream of the feisty girl whose anarchy made him laugh. And he had dumped his fear that being with the goat herd girl would be the equivalent of living inside a shrine of gratitude. ‘‘You went visiting, visiting violence, know what I mean. Sleeping safely because rough men stand ready to visit violence on our enemies, wonderful stuff. Me, I’m out of it. Not wanted. Just have memories, fuck-all else. But we bashed them, Gaz, hit them hard and where it hurts. One of my best shows, and…’’ But Gaz was edging away, retreating, and left Knacker hunched and quivering with excitement as he gazed out on a wilderness where a mist was thickening. Thought the man who had played God was now little more than a husk, and sad… He’d hitched a lift into Newcastle, then bought an air ticket for the morning,

He had spoken her name. She might come bouncing out from the kitchen and be wearing a ring on her finger. Might come out and manage a smile. Could recall seeing her outside the hotel. She was supposed to ‘encourage’ him, was a manipulated puppet of Knacker and the team. He had denied he would kill the officer, only ‘help’ to end his life, and she flared anger at what she’d have believed to be backsliding. He had told her that he merely did his job. She might look straight through him, might see him and spit on the floor.

She came through the doors.

An older face than he remembered. A uniform of a navy skirt and a white blouse and flat shoes for comfort. No make-up, no jewellery. She carried a tray with four plates, and beer bottles, and came towards him. A cheer rang out. Four big men, crowded over a laptop, and from the Scandinavian north Gaz reckoned, seafaring men, and a smile flickered on her face, but was transitory and was replaced with sadness. They were clapping her. She saw Gaz.

His surgical stick took his weight. He tried to straighten, find some pride, and smoothed his hair, and wished he had shaved better, and wished he had stopped at the Hauptbahnhof when coming in from the airport and gone to one of the kiosks where flowers were sold. She put the tray down. The shock was stark on her face. He went towards her, skirted clumsily between tables, banged chair legs with his stick. They were together, arms around each other, and tears wet their faces.

She said, “They told me you were lost, had gone on the sea, missing, was thought drowned. I was never told that…”

A big man came delicately past them, took the tray, chuckled, carried it to his table.

Gaz said, “We are going to find somewhere that you can have goats and dogs, where we can live and where we can be free of them. Going where rough men cannot find us, cannot find anyone. Going…”