Engleby. Part 19

'Can you forgive the IRA men who tried to kill you in Brighton?'

'It's our job as the Government to help the police to bring the terrorists to justice.'

'Would you like to see them hanged?'

'There is no capital punishment in this country, as you know.'

'But for terrorists?'

She didn't answer, she merely looked at me, her blue eyes filled with pity and menace. I saw what Mr Clark had meant.

'When you closed the pits in South Yorks.h.i.+re, might you not have helped the miners to find new work?'

'"Helped"? "Helped"? What do you mean?'

'By putting money into starting new projects or-'

'Whose money?'

'Money from the relevant department. The Department of Trade and-'

'That money would have come from the taxpayer. From you and me. It's not the role of government to start up businesses. It's our job to create a climate in which people can do that for themselves.'

'Talking of money, are you personally well off? How much money do you have?'

'Do you have any more questions about politics?' said the minder.

I thought for a moment. 'Not really. Yes. All right. Who do you think will win the election?'

'We shall of course!' The sun came out on Mrs Thatcher's face again. 'The Conservative Party. People trust us and know that we have done a marvellous job for Britain.' She had a slight wobble in the middle of the 'r': Brwritain. 'Though there is work still to do. In those inner cities, for instance, where we-'

'Sure, but...'

'What?' The face was plump and powdered, like a rich aunt's, but the nose was sharp. I could see the tiny blood vessels inside her nostrils.

'Sorry.' I'd lost my place for a moment. 'Yes. I know what I wanted to ask. When you look back at the riots in Brixton and Liverpool and places, the miners' strike and the Falklands War, the rate of unemployment and so on, I wonder if you had any regrets, if you would-'

'Of course not. Britain is a far stronger country, far better equipped to face the future than when we came to power in 1979. Inflation is at a quarter of what it was, our compet.i.tiveness has-'

'But surely you must have some regrets. It's only human to-'

'Let me tell you something... Michael,' said Mrs Thatcher, leaning forward so that her face was closer to mine. 'Let me give you a piece of advice. "Too much looking back is a weariness to the soul."' She wagged her finger. 'It was St Francis who said that. If you want to make something of your life, you must keep your eyes on the horizon. Never be deflected. Don't look down, or you may stumble. Above all, don't look back.'

'Like Orpheus, you mean.'

She didn't answer, but she smiled in my direction and nodded graciously as the minder showed me to the door.

When I read through my notebook later, there wasn't much I could use. My article was thus made up chiefly of a description of the factory visit and of her entourage; for quotation I used some of the answers she'd given in public.

But in private, over the weeks and months, I did occasionally think about what Mrs Thatcher'd said to me.

I thought about it particularly when I was at an old church in Muswell Hill watching an amateur production of The Birthday Party The Birthday Party by Harold Pinter. Margaret (Hudson, not Thatcher) was keen to go because a friend of hers had helped design the sets. I'm not interested in the theatre because I can't deal with the level of non-reality it offers, but with Pinter it's all right because he's not pretending to be realistic. It couldn't matter less whether you 'believe' in it or not. by Harold Pinter. Margaret (Hudson, not Thatcher) was keen to go because a friend of hers had helped design the sets. I'm not interested in the theatre because I can't deal with the level of non-reality it offers, but with Pinter it's all right because he's not pretending to be realistic. It couldn't matter less whether you 'believe' in it or not.

I'd seen the play before, of course, in an undergraduate production. For students, it's right up there with The Good Person The Good Person and and The Crucible The Crucible; it's nasty, brutish and not overlong. Posturing potential: limitless.

The other good thing about an old church is that it's not, like a West End theatre, heated to sauna point. You don't have to clap when the star comes on. You don't have to gasp if someone uses the word 'b.l.o.o.d.y'. You can stretch your legs and have a drink beside your seat; you can enjoy it.

And so I did. To begin with, at least. I'd forgotten how funny it was, the low-rent exchanges in the boarding house like Steptoe or Hanc.o.c.k. And the way they can't get over the fact that two strangers actually want to come and board board in their dingy house. I'd also forgotten how early the landlord flags up the fact that he's met these two men. in their dingy house. I'd also forgotten how early the landlord flags up the fact that he's met these two men.

When Goldberg and McCann appeared, I presumed that whatever Stanley was meant to have done wrong had been invented by them. They were thugs, bad guys, so Stanley had to be OK. Anyway, how wicked could a failed pianist have been? Then there came a moment when I felt, with a lurch, that even if Goldberg and McCann are genuine villains, which they are, Stanley might still be guilty of something forgotten. That was not good.

It's impossible to deal with a world in which the polarities aren't mutually opposite.

When they turned the lights off to play blind man's buff, I had to leave the church hall. I stumbled down the row of chairs, kicking over drinks and ran to the back of the hall.

Outside, I kept running, across to the main road, where the lorries were thundering down towards Archway. I thought of throwing myself beneath one.

