Shuttlecock

[32]

On the way back from Quinn’s I stopped by at a pub — a little pub on the edge of Wimbledon Common I haven’t been to for some time. I got quite drunk, as if I were celebrating. But didn’t I have something to celebrate? Gain. Loss. Sometimes they’re the same thing. And whether it’s for better or worse, there’s something intoxicating, something exhilarating about those moments which make you realize life won’t ever be the same again. When I got back Marian said, ‘How’s Dad?’ and I looked at her in astonishment. And then I remembered that, of course, Marian thought I’d been to see Dad. ‘Haven’t you been to see Dad?’ she said. ‘Yes, yes. Dad’s fine,’ I said. ‘Fine, fine.’ And then I said, ‘I am going to be promoted. I am going to get Quinn’s job.’

Quinn’s house — or Quinn’s ground-floor flat, for such it turned out to be — was somewhere in the leafy region between Richmond Park and Richmond proper. Perhaps you know this district of solid old villas set amidst their own miniature woodlands, and little urban cottages along narrow lanes which imitate the country. Through gates and bay-windows and the odd open front door, you catch glimpses of expensively and elegantly furnished interiors — decanters on sideboards, framed prints on the walls, gilt mirrors, that sort of thing. I don’t like neighbourhoods of this sort. They smack of privilege and importance (you see how I betray my envy; the truth of the matter is these houses make me think of Dad and Mum’s house in Wimbledon) and they smack, too, with their burglar-alarms and brick walls capped with broken glass, of distrust, of secrecy. And I don’t like the way these civilized, urbane, well-pampered dwellings appropriate for themselves an air of the countryside as if they alone have a right to it. Because the trees, the leaves, they aren’t really like that at all. They are there for everyone. But, again, perhaps this is envy speaking.

It took me some while to find Quinn’s house — even though, in fact, it was not in one of the more secluded parts, but in a row not far from the main road. I admit, I was more than a little bit afraid. My heart was thumping, I was sweating. Were these the sort of surroundings, the sort of trappings that would be mine if I got Quinn’s job?

But something helped to put me at ease almost immediately. The house in which Quinn lived was a tall, three-storeyed building at one end of a smart terrace. Dark brick; white portico; brass letter-box. Railings separated the front area from the pavement, and to reach the front door (solid, glossy black) you had to climb four or five steps. I thought: what would you expect from a man who even at his place of work has to be approached by a flight of stairs? I was half prepared to see Quinn’s face at the front window, which was above street level, looking down at me as I got out of the car, just as he looked down at me, like a hawk, at the office. But all this was reversed as I passed through the front gate. For there, suddenly, was Quinn himself, standing not above me, but below me, in the little well around the basement window. He was wearing a loose, open-necked shirt, corduroy trousers and sandals, over socks, and was carrying a watering-can. One of his fingers was bandaged. I looked down at his sticky, bald forehead and the curls of grey hair visible where his shirt was open. He did not look like the boss of a police department but like some amiable, slightly dotty, retired professor.

‘Ah, Prentis. Excuse me receiving you like this. But the flowers, you know, they have to be looked after.’ There were pots of geraniums on the ledge of the basement window. ‘No, don’t go up to the front door — I seldom use it. This way.’ He gestured to the steps down, then ushered me along the little path around the side of the basement. ‘You look hot. Let me get you a drink.’

At the back of the building was a walled garden, with a lawn, roses, honeysuckle, two stunted apple trees and some rather rampant borders. Immediately to the rear of the basement, which was now on the level of the garden, was a small conservatory, opening onto a paved area on which there stood two wicker chairs and a fold-up table. I somehow expected all this. The conservatory was full of foliage. So Quinn was a lover of plants, too, a devotee of the flower-pot; like Marian. Through the conservatory was a large, sprawling kitchen, the result of more than one room knocked together — the sort of kitchen in which you can not only cook but eat, with several guests, and even lounge in like a living-room. From the cluttered, casual appearance of this room I got the impression that Quinn spent most of his time here. And, in fact, I never got to see the other rooms. I wanted to see all I could. For all the time, you see, I was looking for clues, for spy-holes into Quinn’s elusive private life. I wanted to know, for example, whether there had been — still was — a Mrs Quinn; whether Quinn — somewhere — had sons or daughters. I never discovered these things. But I discovered enough.

Round the kitchen and conservatory roamed two (later I saw a third) Siamese cats.

‘I’m going to have a gin with a big slosh of tonic and bags of ice. Will you join me?’

He beckoned me to sit down on one of the wicker chairs. While he busied himself inside at the fridge and the sink I noticed that in the conservatory, amongst a collection of various outdoor garments and implements — shoes, an old coat, a birch broom, walking-sticks — was a bag of golf-clubs.

He returned with two large, fizzing, clinking glasses. ‘There’s no need to behave as though we’re at the office. Please, don’t swelter in that jacket. Take your tie off.’

You see, I had dressed myself up smartly, like some boy applying for a job.

I took my glass. There were long bars of sunlight across the lawn; the fragrance of honeysuckle. I thought: where is the catch? As he gave me my drink I studied the bandage on the finger of his right hand.

We dipped our noses into our glasses and looked at the garden. Then Quinn spoke.

‘So you came, my dear chap. You know, I had my doubts whether you would. No, not really, I was sure you would.’ He took a hurried sip of gin — as if he had begun badly — then smacked his lips, and wiped his glasses which had become speckled with bubbles.

‘Now. You have some questions you want answered. And I have some explaining to do. That’s the position, isn’t it?’

He gave me a penetrating but shifting look. It was as though he had said, ‘You still want to go through with this?’

‘Excuse me for using a cliché, but I don’t know if this is going to be harder for me or for you. For me, it’s a confession — of a kind. For you — well, you must make up your own mind. I’m saying this just as a way of telling you that if you find yourself wanting to cut the whole thing short, to forget the whole thing — though somehow I don’t think you will — please, don’t hesitate.’

