The Facility, page 21
No one would talk to him. He was shouting once more, asking questions, pleading to be told whether Julia and Casper were all right. The answers he got in return, however, were barely answers at all. They told him everything was fine, they would all be fine, that it was important he keep calm and try – as though he were bucking and writhing – not to move. They asked him his name and kept asking until he answered. They asked him what day it was, what month, what year. The only real clue he had as to what was happening behind him were the curses and exhortations of people he could not see.
Welcome back, someone said. A nurse, holding out a plastic cup. You’ve had a lucky escape, she said. He tried to speak but his mouth was stitched shut. He tried to take the cup with his left hand but found he could only lift his right. It’s just a fracture, she told him. It will heal. She held the cup to his lips and gradually they eased apart. He tried to speak again and managed a croak. The nurse smiled and fed him sips and finally set the cup to one side. I’ll fetch a doctor, she told him. I’ll be right back. And in seconds, it seemed, she returned, following at the doctor’s heels.
The doctor said, hello. He said, it’s Tom, isn’t it? He said, you’ve had a lucky escape. And after some prodding and not a little head bobbing, it was the doctor who gave him the news.
He sits at her bedside. He is not alone. Beside him is Julia’s cousin; Casper is balanced on Tom’s knees.
‘Please, love.’ Julia’s cousin has an accent as English as her Laura Ashley dress. She reaches for Casper’s foot. The boy lets her take it but does not so much as turn.
‘Casper?’ says Tom. ‘I think you should go with Pippa. Just for a little while. You’re hungry, aren’t you?’
‘Tom,’ says Pippa. Just that. Just his name and a look. Tom leans back and Pippa slides forwards, angling her head to try and catch Casper’s eye. ‘Come on, love. It’s time to go. Your mummy would want you to eat something.’
Tom glances at the figure on the bed. He can see only the right side of Julia’s face and from this angle, ignoring the tube to her nose and the bandage covering her crown, she might simply be sleeping. She does not look hurt at all, from this angle.
Pippa is standing. ‘Let’s go, Casper. Come on, please.’
Still the boy ignores her. He does not shift; he just stares at his mother’s prone form. Only when Pippa reaches again, and this time takes hold of Casper’s arm, does Casper make any movement at all. He twists and he clutches at Tom. Tom recoils, wincing at the pressure on his cast and clinging with the balls of his feet to the floor to stop his chair from toppling. He smiles, as much in surprise as anything, but his smile withers when he catches sight of Pippa’s expression. She glares, as though it were Tom’s grip and not the boy’s that were keeping Casper tethered to his mother’s side. Tom tries to indicate his helplessness but Casper is pinning his shoulders. He smiles again instead, with one corner of his mouth, but from Pippa’s reaction the smile might just as well be a sneer.
She looks to the ceiling. ‘I’ll fetch some sandwiches then, shall I?’ She tuts as she turns, leaving Casper with his head buried and his hands locked around Tom’s neck.
‘Tom! Is that you?’
‘A my. Hi. ’
‘Where are you? Jesus. Are you all right? We heard what happened to you. What happened to you?’
‘I’m fine. I’m in Exeter.’
‘Are you all right though? We’ve been so worried.’
‘I’m fine, really. Just a few scrapes and bruises.’
‘What about Julia? What about . . . Casper, is it?’
‘Casper’s fine. A bump on the head but otherwise not a scratch.’
‘And Julia? How’s Julia?’
‘She’s . . . not so good.’
‘Oh. Oh, Tom.’
‘But she’s tough. She’ll pull through. They’re doing everything they can. I mean, obviously they are but . . . Well. You know.’
‘Are you sure you’re all right, Tom? You sound . . . I don’t know.’
‘I’m fine. I am. I’m just tired, that’s all. They let me out and I moved in down the corridor and this might actually be the first time I’ve stepped outside the hospital since the accident.’
‘You should get a hotel. Or come home. Maybe you should come home and get some proper rest. They have telephones at these places, you know. They’ll keep you informed. Do you want me to . . . I could come down there and pick you up?’
