I parked the car outside the house. I hadn’t even noticed I’d been driving in the direction of home. I hadn’t even noticed I’d been driving at all in fact. It was this sense that the outside world was slowly disappearing under the weight of my inner world until I couldn’t be sure any more where I stopped and the rest began. I got out of the car. I could hear voices, familiar female voices but ones that didn’t go together. I could hear music too. It was Marianne’s favourite, that Mozart piece. It made me feel peculiar to hear that music again. I remembered lifting up the vase in the bedsit, holding it high above my head like a trophy I’d won, for one brief second.

  They were all in the garden drinking white wine. Jessica was sitting on Charlotte’s lap and Marianne was lying on the grass. It was a big shock to see Charlotte in my house but it seemed almost as startling to see Marianne there with her shaved head. I still hadn’t got used to it, I hadn’t yet incorporated that fact into my mental image of her. I could see a little nick on the back of her neck where she’d cut herself shaving it. Jessica looked up at me uncertainly and clutched at Charlotte’s shoulder. Hello Daddy, she whispered fearfully. Marianne opened her eyes, then propped herself up on her elbows. Her eyes had that unfocused, glassy look that meant she was completely drunk: ‘Oh hello darling, you’re home already. Darling, I’d like you to meet Charlotte.’

  Charlotte put Jessica down, stood up, proffered her hand and smiled at me: ‘I don’t believe we’ve met.’

  ‘No, I don’t believe we have.’

  ‘Charlotte Fisher. I represent young artists, and …’

  Marianne broke in: ‘Darling, she wants to manage me. She says she can make me squillions of pounds, darling. Darling, what do you think?’

  ‘I don’t know. That’s your decision.’

  ‘That’s awfully sporting of you darling. It’s all my decision then. Can I pour you some wine darling?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  She turned to Charlotte: ‘He doesn’t drink wine until dinner. He’s awfully strict. He’s awfully virtuous about everything. Puts me to shame. Spends his days saving people’s lives. Don’t you darling?’

  I didn’t say anything. Charlotte had sat down again and Jessica had climbed back into her lap and put her hands round Charlotte’s neck. I could feel myself shaking ever so slightly. Seeing Charlotte and Jessica together like that provoked me so much more than Marianne’s mocking rants.

  ‘Tell Charlotte about that man in Africa, darling, go on. This man they’re going to execute. Go on. Well my darling’s going to save the man’s life. Like a superhero. Aren’t you darling?’

  ‘Marianne. Cut it out would you please.’

  She looked up at me with mad eyes, a blue vein on her neck standing out horribly. For a second I thought she was going to unleash some terrible rage on me but the moment seemed to pass. She smiled: ‘He’s so modest … where did you get that lighter, darling?’

  I’d got out my cigarettes and I was lighting one with her lover’s lighter, the one I’d taken from the bedsit. Marianne was looking at it with great curiosity.

  ‘You gave it to me. Don’t you remember?’

  ‘Of course. Could you pass it here for a second, darling?’

  I passed it to her. But she didn’t light a cigarette with it. She just examined it carefully then passed it back to me wordlessly. I said: ‘Well … if you’ll excuse me.’

  I went back into the house. On my way through I turned off the music. It wasn’t disturbing me as much as it might but I didn’t want to hear it anyway. I went into the bedroom then through to the bathroom. I stood under the shower for a long time. The bedroom and bathroom doors were open and I could hear Marianne saying goodbye to Charlotte and Charlotte replying: ‘I want you to think about it. I understand that you feel loyal to Joseph Kimberly but if you want me to be honest, I don’t think he’s really pushing your work. I just feel you deserve more.’

  I got out of the shower, pulled on jeans and a T-shirt and went into the hall. Marianne closed the door on Charlotte and then walked right past me as if I wasn’t there. I followed her and stopped her in the kitchen: ‘Listen to me. I don’t want you to have anything to do with that woman. I don’t like her.’

  Marianne spat out: ‘What’s it to you? Who the fuck are you to tell me what to do? Who the fuck do you think you are, ordering me around?’

