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Authors: Jake Arnott
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she had been his cover for that long double game of his life. She loathed the deception that he had practised on her but could not help but respect the way that he had carried it out. This capacity for deceit and utter ruthlessness had become necessary for the times they lived in.
‘It’s been a wretched business, Joan,’ M said with a thin smile. ‘But you’ve acted with initiative and, might I say, with extreme discretion. I’d like to put you out of harm’s way for a while. You’re due a bit of leave. Take a couple of days off.’
‘That’s hardly necessary, M.’
‘Please,’ he insisted. ‘It’ll be for the best.’
‘Very well then. Thank you.’
It would give her time to think, she reasoned. She could not go on being his cover for much longer but to ask for a transfer now would never do. She would have to find someone to replace her first. She took a good look at Maxwell Knight. The epitome of the English gentleman of a certain class, the finest dissembler on the face of the earth. He could lie from the depths of his soul. His flair for espionage was at one with his odd occult beliefs and clandestine sexuality. But it suddenly struck her that this perfidious world could one day be tricked by its own guile. That this theatre of treachery, of disinformation and counter-intelligence would inevitably deceive itself. M put his pipe to his mouth, clenched his teeth around it and lit a match.
‘Now,’ he puffed, drawing in the flame, his gaunt visage wreathed in smoke, ‘17F should be here by now. Can you show him in?’
Joan stood up and walked to the door. She was light-headed from lack of sleep. Her nerves were shot but she knew that she had to keep calm and carry on. Like everybody else. A minor character in the drama, playing out the simple surface rituals. Going out into the ante-room to engage in a silly flirtation with the handsome commander from Naval Intelligence.
2
the female pope
When Anna asks you about your sister, you know it’s serious.
And this is your chance to make your confession. To tell the story of Jenny.
The sister you got rid of all those years ago.
Jenny was the creative one in the family, you say. We grew up in the suburbs, a nice upbringing but, you know, boring. Jenny always made things seem more exciting than they really were. She was a punk before anybody else we knew. She went to Slough Art School and then dropped out in the second term. She left home and moved to London.
You stop for a moment and glance across the table at her. Anna Guttridge. A harsh name for someone so pretty. You met her at Andy Begg’s party. You flirted with her and she seemed interested. You talked about the 1980s: it’s some sort of project of hers. You meet for a drink and it turns out that she’s a writer, researching a book on the New Romantic scene or something. And she knows about your sister. Usually Jenny gets written out of that story. Maybe because she never played the game with the press. And it’s her voice in your head, saying: Johnny, she’s a journalist, of course she seems interested in you, but she’s only interested in the story. You want to reply that you can’t help yourself, that you have to take every chance you can get. It’s not easy, you know. Jenny never foresaw how hard it would be for you. To get close to people.
And in order to get close to anyone you’ll eventually have to tell them what happened to your sister. What you did to her. And you hope, well, maybe this time they’ll understand. At least Anna seems interested in Jenny in the first place. And despite everything you do want to keep her memory alive. You owe her that much. You continue: in 1978, 1979, Jenny was moving around. She ended up squatting in this big terraced house in Islington. She was singing in a few short-lived punk bands.
Where did she get the name Pirate Jenny? Anna asks. You tell her that it came from this Bertolt Brecht/Kurt Weill song about a servant
‘It’s been a wretched business, Joan,’ M said with a thin smile. ‘But you’ve acted with initiative and, might I say, with extreme discretion. I’d like to put you out of harm’s way for a while. You’re due a bit of leave. Take a couple of days off.’
‘That’s hardly necessary, M.’
‘Please,’ he insisted. ‘It’ll be for the best.’
‘Very well then. Thank you.’
It would give her time to think, she reasoned. She could not go on being his cover for much longer but to ask for a transfer now would never do. She would have to find someone to replace her first. She took a good look at Maxwell Knight. The epitome of the English gentleman of a certain class, the finest dissembler on the face of the earth. He could lie from the depths of his soul. His flair for espionage was at one with his odd occult beliefs and clandestine sexuality. But it suddenly struck her that this perfidious world could one day be tricked by its own guile. That this theatre of treachery, of disinformation and counter-intelligence would inevitably deceive itself. M put his pipe to his mouth, clenched his teeth around it and lit a match.
‘Now,’ he puffed, drawing in the flame, his gaunt visage wreathed in smoke, ‘17F should be here by now. Can you show him in?’
Joan stood up and walked to the door. She was light-headed from lack of sleep. Her nerves were shot but she knew that she had to keep calm and carry on. Like everybody else. A minor character in the drama, playing out the simple surface rituals. Going out into the ante-room to engage in a silly flirtation with the handsome commander from Naval Intelligence.
2
the female pope
When Anna asks you about your sister, you know it’s serious.
And this is your chance to make your confession. To tell the story of Jenny.
The sister you got rid of all those years ago.
Jenny was the creative one in the family, you say. We grew up in the suburbs, a nice upbringing but, you know, boring. Jenny always made things seem more exciting than they really were. She was a punk before anybody else we knew. She went to Slough Art School and then dropped out in the second term. She left home and moved to London.
You stop for a moment and glance across the table at her. Anna Guttridge. A harsh name for someone so pretty. You met her at Andy Begg’s party. You flirted with her and she seemed interested. You talked about the 1980s: it’s some sort of project of hers. You meet for a drink and it turns out that she’s a writer, researching a book on the New Romantic scene or something. And she knows about your sister. Usually Jenny gets written out of that story. Maybe because she never played the game with the press. And it’s her voice in your head, saying: Johnny, she’s a journalist, of course she seems interested in you, but she’s only interested in the story. You want to reply that you can’t help yourself, that you have to take every chance you can get. It’s not easy, you know. Jenny never foresaw how hard it would be for you. To get close to people.
And in order to get close to anyone you’ll eventually have to tell them what happened to your sister. What you did to her. And you hope, well, maybe this time they’ll understand. At least Anna seems interested in Jenny in the first place. And despite everything you do want to keep her memory alive. You owe her that much. You continue: in 1978, 1979, Jenny was moving around. She ended up squatting in this big terraced house in Islington. She was singing in a few short-lived punk bands.
Where did she get the name Pirate Jenny? Anna asks. You tell her that it came from this Bertolt Brecht/Kurt Weill song about a servant
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