‘No, no. It’s fine. Really. Thanks, though.’
‘What happened, Tom? Do you remember?’
‘It was just an accident. The roads down here can get a little hairy.’
‘They said you hit a tractor. Is that right?’
‘We hit a trailer on a tractor. Which was good news for the bloke driving it.’
‘How? I mean, it was going the same way as you – that’s what they said. Did you not see it? How come you were going so fast?’
‘Jesus, Amy. You sound like the police.’
‘Did you speak to the police? What did you tell them?’
‘Just what I told you.’
‘And?’
‘And what?’
‘And what happens now?’
‘I don’t know. They’re waiting to speak to Julia.’
‘Oh. I see. Of course. Listen, Tom – are you sure you don’t want me to pick you up? Or I could just drive down. Just to sit with you.’
‘Really, Amy. It’s sweet of you but I’m fine. Julia’s cousin’s here. She’s . . . she’s keeping me company.’
‘Oh. Okay. Good. I’m glad there’s a friendly face.’
‘Yeah. Uh huh. Anyway, Amy, could you do me a favour? Could you talk to Katherine? They’re moving Julia up to London the day after tomorrow so I’ll be back in town soon but, well. I’m going to need some more time off.’
‘It’s fine, Tom. Katherine’s already said.’
‘Can you talk to her though? I don’t think I could face it.’
‘I will, of course I will, but it’s fine, Tom. She’s already said: take as much time as you need.’
‘Really? Oh. Well, great. Thanks. Tell her thanks.’
‘There’re some messages, Tom.’
‘Just ignore them. They can wait.’
‘Yes. Of course. But . . . there’s one in particular.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Why are you in Exeter, Tom? What were you doing down there in the first place?’
‘What? Nothing. We were just . . . Why? What was the message?’
‘You can tell me, Tom. You know you can.’
‘Amy? What was the message?’
‘It was a guy. Like, an older guy. My dad’s age, probably. He said he thought you were on your way to see him.’
‘He said what?’
‘That he thought you were on your way to see him. He said he heard about the accident and he’s glad you’re okay and if you felt like talking you should give him a call. Whenever you were feeling up to it, he said. Just casual, even though he didn’t sound casual.’
‘What else did he say?’
‘Nothing else. He left a number. Shall I give it to you? Tom? Hello? Are you there?’
‘I’m here.’
‘Where did you go?’
‘Nowhere. I’m here. He left a number?’
‘I have it here. Have you got a pen?’
‘Just . . . just ignore it, Amy. It’s not important.’
‘What? Are you sure? It sounded important. I mean, it didn’t but that’s why it did.’
‘Ignore it. Just ignore it. I’ve got to go, Amy. I’ve got to get back.’
‘Tom? Wait. What’s wrong? What’s this about?’
‘Thanks, Amy. And say thanks to Katherine. I’ll call you soon.’
‘Tom? Tom? Wait, I—’
He stands at the foot of the bed. He rests his good hand on the frame and looks at his knuckles. He can still see Julia’s face, however. Even with his gaze turned away, he can still see the bandages that cover her hairline and her left eye and her left cheek, down to her neck and her collarbone and beyond. He can still see the tube that helps her breathe. He can still see the figures on the screen that are his only visible assurance that Julia is not already dead.
It is a risk. Because maybe it was the news of the accident, like he said. A woman named Priestley, a reporter from a political news site, a crash on an empty road on the route into Dartmoor. And they were close; they must have been. If they were not, the Audi would have kept its distance. So maybe it was the accident or maybe he knew already who they were and what they were doing. Like the men in the Audi, for instance.
He flexes his left hand and finds he still cannot. The pain, though, is a comfort. It is a reminder that he absorbed some of the impact at least. It is a reminder that Casper is unhurt, the tractor driver too, and that is two lives saved from the menace of Tom’s stupidity.
Say he calls. Who would be listening? If they met, who would be watching? And what, anyway, could he possibly say that might mitigate the danger, might justify Tom taking this any further than he already has?
