The Longest Pleasure (27 page)

'I don't know,' Nancy Connaught said. 'I just don't know.'

Four whiskies, and two large slices of bread, make a very complete breakfast. A breakfast on which a man should be able to face the world. And yet courage lingered, hovering at the back of consciousness. To leave the house was an act of will comparable with leaving the burning post office in Ferenczvaros Suburb, and walking towards the German machine guns. He had not been able to make himself do it, then. Now his hesitation was on account of the cold, surely. It was very near to freezing, and to walk down that road in his shirt-sleeves would accomplish nothing.

And what did it matter, out here in Dorset? He could change his coat the moment he reached the nearest town. And that could not be far. The important thing was not to involve Nancy, or Nancy's house, in whatever action he planned. He closed the door behind him, waited for a moment, inhaling the cold air, turned and tried the handle. The door was locked. Locked on Alexander Galitsin's second honeymoon. On the single, wavy, deep blue line, the red blob. On the two empty bottles of bourbon whisky.

He straightened his cap, went down the dirt drive. He turned left, away from Lyme Regis, walked, over the downs. It was a fre
ezing January morning, although
the sky was clear and there was a great deal of sunshine. The road was deserted, save for a single car, which passed him at speed, slowed at the sight of a Russian army officer marching along the road, and then picked up speed again. Galitsin saluted, went on to the next bus stop. A nation of well-disciplined, incurious passers
-
by. He thought that summed up the British admirably.

He waked on the stop, stamping his feet, slapping his gloved hands together. It seemed to grow colder as the day advanced, but that was his body shedding the last of the house warmth. There was a time-table, contained in a glass box on the bus stop itself, but he could not understand it. He felt like a cigarette. He had not smoked since the war, but over the past week he had lit several for Nancy Connaught, and he thought it would be pleasant to feel one in his mouth now. It would give him something to do with his hands. Or perhaps the mere fact of holding a cigarette in his mouth would mean that Nancy was standing here beside him. Without Nancy, life was remarkably empty. Alexander Galitsin, standing alone on
a
freezing bus stop in
a
strange country. He thought he might have been doing this all of his life. Freedom was not something which could be imposed upon you by
a
government,
a
religion, an ideology. Freedom came from inside the mind, represented
a
condition of relationship between the mind and the body and the environment. So every man is a prisoner of his own grave. He must take his moments of freedom while he can forget that, on those rare occasions, so very rare after
a
wound or after the age of twenty-five, when there is no part of his body or his mind actively uncomfortable. For men with scarred backs and with bleeding, bayonet-filled navels occupying all the space between their ears, freedom was not even a dream.

Brakes squealed, and he turned. It was the same car which had passed him
a
few minutes before, one of those peculiar little matchboxes so favoured by the Western Europeans in general and the British and Italians in particular. This car looked smaller than it was because it was driven by a large man, with a black moustache and horn
-
rimmed spectacles, who smoked a pipe. His smile was friendly. He rolled down his window.
'You
look terribly cold. Would you like a lift?'

Galitsin hesitated, but
a
small motor car was far less public than a bus. He looked into the back seat, saw a black attache case, a newspaper, a soft hat and a folded topcoat. And an umbrella. Definitely an average Englishman, no doubt on a business journey. 'Thank you very much,' he said, and got in. 'I am trying to reach London.'

'On foot? I'm going to Yeovil, actually. Jump in.'

'Is Yeovil closer to London than here?'

'Oh, yes.'

'Then I should like very much to go there.'

The car turned down
a
lane, increased speed, racing between high earth hedges, topped with empty blackberry bushes. 'My name is Martle.'

'My name is Petrov,' Galitsin said.

Martl
e chuckled, a deep, happy sound. 'Is it really? I say, old man, I think you should take a look at the newspaper. It's on the seat behind you.'

Galitsin turned round, gazed at his own name.

'Isn't life a rum business,' Martle said. 'The way things happen, don't you know. That story didn't really register with me. I mean, it all seems rather remote, don't you know, Russians defecting and all that sort of rot. And so I was driving along, back there, and thinking about Saturday's match at Twickers . . . that's where we play rugger, you know.' I

'Oh, yes,' Galitsin said. His head opened and shut, and banged once again. The whisky had seeped deep into his system, and the heat in the car was intense.

'Well, there I was,' Martle said. 'And I saw you walking, and I said to myself, That's a very odd sort of uniform. Odd, but familiar. We see lots of photographs of Russian uniforms, don't you know. But the whole thing didn't connect until I'd driven another few miles. And then I just had to come back. You see that, don't you, Mr. Galitsin?'

*Yes.' Galitsin studied die page. His brain only wanted to be left alone, to relax, and enjoy the heat, and perhaps to sleep. Only Nancy could have told this story. Only Nancy knew this story. But why do it now? After saying that she would not. Why, unless she was tired of the whole thing? But she need not be. She might just have decided it was time she received her pay. She might even be in need of money. He had not thought about money during the past
week. It had not played a very
important part in his life. And she had gone off and left thirty pounds in the drawer at 'the cottage. But whatever her reason, with Galitsin securely locked away down in Dorset there was no possibility of his seeing a newspaper.

' 'What struck me as most odd,' Martle said, smiling into the windshield, 'was that you didn't look as if you were trying to hide yourself. I mean to say, marching along the road like that. That uniform is very conspicuous. I suppose you
are
trying to hide yourself? I mean to say, that story makes it seem as if your Russian people would like to have you back. It sounds as if our police are interested, too.' 'I am going to buy a new coat in Yeovil.'