  The vitriol of her response shocked me and all I could do was repeat lamely: ‘I don’t want you having anything to do with her.’

  She wasn’t listening to me any more though. She was getting a bottle out of a crate of bottom-of-the-range Bulgarian wine that was sitting by the kitchen door. She must have ordered it in from somewhere. It was unusual, because like a lot of French people Marianne doesn’t like to drink anything that isn’t French.

  I went back into the hall and out the front door. I could see Charlotte on the opposite side of the road, sitting in her car, revving up the engine. I ran across the road: Hey, I want to talk to you, I shouted. The engine was running and I could see her peering up at me through the car door window – she was hesitating as to whether she should wind down the window or not. Finally she wound it down just enough so that we could hear each other: ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I want to talk to you.’

  ‘OK. You’re talking to me.’

  ‘Can we go somewhere? I can’t talk to you here in the middle of the road.’

  She shook her head: ‘I’m not going anywhere with you.’

  I’d hardly given Charlotte a passing thought since that last time I’d seen her and for a second or two my anger fell away. I thought about our liaison and the brief moments we’d been together. What struck me most was that unlike Marianne’s affair, ours had essentially been a game. Perhaps there had even been a kind of innocence in our duplicity.

  ‘OK then. So can you tell me what the hell you were doing in my house?’

  ‘I think you heard Marianne. I want to represent her. I like her work. She’s a rising star. I think she’s being poorly managed.’

  ‘I see. And the fact that you and I slept together has got nothing to do with anything.’

  ‘Why should it? This is business.’

  ‘Business. Jesus Christ.’

  She exhaled sharply, almost like she was spitting something out: ‘Yeah, business. Is that a scary word for you human rights people?’

  I concentrated on trying to control my breathing: ‘You’re not going to represent Marianne. Because I won’t let you. I’m not having you coming round to my house every five minutes.’

  ‘Well it’s not up to you. It’s up to Marianne. And judging from what she said about you …’

  I shook my head: ‘I don’t care what she said about me.’ Then I started shouting: ‘I mean, what’s your game, coming round to my house like that? What do you want? What are you trying to do to me? What did you say to her? Did you sleep with me just so you could meet her?’

  She laughed uncertainly: ‘Yeah, right. Like I’m the scheming bitch or whatever. That’s the saddest, stupidest accusation I ever heard. You’re just one of these sad guys who think all women are out to get them, aren’t you?’

  ‘No. That’s not true.’

  Suddenly I was all deflated again. Suddenly I didn’t want to talk to Charlotte at all. I walked away as she accelerated into the distance. I didn’t give a damn what she got up to with Marianne. What did it matter? I wouldn’t be there anyway. I wouldn’t be in that house, I wouldn’t be with Marianne. God knows where I would be.

  XIV

  I’d got to work fairly early, around eight thirty, but Fiona told me two police officers were already waiting for me. I went into my office and flicked through the morning paper. Jarawa was on the front page for the first time in a while. It wasn’t surprising, the execution was scheduled for tomorrow. There was this weird atmosphere in the office that seemed to affect anyone who’d had anything to do with the Jarawa campaign. It was like an end and a beginning at the same time. We were gearing up for tomorrow while at the same time winding down operations. I stared out the window for a few minutes then got Fiona to show the policemen through.

  They were the same ones who’d visited the house the other week – the tall, stooping, gentle-looking one who did all the talking and the short, bulky-looking one who took the notes. They didn’t seem embarrassed at all, they were obviously used to this kind of thing. I too felt calm but then I noticed I’d been scratching one of my knuckles, almost to the point of drawing blood. As soon as I noticed it, it started to hurt and I stopped. I asked them if they’d like coffee and the tall one said yes. I got Fiona to bring it in, not because I wanted to look like I had a secretary who made me coffee, but because I was afraid my shaking would start up again. I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to carry the cup without spilling it.

  The tall one said we’ve got some more photos of the missing man and we’d just like you to take another look, in case it triggers anything. OK I said. I didn’t ask why they were showing them to me and not Marianne, I didn’t ask why they’d come round to see me. The short guy passed me five or six photos. A few of them were of the man by himself, one of them was of him with another woman who looked like she might be his wife and then there was the last one, a blurred photo of him looking unposed and uncertain, in the countryside somewhere with a young woman who’d turned her head away so you couldn’t see her face, as if at the last moment she’d decided she didn’t want her picture taken after all. To anyone else it would have been unclear who it was but I recognised it immediately as Marianne. I recognised the colour of her hair and the skirt she was wearing. It was the same skirt that had been hanging over the back of the chair that day at the bedsit, although I hadn’t seen her wear it since then.

  I glanced through the photos, paying particular attention to the one with Marianne in it. I didn’t care any more if the police noticed, I was past that. What struck me was the comparison with that first photo of the man they’d shown us the other week. Both were blurred but in that first one the man had been a ghostly presence; here, on the other hand, he looked very much alive. Because it wasn’t a portrait, it was like a movement that had been captured. It was also the tension between his uncertain expression and the woman with her back to the camera, as if it hid a story that you wanted to know about. How was it that this man was now dead, I wondered, when he looked so terribly alive?

  Anything you recognise there, asked the policeman. I shook my head. For example, he continued, that one you’re looking at now, with the woman turned away from the camera. Nothing you recognise there? Could the woman be anyone you know? I shook my head again: ‘Impossible to say.’

  I straightened up the photos like a deck of cards and handed them back. The short guy was taking notes, the tall one was engaging me steadily with his eyes even as he sipped his coffee. What colour was your partner’s hair before she shaved it off, he asked. And did I have any ideas as to how she might have known the man? Had I discussed him with her at all? Again I shook my head: ‘Not really, no. We didn’t talk about it. I suppose it must have been like she said. I suppose he must have been a collector or something.’

  The policeman paused for a while, ostensibly to sip his coffee again. It was a technique to get me to fill the void out of embarrassment, I’d used that same technique myself, when I’d covered the Truth and Reconciliation Commission and had interviewed South Africans accused of atrocities. I refused the bait but in the silence my replies hung limply in the air, their inadequacies quite apparent. For example, it was unbelievable that I hadn’t spoken to Marianne about the man. If the police come round unannounced to your house in the evening and question your partner about some unknown man who’s disappeared, it’s pretty unimaginable that you wouldn’t ask your partner about it once they’d gone. I wondered too why I didn’t confess now and I think I must have been pretty close this time but I could still come up with a dozen reasons why I shouldn’t. I didn’t want to be arrested in my own office, and also there was the fact that the Jarawa case was so close to resolution. But ultimately I knew it wasn’t even that that was holding me back. It was a completely new fear, and the fear of confessing felt like the loneliness of the end. It was the terrible final ordeal I had to confront if only I had the strength.

  The policeman started asking questions again. How long had Marianne and I been together, how long had we been living in the house in Camberwell, did Marianne or I own or rent any other property in London, etc. And if necessary, would I be able to account for my whereabouts on certain days last month? I answered the questions mechanically. Finally the tall one smiled at me and said well now I think that’s about everything. But we may have to speak to you again, so could I ask you if you have any plans to leave London or leave the country in the next few days? I replied no. The policeman gave me a card and said that in case I changed my plans could I please give him a ring. Then as they were leaving, he said: Oh yes, just one other thing. What shoe size are you?

  After they’d gone, I asked Fiona not to put any calls through to me. I just sat in my office, sweating, exhausted, staring out the window for maybe an hour or so, plagued by a steady stream of inconsequential thoughts. It occurred to me that I’d never told the police where I worked so how did they know? Perhaps they’d phoned Marianne and she’d told them. Only Marianne wouldn’t have answered the phone at eight o’clock in the morning. In fact she never answered the phone at all any more. Every day the tape in the answering machine was crammed with important people asking why she hadn’t returned their calls. It was strange how her career was finally taking off just as everything else was collapsing.

