I Am Gold

  ‘I’d tell him I believe one of the hostages might be my girlfriend, my partner,’ Dodd said, ‘and that I cared for her very dearly.’

  ‘No. We don’t use the word “hostage”,’ Rockmain replied. ‘It can be an antagonizing word, you see, Mr Dodd. It presumes a crisis.’

  ‘But it is a crisis,’ Dodd said.

  ‘We do not confirm that categorization to him. In crises, people can react impulsively, ungovernably, destructively,’ Rockmain said.

  ‘That’s what I fear,’ Dodd said.

  ‘It’s what you fear but not what you let him know you fear,’ Rockmain replied. ‘If you let him know you fear it he will be forced to recognize he is in a totally duff position and that you and the rest of us are afraid this realization will push him to … to act out of despair.’

  ‘To shoot the hostages and possibly himself, you mean?’ Dodd said.

  ‘To act out of despair,’ Rockmain said. ‘You probably know, Mr Dodd, that despair is considered by Christian thinkers to be the unforgivable sin. That’s because it denies the power of God to save. We are not God, though Mr Iles is Gold, but we do not want John in there to feel we regard him only as a target in our eventual assault. So, when we refer to the hostages, when the negotiator refers to the hostages, we use a blander, less definitive phrase, such as “the people with you”, or “the members of the public involuntarily involved in this stand-off”.’

  Dodd said, ‘Right, so I’d ask whether one of the people with him was –’

  ‘That’s the way,’ Rockmain said, with a lovely smile of congratulation. ‘Possibly, he will not know the names of the hostages. Their names are, in a sense, irrelevant. A hostage is a hostage is a hostage.’

  ‘Or, The people with you, The people with you, The people with you,’ Iles said. ‘Alternatively, The members of the public involuntarily involved in this stand-off, The members of the public involuntarily involved in this standoff, The members of the public involuntarily involved in this stand-off.’

  ‘But perhaps he’ll ask the people with him,’ Dodd said, ‘ask if the woman is one of them.’

  ‘He might,’ Rockmain said. ‘We have to be ready, in fact, for six contingencies. One, he refuses to talk to you. Two, he refuses to ask the hostage for her name. Three, he asks, or purports to ask, but says nobody of that name is there. Four, he says, “Yes, there is someone of that name.” Five, he refuses to let her speak. Six, he allows her to speak. Shall we take them in order? One, he refuses to talk to you.’

  ‘But why should he refuse?’

  ‘What’s in it for him? He thinks only about retaining his power. To block your requests is power. To agree to One or Two he might feel is compliant, a step towards weakness.’

  ‘So what do I do?’ Dodd said. ‘Entreat? Plead?’

  ‘Not either of these. We don’t want to endorse or increase his sense of sovereignty. That could prolong things – make him less tractable, at least for a while.’

  ‘So what do I do?’ Dodd said.

  ‘Repeat the request.’

  ‘And if he still refuses?’ Dodd asked.

  ‘Abandon it,’ Rockmain said.

  ‘But, my God, I – we – are left in ignorance,’ Dodd said. ‘We are left as we were before you asked,’ Rockmain said.

  ‘In ignorance,’ Dodd said.

  ‘Not in ignorance,’ Rockmain said. ‘We have learned he is still defiant and a call on his compassion is not the way to look for progress.’

  ‘Which is the way?’ Dodd said.

  Harpur’s mobile phone sounded and he went outside the command caravan to deal with the call, and not interrupt Rockmain’s delicate briefing of Dodd. The Control Room put through Adrian Morrison Overdale, aged forty, of 7B Cortilda Square, chartered surveyor. ‘He thinks he might know the woman abducted off the street,’ the Control Room inspector said.

  ‘We already have a possible name for her,’ Harpur said, ‘Veronica Susan Cleaver.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. It’s the name Overdale gives us. It sounds as though he’s in some sort of relationship with her. Do we know her background? He’s very emotional, sir.’

  ‘Cortilda Square is just around the corner from the charity shop, isn’t it?’ Harpur replied.

  ‘It’s one reason he thinks the woman might be her,’ the inspector said. ‘Plus the description, of course. He was waiting for her at his flat. I’ll transfer him to you now.’

