The Facility, page 5
This time Tom stands. ‘For fuck’s sake, Gilbert.’
Gilbert attempts a meaningful look. ‘I was just—’
‘I don’t want any. Okay? I don’t want any fucking cocaine!’
Gilbert shrivels in his seat and Amy glares and Tom is angrier for having snapped. He curses. He picks up his coat.
‘Where are you going?’ says Josh. ‘Tom?’
Home, he is about to reply. He is about to say home but he stops himself.
He watches from the window in the darkening room. There are lights on only in the northern wing and the impression Graves has is that the building has its back turned; that he observes it unnoticed. Or that it knows he is there but acts as though it does not: an errant child that makes an outward show of obedience but conceals more despicable plans within.
The inmates will be eating. The lights are from the accommodation wing and, directly below, the canteen. The budget is tight and the food is not fancy but it is nutritious. Low fat, limited sugar, rich in vitamins and protein. Fibre too. Fibre is important. It is astonishing the institutions he has visited where diet is ignored, where digestion is ignored. It is the simplest, and about the cheapest, remedy Graves knows for aggressive behaviour: satisfy a man’s stomach, keep his bowel movements regular. Like these teenagers causing trouble at school. Look to the parents, yes. Improve teaching standards, certainly. But think about what these children eat, first and foremost. If they do not eat what they should, they cannot concentrate. If they cannot concentrate, they become bored. If they become bored, they look for entertainment elsewhere, and that is when trouble manifests itself. It is common sense, plain and simple.
Although he is one to talk. His own dinner – rubberised vegetables and some kind of flesh topped with cardboard cut to look like pastry – sits where he left it, in its tin on a plate, balanced on the arm of the sofa. His fork protrudes like something reaching from a grave. Other than three mouthfuls, he has not eaten since breakfast. He should be hungry. He is hungry, probably, but not for the food he has in the cottage. Which is what? Three more pies and a box of All-Bran, as well as half a packet of rich-tea biscuits in the cupboard under the kitchen sink.
Ordinarily he would have eaten at the facility – in his office or with the other staff. Today, though, he wanted to read, away from the distractions of other work. He wanted to make a call, more importantly, away from anyone who might hear. He should have stayed at the facility. Jenkins was not available; only his assistant, who promised Graves the minister would call him back. Presently was the term the assistant used, which Graves took to indicate a matter of minutes. Two hours later, he is still waiting, unable to concentrate on reading and feeling sick from the odour of his festering meal.
He turns from the window and collects his plate. On his way into the kitchen he switches on the overhead light – the only light in the room and as yet without a lampshade – but rather than improve matters, the bulb casts the room and its bare walls in a jaundiced haze. The monitor wired to the computer emits a more decisive glow.
In the kitchen the light is better. There is a strip light: far too big for such a narrow space but at least Graves can see without squinting. He slides the pie, tin and all, on to the centre pages of a week-old Times and wraps the newspaper around it. He opens the bin and is about to drop in the bundle but then remembers that the bin is not lined. There is a carrier bag, in the cupboard next to the packet of biscuits, and Graves uses this instead. He ties the handles and looks again at the bin but thinks about the smell and decides to leave the pie on the porch instead. But then he thinks about foxes from the woods, wolves too, even though the thought is ridiculous, and he sets down the bag beside his shop-clean hiking boots on the doormat.
The light fitting hums. He did not notice before but, returning to the lounge, there is an audible fizz. Given the likely state of the wiring in the cottage, the sound is not comforting. Graves flicks the switch again, so that the only light now comes from the kitchen and from his computer. For the time being he needs to see his screen and nothing more. Later he will slide a dining chair into the kitchen and read there. Unless he just goes to bed. He has not slept well recently and really he should try to catch up. Although he knows that his chances of doing so are poor. He will fall asleep easily enough; he always does. But then he will wake: two hours later, three if he is lucky. The earlier he goes to bed, the longer the night will seem.
