gives only a high-pitched wail, so perhaps she's gone to the rave as well.
The village clock chimed six. But in my mind's eye I was watching the two policemen's faces floating in the fish-eye lens. And somewhere behind them, Larry's face, drowned and swollen like their own, staring up at me from the moonlit water of Priddy Pool.
THREE
A SUBVERSIVE AFTERNOON rain made grubby curtains across the Thames as I huddled under my umbrella on the south side of the Embankment and contemplated my former service's new headquarters. I had caught the mid-morning train and lunched at my club, at a single table by the food lift, set aside for the discomfort of country members. Afterwards I had bought a couple of shirts in Jermyn Street and was wearing one of them now. But nothing could console me for the sight of the appalling building that rose before me. Larry, I thought, if Bath University is the Lubyanka, how about this?
I had had fun fighting world Bolshevism from Berkeley Square. To sit at my desk charting the unstoppable progress of the great proletarian revolution and in the evening to step onto the golden pavements of capitalist Mayfair, with their scented ladies of the night, glittering hotels, and whispering Rolls-Royce cars—the irony never failed to put a spring into my tread. But this—this sullen multistorey blockhouse, rooted amid tearing traffic, all-night cafes, and down-at-heel clothing shops: whom did it think it was scaring or protecting with its scowl?
Grasping my umbrella, I set off across the road. Already the first glum lights had appeared in the net-curtained windows: chrome chandeliers and cut-price desk lamps for the upper levels, neon for the unwashed lower down. A breeze-block chicane led to the front door. Unsmiling young acolytes in chauffeurs' suits hovered at a temporary reception desk of plywood. Cranmer, I said, as I handed over my umbrella and the shirtmakers' pretty box inside its carrier bag:
I'm expected. But I had to empty my pockets of keys and loose change before the metal detectors would accept me.
"Tim! Fab! Long time no see! How's the world been using you? Pretty good, man, judging by what I see, pretty bloody good! Hey, listen, have you remembered your passport?"
All this as Andreas Munslow pumped my hand, clapped me on the shoulder, snatched a slip of pink paper from the acolyte, signed for me, and gave it back.
"Hullo, Andy," I said.
Munslow had served as a probationer with my section until I abruptly had him moved elsewhere. And I'd sack you again tomorrow, I told him cheerfully in my mind as we processed down the passage, chatting like old buddies reunited.
The door was marked H/IS. In Berkeley Square, no such post had existed. The anteroom was furnished in plastic rosewood. In Berkeley Square we had rather gone for chintz. A notice said PRESS BELL, AWAIT GREEN. Munslow glanced at his deep-sea-diver's watch and muttered, "Bit early." We sat down without pressing bell.
"I'd have thought Merriman would have wangled himself something on the top deck," I said.
"Yeah, well, you see, Jake thought he'd turn you straight over to the people who handle this stuff, Tim, catch up with you later kind of thing."
"What stuff?"
"Well, you know. Post-Sov. New Era."
I wondered what was new era about an ex-agent disappearing.
"So what does is stand for? Inquisitors' Section? Imminent Sackings?"
"Best ask Marjorie that one, actually, Tim."
"Marjorie?"
"I'm not totally versed, know what I mean?" He made a show of brightening. "Hey, great to see you. Really super. Not a day older, all that."
"You too, Andy. You haven't changed a bit."
"If I could just have that passport, actually, Tim."
I gave it to him. Time went by.
"So how's life in the Office these days?" I asked.
"Tim, the overall feeling is good. It's a great place to be. Really hopping."
"I'm glad."
"And you're making wine, Tim. Right?"
"I tread a few grapes."
"Great. Fabulous. They say British wine is really up and
The village clock chimed six. But in my mind's eye I was watching the two policemen's faces floating in the fish-eye lens. And somewhere behind them, Larry's face, drowned and swollen like their own, staring up at me from the moonlit water of Priddy Pool.
THREE
A SUBVERSIVE AFTERNOON rain made grubby curtains across the Thames as I huddled under my umbrella on the south side of the Embankment and contemplated my former service's new headquarters. I had caught the mid-morning train and lunched at my club, at a single table by the food lift, set aside for the discomfort of country members. Afterwards I had bought a couple of shirts in Jermyn Street and was wearing one of them now. But nothing could console me for the sight of the appalling building that rose before me. Larry, I thought, if Bath University is the Lubyanka, how about this?
I had had fun fighting world Bolshevism from Berkeley Square. To sit at my desk charting the unstoppable progress of the great proletarian revolution and in the evening to step onto the golden pavements of capitalist Mayfair, with their scented ladies of the night, glittering hotels, and whispering Rolls-Royce cars—the irony never failed to put a spring into my tread. But this—this sullen multistorey blockhouse, rooted amid tearing traffic, all-night cafes, and down-at-heel clothing shops: whom did it think it was scaring or protecting with its scowl?
Grasping my umbrella, I set off across the road. Already the first glum lights had appeared in the net-curtained windows: chrome chandeliers and cut-price desk lamps for the upper levels, neon for the unwashed lower down. A breeze-block chicane led to the front door. Unsmiling young acolytes in chauffeurs' suits hovered at a temporary reception desk of plywood. Cranmer, I said, as I handed over my umbrella and the shirtmakers' pretty box inside its carrier bag:
I'm expected. But I had to empty my pockets of keys and loose change before the metal detectors would accept me.
"Tim! Fab! Long time no see! How's the world been using you? Pretty good, man, judging by what I see, pretty bloody good! Hey, listen, have you remembered your passport?"
All this as Andreas Munslow pumped my hand, clapped me on the shoulder, snatched a slip of pink paper from the acolyte, signed for me, and gave it back.
"Hullo, Andy," I said.
Munslow had served as a probationer with my section until I abruptly had him moved elsewhere. And I'd sack you again tomorrow, I told him cheerfully in my mind as we processed down the passage, chatting like old buddies reunited.
The door was marked H/IS. In Berkeley Square, no such post had existed. The anteroom was furnished in plastic rosewood. In Berkeley Square we had rather gone for chintz. A notice said PRESS BELL, AWAIT GREEN. Munslow glanced at his deep-sea-diver's watch and muttered, "Bit early." We sat down without pressing bell.
"I'd have thought Merriman would have wangled himself something on the top deck," I said.
"Yeah, well, you see, Jake thought he'd turn you straight over to the people who handle this stuff, Tim, catch up with you later kind of thing."
"What stuff?"
"Well, you know. Post-Sov. New Era."
I wondered what was new era about an ex-agent disappearing.
"So what does is stand for? Inquisitors' Section? Imminent Sackings?"
"Best ask Marjorie that one, actually, Tim."
"Marjorie?"
"I'm not totally versed, know what I mean?" He made a show of brightening. "Hey, great to see you. Really super. Not a day older, all that."
"You too, Andy. You haven't changed a bit."
"If I could just have that passport, actually, Tim."
I gave it to him. Time went by.
"So how's life in the Office these days?" I asked.
"Tim, the overall feeling is good. It's a great place to be. Really hopping."
"I'm glad."
"And you're making wine, Tim. Right?"
"I tread a few grapes."
"Great. Fabulous. They say British wine is really up and
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