The Madness of July (39 page)

He said that he was going to ask a simple question, the significance of which would have to be taken on trust. Ruskin nodded, but his candid blue eyes conveyed mystification. ‘Carry on.’

‘Did you meet an American called Manson last week? Thursday, perhaps. He may have used another name. McKinley.’

Ruskin smiled, and put one hand straight out towards Paul, palm upwards, expressing surprise and also giving the impression of being the bearer of a gift. ‘D’you know, that’s just about the last question I was expecting.’

He unfolded himself from the chair and went over to the window, saying over his shoulder? ‘May I have some water?’

Paul poured a glass.

‘We know he rang you,’ he said, and added softly, ‘I’m sorry.’

Ruskin spun round. ‘Sorry?’ His voice had tightened. ‘Paul, have I been watched or something? Get it out. What’s going on?’ The first sign of anger.

But, to Paul’s astonishment, his rising irritation was controlled in an instant, and Ruskin slipped back into his customary fluency as if his anger hadn’t shown. The music was back in his voice. Walking from the window towards Paul, he said, ‘I did meet him, as a matter of fact. It was very strange, and unpleasant. He was an odd man, and I’ll tell you the whole story. But why do you ask? And what’s with the business of the two names? Not a spy – please!’

Paul held up a hand to stop him. ‘No. I’m doing this another way. Sorry, Jonathan, but it’s been a bad weekend. One of the worst. I’ve asked Will Flemyng to help sort it out, for reasons you will know.’

Ruskin nodded, discomfort beginning to take hold. He was standing with both hands clasped behind him.

Paul glanced towards the door to the outer office through which Flemyng now came, leaving it ajar. Abel remained out of sight, perched on the corner of a desk in the adjoining room, close by.

‘Will,’ said Ruskin, smiling despite the awkwardness of the scene. ‘Ready for a holiday?’

Paul intervened. ‘I’m going to leave you two old friends alone now. Believe me, this will be better.’

Flemyng could see the abrupt handover had left Ruskin a little shaken, despite his smile. His face was beginning to turn white and there was sweat on his forehad that hadn’t been there when he arrived. The long body was tensed up in the chair. Flemying’s mind skipped away. Francesca was right, he thought, he does have Sinatra eyes. Ruskin’s mouth was turning downwards, and he patted his fair hair in place several times in the course of the time that it took for them to arrange themselves opposite each other at the desk. ‘Bloody hot,’ he said, although Flemyng looked cool and comfortable.

He had considered beginning with an apology for the strangeness of the encounter, but decided against. It was the wrong moment to let go.

‘Jonathan, we go back years. There’s trust between us despite the business we’re in. I think that’s why Paul has asked me to…’ he appeared to struggle for a moment ‘… take this on.’

He explained that there was an interlocking series of problems facing them, of which very few people were aware, but with which Manson might have some connection, as yet unknown. He was careful to use the present tense. Anything Ruskin could give them would be useful. That was all. He was one of the few who had spoken to Manson in London, it seemed, and might be able to help.

Ruskin chose first to address Flemyng’s role in helping Paul, and said that, from his vantage point, in an office quite close to where they were sitting, he was aware of the many sensitivities that never surfaced in cabinet papers. Flemyng realized Ruskin was trying to seize control of the conversation – and took his cue. ‘Sensitivities?’

‘They’ve brought you in, so it will be a big one. I know my Will.’ Ruskin leaned back, and his voice rose a little so that he made his next sentence a declaration, making a characteristic spring, up and over the bar.

‘Let me try Berlin.’ His blue eyes were glinting, and his smile widened with a hint of triumph.

‘No. That means very little to me,’ Flemyng replied in a monotone, his face showing nothing. ‘Out of my reach nowadays,’ giving Ruskin his expected victory.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘you probably know enough to realize that in Berlin at this very moment there’s a festival of sensitivity.’ Flemyng had always admired his happy way with words, and realized that the wizard was at it again.

‘I get the odd glimpse behind the veil.’ Ruskin was grinning now and his colour was back. He said that sometimes he was able to enjoy forbidden fruits that ordinary mortals never tasted. ‘I exclude you from that, Will, of course. We both know your past, and I’m reminded time and again by some serious friends in offices not far from here how much they cherish your memory.’ Patronizing bastard, Flemyng thought. ‘Even if they don’t keep you in the loop any more.’