He has an email from his daughter. The subject is ‘Well?!?’, which makes Graves apprehensive about opening it. He double clicks but too slowly. He tries again and the email bursts and fills the screen.
Well?!? it reads. Were you going to tell me??
Just that.
He did not think. That is, he would have told her, of course he would, but the point was he could not tell anyone. He did not think it would hurt, leaving it for a couple of weeks, just until things settled. Although it has been well over a month now, he realises. Almost two. Which actually proves his point because clearly she has only just noticed he is gone.
He hits reply.
Darling,
He hits backspace.
Rachel,
How are things? I hope the job is going well. And Nick – I hope you are both happy and enjoying life in the city. Please send him my love.
He hits backspace.
my regards.
I am sorry that I could not see you before I left. Something came up in a hurry and I had no time, really, except to pack and catch a train. I meant to call, but
But. But what?
but I know how busy you are and I didn’t want
He hits backspace.
but there were a million and one things to do here and
He hits backspace.
but I forgot. I am sorry.
There is not much I can tell you except that I have accepted a new post. Really, that is all I am allowed to tell you. I cannot say where I am, or why I am here, and I cannot give you a number by which to reach me. Email is best for the time being, so do please reply and tell me how you are.
I am perfectly well myself, so please do not worry. And I am sleeping much better, before you ask, which is one benefit I suppose of working such long hours.
Take care, darli—
He hits backspace but then re-types.
Take care, darling. Please write.
Dad
He reads through his email and runs a spellcheck. He hovers the cursor over send. He clicks and the email disappears and the screen returns to his inbox, empty now of unread mail.
He should have seen her before he left. He wrote that he forgot but the truth is he allowed himself to. Because there was time. He could have made time. But had he seen her before he left she would have asked him where he was going and he would not have been able to answer – not in a manner that would have satisfied Rachel. He could not have been honest, for one thing. And even if he were, she would not have understood. She would not have accepted that some things – like war, for instance, or politics or capitalism – are necessary evils. She would have prodded at the knots in his conscience and he would have bridled and probably he would have said something that would have damaged their relationship when, over the years, he has allowed it to become damaged enough.
He was afraid, then. Is that the truth also? He is fifty-five years old; he has run maximum security gaols full of rapists and murderers and prison guards too, many of whom are no less sadistic than their wards; he has faced riots and strikes and public inquiries; he has been spat at, strangled, stabbed. He has done all of this and yet he is afraid to confront his only daughter, a woman – a girl, really – half his size and age because of the questions she might ask. Because, more to the point, of the answers she might compel him to consider.
He opens the email he has sent her. It is evasive and formulaic and he wishes he had not written it. He reads it again. He is halfway through when he notices an envelope has appeared beside the clock at the bottom of his screen. He clicks back to his inbox and sees his daughter’s name against a new message. She is online. She is sitting at her computer, which means she is sitting beside her telephone. She is aware, more to the point, that he is beside his. What excuse does he have for not calling right now?
He opens her answer.
Are you a spy now??
You don’t have to tell me where you are. It would have been nice to know that you were going, that’s all. It feels like ages since I saw you. Since I spoke to you, in fact. It’s my fault too – I’m not blaming you.
Anyway.
Call me.
020 7403 3888
x
PS You can’t fool me. Try Nytol. They make a herbal one. What can it hurt??
He knows the number. She has included it as though he did not already have it. Is that a rebuke? It feels like a rebuke but maybe she is offering him an excuse. That it is so hard to tell reminds him how difficult he finds it to read her. He looks at the phone beside his keyboard, then once more at his daughter’s number. He re-reads her email. He looks again at the telephone and he thinks maybe he will pick it up but then it rings.
What will I say? he thinks. What will I say to her?
But it could not possibly be his daughter calling.
He reaches. ‘Henry Graves,’ he says into the mouthpiece.
