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CHAPTER 7: MOSCOW NIGHTS: FEBRUARY
Professor Angela Dawney is in Moscow. She is walking from the Hotel Tatiana, along Stremyanniy Pereulok towards the Paveletskaya Metro Station. It’s cold and grey - minus 5 degrees, Angela guesses - but at least there is no wind chill - and besides, she’s wrapped up warm. In her heavy coat and fur hat, she’s indistinguishable from any of the Russians sharing the street with her.
Angela is in the city to attend an academic conference. It’s on something she knows a lot about. She’s not presenting a paper this time but it’s a chance to meet up with colleagues and to find out a bit about what happening in other universities. “New Approaches to Statistical Analysis and Inference in Psychology” is being held at Moscow Old University. The University is a gracious classical building standing on Mokhovaya Ulitsa, six stops away along Line One. For Angela, the journey is an opportunity for one of her favourite indulgences; a ride on the Moscow Metro.
In most cities, the Metro merely takes commuters and tourists to their destinations but in Moscow, the Metro is a destination. It was an integral part of Stalin’s grand plan for the rebuilding of Moscow and the platforms and concourses were constructed with extraordinary imagination and built with infinite care. Stations are lit with chandeliers, floored with mosaics and decorated with gold - it is a collection of subterranean palaces. At Paveletskaya, as she joins the escalator, Angela looks up at Pavel Korin’s mosaic of Red Square, Lenin’s mausoleum and St Basil’s. It’s a feast for the eyes.
The Metro is one of two experiences Angela always enjoys in Moscow. The other – and more important – is her friend Anatoly Kustensky. Anatoly will meet her after the afternoon seminars close and the two of the will go to dinner and afterwards? Who knows? Anatoly is the only man that Angela has ever let inside her knickers. Angela has hopes for what might take place, at the end of the evening.
Angela has known Anatoly for many years now, ever since they first met at the Greenham Women’s Peace Camp in the late 1980’s. Angela was a young idealist then, about to go to University. She was, with the many others, protesting at the installation of Cruise Missiles by the United States Air Force at the Greenham Common Air Base. Anatoly, dashing and handsome, in his late twenties, had been keeping an eye on “developments” at Greenham, on behalf of the Soviet Government. His position as a KGB officer was something he kept to himself, something he did not share with any of his lovers. Not in England at least.
Over the intervening years, Angela kept her links with the peace movement. She felt it was almost a matter of professional pride, as someone concerned with madness, to be naturally opposed to war. And she kept her links with Anatoly, too.
Anatoly also kept in touch with his former colleagues, though some of those weren’t as peaceably minded as Angela’s friends. He became a very successful entrepreneur with interests in oil, gas, minerals, engineering and security. And then there was his other business; a very special employment agency. You only have the opportunity to recruit from the Agency if you have been recommended to Anatoly and you only get on the books of the Agency after Anatoly has come looking for you!
Angela’s afternoon session at the University is over and she packs away “A New Evaluation of Mood’s Median Test for Small Sample Analysis” in the back of her mind. Ahead, in the entrance foyer stands Anatoly. Tall and muscular, he has lost none of his vitality, charm nor his looks with the passing of years. Angela was attracted to him at Greenham eighteen years ago and she is still attracted to him now.
They embrace. It’s as if the years fall away. The desire re-awakens. Angela can feel her own pulse quicken. He suggests dinner. She agrees. They take Anatoly’s BMW to the Central House of Writers in Povarskaya Ulitsa. In Soviet times, this establishment was the exclusive preserve of the Writers Union and boasts music, carved wood interior decoration and excellent cuisine. Over the meal, the two friends catch up. Angela talks and talks; the talk a substitute for touching. It’s too public for intimate discussion but she feels she can unburden herself about her recent adventures.
“Anatoly, I want to ask you about something strange. What do you think of this? Last year, an American phoned me to arrange an interview.”
“Well, they do get everywhere, Americans …..”
“Sure.” She looks around, anxious to be sure they are not being overheard. Anatoly smiles encouragingly. He knows that the best way to avoid being listened to is not to look as though you are saying anything of consequence. “But eventually the man I had spoken to stopped me in the street quite unexpectedly. I was bundled into a car with some other men. They told me I was being arrested and took me away ….”
“What??”
“Absolutely!”
“But why? It’s a long time since your cruise missile protests. I mean, sure you’ll still be on their lists, of course... But, was that what they were interested in?”
“Well, no. I don’t know. I mean, that would at least make the sort of stupid sense that these people believe in. But it wasn’t that, at all. They were interested in one of my postgrads, and interested in my visits here. And they were interested in you.”
“Me? And one of your students?” Anatoly is busy trying to recollect if there is anyone from Angela’s university that he has been involved with, either professionally or personally. He is having no success. “Who is she, anyway?”