As he spoke, one of the Siamese cats came and rubbed itself sinuously against his leg. Quinn put out his hand and fondled the scruff of its neck. He did this, not in a gentle, stroking way, but almost roughly, as if, at any moment, his hand might close round the animal’s throat. Siamese cats, they say, are different from other cats. They don’t ooze affection. There’s something unpredictable, even sinister about them.

I shrugged awkwardly, as Quinn, still stroking the cat, seemed to wait for me to give some signal.

‘You want to know what is going on at the office. But it doesn’t stop with the office. That’s the whole point. Our office isn’t just an office, it spreads everywhere. Do stop me, Prentis, won’t you, when I waffle? Well, shall I begin?’

He gave the cat a shove and it slunk broodily away.

‘C9. And especially File E of C9. That is the particular point at issue, isn’t it? But it’s only an example of something general. You don’t have to tell me, Prentis. You’ve been making private inquiries into C9, haven’t you? I’ve half been egging you on to do that very thing. I know why you’ve been coming into work early and about — what shall I say? — your private correspondence with the Home Office. No, I’m not accusing you of anything — I should talk. I’ve been terribly undecided about all this. We’ll get round to C9 in a moment — I’ll put all the pieces together for you. But I can tell you now that I’ve had File E all along, and I nearly destroyed it. And it’s not the only one. But shall we deal with the general matter first? That’s what you said — you remember, when we spoke last — that you’d rather clear up the general issue first. Very well. I’m not going to say to you, Prentis, as I might, that I hope what I’m about to tell you will go no further and you’ll keep quiet about it. Because, for one thing, it doesn’t work like that. I’m not trying to defend myself. If you liked, you could put me through the mill. Don’t look alarmed. And for another thing, I can trust you to make your own judgement. Yes, I’m asking you to judge me — because I, in my way, have been judging you. You’ve been aware of that, haven’t you? And what I’m going to tell you is only an example of just the kind of judgement — am I being clear? — I’m asking you to make. I mean, how much you should tell, and how much you should keep silent, and how much you should know.’

The glow on the garden wall and the flowerbeds seemed to deepen almost perceptibly.

‘Do you think there’s enough trouble, enough misery in the world without causing any more?’

This came like a sudden challenge.

‘Well — yes.’

‘So you wouldn’t condemn the action of someone who tried to eliminate extra misery where it could be avoided?’

‘No — not on the face of it.’

‘Thank you, Prentis. I’ve alluded to all this before, haven’t I? That great heap of secrets at the office. A cupboard full of skeletons — I think that was the phrase I used. I wonder if I really have to spell it out to you. You must have worked out for yourself by now what I’ve been up to.’

I looked into my glass of gin.

‘Well?’

I swallowed. ‘You’ve been withholding — or destroying — information so as to spare people — needless painful knowledge.’

It was as though I had voiced something that had been pressing on my conscience for years.

‘Precisely. I knew you would arrive at it. Do you know, I wanted you to arrive at it. To help me. And — what a benevolent construction you put upon it!’

I was looking at my hands. Somehow I didn’t want to look at Quinn’s face.

‘You see, there are two types of power madness. No, no — don’t dispute it — it’s power we’re talking about, and power mishandled. There’s plain and simple corruption. We all know about that. Think of the harm, think of the sheer destruction you could wreak if you wanted to, if you were in my position.’ I looked up at this point, and there was something sharp, almost like a mischievous gleam in his eyes as he said, catching my gaze, ‘in my position’. ‘We’d all agree that that’s wrong, wouldn’t we? But what about the opposite of that? What if you just as surely pervert your power and overstep the bounds of your responsibility under the notion that you are doing good? Is that wrong too?’

‘I–I would —’ I looked away from Quinn again. I was experiencing the capsizing feeling that the very thing I sought most — Quinn’s job — was the thing I wanted least. The old suspicion that Quinn was mad — and, in his shoes, I would be mad too. For a moment, I really wanted to be ignorant, an irresponsible underling.

‘That’s all right. What should I expect you to say? “Yes”? Or even “No”? I’m not here to ask questions anyway.’

‘And what is the alternative,’ he went on, ‘the straight course, I mean? The straight course is to curb the imagination. To sit with all that knowledge and just to sort through it as if it had nothing to do with you. And that’s why — if you have any imagination at all’ (as he said this I faced him again and there was the same gleam in his eye, but no longer mischievous, almost sad) ‘— the best, the securest position to be in is not to know. But once you do know, you can’t do anything about it. You can’t get rid of knowledge.’

I thought of Marian — Marian like a stranger in the same bed. All those nights seeking enlightenment.

‘Do you know what the hell I’m talking about?’ He gave a wry smile. ‘I said it was madness. I’m not absolutely lunatic, mind you.’

One of the cats — perhaps the same one as before — drew near his seat again, and as it stood, uncertainly, about a yard away, he stared at it, then made a sudden jerking movement, as though to pounce on it, so that it gave a start and turned away. I thought: Quinn could be cruel to these cats.

‘Do you know what makes you different from Fletcher, Clarke and O’Brien, Prentis? They’re happily lacking in imagination.…’

He toyed with his glass. For a long time he seemed to be bracing himself to speak.

‘You can’t get rid of knowledge. But I believed I could. At least, I believed I could get rid of knowledge on other people’s behalf — before it became their knowledge. I used to sit at that desk of mine and think of all those people who — were within my power. I started to take files from the shelves. I started little inquiries of my own — from the reverse end. I started to destroy information. I used to think: here is such and such an individual — just a name in a file — who will now never have to know some ruinous piece of information. He’ll never even know his benefactor. I used to think I was actually ridding the world of trouble. Good God. And the motive behind all this — was nothing but the desire for power.’

He paused for a moment, removed his glasses, wiped them. He looked, for the first time, in my eyes, like a man without any power at all.

‘I warned you, Prentis. If you want me to stop, just say so.’

I shook my head.

‘Very well.’ He took a sip of his drink, replaced his glasses. ‘The irony of it all — the absurdity of it all — was that in order to continue what I supposed was this benevolent scheme I had to put up a screen around myself so I wouldn’t be found out; and, to keep people at a distance, I found myself having to behave the very opposite of benevolently. I’m afraid I’ve been a bit of a tyrant.’

