The Mentor. Steve Jackson
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‘Duty calls.’
‘No problem,’ I say.
Kinclave gets up, folds his napkin neatly and places it on the chair. I can’t see it but I know the edges will run parallel to the edge of the chair. He moves towards the toilet with the phone pressed to his ear, keeps his back to me. He doesn’t want me to lip-read. The conversation is short, the news worse than he thought. He hides it well, though. His shoulders sag briefly before he catches himself. The back straightens, his shoulders fill the corners of his neat Savile Row suit again. He hangs up and makes a call, then returns to the table.
‘Everything okay?’ I ask.
‘Everything’s fine,’ he lies.
He prompts himself back into his story with a ‘Where was I? Ah yes …’ I switch off and concentrate on pretending to enjoy my steak, making the appropriate noises wherever necessary.
‘My God, Mac, some of the things we got up to, eh?’
‘You said it,’ I agree, not sure what I’m agreeing to and not particularly caring.
‘Were we ever that young?’
I give an appropriate smile, an appropriate shake of the head. ‘Where have the years gone, eh? It’s hard to believe I retire in less than six months. Only seems like yesterday I arrived at Century House for the first time.’
Kinclave picks up his glass, swirls the wine then takes a sip. ‘Don’t worry about that resignation nonsense,’ he tells me.
‘I wasn’t.’
‘That’s the spirit. Far as I’m concerned you’re far too valuable to lose. All that experience … no, it would be ridiculous.’ His voice slinks to a whisper. ‘I don’t care what the PM says. Anyway, I’m not having some jumped-up careerist telling me how to run my shop.’
I’m probably the only person in the world he’d confess these innermost feelings to. But you know what? I don’t care.
‘So, Mac, given any thought to what you’re going to do when you retire?’
‘I’ll probably take up fishing.’
‘That’ll be the day. Seriously, though, if you want to come back as an SBO, the offer’s there.’
That’s rich. SBOs oversee operational security in the Controllerates, sad cases who won’t let go. Far as I’m concerned they’re nothing more than glorified security guards.
‘The money’s good,’ Kinclave offers.
‘To be honest with you, since … well, since Sophia died I haven’t given it much thought.’
I deliver the line frostily, driving the conversation into a silence even Kinclave can’t circumnavigate. He’s saved by the waiter, who flounces over and scoops up our plates, asks if everything was to our satisfaction and would we like to see the dessert menu. Why not, Kinclave tells him, grabbing that lifeline and making the waiter’s day at the same time. The waiter is still beaming when he brings the menus. The couple by the door are on their coffees and brandies now. The girl is especially talented, innocent and elegant, acting the airhead. She’s positioned so she can see our reflection in the window. Very cute.
It was raining the day of the funeral, a freak grey day sandwiched in the middle of a week of gorgeous summer sun. We pulled up outside the crematorium under a battleship sky, the rain streaking the window of the Daimler. I took the front right corner of the coffin; the other three corners were taken by workers from the funeral house, serious men with serious faces and black suits. At Sophia’s request I was the only mourner. She wanted as small a funeral as possible. She hadn’t even wanted me there, but that was one argument I actually won. My memory of that day is fragmented; I did the whole thing on autopilot, my heart and soul numb. Pachelbel’s Canon played softly as we carried the coffin to the altar. A few empty words from the vicar, then a prayer and a hymn I can’t remember the title of. I was invited to say a few words, and this I did, but not aloud. I stood behind the coffin with my hands clasped in front of me, eyes locked on the small posy of wild flowers that had been placed on the lid. Lips tight and without uttering a sound, I told her all the things I’d miss about her, how much I loved her, said goodbye. Tender words for her alone. The vicar patted me gently on the shoulder and muttered some banal observation as I made my way back to the empty pew. Another hymn, another prayer, then the conveyer carried the coffin into the flames. Later that day I drove down to the coast and hired a boat, and under that same battleship sky I scattered her ashes into the choppy white waves.
‘… I can’t imagine what you’ve been through,’ Kinclave is saying.
I slip back into the here. He’s staring at me and shaking his head. His eyes are full of pity. I don’t need his pity.
‘I know things seem bleak,’ he says. ‘But you can get through this. The important thing to realise is that you’re not on your own.’
I’ve heard it all before. I didn’t believe it then; don’t believe it now.
He shakes his head and sighs. ‘You really should talk about it, you know. It can’t be doing you any good keeping everything bottled up …’ Another flash of pity. ‘Look,’ he says. ‘I’ve got it all arranged. I’ve found this little place in the country. Five star. Spa, swimming pool, massages. Some time out to get some perspective will do you the world of good, Mac. They’ll have you back to yourself in no time.’
‘You want to send me to a health farm?’
‘Only if you want to go.’
‘You think a week in the country drinking vegetable smoothies and eating lettuce is going to solve anything?’
‘Well, it can’t do any harm. Alternatively you could take some leave – you’re due a ton, go on a trip somewhere.’
‘That’s really going to cheer me up, Grant. Next you’ll be sending that twitchy psychiatrist to see me so we can have a good old chinwag about all the things I’m repressing.’
‘Mac, I’m only trying to help. You must be going through hell at the moment.’
‘Grant, I don’t need your help or anyone else’s. I don’t need a shrink and, before you say anything else, I don’t need a doctor, either. If you so much as mention Prozac, I’m out of here.’ A gentle, engaging smile. ‘Now, how about we forget this conversation ever took place and order dessert?’
‘Paulie, Paulie, Paulie … and what brings you to my little corner of the world? Mac got you working late again?’ Mole took a long drag, tapped the dead ash into the beat-up tobacco tin balancing on his lap. He clamped the roll-up between his lips and wheeled himself forward.
‘Kind of,’ Aston said as the door slid shut and a blast of cool air caressed his face. It was pretty late, almost eleven on a school night; however, he’d guessed Mole would be here. A pretty safe bet. Mole turned to dust when the sun came up, only reconstituting when darkness fell. The air was sweet with patchouli, and there was a trace of BO. A Doors CD was playing softly, the hypnotic groove loose and intense. The End. Morrison and the boys at their stoned best. Aston recognised this particular track from the six months he spent as a wannabe Bohemian when he was seventeen. He’d written a ton of crap poetry, drunk too much cheap red wine, talked a lot of bollocks, and then he’d woken up one morning and it was time to move on to the next fad. Computer fans buzzed in the background, the different pitches creating a smooth harmony. The only illumination came from the monitors dotted around the room and it took a second for Aston’s eyes to adjust. Various screensavers – colourful bouncing balls and interstellar space journeys – cast sneaky shadows; flickering, swimming kaleidoscopes of light. Mole preferred it this way, said he felt more at home existing in the Unreal.
Mole stopped the wheelchair in