  I wished I could concentrate on other things but it was impossible, it was all light-headedness and a vacant feeling. But then after a while I could feel a certain relief as well. There was that new fear but at least the doubt was gone forever. The situation was quite different from that time when I’d been picked up for going through a red light because now there could be no more question of what the police were doing. In a weird way it was almost as if they were my protectors, leading me forward when I didn’t know where to go and didn’t have the courage to go there.

  I was still sitting there, just staring through the window out onto the dirty brick façade of the strip club opposite when Jo came in, looking pale and worried: ‘Have you heard about Christian?’

  ‘No. What about him?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s all very strange. He’s just rung from a police station in Oxford. Apparently he’s been detained for some reason. He wants Raoul or someone else from the legal department to go down and represent him. You haven’t seen Raoul anywhere have you?’

  ‘No. No, I haven’t.’

  ‘OK, well …’ She was just about to leave but then stopped and said: ‘Listen. You don’t know anything about this do you? This business with Christian? It’s got nothing to do with you?’

  ‘I … No, it’s got nothing to do with me. I don’t know anything about it. Why should I?’

  She was looking at me strangely: ‘I don’t really know. I just thought … Well anyway, it doesn’t matter. I’m going to try and track Raoul down then I’ll probably go down to Oxford with him. Do you want to come down too?’

  ‘Well I don’t know. Do you think there’s any need for me to come?’

  ‘No. I suppose not.’

  I spent a couple of hours arranging my papers and putting all the Jarawa stuff in order, writing out all the important phone numbers and information for Jo so it would all be straightforward for her when I was gone. Because somehow I knew that one way or another, once I left the office I’d never be back. It gave me something to do and it was astonishing how intensely I could plunge back into the work once I’d got started. Then at one stage Jamie dropped by to ask me how things were going. I said OK. I said there wasn’t a lot more to do now except wait.

  Jamie said: ‘Well, whatever happens tomorrow I think we can call the campaign a success. We’ve managed to lift our profile and that’s down to you, that’s thanks to your hard work.’

  I didn’t say anything.

  By eleven I was all through and I went out. It was baking hot. I didn’t know where I was going or what I was doing. There were times when I felt calm, other times when I felt dizzy as though I were somewhere very high up. I passed by a church. I didn’t have a religious bone in my body but Marianne had been brought up a Catholic and I knew from reading her diaries that she’d been to confession recently. I wondered what she’d confessed. I’d been so terribly ill-prepared for my own burden of guilt and a momentary rage flared up in me. How much more fortunate were people like Marianne, the Catholics, who could go to confession and say a few Hail Marys. The trouble was not even that I could never bring myself to believe in those things but that I was excluded in some far more fundamental way.

  I kept looking over my shoulder. I couldn’t believe that the police would have just let me go like that without tailing me or something, when they’d gone so far as to pull Christian in. They’d pulled Christian in, I’d forgotten that. The trouble was that there were too many things to remember. Too much to take in, like I was just endlessly sucking in all these events and experiences deep into the nowhere of myself. They’d got Christian and Jo was on her way to see him. What a shame he hadn’t made it to West Africa first as he’d planned, it was my fault. No doubt they’d traced my call to Christian from the bedsit. It was simple, so simple that it was remarkable it hadn’t occurred to me before.

  The more I thought about Christian, the more I wondered why he did what he did and why he’d helped me, the more mystified I was by his action. I wondered if it was guilt. I wondered if he’d fantasised about killing his wife or something, when suddenly she’d died in the accident, taking it out of his hands. I wondered if that was the thing he’d wanted to tell me. But it was pure speculation: the idea had only occurred to me because I wanted it to be true. Finally the only real answer I could come up with was that he’d helped me simply because I’d asked him to. Whereas I had called Christian for the opposite reason – to share in my misfortune. The shame was there just below the surface, welling up under my eyes like pus under a bruise, ready to break out any moment at the slightest pressure, for anything or for nothing. I was crossing the road and somehow I was quite certain I’d never make it to the other side, I was sure a car would come hurtling out of nowhere to knock me down and I closed my eyes and whispered: ‘Help me now. Please help me now.’ I was talking to Jarawa or praying to him and I could see his face before me.