Charlotte Philby - The Most Difficult Thing

‘We haven’t met.’ I filled in the gaps.

He carried on after a moment, holding my eyes.

‘Well, as you might be aware, to the outside world, Witherall is a bit of a saint. Philanthropist, socialite … Runs a couple of orphanages in Central Africa, patron of several charities, friend to the great and the good, whatever else you like.’

He took a drag of his cigarette between words, exhaling a thin, steady stream of smoke.

‘You’ve probably seen him on TV. He’s a cocky fucker, always up on his soap-box, brazen as anything. What he’s less keen to stand up and talk about, though, is the fact that TradeSmart, for all its talk of corporate social responsibility and ethical foundations, is responsible for dumping a shitload of toxic waste at the edge of villages in Equatorial Guinea, through a series of local contractors. The fallout of which has meant thousands of people have died.’

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, unsure what to say.

‘Shit. That’s terrible.’

‘It is terrible. I mean, we’re talking babies, children, women … and hundreds more left with horrific health problems.’

I had no idea where this was going; I was just so happy, so grateful, to be party at last to his inner life. Perhaps once he learned he could trust me, then we could become a proper couple. I could move in, introduce him to my work colleagues …

Even then, my mind had skated to David but only for a second. The presents, the house? For Harry I would have given it all up in a second.

‘That’s so fucked up. I can’t believe it. I mean, seriously, to hear David talk about it, you would think his dad was like some kind of god. So you’re writing a piece about this?’

He pushed himself up from the sofa, moving purposefully back towards his desk, shoulders broadening.

He opened the drawer slowly, as if still unsure whether to show me or not. By the time he pulled out the folder, turning to face me with renewed purpose, he had me rapt.

‘It gets worse.’ His voice lowered as he sat. ‘A lot worse, Anna … The problem with people like Clive Witherall, you see, is that they have friends everywhere.’

I nodded along, the dutiful student.

‘And when you have the right friends in the right places and the means to take advantage of destabilised borders, there is no limit to what you can get away with … The problem is, right now, we’ve hit a wall. It doesn’t matter what we know, because if we can’t prove it—’

He cut himself off, his demeanour visibly shifting, as if suddenly aware of the line he had crossed.

‘God, Anna, I’m sorry. You don’t need to hear this.’

‘No, I do.’

I unfolded my legs, on cue, turning my attention to what he was holding. After just enough deliberation, he took a step towards me, taking in my silence as he handed me the file – an A4 folder, neatly stuffed with papers and photographs.

Amidst the horror of what was being revealed, there was something so natural about sitting there with him, the intensity of the secrets passing between us. I felt his eyes on me as I flicked through pages of transcripts, studying my reaction to the images of dead bodies scattered across a dirt track; weapons, lined up like contestants in a beauty pageant – caring what I thought.

Yet, as I turned the page again, I felt my chest contract. The image had hit me in the chest with the force of a hammer.

At first my eyes were hesitant to settle on the lines of the child’s face, but after that I could not wrench them away.

He would have been six or seven, the same age as Thomas, his eyes closed as if in sleep, peering out from under a white sheet. His mother’s arms were locked around her son, her face twisted; it was the same expression I saw when I closed my eyes at night.

Here, in Harry’s flat, in this image of someone else’s child, stiff and lifeless under the sheet, I saw the tiny mound of limbs on the driveway of my parents’ home, my own mother’s heart being torn from her body.

I dropped the file as soon as I saw it, turning from Harry, my fingernails running down my arms.

‘Anna?’

‘Who is that?’

Harry’s face gave nothing away, but clearly he knew he was safe to carry on.

‘This is one of the children who died after a TradeSmart contractor was paid to dump seriously toxic waste at the edge of a playground.’

He let the words settle, waiting for me to soak them in.

‘And that’s just the tip of the iceberg. In that folder you’re holding we have transcripts from women, children who …’

He must have seen the unease that spread across my face.

‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be telling you this.’

Taking a step back, he took a final pull of his cigarette before smearing the butt across the windowsill and letting it drop from his hand.

We were silent for a few minutes. I don’t remember taking a single breath as I processed his words, leaning forward, the image of the boy’s body soldering into me, intensified by my desperation for Harry’s faith in me. Desperation not just to know, but to be the one he chose to confide in.

‘Harry, please tell me.’

I could feel the burning in my cheeks as he sat back at the other end of the sofa, cupping his face with his hands. Closing his eyes, he circled his fingers over the dark lids, tracing the grooves of his skull.

Eventually, his hands dropped away from his face and he bent his knees, lowering himself beside me. I moved closer in response, holding out my hands.

‘How can I help? Is there research, or could I …’

He shook his head.

‘Oh, come on, Harry. I could do it, you know I could. You know how committed I am, I could help …’

He looked away, clearing his throat, preparing himself.

‘Of course I know that, Anna. It’s not that I … It’s just …’

The more he resisted me, the more forcefully I pleaded with him.

‘Come on. What’s wrong with you? You have just told me this man is a child murderer, but you don’t want as much help as you can get in exposing him? I live with his son, for God’s sake, Harry. We’re sleeping together. How could you not want to use me?’

How, in uttering those words, did I not understand what was happening?

‘You would do that?’ Holding my gaze, he sniffed. ‘There are complications.’

I stayed quiet then, giving him the space he needed, the room to make the decision for himself.

‘OK.’ He had said it as if to himself. ‘You really want to know, then I’ll tell you. I don’t really know how to … So I’m just going to come out and say it. I’m not writing an article about TradeSmart.’

I stared back at him blankly.

‘What are you talking about?’

‘I’m not writing a piece about Clive Witherall. I’m looking into him, yes, but it’s not for an article. Not for a newspaper. The truth is, I’m working for … an organisation, an agency, let’s say, to help bring down a man essentially responsible for genocide. And yes, we do need your help, desperately. I just don’t know if I can …’

He looked at me for a final time before continuing.

‘The problem is that Clive, he’s an extremely powerful man … What we really need is someone on the inside, someone who can get close to him …’

The realisation slowly dawned. Drawing a cigarette from the packet he had dropped on the sofa, I let it roll between my fingers as I listened.

‘Who is we ?’

He held my gaze, unblinking.

My voice sounded more self-assured than I had expected, when I continued.

‘Harry, if you expect me to trust you it has to go both ways. You can’t ask me to be involved with something and not tell me who I’m getting involved with. You can’t think I’m that naive.’