Tremor of Intent

'Go away,' said Hillier. 'We want to talk.'

Roper, by the sound of it, was sick. 'Oh, Jesus, Mary and Joseph,' he prayed, in English.

'Amin,' said the Russian in Russian. Then he said: 'If you want to talk, go to the massage-hut there. Wait, I'll switch on the light for you. Shall I bring strong coffee?'

'That's kind,' said Hillier, uneasy that things were going so well.

'Ikota,' went Roper. 'Ikota ikota.' And then, at the end of a little path of myrtle and roses, disclosed by the walking torch, bright light, as of an interrogation-chamber, suddenly shone. Hillier took Roper's arm.

'KtoV asked sick Roper, with a very English vowel.

'Politsia. Rutina.'

'Oh God,' said Roper in English. 'I meant no harm walking out like that. I can't take it like they can. I wasn't trying to be insulting.'

'Chtor 'Nichevo,' said Roper. 'Bloody blasted nichevo. I think I'm going to be sick again.' He retched, but nichevo came up.

'Perhaps,' said the thug, 'vinegar would be better than coffee.' In the full light of the hut his face showed most un-thuggish: it had something of the helpful shop-assistant in it.

'Coffee,' said Hillier. 'And thank you. But take your time about it. Shall we say in about ten minutes?'

'Ikota ikota.' Hillier kept his face averted from Roper as they entered the light.

'Ten minutes,' agreed the man, and went off.

'Now,' said Hillier in English. 'How do you feel now, Roper?' He looked full on him and was appalled by the ageing of the face. The tow hair was patchily grey; there was a twitch near the right eye. Roper looked up and stopped hiccuping. He said: 'Funny. I was thinking of you only the other day.' He tottered towards one of the four army cots on which, Hillier presumed, massage was done after ball-games on the beach, and lay on it, eyes closed. He got up swiftly and blinked. 'The bottom of the bed started coming up. The only thing that hasn't. Matric English,' said Roper. 'The Authorised Version of the Book of Job. For the literature, not the religion. And you said that Eliphaz and Bildad and Zophar were a proper bloody lot of Job's comforters.'

'Strange you should remember that.'

'Oh, I've been remembering a lot of things lately.'

'Strange you should remember the names. I'd completely forgotten them. Where does that door lead to?' There was a door at the back of the hut. Hillier opened it and looked out. There was faint light now, the moon rising. He saw a high stone wall, full of crannies. Beyond the sea shook its tambourines.

'I read the Bible a lot,' said Roper. 'The Douay Version. It's not so good as the Authorised. The bloody Protestants have always had the best of everything.' He closed his eyes. 'Oh God. It's the bloody mixture that does it. They've all got iron stomachs, this lot.'

'I've come to take you home, Roper.'

'Home? To Kalinin?' He opened his eyes. 'I see you're in the police now. Funny, I should have thought they'd put you to spying or something. God, I do feel bad.'

'Don't be a fool, Roper. Wake up. You may have gone over to the Russians, but I haven't. Wake up, you bloody idiot. I'm still in the same game. I'm taking you back to England.'

Roper opened his eyes and began to shake. 'England. Filthy England. Kidnapping me, is that it? Taking me back to prison and making me stand trial and then hanging me. You're a traitor, whatever-your-name-is, I can't-remember-your-name, you're in the bloody conspiracy, it's been going on for four hundred years and more. Get out of my sight, I'll scream for help, you bastard.'

'Hillier. Remember? Denis Hillier. If you even attempt to scream I'll-Never mind. Look, Roper, there's no question of kidnapping. I've brought letters with me. Nobody's going to do anything to you. You're needed back in England, it's as simple as that. There's a quite fantastic offer here in my pocket. The trouble is, I haven't time for nice l5l cosy easy gentle persuasion. I've got to get you out of here now.'

Roper opened his mouth as to scream but then started retching and coughing. 'That bloody huh huh cigar of yours. I could smell it all over the huh huh huh house when I went home that day. And after huh huh that she left. Poor little huh huh huh girl.' He started to sweat. 'I think I want to be-' Hillier surveyed him without favour: a middle-aged man with an acquired Russian dumpiness, dressed in a dark blue shiny Russian suit, bagged and stained, its tailoring evoking an earlier age, a nonentity to whom was strapped a large mad talent. He pointed a gargoyling mouth to the concrete floor. Nothing came up, or down.

'Take deep breaths,' said Hillier gently. 'Nobody's going to make you do anything you don't want. Tell me what you've been doing all these years. Tell me what they've done to you.'

Roper breathed deep and rackingly, coughing up strings of spittle. 'I've been on fuel,' he said. 'Rockets. Cosmonauts. They've not done anything to me. They've left me alone.'

'No indoctrination?'

'Bloody nonsense. The scientific premises of Marxism are out of date. I told them that. They agreed.'

'Agreed, did they?'

'Of course they agreed. Self-evident. Look, I think I feel a bit better. Did that chap say something about coffee?'

'It's coming. But if you've seen through Marxism why the hell do you want to stay here? What's wrong with coming back to the West?'

'I spoke too soon. I feel awful again.'

'Oh, for Christ's sake snap out of it, man. Listen. They'll welcome you with brass bands when you get home. Can't you see, it'll be a marvellous bit of propaganda, apart from everything else. It's only a matter of getting over that wall. I've got a fake passport for you and a false beard-'

'A false beard? Oh, that's – that's-' He started to cough again.

'There's a British ship in the harbour. The _Polyolbion__. We'll be in Istanbul tomorrow. Come on, man. That wall looks easy.'

'Hillier,' said Roper soberly. 'Hillier, listen to me. I wouldn't go back to England not even if they paid me a hundred thousand pounds a year.' He paused as though he expected Hillier to say that it was roughly about that sum that was proposed in the letters he carried. Then he said: 'It's nothing to do with the government, believe me. It's to do with history.'

'Oh God, Roper, don't be so damned frivolous.'

'Frivolous you call it, frivolous? What's the name of that ship you've got out there?'

'The _Polyolbion__. But I don't see what that's-'

'It's the Perfidious _Polyolbion__ it ought to be called. There are some very good historians here, let me tell you, and they take history seriously, not like your lot back in Perfidious _Polyolbion__. They went into that business of my ancestor who was killed for his faith. They've told me never to forget, and by God they're right. That bloody flowery tepid country where bygones are always bygones. I can see him now, flesh of my flesh, screaming in agony as the flames licked him, and everybody laughing and joking. And I'm supposed to forget about that and say it was all a big mistake and no hard feelings and let's shake hands and go and have a pint of tepid creamy English bitter in the local.'

'But it's true, Roper. We've got to forget history. It's a burden we've got to shed. We can't get anything done if we carry all that dead weight on our backs.'

'Martyrs stand outside history,' said Roper. 'Edward Roper's clock stopped at two minutes to four. Fifteen fifty-eight. Martyrs are witnesses for the light, even though their lights are put out and their clocks stopped. That poor burned man may have been on the wrong track, but at least he had the right dream. The dream of a world society with man redeemed from sin. He saw Europe breaking up into little mean squabbling nations, and then usury creeping in and capitalism and wasteful wars. He had a vision of wide plains.'