Billy sat up, pushing Gray away. He stretched his back, feeling some clicks that should not have been there.
‘Go on,’ said Billy. ‘Tell me about it.’
There was no reply. Damn, damn, damn. Billy went back into the changing room and opened his locker. He would dress quickly, try the number again, then go to the office.
Andrew Gray was manipulating his silk tie into an extravagant knot.
‘You’re sure it was to be today he was leaving?’
‘My source is, as they say, Billy, impeccable.’
‘I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me who your source is?’
‘A little birdie — but not Partridge, if that’s what you’re thinking.’ Gray smoothed down his shirt collar and smiled at himself in the mirror.
Billy Monmouth heaved himself into his clothes, not bothering too much whether his tie was askew or his shirt neatly tucked in.
‘Does it all connect, do you suppose?’ mused Gray, making a final examination of himself.
‘What do you think?’ said Billy, panting now as though he had tried too many lengths of the pool.
‘It remains to be seen, I suppose,’ said Gray.
‘Tell that to Miles Flint.’
‘I hope you’re not going to be rash, Billy.’ Gray’s voice was as level and as deceptive as thin ice.
‘I owe him this much,’ said Billy, walking out of the room with his shoelaces undone but his resolve strengthened.
Andrew Gray nodded to himself in the sudden silence. It had always been his most cherished edict: neither a borrower nor a lender be. Barter, sure, buy and sell, certainly. But Billy Monmouth spoke of ‘owing’ something. There were traps aplenty for the unwise borrower and the unwary lender. He would have to speak to Billy about that sometime. Never have friends, that was the golden rule. Never ever have a friend.
It was becoming more bizarre still. Miles read again the note from the old boy, scrawled as though the writer had been in a rush to catch a train or, more likely, to catch the engine numbers of several trains. It appeared that Miles was to have a cover for his trip across the water, an overelaborate cover at that. He was to be a member of a chartered holiday group, flying out of Heathrow with half a dozen others.
‘Why, for God’s sake?’ he asked Partridge over the telephone, while Sheila sped through the house with newly ironed shirts and handkerchiefs. Miles walked with the telephone to the study door and closed it with his foot.
‘Security, Miles. You can’t be too careful. The IRA has rather a good little intelligence operation going for it these days. It covers seaports and airports. They’re always that little bit more wary of individuals who enter the country, just as our people are.’
‘But all these people I’m supposed to travel with...’
‘A seven-day tour of Ireland. Special offer from a national newspaper. Your fellow passengers will be met in Belfast by the rest of the party, who will have traveled by boat or by plane from Glasgow. It’ll be easy enough for you to slip away unnoticed. We’ll see to that.’
‘But they’ll notice I’m missing.’
‘Be anonymous, Miles. The more anonymous you are, the less chance there is of that. Besides, the courier will inform them that Mr. Scott has been taken unwell and may rejoin the tour at a later date.’
‘That’s another thing.’
‘What?’
‘That bloody name.’
‘Walter Scott? I rather think it a nice touch. You are Scottish, after all.’
‘How am I supposed to remain anonymous with a name like that?’
‘Oh, come on, Miles. It’s just some pencil pusher’s joke, that’s all. It’ll only be your name for a couple of hours at most. I think you’re being a bit too serious about the whole thing.’
But that was just his point! It was not Miles who was being serious, but the firm, and this strange brew of the serious and the farcical was making him very nervous indeed.
‘When does your flight leave?’
‘Three hours from now.’
‘We’ll have a driver there to take you to the airport in plenty of time.’
‘Well, my wife thought that she might drive me—’
‘No, no, leave that side of things to us. All the best, Miles. Bring me back a souvenir, won’t you?’
‘What did you have in mind?’
‘A decent showing, no cock-ups. Good-bye.’
Self-righteous bastard, thought Miles as he went upstairs to wash.
When the telephone rang again — in the hall this time — it was Sheila who answered.
‘Hello?’
‘Oh, is that you, Sheila? Can I speak to Miles, please? It’s Billy.’
Sheila stared at the receiver and saw her knuckles bleached white against the red plastic. She was silent, waiting to hear something more. She heard background noise, men’s voices.
‘Hold on, will you?’ she said finally, placing the receiver down gently on the notepad beside the telephone.
Billy Monmouth stared out of his window and into that of another office, where someone else was on the telephone. He wondered if it were a momentary revelation of some parallel universe, a universe where Sheila and he were together. Her voice had unnerved him, and then her silence had pushed him toward rash speeches, pleas, God knows what indiscretions. He had always been afraid of women, but not of Sheila. He missed her. And now Miles was leaving for a few days... And he had telephoned to give him a specific warning... To warn him that he might well be—
‘Hello, Billy, what can I do for you?’
In the parallel universe, the telephone caller put down the receiver and greeted a female colleague who had just entered the room. He was rewarded with a peck on the cheek.
‘Hello, Miles.’ Billy suddenly felt very warm, his face growing hot to the touch. He let his fingers graze his jaw, which was still stiff though no longer painful. ‘I just heard a rumor that you’re being sent to Ulster. Is it true?’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘What for? Why you?’
‘I drew the short straw, that’s all.’
‘How many straws were there? Just the one?’
‘No, two. Listen, what’s wrong?’
‘Who arranged it, Miles?’
‘Look, Billy, I’m getting ready. If you have something to say, say it.’
Billy swallowed, his eyes on the window across the way. ‘Be careful, Miles, that’s all.’
‘Look, if you know something I don’t—’
But the phone had gone dead on him. Damn. Why did people do that? It was such an absurd gesture, and rude, too. Damn. What did Billy mean?
‘Have you finished in the bathroom?’ Sheila called from upstairs.
‘Yes, thanks.’
For Billy to call him at home, after what had happened, well, it had to mean something. And Sheila had answered the telephone. What had they said to each other? What was going on? He should be at home saving his marriage, and instead he was flying off to Northern Ireland under the name of Walter Scott. But he had no time to think about it, no time to do anything but act.
Sheila was in the kitchen, preparing herself a sandwich, and Miles was already on the plane, when a ring of the doorbell interrupted her reverie. She peered out through the spy-hole and saw a fairly grubby man standing there, examining the top of the house and the telephone wires that stretched across the street. He looked dangerous. There was a young woman with him. She looked not at all dangerous. Sheila slid the chain onto the door quietly, then opened it two inches.
‘Yes?’
‘Oh, hello, you must be Mrs. Flint?’