Chameleon. Mark Burnell

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СКАЧАТЬ Petra Reuter’s life.

       Now, lying on the floor, drenched in sweat, my head a sandstorm of emotion, I know that I’ve snapped. For two days, I’ve been unable to eat or drink. My body has rejected everything I’ve put into it. My body and also my mind. I can see that in some ways I’m rejecting myself. Seen from another perspective, however, I’m rejecting an intruder.

       Later, I told myself that this was the moment I chose to stop being Petra Reuter. But the truth is, my body had already made that decision for me. Two and a half years of Petra had poisoned me.

      She didn’t recognize the room, which now belonged to the Thurman Mining Company. Through the window, she saw the monumental Adelphi Building on the other side of Robert Street. One wall of the office was covered by two huge maps, one of Brazil, the other of Mongolia. Small areas on each had been staked out in blue, black and red ink. Lists of hectares had been pinned next to selected areas. On the desk, a paper Brazilian flag sat in a mug that had Ordem e Progresso stencilled around it. There were framed photographs on the wall beside the window; miners in hard hats at the mouth of a mine, men in short-sleeved shirts in front of a wasteland of felled forest, the horizon smudged brown by smoke.

      The door opened. A skinny man in khaki combat trousers and a blue Nike T-shirt entered. His light brown hair was clipped short. He wore glasses, the grey frames with a matt finish, the lenses with a tint.

      ‘Hey, Steph. Sorry to keep you waiting.’ Stephanie stiffened; the familiarity of strangers had always had that effect upon her. His accent sounded mildly Lancastrian. He offered a hand. ‘Martin Palmer.’

      She didn’t think he looked any older than she did, which – with the exception of Rosie Chaudhuri – made him the youngest person she had seen at Magenta House. Palmer had a grey nylon satchel slung over his left shoulder. He took it off and sat in the swivel chair behind the desk, relegating her to the plastic seat opposite. He produced a pad of paper and a pencil, and then apologized for not being able to offer her coffee.

      She said, ‘I’ve never seen you before.’

      He looked coy. ‘I’m new.’ He offered her a conspiratorial smile that she didn’t reciprocate. ‘I’ve got a few questions I need to ask you. It’s just routine.’

      ‘What kind of questions?’

      ‘Personal, mostly. If that’s all right?’

      ‘What are you, a psychologist?’

      ‘Something like that.’

      ‘You look nervous.’

      ‘Well, I’m not.’

      ‘I didn’t say you were nervous. I said you looked it.’

      Now, he looked embarrassed. ‘Do you mind if we start?’

      The balance shifted, Stephanie shrugged. ‘Sure. What do you want to ask me?’

      ‘Well … let’s see. You’ve been coming in here for … what is it? Three weeks?’

      ‘And two days.’

      ‘For debriefing?’

      ‘That’s not what I’d call it.’

      A soldier had once told Stephanie that debriefing was therapy. That it helped him to come to terms with the things he’d had to do – and the things he’d had to see – during active undercover service. Each mission had always been followed by intense analysis; what went wrong, what went right, the lessons for the future. Some of the scrutiny was technical, some of it personal. By the end of the process, he’d always felt mentally exhausted but, crucially, he’d also felt that no element had been overlooked, that every aspect had been examined and rationalized in the minutest detail. And that no matter how draining the experience, it had left him better equipped to cope with his memories.

      Stephanie understood what he’d meant but did not feel the same way. As the soldier had pointed out, to succeed as therapy, it was important to place one’s trust in those conducting the sessions. Over three weeks, the more Alexander probed, the more violated she’d felt, and the more she’d reacted against it. From sullen silence to outright hostility, she’d felt unable to stop herself.

      Palmer jotted something onto the pad. ‘What are you doing away from here?’

      ‘How do you mean?’

      ‘In the evenings, for instance.’

      ‘I just stay in the flat. I buy something to eat on the way home, cook it, watch TV, read a book.’

      ‘You haven’t gone out at all?’

      Only once, during the second week, after a long day lying to Alexander about a contract she’d taken in New York. She’d felt she needed a drink so she’d stopped at a bar on St Martin’s Lane. She’d picked a small table by the door and watched the pavement traffic for half an hour, letting alcohol soften the ache. The place had been busy, the after-work crowd unwinding; groups at tables and around the bar, laughter, gossip, cigarette smoke.

      He wore a cheap pin-stripe, she remembered. Thick around the waist, growing a second chin. Pink cheeks and ginger stubble. He emerged from a crowd at the far end of the glass bar, a pint in one hand. He offered to buy her another drink. She smiled and declined but he sat down opposite her.

      She said, ‘I’m waiting for someone.’

      He grinned, revealing smoker’s teeth. ‘Me?’

      Stephanie said nothing.

      ‘Seriously, love, sure you won’t have another?’

      She glanced at his group. ‘Am I part of a bet?’

      ‘Don’t worry about them.’

      He was slightly drunk. She could smell the beer on his breath.

      ‘I’m not worried about them.’

      ‘I’m Charlie.’

      ‘I’m not interested.’

      When he offered his hand, she took it, rolled the fingers into the palm and crushed the fist against the table-top. He sucked air through his teeth, his eyes widened and perspiration sprouted instantly across his pale forehead. Stephanie felt as though she was watching someone else hurt him. But when she thought of how she’d turned on Olivier, she was filled with self-disgust. She let go of him and he sprang up from the chair, backing away from her, bumping into other customers, muttering something she couldn’t hear.

      Martin Palmer was waiting for an answer.

      Stephanie said, ‘I’m not much in the mood for partying at the moment.’

      ‘Are you drinking?’

      ‘What?’

      He kept his eyes on his notes. ‘Are you drinking alcohol?’ Now, he looked up. ‘At night, when you go home?’

      Beneath the anger ran a current of sadness. ‘Not enough.’

      She СКАЧАТЬ