‘So, you mean — all your — ’

‘All my high-and-mighty bloody-mindedness?’

‘— was just a cover? But you must have known that sooner or later the missing files and so on would have been discovered.’

‘Yes, but I thought if I spread enough intimidation around nobody would dare do anything about it.’

‘And the mixed-up files — the inquiries that didn’t lead anywhere at all?’

‘Red herrings — to cloud the issue. You see, I thought that if you or one of the others got wind of something, then the more generally confusing I made things, the better. The fact is, by this time, I was beginning to work hard at this other role — not just a cover — baffling people, making people afraid of me. Suspiciously hard. Did it work? A good performance?’

‘It worked.’

An anxious, almost desperate look had come into his face.

‘But only up to a point. Up to a point. Here, you’d better drink up, we’re getting to the difficult part.’

We both drank. Everything in the garden was perfectly still. I thought of the patients on the terrace, with their tales of woe.

‘Do you know at what point my little bid for power — my little enterprise for the good of mankind — broke down? Can you guess? It was all right, you see, doing good turns for people who were only names in files. I didn’t have any qualms, then, that what I was doing was keeping from them the truth. I thought, they can do without the truth. But when it suddenly became a case of keeping the truth from someone I knew, then it was a different matter. I began to waver. Oh yes, I’ve always been a waverer — but I really began to waver. What do you do? Let the truth out, always, no matter how painful? I began to get conscience-stricken. You know who the person is I’m talking about, don’t you?’

I looked at him. His bald head shone. I had forgotten he was my boss.

‘At first I thought there was an easy way out. When your father — became ill. When he ceased to speak. I thought, that puts a better seal on things than ever I could. It’s all right, Prentis, I’ll explain in a moment. No, but that was too easy. And it didn’t solve the real issue. Supposing your father — forgive me — were to speak again. And the evidence, in any case, was still traceable. So I started to sound you out. I thought the only fair basis on which to proceed, either way, was your own disposition. I started to test you, to find out if you were the sort of person who would always want the truth — regardless of the cost — or not. I already knew about that fertile imagination of yours. I began to lay down little clues, little hints, to see how you would react. They must have become rather transparent in the last few weeks. And when you seemed to be cottoning on, I’d get scared and come down hard on you. I’ve been blowing hot and cold, I know. It’s a funny thing, isn’t it, how you start off wanting to protect someone and then, for that very reason, you end up torturing them? And as I was conducting this little test on you I began to realize that I was testing you for quite another reason too. I knew my retirement would be on the cards this year. Another way out of the problem, if you like. But it’s not. I used to wonder, what will happen when I go? What will happen to my little half-baked scheme to save the world? All right — the sort of person they need in my job is the firm, inflexible — unimaginative type. But, between the two of us, I hope they never get him. You see, here I am, confessing away like a sinner, but the truth of the matter is — I’m going round in circles, I know — I’m not convinced that I’ve done wrong. Anyway, I put you to the test. And I found out firstly that you weren’t the sort of person who would stop at finding out the truth — you wanted to know; and, secondly — I hope this doesn’t shock you — I found out you were just a little bit like me. There were times when you almost came and had it out with me weren’t there? — and then you didn’t. You want your little bit of power as well, and you can’t entirely control your actions, and — forgive me for speaking like this — you really want to be rather better than you are.’

So it was true. I had been spied on. I had been the subject of an investigation.

‘What I’m saying — I’m not being clear, I’m sorry — is that ultimately I can’t trust anything but my own instincts, and when I’ve left the department, I’d like to know that it’s being run, well, shall I just say — wait till you’ve heard everything — by someone who will — trust his own instincts too.’

He turned to face me. Deep in his eyes again was that needle-like gleam.

‘Shall we get down to particulars? How much have you found out — you know what I mean — about C9?’

I drew a long, shaky breath.

‘That Z was a friend of my father’s. That X may have been imprisoned by the Germans at the same time, and at the same place, as my father.’

‘No more? Enough. Look I want to say at the beginning that what we’re dealing with here isn’t necessarily the one hundred per cent proven truth. I’ve been talking just now about the truth. It’s hard enough withholding the truth when you’re sure it’s the truth you’re withholding. But it’s ten times worse when there’s even the shadow of a doubt that it might not be the truth at all. All your pangs of conscience for nothing. But if it’s a lie, Prentis, then maybe you have a right to know the lie as well. Now, do you want to know what was in File E?’

I nodded. My voice had gone.

‘File E contained documents relating to X which came to light soon after X’s death while undergoing trial. These documents contained evidence which might have been grounds for further investigation or even further criminal charges, but because X was dead the case was closed. The Home Office concluded their own investigations and were satisfied that both Y and Z were innocent victims of a malicious attack. Amongst the documents in File E — I can let you see them, I haven’t destroyed them — yet — was a letter, or the copy of a letter, addressed to your father. Attached to this was another, long letter. clearly meant to be copied and circulated, since it was accompanied by a list of addresses. These included two newspapers, your father’s publishers, a number of former members of special operations — and so on. There was another letter, addressed to Z, but I’ll come to that later. The letters involving your father were the set-up for a blackmail. The gist of the blackmail was this: that your father did not escape from the Germans — from the Château Martine. He succumbed under interrogation, betrayed several resistance units and the whereabouts and covers of three British agents operating in the extreme east of France; and in return for this the Germans “allowed him to escape”.’

I looked at the dead-still garden. Before me was the vision of a naked man fleeing through a dark forest.

‘Do you want another drink? Let me tell you, Prentis, I’ve read your father’s book — more than once. When it came out — before I met you. I’ve admired what’s in it. Oh yes, I know I’m not the patriotic type, not the type to look for heroes. But I was around at the same time, I had my own little part in the war. And I can appreciate — this is the whole nub of it, Prentis — how a son might feel about such a father.’

Something had collapsed around me; so I couldn’t help, in the middle of the ruins, this strange feeling of release. I had escaped; I was free.

‘Can I see the file?’