The pain is also his penance. It reminds Tom that he is not suffering enough, which is almost the hardest thing to bear. It is a reminder that, no matter how much he wishes, there is no bargain to be made that would allow Julia to hurt any less.
It is not his decision. He cannot, apart from anything else, be trusted to decide. Although in fact he does not have to because he knows already what Julia would say. It would be the toughest choice she has ever had to make but he knows exactly what she would say. And Arthur, if Arthur were here, would agree.
He unhooks Julia’s chart. He stares at what is written as though there might be some hint in the cryptic shorthand that things are not as bad as they seem. He replaces the chart and moves around the bed to Julia’s side. He lifts his hand to cover his face.
She would find a way though. Her decision would be to protect Casper but that would not stop her. So maybe Julia would be just as torn as Tom is. More so because her life is no longer just her own. That is what Arthur would tell her: you cannot risk your life because it belongs to Casper now too. And she would say, what about yours? How is your life any less important to Casper than mine? And she would be right, of course. Arthur would argue but the argument would already be lost. Which leaves him where exactly? Standing at Julia’s bedside with his hand over his mouth and thinking about which lives he has the right, the responsibility, to put at risk. No further on, then, from the point at which he started.
‘Amy. It’s Tom again.’
‘Tom.’
‘Amy, listen. That message you mentioned. Have you got it still?’
‘What? Yes. Of course. I have it here. Do you want me to—’
‘On a piece of paper? Did you write it down or did you email me?’
‘I wrote it down. Why? What does it matter? Do you want me to—’
‘Burn it. Shred it. Swallow it if you have to. Amy? Are you listening?’
‘I’m listening. But Tom—’
‘You took the call, right? No one else took the call?’
‘No, I took it. I told you, he sounded like—’
‘Good. That’s good. But the message: get rid of it. Amy? Promise me you’ll get rid of it as soon as you hang up the phone. Forget you even heard it in the first place. I mean it, Amy: if anyone asks, you don’t know what they’re talking about.’
‘Tom, please. You’re scaring me. Tell me what this is about.’
‘I can’t. I absolutely can’t. Just promise me, Amy.’
‘Okay, okay. I promise. Jesus, Tom.’
‘Good. Okay then. But Amy. Listen. Give me the number he left first.’
It is ludicrous that he should feel nervous. It is ludicrous that he should rub his palms and pick at his fingernails when his hands will at least wash clean. It is ludicrous that he should beat his heel and chew his lip, as though the man for whom he waits were someone worthy, someone notable – not a coward and a killer and a thug.
He makes to stand so he might pace. The guard, though, pushes him down. Arthur’s chair scrapes against the hardwood floor as he lands and Graves’s assistant raises his head. He looks at Arthur for a moment, then at the guard. The guard lifts his chin and stares ahead, his hands joined now behind his back. Burrows glances again at Arthur, then returns his gaze to the paperwork on his desk.
And making him wait. What is that but a means to some megalomaniacal thrill? Drag him from a graveside, have him watch a man die, then drop him in a chair and tell him, stay. Sit. Come to heel when I tell you. As though Arthur did not already know who was in charge. As though he felt any semblance of control as to his fate.
It is not nerves, he realises. This energy he feels, this urge in every muscle to twitch and tense: how Graves might come to wish it were Arthur’s nerves.
‘Priestley.’
Arthur looks up.
‘He’s ready,’ says Burrows. ‘You can go in.’
Arthur stands and approaches the adjoining door. He senses the guard following at his shoulder.
‘Not you,’ Burrows says and Arthur stops, turns. He feels himself frowning. Me? he is about to say but Burrows is looking at Knuckles. ‘He doesn’t need you, Percy. You can leave.’
Arthur twists and sees Knuckles give a scowl. The guard starts to say something, then clamps his jaw.
Burrows looks at Arthur and tips his head. ‘Go ahead.’