‘Graves.’ It is Jenkins, of course. ‘What is it?’ the minister says. ‘I haven’t got long. I’m due at a reception for the prime minister of . . . Christ. The prime minister of . . . of . . . Simp-kins. Simpkins!’ Graves holds the phone away as the minister hollers for his aide. He hears a palm muzzle the receiver at the other end of the line and the muffled bass of the minister’s voice. Then it is booming once again into his own ear. ‘Of Slovenia. Part of old Czechoslovakia. Wait a minute. That’s Slovakia. What the hell was Slovenia a part of?’
‘I believe it was Yugoslavia, minister,’ Graves says but Jenkins is already yelling once more for his aide.
‘Yugoslavia,’ he says, returning to the phone. ‘Slovenia was part of Yugoslavia. Not that it matters to anyone who doesn’t live there. But get to the point, Graves. What do you want? Has something happened?’
‘No, minister. Nothing untoward.’
‘The blue one, Simpkins. Not that one. You’ll have people thinking I’m a socialist.’
‘I only wanted to ask you, minister, about some of the paperwork we’ve received. Relating to some of the inmates.’
‘I said blue, Simpkins. Are you colour-blind, man, or just obtuse? What paperwork, Graves? What about it?’
‘They have been tested, sir.’
‘Who? The prisoners? Of course they’ve been tested. Why wouldn’t they have been tested? Simpkins. Simpkins! Here. Look here. This is blue. This, over here: this is purple. I want the blue one. Yes, that one. The blue one, yes. Hallelujah.’
‘It’s not—’
‘Now that you’ve mastered your colours, maybe tomorrow we’ll start on your ABC.’
‘It’s not that, minister. It’s the results that concern me.’
‘What? What about the results? You’ve been briefed, surely. You know the risks . . .’
‘Forgive me, minister. I’m not being clear. The results: some of them appear to be negative.’
Simpkins is talking in the background but he stops mid-sentence, as though Jenkins has signalled for silence. ‘And?’ says the minister. His voice seems suddenly closer.
‘And,’ says Graves. ‘And, well. And I was wondering, I suppose . . . I mean, if the results are showing as negative . . .’
‘They are not positive.’
‘That’s correct, minister. For twelve people in the first batch and six in the second, the results are showing as—’
‘They are not positive, Graves. It is not the same as being negative.’
Graves hesitates. He has the paperwork in a pile on his desk and he opens one of the folders. ‘It says negative, minister. I have the paperwork right here and—’
‘You understand the distinction, I assume? Regardless of what the paperwork says, you understand the distinction?’
‘What? Yes. I suppose so.’
‘Because the testing: it is not infallible. For one thing, there is a whatdoyoucallit. What did they call it? A window period.’
‘But I thought—’
‘This is something new, Graves.’
‘Yes, minister.’
‘And every one of these men and women has had contact. Contact is the common factor here.’
‘Of course, minister.’
‘We cannot afford to take risks, Graves. You understand that, don’t you? You understand the risks?’
‘I do, minister. I was only wondering . . . With the people who have shown up negative . . . I assume at some point they will be re-tested?’
The palm again, across the mouthpiece of Jenkins’s phone. Graves waits. There is a mumbled exchange that he does not catch, before Jenkins returns with a rattle of phlegm.
‘Has Silk arrived yet?’ says the minister.
The name means nothing to Graves. ‘Silk? I’m not sure I . . .’
‘Dr Silk,’ says Jenkins. ‘Is he there yet?’
‘No,’ says Graves. ‘Although I don’t believe we’ve been expecting a Dr—’
‘Expect him, Graves. Talk to Silk about the testing.’
‘Yes, minister. I’ll do that. Dr Silk, you say? May I ask—’
‘Is that all, Graves? I wouldn’t want to miss the champagne.’
‘Of course not, minister. That’s all. Thank you for your—’
The line goes dead.