Flemyng turned his back and took a moment to walk to the window, not responding. It took him a few seconds to compose himself.

Ruskin was getting up to speed. ‘If we’re going to get this awkwardness with the Americans fixed to our mutual advantage – I hope I’m not speaking out of turn, or recklessly, God help me – I realize that we have to find a generosity of spirit. We have to be grown-up, however hard it may be. Agreed?’

‘I wouldn’t know, Jonathan. Not on my radar, as I said.’

And Ruskin smiled again. Their exchange had relaxed him.

‘I suppose I’m lucky to have free rein, able to poke around. It’s a pity your boss is so tight with everything, playing it by the book. He should have brought you in, especially with your track record in the field. In so many dangerous places.’

It was a mistake. Flemyng felt his gorge rising and almost rushed back to the desk, although he managed to exert control and take the few steps slowly.

He stopped. In that moment, his decision was made. ‘I’m afraid there is something else that we have to discuss.’

Ruskin laughed. ‘What, about your boss? Changes at the top? Probably about time.’

‘Please stop it, Jonathan. I’m not taking the bait.’

Flemyng spoke steadily and refused to look away. He held Ruskin’s eyes. ‘Sorry, but it’s time to begin.’

25

The old friends faced each other across the desk. Ruskin had not been silenced by Flemyng’s announcement that he was turning to new and maybe serious business, and spoke now of secrets that were his alone. Whispers, fragments for his store. Bravado led him on, into territory that at this moment probably surprised even him. ‘When we started down this path, you and I, who’d ever have thought I might some day know more than you?’ he said. Then he laughed, acknowledging the crudity of his boast. But Flemyng, who’d bridled at the first arrogant thrust, had decided to resist the urge to fight. Instead, he waited. Ruskin’s mood had lifted in the few minutes since Paul’s departure, and now words were tumbling out of him. ‘Who knows? It may be you who gets to the top. I can see it in you. We’re the best, you and I – that much I do know.’

Aware that the other man would quickly run his course, because something wild was now at work in his conversation and he was bound to lose control, Flemyng said nothing. Ruskin found that he had no sounding board and his voice began to falter.

‘Will, is there something wrong?’ The question was weak and revealing. A cry. It was his turn to wait. Finally, Flemyng spoke.

‘I’m sorry to show you this, but I must.’ He opened the drawer of Paul’s desk and took out the sheet of paper. ‘I’d like your opinion, Jonathan.’ As if it might make a difference, he added, ‘I found it by accident, I promise you that,’ and with the apology turned the knife for the first time. He slid the letter across the desk.

Ruskin took the photocopy, flicked an eye over it and stared. A line from a favourite poem came to Flemyng’s mind:
And in an instant, all was dark
.

Ruskin coloured, and his hand seemed to try to find a grip on the desk, fingers scratching at the leather.

His eyes were suddenly alive, as if lit from behind, and his whole demeanour was transformed. Drops of sweat appeared on his jowls and his lips trembled. He gave way to fury and stamped one foot on the floor. After the uncertainty of the last few minutes, he was a man caught in the grip of terrible knowledge.

Flemyng, still and contained, said nothing more, but waited, watching every movement.

‘I supppose you think I’m mad?’ Ruskin said. It was close to a scream.

Flemyng had expected some preliminaries, so Ruskin’s move was bold enough to make him play for a little time, and prepare himself.

‘Why do you ask?’

Flemyng heard the ticking of Paul’s clock at the fireplace behind him, registered the long shafts of sunlight that crossed the room. Paused just long enough.

He repeated the question, ‘Why do you ask?’

Ruskin couldn’t hold back. The waters broke. All of a sudden, rage poured out of him.

‘Where the hell did you get this? I know the answer – bastard! Snooping around. Bloody photocopiers.’ He squared up to Flemyng and shouted, ‘Have you any notion what I’ve been through? Any idea at all?’

Flemyng refused to react, but reeled him in, slow and steady. He was trying to force a rhythm on their exchanges, and made a reply that refused to pick up Ruskin’s pace. Dragged him back. ‘I didn’t say you had written it,’ he said. ‘But Jonathan, the time has come to talk.’

And Ruskin was forced to tell the story from the start.

He flopped down into the chair before the desk, his head sinking low on his chest. ‘Of course I wrote it. You know that. Don’t play games.’