‘I’d wait a bit if I were you. Till we’ve talked it over. The letters put things rather more strongly than I do. They say your father was a coward and a traitor.…’

‘Were the letters sent?’

‘No evidence of it. The ones to the publishers and so forth, definitely not — but they were the back-up letters to the initial one to your father. Your father never came forward. Of course — forgive me — blackmail victims often don’t.’

‘Were they dated?’

‘No. The usual blackmailer’s precaution. But obviously they must date from before X’s death, and, as the back-up letters were never sent and as, to judge from the Y case, where Y was barely given time to make a pay-off before the allegations were made public (X tended to work fast, which supports the pure malice theory), they must date from a time shortly before X’s committal for trial. That’s to say, about two years ago.’

‘Two years ago was when Dad had his breakdown.’

‘Exactly. But don’t jump to conclusions. There’s no evidence for a connexion between the two things. And even supposing your father did receive the letter and his breakdown was a consequence, it may have been a reaction to a vicious, sudden, but still false allegation.’

‘No —’ Suddenly, I don’t know why, my voice became angry. ‘Dad wouldn’t have reacted like that. If it had been false, he would have faced it out, denied it, cleared himself.’

Why was I speaking like this? I thought: or, if he’d broken once, he would have broken twice.

‘But, in any case,’ — I faltered — ‘maybe that doesn’t matter. Maybe that’s academic. There is still the fact of the allegation.’

‘Yes. I’m afraid it’s you who must bear the brunt of that. Your father may know nothing. At any rate — he’s silent on the matter.’

The perfect defence: impenetrable silence.

I peered into Quinn’s face — as if, now, he had become an easy target for me — for several seconds.

‘Do you think it was true?’

Quinn threw up his hands. ‘My dear chap, that’s a question I can’t answer.’ His face looked pained. I thought: he is regretting he ever spoke — didn’t keep silent too. ‘I don’t know if it can ever be answered. I’ve weighed up the known facts. You must do the same. X was a British agent in ’44 and was a prisoner in the Château Martine at a time coinciding with, or close to the period of your father’s imprisonment. All that is established fact.’

‘So X would have known.’

‘He would have been in a position to know. But he would also have been in a position, several years later, to make a spiteful, unfounded attack which had an apparent historical basis. Come back for a moment to the present and the other cases in C9. Y and Z were cleared: that itself speaks in your father’s favour. All the evidence suggests that X was an embittered failure who wanted to get his own back on those who had fared better than himself. One of the charges he was up for before he died was fraud. Y and Z were successful civil servants on their way to the top. X’s own civil service career was a flop. X was a British agent like your father, but he didn’t come out of the war, like your father, a hero. The man felt neurotically inferior.’

Quinn turned in his chair and the little sharp gleam flashed in his eyes just for a second. I thought: if I had known what I know now, and the circumstances were different — I might have blackmailed Quinn.

‘But if Dad did betray the other agents, isn’t there evidence to corroborate that?’

Quinn bent forward in his chair and passed a hand over his face.

‘In mid-September ’44 three British agents were rounded up, almost simultaneously, by the Germans and shot, in Mulhouse. X mentions this in his letter — but it’s a genuine fact.’

‘So — ’

‘Wait. Don’t forget there are two ways of looking at it. X wants to incriminate your father. He searches round for facts, coincidences, that will apparently do this. His whole purpose is to suggest the wrong sort of deduction.’

‘But there are too many coincidences — X being at Château Martine, the shot spies, Dad’s breakdown at the time the letter might have been sent — ’

Quinn passed his hand over his face again. I thought: he really believes Dad is guilty, but he is straining every nerve to protect me.

‘Was he a traitor?’ I blurted this out naïvely — as if Quinn were omniscient. The word ‘traitor’ sounded like something out of melodrama.

‘Perhaps that isn’t really the question. The question is, if he was, could you bear knowing it?’

I thought of the day when I refused to go any more with Dad to the golf course.

‘There’s one thing — that seems to go against all this. His book — ’

‘Ah — ’

‘The last pages, where he describes the Château, and his escape.’

‘I’ve read them.’

‘They’re too convincing not to be real. He couldn’t have written those things, if they never happened.’

‘He knew the Château, and the region — and perhaps he had — like you — a strong imagination. If he wanted to invent an escape story he could have done so. I’m just pointing this out, not disagreeing with you.’

‘No, I don’t mean just that. The last chapters are more convincing than the other parts of the book, even though the other parts are about things nobody disputes are true. It’s not just the authentic detail — it’s the tone.’ I felt my voice running away with me. ‘In the rest of the book you hardly sense Dad’s feelings, you don’t sense Dad himself. But in the last paragraphs you — ’

I looked at the pale, peppery hairs, visible on Quinn’s chest.

… of all the humiliations … none was more demoralizing, more appalling …

‘If he didn’t actually escape, if it was all a deal with the Germans — why should he write a false story anyway? Why should he have written his book at all and put himself at risk. Shouldn’t he have just kept quiet?’

‘Because he had to justify how he got out of the Château. He couldn’t just say, They let me go. His war record up till then had been pretty remarkable — the grand finale had to live up to it. Of course, I’m speaking hypothetically. But to continue the hypothesis. Suppose that this brilliant record really was blotted by a final act of betrayal; suppose that his hero’s reputation rested ultimately upon a lie. Imagine the pressure, the burden of this — the fear of the truth coming out. Have you ever wondered why it was so long after the war before your father’s book appeared? 1957. He was approached before then by more than one publisher. Why? Because he hesitated over the final act of committing the lie to print, of becoming an out-and-out impostor. At least, he hesitated up to a point. But then the mental pressure becomes too much. He starts to see the publication of his memoirs in a quite different light — as a means of rebutting once and for all the possibility of exposure, of presenting the hero-image in such a complete and thorough way that no one will dare challenge it. And think for a moment what happens when he actually does this. Why are the final chapters more convincing, more heartfelt than the rest? Because it’s here the real issue lies. The true exploits, all the brave and daring deeds, what do they matter? They can be treated almost like fiction, but the part of the book that’s really a lie — that’s where all the urgency is. It’s here that he’s trying to save himself. Why does it read like a real escape? Because it is an escape, a quite real escape, of a kind. Who knows if in writing it your father didn’t convince himself it was true? And why is it also the most thoughtful, the most sensitive, the most imaginative part of the book? Am I seeing too much in it? Because in writing it he is actually torn between the desire to construct this saving lie and an instinct not to falsify himself completely — to be, somehow, honest. So behind all the “authentication” of his prison experiences and of the escape, he puts down little hints, little clues, meant perhaps only for those nearest to him — for his own son — ’ Quinn grew excited ‘ — clues which say, in case they should ever inquire beyond the surface: See, I was only human. I had my limits, my failings.’

Through the open door, that summer night, Dad’s sudden start — as if I’d caught him in some guilty act.

I thought: who has the lurid imagination now?

‘My dear fellow — I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say all this. I got carried away. Please — ’

For a long time there was silence. I sensed Quinn’s apprehension. Then suddenly I said, ‘Did he break down?’ My voice was savage. ‘In the Château — did he break down?’

‘My dear chap — ’

‘In the prison chapter, Dad is silent about what they did to him. He keeps saying: this can’t be described, this is blurred.’

‘Yes, but that would be quite understandable. He was tortured — that’s almost certain — probably severely tortured — you must have considered that. You can’t blame him for not dwelling on those things.’

The garden glimmered in the evening light. A mirage.

‘Or,’ I said, ‘for quite naturally breaking down under them.’

He looked at me. He seemed suddenly perturbed, daunted by the vehemence in my voice. I realized I was defending Dad — defending that dignified dummy on a hospital bench.

Quinn said. ‘Consider the possibilities. The Americans were advancing. He must have known the chances of being freed very soon: an argument for “holding out” — an argument against betrayal — and for not undertaking, if we’re speaking now of the genuine article, a risky escape. On the other hand, the Germans were desperate. They were in retreat. They needed information, or they were simply extra-brutal’ — his eyes sharpened — ‘as desperate men are. Reasons for “breaking down” — or for effecting an escape even with liberation imminent.’

‘But if the Germans were desperate what would have been the advantage of a betrayal? They might have shot him anyway.’

‘True. But consider another possibility. He turns traitor — oh, scarcely with any object in mind, but simply because — like everyone — he has — a breaking point. Then he realizes the Germans will shoot him anyway — so he has to escape in earnest.’

He sighed. ‘Will you have another drink?’

‘No.’

He looked into his own glass and jogged the sliver of lemon at the bottom of it.

‘I know what you’re thinking. You hate me because I’m imparting all this information. Because I have the information — the file — I’m responsible for the fact. That’s not logical. But I don’t blame you. It’s just the same at the office. Because you handle all that information, you feel to blame for it. You don’t mind if I have another one, do you?’

He eased himself out of his seat, gripping his glass. ‘You see,’ he suddenly said, ‘this business of betrayal, and this business of breaking down — they aren’t the same thing at all, are they?’

I watched him waddle to the kitchen through the conservatory. I had never seen him before out of his grey or dark-blue office suit. Like all professional men suddenly seen in casual clothes, he looked vaguely clownish and defenceless. The Siamese cats followed him at a distance. Shadows crept up the garden wall and up the branches of the apple trees.

… to make the decision the hunted rabbit or the cornered mouse has to make …

Quinn returned. ‘ “Betrayal” sounds like some deliberate, some conscious act. But “breaking down” ….’ He sipped his drink and smiled, gently, at me. ‘Are we putting your father on trial or aren’t we? Think of his predicament again. Alone in that cell, he has all those possibilities to weigh up. Nothing is certain, nothing is clear. If he doesn’t “speak”, the Germans will shoot him. If he does, will they shoot him anyway? Will the Americans arrive in time or not? Should he risk escape or risk waiting for liberation? If he speaks will it make any difference, at that stage, to the course of the war? Is a betrayal a betrayal if, in fact, it has no consequences? And then, on the other hand, if he doesn’t betray, that may make a very real difference — between his own life and death. He has all this mental anguish, on top of confinement and — torture. And against all this he can only oppose one feeble imperative — his duty. It’s a mystery; I don’t know what really happened. But you can be sure of one thing. If he did betray, he only did what any ordinary, natural human being would have done — he saved his own skin.’

Quinn held his gaze on me and I looked away. The smile had melted from his face and I felt he was studying me as he often did in the office, searching for reactions.

‘Have I ever told you how I got my limp?’ he said.

I looked at him, surprised.

He bent down suddenly and rapped the front part of his right foot with his knuckle. It gave a hard, hollow sound.

‘You see, that part’s not me.’

I looked, perplexed, and slightly repelled. I’d never known Quinn had an artificial foot.

‘You’re wondering what this has got to do with it? Let me tell you the story. It’s not irrelevant. I was twenty-five when the war started, Prentis. Older than a lot of them. In ’44 I was thirty — nearer your age — a junior officer who’d spent the war in camps and depots and hadn’t heard an angry shot. I didn’t have any lust for battle, you understand, but the fact rather irked me. Our battalion went over to Normandy. Not one of the first wave. It was ironic. There were men under my command who’d been in Italy and North Africa and I was supposed to lead them into action — and it was all rather important to me. We didn’t see any fighting until we got to Caen — ’

‘Caen?’

‘Yes, I know, your father was in Caen. You see — he was preparing the way for the likes of me. Well, I saw my bit of action, and it was all over in about a minute. I had to take my platoon across open ground towards a wood which, in theory, should have been flattened by our artillery. The Germans were there; they opened up, and in ten seconds half my platoon was dead. That’s an astonishing thing when it happens, Prentis, believe me. I didn’t perform any of my much-rehearsed functions as a leader. I obeyed my instinct. I ran like bloody hell — like everybody else. I ran for my life. That’s no joke. I would have killed any English soldier who got in my way, let alone a German. Now I don’t remember any of this except one thing — it’s perfectly true, memories do get blurred. As I ran I had to jump over a bit of broken-down hedge. Lying face up in the ditch on the other side of it was a wounded man. I don’t know if I saw him beforehand or if I only realized he was there when I’d already jumped. All I know is that my right boot came down hard and firm on his face; and I had a good glimpse of his face because I was able to tell the poor fellow was still alive. I didn’t stop. A few seconds later something knocked me into the air and the next thing I knew I was in the dressing-station. I’d lost half a foot and, fortunately perhaps, I wouldn’t be called on to command any troops again; and the fact that I was wounded somehow obscured the possibility of my being charged for cowardice and dereliction of duty. You see if someone had accused me of cowardice, of betrayal, they’d have been perfectly right — but all that got lost in the confusion of battle. Now, I’m not necessarily superstitious, Prentis, but I can’t help believing my right foot was blown off because it was that foot that trod on that man’s face. Or is that just some guilty need of mine for punishment? But why punishment? Aren’t there certain situations when the pressure of events is so intense, so overpowering — that even the most wretched action can be forgiven?’

I looked at him, puckering up my face.

He nodded. ‘But that’s not all. There’s one thing I’ve never told anyone about that moment. When I brought my foot down — it was only a split second, but I remember this much — I thought: he’s had it, I can still save myself. I was glad.’

I turned my eyes to the garden. As the shadows crept upwards, they made the remaining chequers of sunlight, on the walls, the roses, the apple trees, more intense and dazzling. A sweet smell came from the honeysuckle. I remembered our garden in Wimbledon. Mother’s kitchen garden. Her clump of lavender.

The smell of apple wood is the smell of sanctuary.…

I thought: I’d wanted Dad to come back to me. Perhaps now I had the words — the question — that would shock him out of his silence. I could say to him: Did you betray your comrades? And his eyes would start into life. But at what cost to him? Was that the price of having Dad back? That he must know that I knew he wasn’t a hero. And did I know that? If I found out myself — if I looked at the files and followed them up (how could I tell that Quinn wasn’t still holding back some clinching piece of evidence?) — then I would know; but the world need never know. We could destroy the files. Was that what Quinn was offering me?

And in that case Dad must remain a silent statue.

I thought: if I knew that Dad hadn’t been strong and brave, then I wouldn’t hit Marian and shout at the kids and sulk around the house. But I didn’t want to know that Dad wasn’t strong and brave.

Quinn said: ‘What are you thinking about?’

I’d never have guessed Quinn had no foot. He was patched up with metal, like the Bionic Man.

I said: ‘I was thinking about my hamster. Do you know, for the last couple of months I’ve kept thinking about my hamster?’

He looked at me, wide-eyed. ‘Will you have that other drink now?’

‘Please.’

He got up. While he was indoors one of the cats drew near. I put my hand out to stroke it, but it backed away.

When he returned I said: ‘You haven’t told me what was in the letter to Z.’

‘That’s true.’ He sighed. ‘I’ve been saving it. Go back for a moment to what I said at the beginning. If you want to call a halt to this little discussion, just say so, whenever you like. Are you sure you want to know what was in the letter to Z?’

‘Yes. I want to know everything.’

‘All right. X’s letter to Z was not, strictly speaking, a blackmail letter, since there was no accompanying demand. Though I suppose it might have been turned to that end later. It supports, again, the theory that X’s allegations were purely malicious. The substance of the allegation was that your father had been having an affair with Z’s wife. At the time of the letter this had been going on — so the claim was — for nearly a year.’

‘But that can’t be true.’

Quinn eyed me abruptly. I had not denied the other charges against Dad so hotly. All the strength of my denial was based on my memory of Dad and Mum.

‘It needn’t be true. Once again we’re dealing with something that, quite possibly, was wholly trumped up. But let me — since you want to know everything — put the opposite case. Z committed suicide at a time soon after he may have come into possession of this letter. No other motive for the suicide was revealed other than his wife’s statements about their ruined marriage. That presumably had been a source of distress for some time, so it doesn’t necessarily explain why Z took his life when he did. But supposing he suddenly gets knowledge of his wife’s infidelity. That might have been the last straw, that might have brought him — why do we keep using this phrase? — to the breaking point. And not just his wife’s infidelity. Z was a friend of your father — your own researches turned that up — a long-standing, close friend. He admired your father, respected him enormously. Compare their war records — doubtless you tracked this down too. Your father was all the things Z never quite became himself. You see, though Z became professionally successful, we’re dealing with another man who was perhaps dissatisfied with his achievements, who perhaps had a nagging sense of inadequacy. What was intolerable about X’s letter — if we assume he took it seriously — was not just his wife’s behaviour but the fact that a friend he looked up to — even idolized, who knows? — had cheated him, and probably knew, what’s more, via his wife, all his own pathetic circumstances — assuming those to be true — as a husband. A stronger man might have had it out with your father. What’s a strong man? Z just collapsed. All this doesn’t conflict with the wife’s evidence. If her marriage to Z was really as she described it, she would have been ripe for an affair with another man. And, of course, she would have pushed the evidence she did give for all its worth — so as to hide the fact of her infidelity. Then there’s Z’s son. Remember, I told you that he turned against his mother after the inquiry. Might that not have been because he knew all about his mother’s affair? He hated her both for her original unfaithfulness and then for dragging his father’s name cold-bloodedly through the dirt.’

I thought: whose side is Quinn on? What does he want?

‘And one other thing corroborates X’s letter. To do with the dates. Nearly a year — ’

‘You mean — I know what you are going to say — it dates everything from shortly after my mother died.’

I thought of Dad’s coldness to Marian.

‘Yes. It would be another factor to support X’s allegation. But, also — if we suppose that allegation wasn’t false — something to mitigate your father’s action. A man who loses his wife, quite without warning, still in his middle years. Grief; loneliness. He turns to another woman for some kind of solace. Oh, he’s not absolved, by any means. But isn’t he doing, again, what any ordinary man, with only so much strength, might do?’

I’d never wanted any other woman than Marian; only to be closer to Marian.