“She’s called Jennifer McEwan.”
The name means nothing to Anatoly. He shrugs and says so. “I don’t know her. What did these policemen think I was doing with your student ? ”
“Well they didn’t say. They just kept going round and round about you and the Russians and her research and how you were supposed to have put me up to sending her….”
“Angela, this is completely crazy. Even for security services. What had you got this student – McEwan - doing for goodness sake?”
Angela tries to gather herself. She’s conscious she’s been gabbling. It’s not her usual style. “Well she was - is - studying the effects of stress and BDSM play.” Anatoly looks quizzical. “There is this organisation in the UK which offers what you might call BDSM adventure holidays. They put the participants through some consensual slave training routines, that sort of thing and I thought it would be an ideal experimental situation.”
“And you weren’t playing any games at all with your student were you, Angela?”
Angela blushes but presses on. “Anyway these people seemed to think that you were interested in Inward Bound - that’s the company – or were somehow involved.”
“Well, I’m not and for goodness sake, just who was this postgraduate of yours? Someone from your Royal Family?”
“I know, it’s completely ridiculous. The student is a nobody, in that sense, and I mean I couldn’t see how you could be involved but, nevertheless they kept me locked up for several days before taking me back home and dumping me on my front door step in the middle of the night, I might add.”
“Look, Angela, I’m so sorry but really I had, I mean I can’t think what they were thinking of. After all, I’m just a businessman now ….”
“Yes I know but I thought I should speak to you in person when I saw you next. In case you had any trouble from them. If you travelled to the US or the UK …..”
“Hmmm, well, thanks for warning me. I’ll maybe have a word with some friends in our Foreign Ministry, just to be sure.”
“Yes, please do that because I would hate it for you to fall into their hands” – Angela stretches across the table and squeezes Anatoly’s hand to reassure him, to let him know that she is on his side.
Anatoly’s face shows complete surprise at Angela’s fantastic tale. It’s like a cold war fossil come to life. Anatoly’s mind seizes on the information and works very quickly indeed as he remembers another meal, this time in London, with a man called Clegg who was very anxious to know if Anatoly was interested in an organisation called Inward Bound.
Dinner over, they return to the Hotel Tatiana.
Angela, filled with anticipation of Anatoly’s body, invites him to her room for coffee. It’s soon ignored in favour of an exercise in animal passion, as they fall upon each other.
Tearing each other’s clothes off, Angela can feel how wet she is and Anatoly can smell her arousal: Angela is soon on her back and Anatoly’s penis is driving into her, sending her to the heights of orgasm. She comes. He comes. They relax in post coital bliss. Why, thinks Angela, just why am I so randy? He’s only a man for goodness sake.
Then her rational mind points out that it’s that time of the month. She is ovulating! That’s why she is so randy. And she is lesbian and lesbians don’t need contraceptive precautions, unless they are being fucked by a man of course! But lesbians don’t fuck men, do they?
She is about to speak when Anatoly’s tongue fills her mouth. He rolls her onto her back once more and spreads her legs. Angela’s rational mind engages with the situation and cries out weakly in protest, but her instincts are too strong. She feels his penis once more advancing down her vagina. She feels him bottom out at the entrance to her cervix. She feels him beginning to fuck her again. Slowly. Strongly. He is going to take his pleasure inside her again. There is nothing she can do to stop him. She responds, rocking her hips towards him in delicious harmony. She might as well. There will be no stopping until orgasm – untill they each orgasm! Presently, during the throes of her next orgasm, she feels his ejaculation. The injection of hot, potent sperm right into her womb. What if she comes back from Moscow pregnant? Oh! Oh! Oh! “Fuck!” she yelps.
“Mmmmm, Fuck!” replies Anatoly, wonderfully misunderstanding her response.
Anatoly returns to his flat next morning. He expects his wife and daughter, Sveta and Alana, back from St Petersburg in the evening.
He’s sitting on the balcony, looking out across the garden square at the rear of his building, thinking about what he learned from Angela.
He thinks back over the meal with Clegg and how Clegg seemed to be warning him away from interfering in the UK. Maybe what he was really saying was to stay away from this Inward Bound business? Anatoly didn’t pay much attention at the time. Freddie always seemed to be worried that folk were trying to fish in his pond but Anatoly always felt that English girls (with the possible exception of Angela) weren’t really worth the trouble. At the time, he’d put the whole thing down to Freddie’s usual paranoia. Now, he thinks, there could be more to it.
If Freddie has gone to this much effort, then he really must see some potential in then Inward Bound operation. And that is not going to be for consensual BDSM holidays if Anatoly knows anything at all about Clegg.
So, Anatoly thinks, the people who lifted Angela were Clegg’s and Clegg is very keen to detect any penetration of Inward Bound. