The Execution. Hugo Wilcken

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СКАЧАТЬ and stiff as he stared ahead in some kind of trance. I recalled reading somewhere that Marble Arch was where people used to be hanged, back in the seventeenth or eighteenth century.

      A hotel porter showed me to a top-floor suite with sweeping views over Hyde Park. Three black guys were sitting around a conference table. Two of them were dressed in identical black suits, as if they’d just come back from a funeral. They were members of Renouveau National, Jarawa’s party. They fled the country at the time of Jarawa’s arrest. Now they’re on a tour of world capitals, to drum up support. The third, a gaunt-looking man, was in an ill-fitting jacket without a tie. A white woman was there as well. She was on her feet, talking animatedly and gesticulating, then she abruptly fell silent as I was shown in. A couple of mobile phones lay ostentatiously on the table; beside them was a shiny brochure. I recognised the name on the cover: it was a company Jamie had been looking into, in relation to the African arms trade. One of the Renouveau National guys waved his hand and without looking up said: ‘Later, later. I told you not to disturb us.’

      The porter showed me into a side room just off the suite. I could still hear the white woman speaking, with occasional interjections from one of the African guys, but it was hard to make out the words. After a while I gave up trying. Scattered over the floor of the room I was in were piles of new clothes and shopping bags from Knightsbridge boutiques. As I stared at an expensive-looking suit hanging up behind the door, a dream I’d had the night before came back to me. It was about Jarawa. He was at my door in his three-piece suit, pleading with me to pardon him and let him go. I explained that it wasn’t me who’d sentenced him but he wouldn’t believe me. A horrible sense of guilt had begun to take hold as it dawned on me that perhaps he was right …

      A door opened. There was the sound of laughter. The woman was saying: ‘Well you know, we’ll talk about this again,’ then I could hear the soft ping of the lift doors. I got up and walked through to the main suite. The two guys in suits were in a huddle, talking in low voices. The other man sat apart, staring blankly out the window. There was something about his long face but what it was didn’t click at first, not until we’d finished with the introductions. The man had remained wordless as he shook my hand but his eyes had that same uncomfortable ferocity as his cousin’s.

      I quickly ran through the campaign presentation. It started with what Jamie termed ‘our coup’ – the agreement with the other human rights agencies to co-ordinate efforts under my supervision. I’d already given this same presentation to a group of Labour MPs that morning and a feeling of disengagement invaded me as I mechanically repeated the words. I talked about our media strategy before moving on to lobbying, intelligence then finally Jarawa’s appeal.

      I noticed that no one was really paying any attention to me. One guy sat fiddling with his mobile phone and looking at his watch while the other flicked through the brochure the woman had left. Jarawa’s cousin still sat apart, not looking at me, not looking at the others, just staring out over a Hyde Park already drenched in summer colours. I stopped speaking for a moment and the two guys in suits glanced up at me almost for the first time. I said I thought the best thing would be to organise a press briefing as soon as possible, for tomorrow afternoon perhaps, with all three of them present. Maybe it would make the greatest impact if Jarawa’s cousin spoke …

      One of the other guys let out a huge guffaw: ‘He doesn’t speak English! He hardly even speaks French!’

      Jarawa’s cousin looked briefly to the other two men as they sniggered then turned back to the window. It was obvious that he knew he was being talked about but his face exuded a prisoner’s passivity. There was something of Christian’s hangdog look about him too. I remembered the interview with Jarawa I’d read in the library the other day, with that story about the mongol kid. It had stuck in the back of my mind for some reason. Did Jarawa’s cousin know this story as well? Did he too remember the child? I would have liked to ask him, if there was any way I could.

      That evening the phone rang while I was reading Jessica a bedtime story. Marianne was in the garden so I got up to answer it, with Jessica pulling at my shirt. Before I even picked up the receiver though, somehow I knew it was Christian and I had this visceral desire not to talk to him. I just felt it wouldn’t be good for me.

      He sounded pretty desperate, even more so than the other day when he left that message for me at work. I could hear pub sounds in the background and his speech was slurred. I can’t understand a word you’re saying, I said, just calm down and speak slowly. I have to see you tonight, he said, there’s something I have to tell you.

      ‘I don’t know. It’s not really practical right now. Maybe we can see each other later on in the week.’

      ‘Later on in the week? I have to see you tonight. I’m in London. I can come round and see you at home. You won’t have to move, I’ll come to your house.’

      ‘No, where are you? I’ll come and meet you.’

      I didn’t want to see Christian but on the other hand he couldn’t come round here. For a start, I’d have to explain to Marianne about that day – the day I identified Susan Tedeschi’s body I mean. I never told her about it. I never told anybody, I don’t know why.

      He gave me the name of a pub in Camden so I said I’d be there in an hour or so. I hung up and went back to Jessica’s room. She was sort of dozing, lying crosswise on the bed, so I straightened her out, tucked her in, switched on the lamp on the chest of drawers and turned out the main light. But she woke up and called out to me tearfully. I sat down on the bed and put her on my knee. ‘What’s up,’ I said, ‘is it that monster again?’

      ‘It’s not a monster. It’s a man, I told you before, the man with the mask … Look what he’s done to Teddy!’

      She reached down and picked up the teddy bear off the floor, I had to hold her round the waist so she didn’t fall off my knee. She was getting all worked up.

      ‘See? See?’

      The teddy bear’s head is stitched onto its body, and the stitching had come loose and undone in parts. The head crooked to one side in a slightly macabre way. ‘See? Look what he’s trying to do to me too!’ She proffered her neck to me. I examined it carefully. ‘A mark,’ she said, ‘a red mark. Can’t you see it?’

      I couldn’t see it. Jessica was making it up. I put her back to bed and tucked her in: ‘If that’s all the man with the mask can do then I wouldn’t worry too much about him.’

      I was hungry and I’d thought about taking Christian out to dinner, but as soon as I caught sight of him in the pub I realised there was no chance of that. His face had undergone a remarkable transformation since I’d last seen him. It looked sunken, wrecked, as if it were about to slide off his skull or something. He’d always seemed younger than his age and all of a sudden he looked older, much older. His eyes were drowned and glassy. He’d obviously been drinking for some time and he stared up at me in puzzlement: ‘You’re here!’

      I bought a beer and when I got back to the table Christian had pulled himself together a little. He was grinning strangely and putting on a show of small-talk normality: ‘And how are things going on the Jarawa campaign?’

      ‘It’s moving along … had a strange meeting today … I’m seeing the ambassador tomorrow … some military guy. I’m amazed he agreed to meet me … Jo’s doing well – did you see her on Newsnight?’

      ‘No. I don’t watch too much TV these days.’

      ‘She’s doing a fantastic job.’

      ‘Great. Fantastic.’

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