  Harpur said: ‘Mr Overdale? I gather you might have some information for us.’

  ‘This is terrible, terrible,’ Overdale said.

  ‘You believe you know one of the hostages?’

  ‘Oh, hell, it’s Veronica, isn’t it, Veronica Cleaver? But, if it’s not, please, please tell me, tell me if it’s not. I’m so worried for her. Is it, is it, Veronica?’

  ‘You think this woman, held with others in the charity shop, was coming to see you in Cortilda Square and is Veronica Susan Cleaver?’ Harpur replied.

  ‘Terrible, terrible.’

  Chapter Twenty

  2007

  What really astonished Manse was that it seemed so natural after his restaurant lunch with Naomi for them to go back to Ealing together. All the worries he’d had about how things would turn out looked so unnecessary now in her bed, so stupidly fearful. It was a king-size, which probably meant she’d bought it with her partner way back, so as to get plenty of space, but also intimacy when required, but Manse did not mind this. No bleeding point in minding it: the past was only the past and you could not hope to govern it, or wipe it out, or chip inconvenient bits off of it. What had happened had happened. Even if it happened a lot, Manse wouldn’t get in a sweat about that now. He didn’t expect this to be the first time she’d found out about sex. She had been entitled to pre-Manse love. Well, think of him and Syb. You had to be reasonable about these things, and he would really try.

  Manse realized as they drank their coffees and brandies at the end of the meal that she regarded this as only the start of their day, perhaps leading into tomorrow and other days and nights. He saw she knew about relationships and could tell just which point they had reached. She would be certain they should go forward now, or the present thin link might come apart. It was thin because so new and recent, not because of poor feelings. Manse agreed there must be progress. He recognized a true understanding between them, something precious to him.

  She had told him she knew the restaurant from when she half owned that magazine – what she called a weekly London ‘celebrity sheet’ – and some top staff used to eat here and entertain people who might figure in the paper, as well as advertising and press relations executives. Naomi said they’d probably see some colleagues here today. It bucked Manse up a lot to think she wouldn’t mind being spotted there with him. He felt glad he had put on his custom-made Tirrel and Clay single-breasted, light grey whistle. People in this sort of eatery would spot at once if a suit came from the reach-me-down rail in Marks and Spencer. Naomi did wave to a couple of women at one of the tables, thirties, wearing pricey business gear, in what seemed like big office talk together. Naomi said that as a matter of fact she’d sold her share of the magazine not long ago but stayed as a consultant.

  At her flat later on, she had begun to undress herself but then seemed to sense he wanted to do that for her and took a few quick, happy steps towards him, rebuttoning the ones she’d started with. If you’d met someone in a gallery where, it didn’t really need to be said, everyone kept their clothes on and examined the art, it would show a true change of things if, in another location, you could strip that person to her skin and get no fight back, the opposite. Manse didn’t mess up on this. He knew about zips and clips and buttons. Even though he felt big excitement and got hit by some small shakes he could still be deft. Then, she took his clothes off and when he lifted his arms pulled the singlet up over his head in one strong, easy tug, like his body had been greased. This was maturity, he thought. This was high desire.

  The singlet had not be
en cheap and flimsy and fitted him real snug, but Naomi didn’t let this trouble her at all. As well as her general skill with relationships, she clearly knew singlets. Again, this showed something about the past and the man or men she’d been close enough to to pull off their singlets in these kinds of private, run-up conditions. She did not try to hide that flair, and Manse admired her honesty. He decided he would never nag about her knack with singlets and ask about the stories behind it.

  In bed she lay on her back and bent her arms into sideways Vs on each side of her head like wings, a sort of surrender position. But that did not mean it was a mock rape. No, he believed she wanted to say to him, ‘You deserve me, Manse, you deserve it, Manse, and I deserve you, Manse, I deserve it, Manse.’ He felt a brilliant harmony existed. Shale knew if dicks could sing his would of now. The whole day, from the beginning of the lunch, had been like this – the harmony – and he hoped all days from now on would be like it. Even though she’d been dressed then, he had guessed in those first few minutes at the Pre-Raphaelite gallery that it would be great and meaningful to bang her, and he’d been so right. He was not always right about women in this aspect, besides which, some of them, although he thought it would be meaningful and great to bang them, didn’t let him anywhere near, and might even give him a foul earful if he kept on scheming for it, so there’d be no possibility.

  Naomi seemed wonderfully different from these. She would put her arms up like that at the beginning, but, then, when things was really getting some pace going, she’d bring them down to hold him across his back, pulling him hard to her, flattening out for these excellent minutes her perky breasts under his weight. He could tell she didn’t resent this. Soon, they would plump up again, to proper tit shape, the nipples bonny, uncrushed and nibbleable. Sometimes he would put his own hands in hers when she had these up alongside her head. This seemed to complete the join of her and him, like fusing. Their fingers meshed in such a perfect style that Manse knew – yes, knew – things would be long-term fine between them. Fingers were more than fingers once it came to something like this. Fingers could speak a bond. He craved bonds with her.

  What he didn’t want was for this lovely closeness to be only money calling to money – her money from selling her share in the celebrity paper, his money from the firms. He knew that some relationships were mainly money calling to money, and he would not deny money did matter. But not the main thing. To Manse that would seem sick and doomed, like them Hollywood weddings, or the upper classes.

  When she shifted her hands to grip him across the back, he’d get his own hands down to lock around her waist, helping to maximize his depth into her. She had her eyes open and smiled all the while. He preferred this to when a woman went blank-faced, eyes closed, concentrating on her personal come or multi-comes, although Manse recognized women certainly had their needs, which should not be sneezed at. But he considered there ought to be happy communication at all levels, face and lower.

  He thought: so this is how a celebrity sheet consultant looks when she delightedly opens her legs in Ealing for someone met at a Pre-Raphaelite gallery. And, to be unbiased, he imagined she might be thinking, so this is how a haulage and scrap merchant looks when he’s giving it, in a very considerate and genuine way, to someone whose kisses probably taste of a great lunch with wine and brandy she’s just swallowed. Because of the celebrity sheet, Naomi most likely had plenty of words Shale would never use, though he might know their meaning. He had noticed the word ‘diligent’ lately somewhere and liked it, the quiet, very unbrassy sound. He’d looked up ‘diligent’ and found, as he’d thought, it meant ‘thorough’ and ‘persevering’. He hoped Naomi would consider him diligent when at it, as well as considerate and genuine and, of course, passionate.

  Manse believed it was these kinds of possible discoveries about the other person in a sex situation that made the first fuck with anyone so important – sort of sacred. It answered certain interesting questions. Later fucks might answer extra questions but the first one was bound to be the most definite eye-opener, as you might call it, even if some preferred to have their eyes shut for this eye-opener. Naomi’s eyes were green and her pupils would roll back during the strong shove-up movements of middle and late-stage love-making leaving only the whites. The green section disappeared. She might of been having a fit or even croaking from the joy of it, and this scared him early on.

  But no. It was like the pupils had done a climb into Naomi’s head to check her brain would be OK subsequent, because, at present, she was getting fucked brainless, and very nice, too, though he’d admit she had to think there’d be ordinary life afterwards, when she might need her brain as consultant on a celebrity sheet, deciding who should go on page one and the size of the picture, plus spelling the names right, many being foreign.

  If some time ahead he revisited Joan Fenton to get Naomi put into the will, it would prove he did not need any longer to have horny thoughts about Joan herself, nor the juicy, arse-proud, pink-penned secretary, Angelica. Although Naomi’s arse was older, there had been no great drift of the cheeks towards north-south lozenge-shape, and no galloping spread east and west. Her behind was still very neat in tightish jeans, like she had been wearing that first day in the gallery, and which had started Manse thinking. And naked today it continued to look prime, in his opinion. No question, jeans that hugged a good bum caught beautiful its ripe, jolly spirit. But these days jeans was also cut to put a fierce focus on the crotch, and sometimes this took most attention, like a destination sign on the motorway. Shale regarded this as extremely unfair to the good female arse. He had often considered writing a protest letter to one of the fashion magazines about it, such as Vogue, using a false name.