Flemyng’s next words cut through him.‘You asked me if I knew what you’d been through. What about the person who received this? I’ve an idea what he must have been through. How long have you been tormenting him? Maybe you saw him cry, heard his agony. Did you? Does his shame excite you?’

Softly, he added, ‘Rivals don’t just win or lose. They sometimes destroy each other.’

He went on without a pause, ‘You’re a cruel man, Jonathan, and let me answer your previous question. I don’t know what mad means, not really. But I think you’ve passed into a world I don’t understand. Do you?’

They were both motionless, as if waiting for a signal. Flemyng caught a glimpse of Paul’s face in the doorway, scarred with sadness. Ruskin, looking straight ahead across the desk, didn’t see him. Flemyng went on, ‘Anyone reading this for the first time might think it was the person receiving this letter who’d been behaving irrationally, madly, and tearing you apart deliberately. The writer is the victim, tortured and maybe betrayed. In need of help.’ He watched, but there was no fight left in Ruskin, who had slumped until his head was nearly level with the desk.

‘But that would be wrong,’ Flemyng said. ‘These words,’ he searched for the right phrase as he tapped a finger on the letter, ‘are a disguise. It’s the person who wrote this who’s lost his balance and maybe his mind. I’m sure you sign all the letters – there’s nothing anonymous here. You’ve created a relationship that destroys, maybe kills.’

Flemyng leaned back. ‘And it won’t be the letters alone. Bad advice, offered in confidence. Little stratagems to undermine him. Gossip in the right places. Manipulation, then an offer of help in his troubles, and a story of your own betrayal to turn the knife. Is that how it’s been? A relationship that’s so close it’s deadly.’

All at once Ruskin began to weep. He banged one hand down on the letter in front of him. ‘Mad, yes. So, victory for you, I suppose.’

He made an explosive noise that on another day would have been a laugh. ‘But this is all true – every bloody word down here! I haven’t made anything up. I’ve been driven to it by all this.’ He waved one hand, then both of them.

‘Us. This damned world we’re in love with, that torments us all the same.’ He added, ‘So cruelly.’

Then, pleading. ‘That’s something you know as well as I do, isn’t it? We’re carried along on our hidden troubles.

‘Back they come, again and again, like the sea – always there, day and night, rolling on. The tide of our lives. I used to love whatever it brought me, waited for it to come in. Now I think I’m drowning. Have you ever drowned, Will?’

His voice dropped, and Flemyng recognized the signs. He’d been trained to watch for them. With confession there often came a last deception.

For a brief moment Flemyng was not the bastard who had snooped on him, but Jonathan Ruskin’s old friend again. One scene was over and they cut to another in the blink of an eye. Ruskin was wiping the tears away as he spoke.

‘I’m going to tell you something I’d hoped I would never have to reveal. Please, Will, listen. As a friend, can I say that?

‘I’m ill. I can’t handle this life, however it may look. I’ve been on… stuff. Drugs, all kinds of things, and for a long time… this.’ He gestured to the letter. ‘I’ve found myself writing things, saying things, I can’t understand the next morning. An hour later. I pull myself together for while. Then…’

He looked up and his eyes changed again, dimming as if a light source had been switched off.

‘Did I just call you my friend? In this world? We have no friends. I’ve always known it. Haven’t you? You were born to make it look easy. Sometimes I’ve hated you too, even when we’ve been close, having fun. Can you imagine what that’s like?’

Then Ruskin spoke more quietly, his voice diminished. ‘You never turn from your course, never falter. Do you? Must be cold as ice inside.’

He was veering from rage to self-pity and back again, lurching to and fro. Flemyng watched him rip the letter apart with one angry lunge, and then, in horror, saw him try to bring the two fragments back together on the desk, sliding them with his long fingers, one towards the other. For a moment he was a child at play.

The blue eyes came up to meet Flemyng’s. ‘Have you ever wanted to destroy a person? Crush someone?’

Flemyng sat forward and said, ‘Jonathan, I think I know who received this letter, or was meant to.’ And then, looking at the twisting, ruined face before him, he drew back and offered Ruskin the chance of an easier confession. ‘Are you seeing anyone about this? Your state of mind?’

Ruskin expelled a deep sigh. Relief. ‘Yes.’