It was like the attack I'd had in Basingstoke. I didn't know what the h.e.l.l was happening. But I crunched two blue pills in my dry mouth and got into a pub where I poured vodka down me.

It occurred to me as I stood there, waiting for the effect, that at such moments of extreme panic and anguish you do manage that trick with time: you are at last free from the illusion that time is linear.

In panic, time stops: past, present and future exist as a single overwhelming force. You then, perversely, want want time to appear to run forwards because the 'future' is the only place you can see an escape from this intolerable overload of feeling. But at such moments time doesn't move. And if time isn't running, then all events that we think of as past or future are actually happening simultaneously. That is the really terrifying thing. And you are subsumed. You're buried, as beneath an avalanche, by the weight of simultaneous events. time to appear to run forwards because the 'future' is the only place you can see an escape from this intolerable overload of feeling. But at such moments time doesn't move. And if time isn't running, then all events that we think of as past or future are actually happening simultaneously. That is the really terrifying thing. And you are subsumed. You're buried, as beneath an avalanche, by the weight of simultaneous events.

I have no memory of what happened then. The next thing I can recall with any clarity is the following day, being in Margaret's flat.

I was in bed and the alarm clock showed a time of ten past twelve. I was wearing only my underclothes. I put on a dressing gown and went to the bathroom, then through to the living room, where Margaret was reading the paper.

She looked up and smiled. 'Are you all right, love?'

I rubbed my head. 'Yes, I'm fine. What happened?'

'What happened? You tell me! One minute we're watching the play, the next thing I know you've run out and disappeared.'

'Yeah, I know, I remember that, but I don't know what happened next. I think I went to a pub. What did you do when I ran out?'

'Well, nothing. I thought maybe you'd just gone to the toilet or something. The speed you went, I thought maybe you were going to be sick.'

'So what did you do?'

'I left you to it. I thought if you were being sick you didn't want me fussing over you. Plus I didn't want to disturb the other people, or the actors. It was quite a small place and you'd already made an almighty racket going out.'

'I see.'

'Anyway, after about ten minutes, there was a short break and I crept out to see if you were all right. I expected to find you sitting in the churchyard, but you weren't there. I decided to have a look in the street, but you weren't there either.'

'Were you worried?'

'A bit, but not really. You're a big boy, Mike. I knew you could find your own way home. To be honest I was just a bit cross that you hadn't let me know.'

'Know what?'

'What you were doing. I mean, you might have said something, or left a note for me to say you were going straight home, or whatever it was you were doing.'

'Yes.'

'So, anyway, what were you doing?'

'I don't know. I felt... I felt ill in the play. I went out and then I went to a pub. But I don't know what happened after that. What time did I get in?'

'Not very late. About twelve. The play finished at ten, I had a drink with Carol and Tom. I was back here soon after eleven and I'd just fallen asleep when you got in. You seemed a bit the worse for wear.'

'What? Drunk?'

'Yes. And your hand was bleeding. You seemed... Woozy.'

'How had I got back from Muswell Hill?'

'I suppose you took a cab. You didn't say.'

'I didn't say?'

'No.'

'But it must have been nearly three hours since I left the play. Didn't you want to know?'

'Yes, but you weren't very chatty. You went to the bathroom then just crashed on the bed. I helped you take your clothes off and you were asleep inside a minute.'

The timings all made sense. The narcotic effect of the blue pills and the alcohol must have taken hold eventually. But as to what I had been doing between, say, nine-fifteen, when I felt subsumed by panic, and, say, eleven-thirty when I had found a taxi, I hadn't the smallest idea.

I was in the Peugeot 405, on the M4, on my way to Wales, listening to The World at One The World at One on Radio 4. I suppose I was somewhere near Hungerford and I was calculating whether I had time to leave the motorway and find a pub with reasonable food, or whether I should try and hold down whatever Membury Services had to offer. on Radio 4. I suppose I was somewhere near Hungerford and I was calculating whether I had time to leave the motorway and find a pub with reasonable food, or whether I should try and hold down whatever Membury Services had to offer.

On long drives I usually talk to myself and try to sort things out. I rehea.r.s.e what I'm going to say to Margaret or to old DT's, when I go to ask for a rise; or to the people at the Independent Independent (in the end they opted for that name over the (in the end they opted for that name over the Nation Nation) when I submit my tardy job application. Sometimes I make a short political speech or argue the case for re-evaluating Emerson, Lake & Palmer's Tarkus Tarkus. What I'm trying to say is that although I have the radio or the ca.s.sette player on, I don't listen carefully. I'm in my own world.

So it was with some difficulty that I tried to rewind mentally and remember what I'd not been listening to. The first words to penetrate my private thoughts were these: '... reports that police in East Anglia have discovered the body of a young woman.'

Perhaps there weren't any important words before that for me to have missed.

At any rate, my car swerved, the lorry behind blasted me with his horn, I straightened up, regained the centre of the middle lane, switched to the inside, after indicating, and turned up the volume on the radio.