I turned my face again from Quinn because my eyes were smarting.

‘I’m sorry. I’ve put everything in the most unfavourable light. You wanted me to tell you. If you wanted me to tell you, there seemed no point in softening the implications. You must think I’m a bit of a bastard. But, remember, all this can just as well be explained as an invention of X’s spite. As a matter of fact, X’s own marital history isn’t irrelevant. Yes, he was married. Children. He was divorced about five years ago and about a year before his dismissal from the Home Office. His wife brought the petition. The grounds were cruelty.’

‘Cruelty? Was the business of Z’s wife mentioned, too, in X’s letter to Dad?’

‘Yes. X threatened to make it public.’

I thought: the subject of all this is sitting in a chair on a hospital terrace. I would be with him, normally, on a Wednesday. Is he waiting for me, missing me? Or is he none the wiser?

I looked at the lit-up garden walls.

My universe … depended on that piece of rusty metal.…

Quinn sipped his drink. ‘I know what you are thinking. You are wondering what happens now. I can show you the file, the actual letters. You can follow up the threads — as you have done already. You can find out if X was really telling the truth. Real police-work. Is that what you want? Perhaps you want’ — he paused and narrowed his eyes — ‘to destroy your father. But why should you want to do that? Isn’t he — I shouldn’t say this — destroyed already?’

‘Which proves everything!’ I said in sudden rage. ‘His breakdown — at the time when it happened — is the one thing that clinches it all.’

‘No, no, no. It doesn’t clinch the truth of anything. Remember what I said. A breakdown can be triggered by a false accusation, by the threat of blackmail, as well as by the real thing. And in any case, supposing the letter did contain the truth and it did cause the breakdown — hasn’t he effectively put the seal on the matter? Hasn’t he rendered himself immune? And isn’t he giving us a signal? I want silence on this business. I don’t want to be approached. I want to be left alone with my knowledge. You see, it’s the knowledge that matters, it’s the knowledge that makes the difference. Only that. But let’s get back to my point. You can follow the matter up — face it out with your Dad. Perhaps that matters to you. Or perhaps what matters to you is to preserve your father, to preserve the father who is in that book of his Is that the case? Well, there is no reason why it shouldn’t be. All of this perhaps can make no difference, externally; it can matter to no one except you. If nothing happens, the secret — the mystery, if you like — remains only with you, and me. Perhaps uncertainty is always better than either certainty or ignorance. Do you know what I propose? I propose destroying File E. Yes, our job is the preserving of information. Well, you’ll have to shoulder that one when I leave the office — a small burden, perhaps, in the circumstances. The file’s here, in the flat. Yes, another rule broken. It’s up to you whether we destroy it, now. And it’s up to you whether you want to look at it before it’s destroyed.’

I met Quinn’s eyes. I felt like a criminal.

‘What about other people? People still alive — ’

‘There’s always that risk of course. But then all this has slept for thirty years. Why shouldn’t it go on sleeping? Your only real danger is Z’s wife and Z’s son. But Z’s wife is hardly likely to want to publicize matters further, and Z’s son — well, Z’s son’s primary concern was his father’s reputation. Now his father has been cleared of any professional slur, he is hardly likely to want to make known — that’s if my theory about Z’s son is correct — that his father committed suicide because he had found out his best friend was carrying on with his wife. All these skeletons, Prentis, hidden away in cupboards. As a matter of fact, your position and Z’s son’s are peculiarly alike. You both want to protect your fathers. You are both under your father’s shadows. Am I right? You never know, perhaps one day you should meet.’

Z’s son. So, somewhere else in the world, there was someone like me.

‘Shall I get the file?’

‘All right.’

He went in once more. I sat with my drink, looking at Quinn’s trim, new-mown lawn. I thought: this is just another terrace where you sit and play games with the truth.

He emerged with the file in his hand. It was a standard, pale-blue office file with the letters C9/E on it and ‘CONFIDENTIAL’ stamped in purple ink on one corner. He placed it on the table in front of me. I felt like a witness in the dock confronted with some incriminating exhibit.

‘Now — first question. Down at the end of the garden is a little incinerator I use for burning garden rubbish. I suggest we have a bonfire. Do you agree?’

I looked at the file. For a while I didn’t think of Dad at all; only of the implications of destroying official information.

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘Good. If we don’t decide now we might dither for ever. Second question: do you want to look at it first, before you even answer question one?’

I stared again at the file. I thought of the number of times I’d opened the cover of Shuttlecock hoping Dad would come out; hoping to hear his voice. Was I afraid that the allegations might be true — or that they might be false? And supposing, in some extraordinary way, that everything Quinn told me was concocted, was an elaborate hoax — if I never looked in the file, I would never know. I read the code letters over and over again. C9/E … And then suddenly I knew I wanted to be uncertain, I wanted to be in the dark.

‘No,’ I said.

‘Right. Come on.’

Quinn got hastily out of his seat and took the file. He was like a boy engineering some mischievous prank. Was he doing all this simply to pass the responsibility on to me? I followed him across the lawn. I thought of him running in the fields of Normandy. We reached an unkempt corner of the garden, beyond the screen of the apple trees. Ivy cloaked the walls, and some neglected trees in a neighbour’s garden arched overhead. Bits of garden debris and cinders strewed the ground, in amongst patches of weeds and nettles. It wasn’t the safest place to have a fire.

The incinerator stood in the corner — a shaky, wire-mesh construction, rusty and scorched. Quinn stooped over it. He did not pause. He took a cigarette lighter from his trouser pocket and then dropped the file into the wire frame, lifting his arm, ritualistically, high. He turned to me for final confirmation.

‘I’ve done all this for you, Prentis, but also to put my own mind at rest. If you think I was wrong, tell me.’

‘I don’t know,’ I said, resolutely. It seemed to me this was an answer I would give, boldly, over and over again for the rest of my life.

Quinn looked at me, surprised, approving.

‘Are we ready then?’

He flicked alight the cigarette lighter. Before setting the flame to the file he pulled out some of the documents and spread them loosely to help them burn. The papers blackened, curled and flared up. I thought of funeral pyres. I thought: they can arrest us for this.

I’m not superstitious, but I wondered if at this moment, as the flames licked at File E, Dad would be feeling, at the hospital, a glow of relief; whether others there would see his face brighten — his lips flutter. The smoke curled up through the overhanging leaves. The evening shadows had lengthened and the branches and foliage seemed to press round us in complicity.

… the woods and the trees are always on the side of the fugitive.…

Quinn crouched by the incinerator, poking the fire with a stick. The flames lit his face. He might have been an outlaw in some forest hideout.

‘There,’ he said, lifting the last fragments of paper to make them catch. ‘Now it’s done.’

‘And all this was for me?’ I asked. ‘All those mixed-up files; your — behaviour — at the office? And you might never have told me about it?’

‘Not exactly, old chap. There are others like you.’ He smiled rather sourly. ‘My little flock. I just happened to know you.’

I thought: do I really understand Quinn any better? You penetrate one mystery only to find another. I wondered if at work tomorrow he would behave just as before, as if this evening hadn’t happened. Speak to me gruffly; look down at me from his glass panel; treat me like dirt. I looked at him as he crouched. His eyes were hidden by the reflected flames in his glasses. I remembered my arrival when he stood at the foot of the basement steps and everything was different. I felt vaguely as if I were under hypnosis.

‘Well, shall we finish those drinks?’

He got up and tossed away the stick he was holding. As he did so he struck his hand — the hand with the bandaged finger — against the rim of the incinerator. He winced and clutched the injured finger. ‘The cats,’ he explained. ‘Little beasts. They quite often bite me. Do you like Siamese, Prentis? Just a little bit on the wild side, a little bit devious — you won’t ever show them you’re the boss. I think that’s why I’ve got them.’ A sly look entered his eye. ‘You see, I like animals, but I’m not sure I believe in keeping pets. Don’t you think if you keep pets they should be free to rebel whenever they like?’ He waved the bandaged finger. ‘Come to think of it, they’ll be wanting their supper now.’

We walked back across the lawn. I watched Quinn’s limp. The cats were prowling round the door of the conservatory. When Quinn went in they followed him.

He reappeared after a minute or so with a large bowl of cat-food and another of milk which he put down on the edge of the lawn. The cats began lapping and nibbling at once. Quinn squatted amongst them and stroked the neck of one of them as it ate. It twisted and rubbed its head against Quinn’s hand, but whether out of pleasure or annoyance I could not say.

‘By the way, you’ll be getting official notice of your promotion tomorrow. Starting from when I leave, of course.’

He said this as if it were something merely minor and incidental but at the same time logical and expected. And, at first at least — until I had left Quinn’s and was returning home — this was just how I received it. I nodded, smiled. So much else had happened.

I stayed only another five or ten minutes. We finished our drinks, the cats licking and preening themselves at our feet. Most of the time we talked about animals and pets, and, almost as a natural course, about children.

He walked with me to the front of the house to see me off. At the foot of the basement steps he said — and not at all in a voice that carried any of the double meanings and undertones the words might have had in the context — ‘I do hope your father’s condition improves’; and he extended his hand, to grip my own or perhaps to grasp my shoulder. But I had already begun to mount the steps, and when I turned at the top I saw him standing at the bottom, his right hand dropping awkwardly to his side. This was the last image I took away of Quinn. I say ‘last’ as if I never saw him again — which isn’t true. But I have never seen again the figure in sandals and baggy, opened shirt, the figure with his watering-can and Siamese cats, or the figure who ran, to save his skin, in Normandy. For most of the time, you never know the real person. And then there was something about the sight of Quinn, standing, alone, on the front path as I started the car and waved to him from the window, that made me think: he looks like a man you will never see again.

I drove back scarcely conscious of my route. I should have been thinking of Dad, of X and Z, of Shuttlecock, of those three agents who were shot in Mulhouse … And then suddenly — as if I really had been hypnotized and the hypnotist’s fingers had been snapped before my eyes — the reality of Quinn’s words struck me: I was going to be promoted — officially; I was going to get Quinn’s job. And I had this sudden urge to get drunk.

I stopped off at the pub I knew, by Wimbledon Common. I was already tipsy from the gins I’d drunk. I hadn’t eaten all evening and it was by now past the time when, had I been to see Dad as usual, I would have returned home for the supper Marian kept for me. But I stopped at the pub, ordered a large gin and tonic and took it outside to drink. People were sitting at wooden tables, chatting and laughing. It seemed I’d emerged out of some confinement. Perhaps the people were happy because of the warm summer twilight wrapping round them and making the world grow soft and dim. Perhaps it was all a case of the pathetic fallacy. Then I thought: these people are happy because of what they don’t know.

When I got home Marian said: ‘You’re drunk.’ (I’d had more than one drink at that pub.) ‘You’re drunk. You’re late, and your dinner’s spoilt.’ It was like a scene in some hackneyed domestic comedy. I could see in her face her worry about where I had got to; and I could see that she thought the moment gave her a right to wield a little authority over me, to scold me, to have the upper hand. But I could see too that, despite her efforts, she was afraid to do this. She was afraid because I was drunk (I’m not often drunk, as a rule; I’m not a man who goes in much for big drinking) and because I was drunk I might hit her. (Though I won’t hit Marian again, no, never.) But she was afraid, in any case, that if she attempted to scold me I would make her suffer for it. I could see this fear and this desire to have a little power struggling in her face and so I hugged her, kissed her and said, ‘It’s all right.’ She was so surprised at this (it’s a long time since I’ve given Marian a hug on my return home) that she became subdued, even wary. Her blue-green eyes flickered. ‘How’s Dad?’ she said. Then I realized what she might be thinking: Dad’s recovered, Dad’s spoken again. That’s why I’ve gone and got drunk. I thought: in a way that’s just what’s happened. She looked suddenly alarmed. And so I kissed her again. ‘Dad’s fine,’ I said, ‘fine, fine.’ And then I said: ‘I’m going to be promoted. I’m going to get Quinn’s job.’