It is not what he expected. The room itself is grand – outsized windows and double-height ceilings, as well as coving and walnut panelling – but Graves has set himself in a corner, as though shying, wincing, at the splendour. His desk is a table really, inexpensive and not particularly large. The computer atop it looks older than the PC Arthur and Julia set aside years ago to give to Casper. The rest of the table is clear but for a stack of plastic trays and a telephone and two mugs: one holding pens that have been chewed to varying heights, the other stained down the side with tear tracks of coffee. Behind the desk there is a black-fabric office chair, which appears to be missing an arm, and on Arthur’s side of the table a large leather armchair. The armchair is ragged but imposing and gives the impression of having come with the room.
Graves is standing by the window. ‘Mr Priestley. I’m sorry to have kept you. There was a crisis in the kitchens that required several phone calls. Not so much a crisis as a drama really but I—’ Graves interrupts himself. ‘Never mind. Come in. Sit.’
It is the sit that does it. As Graves speaks, he turns and takes his own chair, evidently in no doubt that Arthur will obey his command. Arthur remains standing.
‘Can I get you anything?’ says Graves. ‘Some water? Coffee perhaps?’
Arthur has not had coffee since . . . No. It is not quite as long ago as he thought. He recalls the taste of the last cup his captors offered him and shakes his head.
‘No,’ says Graves. ‘Very wise. I’m trying to cut down myself. Something to eat, then. We have some fruit, I believe. Would you like some fruit?’
‘I don’t want anything from you.’
Graves falls silent. He watches Arthur and seems to consider. He links his hands and rests his forearms on the edge of his desk and pulls himself upright in his chair. ‘I heard about your friend. I understand the two of you had become close. I am sorry.’
Arthur intended to keep his expression impassive. Already, though, he finds himself sneering. ‘You’re sorry?’
‘Yes, Mr Priestley, I am. I’m sorry, for one thing, that we could not help alleviate his suffering. I’m sorry we could not have done more.’
‘You’ve done plenty,’ says Arthur. ‘Believe me. You’ve done more than I thought a human being capable of.’
Graves, this time, does not hold Arthur’s eye. He seems to notice the empty chair opposite. ‘Are you certain you will not sit down? You would be more comfortable, I’m sure.’
‘What do you want? Why am I here?’
‘I . . . You wanted to see me. Didn’t you? My assistant told me you had asked to see me.’
‘I asked weeks ago. I asked every day and every day I got the same answer. Different answers actually, some more abrupt than others, but they all amounted to the same thing.’
‘Yes,’ says Graves. ‘Well. I am here now. You are here now. I am listening if there is something you would like to say.’
Arthur feels his lip curl again and he cannot stop it. ‘Are you bored? Is that what this is about? You’re bored so you thought you’d have your guards rustle up some in-house entertainment?’
‘Mr Priestley—’
‘I’m not much of a dancer, I’m afraid. And I’m no Andrea Bocelli. Or perhaps it’s a story you’re after? Perhaps you just want to hear how fucked up my life is now so that you can feel a little better about yours?’
‘Please, Mr Priestley, I—’
‘I wanted to see you but don’t pretend you don’t know what I was going to say. Don’t pretend there is anything I could tell you that is not right there on your computer.’ Arthur lifts a finger and follows as it advances on Graves’s desk. ‘Because you know I don’t belong here. I know you know. You know I don’t have this thing, whatever this thing is, and you know there are others imprisoned here who don’t have it either.’
‘Mr Priestley. Please. There is no point—’
‘And the sick. The people like my friend. You talk about helping them but all you’re really doing is hiding them. From what, I don’t know. Why, I don’t know. You do, though. You know what you’re doing and why you’re doing it and still you manage to sleep at night.’
Graves says nothing. He seems to be waiting for Arthur to finish.
‘Do you know what you are?’ Arthur has his legs pressed against the desk. He is pointing and he is leaning. ‘Do you want me to tell you what you are?’
‘If it would make you feel better, Mr Priestley. Please do.’
Arthur is shaking. He smiles and it is a wicked smile. ‘You’re a—’
