The Book Group 44
clocks
3.20pm
The watcher was back at the outdoor café: a different table, a different espresso, the same purpose; to watch and report back. He heard a shriek of laughter, glanced over to where a pretty blonde was flirting with a priest. He swore quietly; he hated priests, hated the church, hated especially those priests who used their position and their good looks to flirt with attractive young women, for this priest was good-looking, in a weak sort of way, and the girl was stunning. His eyes crinkled, jealousy, he supposed, wondering for a moment if donning a cassock would make him more attractive to women, then if wearing a cassock would make him more invisible for this sort of job. Something to consider for future work, he thought.
The blonde slapped the priest playfully on the arm, it was outrageous, he thought, both of them, behaving like that. Then he remembered the behaviour of young women when the Germans ran the city, remembered not eating for days while they dined at restaurants… then consoled himself with the thought that they’d got what they deserved.
He took a sip of his espresso, noticed that the collar of the priest’s black shirt sported a small silver badge, wondered which sect within the mother church he was part of. Felt like making a phone call to his superiors. He raised a hand, caught the waiter’s eye, pointed at his almost empty espresso, The waiter nodded. Good, he thought. So long as an Italian can order an espresso at a café in Rome, the world is sitting correctly on its axis.
Paul lay on the bed fully dressed, arms behind his head, staring at the ceiling fan. He breathed slowly, a trick he’d been taught by one of the many tutors his parents had hired for their nervous, shy little boy. “Breath in, count to four. Out. Count to four. Repeat. Slowly. This is not a race. Control your breath. Control your mind.” He smiled to himself thinking of those early lessons, being taught that everything in your mind was there to be controlled. “Your thoughts are not you.” Another lesson he’d learned. Then he thought of Penny and smiled again. Some thoughts, some feelings, were him, and were not his to control. He checked his watch, half past. Thirty minutes to go.
‘Fetch me a glass.’
Treats had barely touched his tea. He smelled of stale alcohol. Terrence knew the signs. He glanced at the poker, pushed snug into the hot coals. He stood up and went to the kitchen fetched a glass. Watched as Treats reached back into a haversack he’d laid behind the chair and fetched out a half empty bottle of rum, opened it and pour out a slug. ‘Where you been, anyway?’ Treats asked.
‘School.’
‘School! You?’
‘I’ve done my eleven plus. If I pass, I’m going to grammar school.’
‘And if you fail?’ Treats asked, leering. ‘Because you will fail. People like us don’t go to grammar school.’ He sat back, making himself comfortable, and even that made Terrence hate him more. ‘You’re getting above your station, Terry son. Pretty soon, you’re going to need knocking back down.’
Terrence thought of Sid Bickers, a former commando who’d looked at the picture of his dad and said ‘I never knew your dad, but you could say we were brothers in arms.’ He felt a surge of pride for a man he barely remembered. A soldier. A real soldier who’d fought in the war, not a bastard drunk like the one sitting in front of him who’d spent the war hiding in Colchester. The contrast made him angry, but he was too scared to act on it.
Treats looked at Terrence. ‘Demoted.’ He nodded thoughtfully, more to himself than to Terrence. ‘While you were trotting off to school with your big ideas, me? I was demoted.’ He drank off half the rum in one gulp. ‘Drunk in uniform. A disgrace, they said. Demoted. And my wife gone and left me.’ He looked up at Terrence, ‘So all I have is you and your mum.’ He drank off the rest of the rum. ‘We are all going to have so much fun together, aren’t we?’ his tone was a mix of belligerence and self-pity. ‘We’re a happy family, Terry, aren’t we? Aren’t we!’ He flung the empty glass at the wall opposite and and it exploded into tiny fragments, the violence of it making Terrence flinch, making him want to break down in tears, but something deep inside him said, What would Mr. Carter do?
He went for another glass. Keep him drinking, Terrence thought. that’s what Mr. Carter would do. He glanced at the wall clock. Twenty-five to four.
At a desk in Whitehall, Sir Timothy Taes checked his pocket watch. He’d get the call just after four, about half an hour. He’d wait a few minutes, then let his secretary know he was popping out. He’d put on his coat and hat, take a cab home where he’d change into mufti, pick up his travel case, drive up to Harwich, from where he’d hitch a lift on a trawler up to Dogger whee he’d switch to a Soviet ship. Then onwards to his new home: a small Dacha on the Crimean. A life of ease. Sure, there’d be a whole lot of debriefing, but he was prepared for that, he’d tell them everything he knew; he wanted to. The communists were right. The west had failed. He wanted to be on the right side of history. He glanced at his watch again. Pocketed it.
Sid stood in the shade of the columns. He’d had some bad experiences in Italy, didn’t like the place on principle, but he couldn’t deny its beauty or the style of the natives. He’d dressed the part himself, in a linen suit, open shirt, lightweight shoes. He understood camouflage.
In his arms he held a paper bag that contained two long breadloaves that poked out the top. It also contained a device, long, weighty and metallic, just out of sight, that, he hoped, would have the desired effect.
In the distance he heard a peal of bells sounding the quarter hour.
Penny checked her reflection in the mirror. She’d cleaned off all her makeup, not that she wore much, and she looked, what, twelve years old? “Peaches and cream,” Vivien had said before leaving her in the hotel room.
She was wearing an ankle-length black skirt, black shoes, a black blouse, black headscarf and a lightweight grey sweater. From her neck hung a modest-sized crucifix. She looked every inch the religious devotee. She hoped Sid was there. She hoped it would all go well. She worried she’d be too nervous, too clumsy. She wasn’t a natural actress.
‘You don’t have to flirt,’ Vivien had said, much to Penny’s relief. ‘You just have to look earnest and sincere. And pretty. Which you are.’ His instincts will do the rest.’
‘He’s a priest!’
‘He’s a man. Even if his behaviour is impeccable, he will not be able to resist your peaches and cream skin and your pretty grey eyes.’
Penny heard bells ringing. Time to go. She left the hotel room, walked down the wide staircase and through the foyer out into the warm air. She turned left and walked along the Via de Porta Angelica, seeing the curving row of columns ahead.
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Just want to point out that we don't do refills in Italy 😁
An espresso is made at the moment and is served in a small small cup, a "tazzina". Two or three sips and it's gone! If you want another they'll bring it in another tazzina, and you'll have to pay for it again!
Getting to that snaggy moment ... and between columns to boot! I like this a lot ... Oh, something I wanted to tell you: I'm a little bothered by characters names Taes and Treats ... it's a bit too close (not that they can be confused, but still).