Graves sits with the receiver in his hand. He only sets the phone on the hook when the tone on the line changes and nudges him from his daze. His hand reaches to his forehead and slides into a pinch across the bridge of his nose. Really, he should have spent his evening at the facility.
He stands and walks again to the window. The building atop the hill is hardly visible now so he continues past. He enters the kitchen but the light is too bright; his reflection in the glass above the sink too clear a picture of himself: pallid skin, marbled eyes, black hair mired in the grey. He turns from the sight of him and drifts back towards the lounge.
Bed, then. What else to do but go to bed?
He checks his watch. It is not yet half past eight. Which means, if he is lucky, he will sleep until twelve.
He collects his glasses and a memoir he has been trying to start and carries them through to the room in which he sleeps. It is the spare room really but the main bedroom is large and damp and cold. The room he has chosen fits a single bed and a chest of drawers and a rail to hang his suits, which is all the space he needs. He sets his book on the bed and changes without haste into his pyjamas.
He is brushing his teeth in the kitchen sink – the bathroom, situated beyond the kitchen, is colder still than the main bedroom – when the telephone rings once again. Graves spits and wipes his mouth but by the time he reaches his desk and lifts the receiver, the caller has already hung up. Seconds later, Graves’s mobile lights up. It quakes and begins to chime in its spot beside the keyboard. Before the ringtone reaches its second bar, Graves has answered the call. ‘John. Is that you? What is it?’
‘We’ve got a problem, Henry,’ says Burrows. ‘You’d better get up here.’
‘What do you mean? What kind of problem?’
‘There’s a . . . a disturbance. You should get up here, Henry. Right away.’
She prods at the cake as though it were something dead. The icing topples in a hunk, exposing a slab of stale sponge beneath. Julia pushes the icing one way on the plate, then back again, then sets down her fork alongside it. She slides the plate to the centre of the table.
‘That bad?’ Tom says.
‘I’m not hungry, that’s all.’
‘Have you had dinner yet? You really should eat something.’ It strikes Tom right away how ridiculous he must sound saying it. But Julia gives him a look, then looks away, and Tom can tell that in fact she agrees with him. Because probably she has not eaten. Certainly she looks as if she has not slept. She has a black coffee laced with sugar and the manner of someone who has already had too much of both today.
‘It’s a nice place,’ Tom says, glancing around the cafe. ‘Quirky.’ There are prints of Italian-American movie stars on the walls, mixed with signed football shirts in patterns and colour combinations Tom has only ever seen on late-night cable sports shows. There is an old woman with a dog and a bowl of soup in one corner and a couple sharing pizza in another and seven or eight foreign students crushed around a table meant for two in between. The owner, a fat man with more hair on his knuckles than on his crown, watches the students from behind the counter, aggrieved, clearly, that only two have ordered drinks.
‘It’s just a cafe. It was the only place near the tube still serving coffee.’
‘No, I know. But it’s, you know . . .’
Julia dismisses what he is saying with a shake of her head. ‘You said you had something to tell me.’
‘I do.’
‘So? Tell me.’
Tom is unsure how to begin. Because it is not the news she is hoping for: that is part of it. Also, because it is not, in the traditional sense, news at all. ‘You have to read between the lines,’ he says. ‘Just to warn you.’ Possibly, too, he may have led her to expect more. In retrospect, there is definitely that possibility.
‘I’m tired, Tom. I’m not in the mood for riddles.’
Tom slides his cup forwards an inch and leans in. ‘I spoke to my boss,’ he says. ‘Katherine Fry. She said we couldn’t help. The site, I mean. She told me we didn’t have enough for a story.’
‘You told me that, Tom. You said on the phone.’
‘Right. But after that, I thought: what the hell. So I spoke to a few contacts, called in a few favours.’ He likes the sound of that: the what the hell and also the idea that people – prominent people – owe him favours.
Julia does not seem impressed. She sits impassive, impatient.