  Naomi hadn’t worn jeans to the restaurant but a long, striped skirt in blue and white with a zip on the side, and a four-buttoned white silk blouse. This blouse remained completely unstained by food during the meal, despite everything. The place was not starchy or formal or anything like that – more a cheery media flavour – but jeans would not of been right, he agreed with her on this. As far as Manse could make out, the celebrity sheet reported which eminent folk was in London this or next week, and what they would be doing. ‘Acres of lovely puffery surrounded by ads,’ she said. He didn’t know for sure what this meant, but thought it might be a joke and had a smile. Although she had sold her share of the business she still worked two days for it now and then in that consultancy role. The firm kept an account at the restaurant and she and Manse were eating on it, she said. ‘No attempts to pay, please.’ She had decided to do nothing much for a year, ‘just look around’. He hoped she’d been looking around when she saw Manse in the gallery and considered him all right, especially after the Geoff matter.

  Manse had loved the restaurant. It seemed so … well, so positive – the atmosphere and the furniture and the layout – yes, so positive, that even if he had been thinking of telling her about the earlier conference with Joan Fenton he would of changed his mind and stayed shtum on that topic. He decided such a discussion would be all wrong here: too weighty and historical and complicated. Besides, legal talk might remind Manse of them moments when he imagined the shared joy of having it off with Joan Fenton, her glasses put aside. It was not the type of flashback he’d want while taking a meal in this very worthwhile restaurant with another woman altogether, who did not wear glasses, namely Naomi. That would be quite untoward, in his opinion.

  Manse prized decorum. He wanted as much of it as could be reasonably got. As a matter of fact, he felt pleased that he had never mentioned Naomi to Joan Fenton, despite some prying. They were very much from two different compartments. He would hate to have Naomi tainted by his dreams of making it with the lawyer – not because the lawyer was black – that would be racist and totally bad – but because she was not Naomi. This restaurant and Naomi seated opposite him struck Manse as exactly the sort of setting he’d been made for. The Tirrel and Clay suit he had on seemed totally correct for a visit to the solicitor
and then for this type of restaurant. A double-breasted would of been too uptight. Manse meant to guard the delightful charm of the luncheon. This hadn’t been because, if the meal went OK, he might get another invitation to Ealing. The lunch itself seemed an occasion worth taking the very best care of.

  Although Manse liked restaurants, and especially this one in Dean Street, he didn’t care much about food or wine. But he was keen on menus, printed or handwritten, in the better sort of places, where they put a country or region near the names of some of the items, such as ‘Highlands of Scotland salmon’, ‘Royal Berkshire beef’, or ‘Welsh coast cockles’. This helped give special scope to a list of dishes, he thought. Just to say ‘salmon’, or ‘beef’, or ‘cockles’ struck Manse as rather crude, a belly thing and that was all. But when you had the geography, you could imagine a brave and handsome Scottish salmon doing its terrific time-and-again leaps up them specially made stone steps in a river, determined to get itself or its offspring to the kitchen here eventually. You could listen to the Berkshire cattle having a low, and spot the Welsh cockles lying under a golden surface of sand, washed time and again by tides until dug out and collected one day for boiling up.

  Naomi had seemed to get at her food very well indeed and, of course, Manse made himself match her. He would hate to look picky and unhearty. Manse reckoned that if you was being fed as a treat you had a true duty to clear the fucking lot. She could chat on no trouble, even when eating awkward mixtures such as goat’s cheese salad as prepared in Turin and then ‘West Country liver, bacon and onions’. He didn’t know why, but he had an idea the piece of West Country would be Shepton Mallet. Most probably, she was used to not letting lunch get in the way of conversation. It must be one of them skills of a consultant.

  Manse and Naomi talked about many subjects, not just art. He thought that would be too narrow and boring. If she had asked him about the haulage and scrap trade he would of told her, and some of it completely true, but she didn’t. It wasn’t the kind of area for this sort of restaurant, with its celebrities and executives. Although Manse knew he definitely would not rate as a celebrity himself, he was an executive of the haulage and scrap firm and the other bigger commercial enterprise. However, he’d admit these would not be the proper kind of executive posts for such a restaurant. Tone. Manse had always been very particular about the right tone for a place and for people. It didn’t seem to worry Naomi whether he was an executive or not.