Read Online Old Enemies by Michael Dobbs - Free Book Online Page B

over-short, and that had become a matter of habit, but the loss of his ear had required a fundamental rethink, and under the guidance of Tessara’s dexterous fingers he had grown it considerably longer in order to cover the scar. But now he had a new ear. A decision needed to be made, and Harry sat staring at himself in the mirror. The first gentle brushstrokes of middle age were beginning to show through. It happened, dammit, one of those turning points. Perhaps it was a sign of what was meant to be, a new hairstyle along with a new life, with Harry once again flying alongside the other geese, being part of the team. The Prime Minister’s offer had been weighing heavily on him, he knew he would very soon have to decide.
    He had drifted off. When he opened his eyes once more he was shocked to see what he thought at first was the face of his father staring back at him. He’d been not much older than Harry when he died, leaving behind a wagonload of money and a lifetime of colourful and often exquisitely painful memories. And Harry, of course. Thinking about it all left Harry feeling suddenly vulnerable, not at the thought of death but at what he would leave behind, and who the hell he would leave it to. People assumed he had everything – status, wealth, a reputation more formidable than almost any man of his time, and yet . . .
    ‘So what’s it to be, my love?’ Tessara demanded, returning from the kitchen with his tea.
    ‘Your choice. In your hands.’
    ‘Leave a bit of length in it, if you ask me,’ she replied, holding up a strand. ‘Ride the waves, as my son always says.’
    He closed his eyes once more, accepting. He had so many other decisions to make. At least for the next twenty minutes he had the chance to switch off, allow someone else to take the strain.
    ‘Come on, then, let’s get you washed,’ she declared, wheeling him to the sink.
    She had finished with the shampoo and was halfway through administering a head massage when his phone rang. He groaned, swore under his breath. Idiot, should’ve switched the bloody thing off, would do now, whoever it was, even Downing Street. Stuff ‘em. He pulled out the phone and was about to send it to sleep when he noticed the number. He didn’t recognize it. He hesitated, and curiosity did the rest. With a muttered apology to Tessara and considerable caution he put the phone to his new ear.
    ‘Harry Jones,’ he announced.
    ‘Hello, Harry.’ The voice was soft, throaty, a little breathless, female. Just as it had always been.
    He froze, his contentment stripped like flesh from his bones. It was Terri.

    Harry derided himself for his weakness as he dodged the winter puddles that gathered on the paving stones of Notting Hill in the western reaches of central London. What the hell was he doing? Despite the weather he’d decided to walk from his home in Mayfair across the rain-kissed acres of Hyde Park to Terri’s. He needed to clear his thoughts, but he hadn’t got very far with the process by the time he found himself walking up the Portobello Road with its jumble of pastel-fronted urban cottages and antiques emporia. He passed a small dwelling that when it was built had been a dairy farmhouse in the middle of open fields; now its powder-blue wall was covered almost to the point of obliteration with fly posters for wannabe rock bands. He hurried on. Soon he was turning into a more elegant crescent of tall, stucco-fronted Victorian houses backing onto a private garden square that had once formed part of the shortlived Hippodrome racecourse, a notorious track of clinging mud where fortunes were lost before the developers took over and, in unfavourable times, lost fortunes new. It had been an area of slump and slum until the idle classes took over; now it required a fortune simply to park your car on the street.
    He didn’t love her, of course, not after all these years, but she still aroused feelings in him – of hurt, anger, shame and, he had to admit,