'Yes, Brian, that's right. The police are expecting to hold a televised press conference at five o'clock this afternoon in which they'll be giving details of their discovery. At this stage they won't confirm or deny that the body is that of the student Jennifer Arkland, who disappeared in 1974. Her disappearance caused a great public outcry at the time.'

'Can you tell us any more at this juncture, Sally?'

'Not a great deal. I understand the discovery was initially made by a man walking his dog yesterday evening, near the village of Rampton. The police are unwilling to give any more details at the moment, though the secrecy with which they've surrounded it does suggest that they have a major announcement to make.'

'What would the identification process consist of?'

'Well it depends of course on how long the person has been dead. But if it really is Jennifer Arkland and she died at the time of her disappearance, then they are probably looking at dental records.'

'And that would be straightforward?'

'As I understand it. Yes, Brian.'

'And have her parents made any comment?'

'Well, her father died some years ago and her mother is unavailable at the moment.'

'Thank you, Sally. You can hear more about that story on the P.M. P.M. programme at five.' programme at five.'

I pulled off the motorway at Membury Services and followed the signs into the car park, where I pulled up and turned off the engine.

I didn't quite know what to do. I felt drained of energy. I leaned forward and rested my head on the steering wheel. Poor Jen. So she really was dead.

The sensation of immense fatigue climbed slowly through me, from the foot well, through the seat and up into my shoulders. I felt as though I might never move again.

Ten.

I was in a hotel room in Cardiff at five o'clock. I had both the radio and the television on.

The press conference was about to start. There was a long table with a white floor-length cloth and blue screens behind it, on the central one of which was the coat of arms of the local constabulary, slightly skew-whiff. There were five seats with name cards in front of them, illegible at this distance, jugs of water, a bouquet of microphones pointing at the central chair and a single one in front of all the others. The orange, blue and black electrical leads trailed off the front of the trestle. Various technicians and town-hall clerks came in and adjusted seats, straightened mikes and disappeared again. The television camera briefly turned to show the rows of a.s.sembled journalists on foldaway council chairs. Bright overhead lights and spots were creating a circus atmosphere. The journalists chatted excitedly.

I thought of the child Jennifer in her first year, in a college scarf.

The TV reporter was beginning to struggle with the delay. There were only so many ways he could say that he didn't know what to expect. We were taken briefly back to the studio.

I stood up and poured some whisky. I went to the bathroom for water, and looked at myself in the mirror as I ran the cold tap.

The face that looked back was nearly 35 years old. My hair was receding on either side and had vanished from the crown of my head. My student days had been in another life. My current life was fine.

I sat down in the armchair and waited. There was a rustle and a sense that it was all finally happening. Figures emerged from behind the screens and took their places. They seemed burly and diffident as they clambered through the cables, trying not to trip up on the gathered tablecloth. The men stood back to allow a woman in plain clothes to pa.s.s in front of them, which created further awkwardness as each searched for the correct place, twisting the name cards round to check.

Eventually, they were settled. The central figure, a grey-haired policeman with silver braiding and a chestful of medals, leaned into the microphones and spoke. A caption identified him as Deputy Chief Constable Adrian Bolton, OBE.

'Ladies and gentlemen, first of all, thank you for coming along this afternoon, and thank you for your patience.'

He then introduced his colleagues: a ruddy superintendent; the bobby who'd been first on the scene; a female pathologist called Hedgecoe; and, finally, the third of the cops who was none other than DC now Chief Inspector Cannon: baldish, but still gingery, still pent-up and smirking.

'Let me come straight to the point,' said Bolton. 'At approximately five o'clock on Sunday afternoon a member of the public walking his dog near the village of Rampton discovered what appeared to be human remains. They were in a ditch, between the railway line and a watercourse at the edge of an area known as Westwick Field. This is open country, not close to any habitation. At the north side of the area is the end of Cuckoo Lane, an unmade road that leads into Rampton, and on the south side is the Oakington Road, though no lane or path leads up from it. It thus took some time for us to get the personnel and the equipment we needed to the site, which we approached from the Rampton end.'

I wondered how much more Fen geography this Bolton was intending to give. He was certainly in no hurry. He spoke with grave emphasis, enjoying his moment beneath the lights, unable to keep a tremor of self-congratulation from his voice.

'The body appeared to have been carefully buried, and covered not only with earth but also with pieces of concrete which were further weighed down with an old railway sleeper. Presumably this was in order to prevent the body being discovered or unearthed by wildlife or by dogs. Preliminary inspection established that it was the body of a young female, approximately twenty years of age. It was removed from the site on Monday evening and taken to a police laboratory. Tests carried out in the course of Tuesday and Wednesday established that the cause of death appears to have been a blow or blows to the skull which caused a fracture of the cranium and presumably internal head injuries. One of the legs was also broken. The extent of the decomposition of the body means that it is impossible to discover what further injuries, if any, to the soft tissues may have contributed to the death of the individual.