'Oh, you'll be able to get a coat in Yeovil, I'm sure of that,' Martle said. 'But I really don't think you'll get away with marching into the town centre in that uniform. Someone is sure to ask questions, even if you don't happen to bump into a bobbie.'

'A bobbie?'

'A policeman, don't you know. I don't want to pry, or anything, old man, but I think you should let your American friend, Miss Connaught, get it for you.'

'We have quarrelled,' Galit
sin said. 'I have left Miss Con
naught.'

'So she spilled the beans to the press? I say, that was rather hard, what? Although I suppose she
is
a journalist.' Martle swung the car on to a main highway, joined a stream of traffic. 'But it rather leaves you in the hot seat, what? Do you have any money?'

'I have thirty pounds,' Galitsin said.

'And what about somewhere to go?'

'If I can get to London, then I will have somewhere to go,' Galitsin said. But that was the whisky talking. Now he had nowhere to go at all. He wished the car would stop, and remain absolutely still, and give him a chance to think. Most of all, he wished Martle would shut up.

'Well, that's easy enough,' Martle said. 'I'll drive you up to town, if you like. I rather feel like taking the rest
of
the day off, what?'

'You
will drive me up to London?' Galitsin asked.

'If you don't mind, o
ld man. To tell you the truth, ‘I’
ve an idea you need a bit of help. You just sit back and leave everything to me. I think the first thing is to change your clothes. I tell you what we'll do. I'll stop somewhere this side of Yeovil, and let you out, and then I'll drive into town, and buy you a coat and hat. It shouldn't be difficult. I'd say we're roughly the same size, wouldn't you? I'll get us some sandwiches for lunch as well. Then I'll come back out for you, and you'll change, and Bob's your uncle.'

‘I
do not understand,' Galitsin said.

'Just an expression, old man. It means ... well, I'm not at all sure what it means, exactly. All's well, I suppose. All systems go, what?'

‘I
do not understand why you should go to all this trouble to help me,' Galitsin explained.

Martle considered. 'I don't really know why I should, either. It's all jolly exciting, isn't it?'

'Exciting?' Galitsin asked. "You are not concerned that
I
am wanted by your police ?'

'But it's not as if you were a criminal, or something like that, old man. Is it?'

"You do not know,' Galitsin said. *You do not know who or what I am, what is my game. I could be a spy. As a matter of fact, I am a spy. Have you thought about that?'

He wondered, Why? Why am I doing this? Why am
I
refusing this man's help? But people do not help foreigners, unless they are themselves enemies of the state in the first place. Then we share a bond. We are each enemies of the state, Martle of Great Britain and Galitsin of the Soviet Union. But Galitsin did not wish to be an enemy of the Soviet Union. He did not wish to be a traitor. He had never wished to be a traitor.

'A spy,' Martle mused. 'That would be even more exciting, wouldn't it? But dashed unlikely. I mean to say, old man, spies don't wear uniform, do they? And they don't seem to do much during the day, if you see what I mean. They only seem to go out at night.
Dark Street,
what?
Dark Duet?
There's a laugh. You and me. Ever read Cheyney?'

'Chekhov?'

'No, I don't think he wrote any spy stories. Although he may have. I've never read any of his stuff. I say,
are
you
a
spy?'

'Yes,' Galitsin said.

'Do you know, my wife will never believe me. But exactly what are you spying on ? Or who ?'

'There are many different kinds of spy.'

'Oh, yes, of course. As a matter of fact, spies are rather
a
hobby of mine. Oh, don't look alarmed. I'm not that sort of chap. I mean, I like to read about them, don't you know? Now let's see, there's only one kind of spy you could be. A sleeper.'

'I do not understand,' Galitsin said.

'Ah! Well, a sleeper is a chap who pretends to defect to the enemy, and actually does, if you see what I mean, and is as loyal as he can be to his new bosses, and just stays there, and gradually worms his way into their confidence, and so rises up until he's someone of importance. It might take ten, twenty years. But not until he gets to where he's supposed to does he actually start spying. Sending information home, if you follow me.'

'Yes,' Galitsin said. 'Supposing I were a sleeper, you would have to take me to the police.'

'The police? Good Lord. What a remarkable idea. My dear chap, if you want to spy, you go right ahead. Anyway, you can't be a sleeper. You would never have admitted it.'

'I might be being very subtle,' Galitsin said. 'I am a good chess-player.'

'So you are. I say, perhaps, after I get your coat, we might have a game. I'm not terribly good, you know. I don't play in tournaments, or anything like that. But I'm very keen. And I've never played a Russian before. It'd be something to talk about. Especially as you are such a good player. I once took part in a simultaneous display given by Hugh Alexander, you know. But my game didn't last very long, I'm afraid. I say, isn't that odd ? Your first name is Alexander. Have you ever heard of Hugh Alexander, the British master?'

'Everyone has heard of Mr. Alexander,' Galitsin said. 'He once beat M. M. Botvinnik.'

'Botvinnik, the World Champion? I say,
did
he? I had no idea he was so good. Well, then, losing in twelve moves wasn't so bad, was it? Would you give me a game?'

'I should very much like to give you a game,' Galitsin said.

'Oh, splendid. Well, I think this is about the best place for us to stop. Yeovil is only a few miles away, now. I'll pull into the trees over there, and you can wait for me. I'm afraid it'll be a bit cold, but I'll be as quick as I can. Anyway, you chaps are used to the cold, aren't you?'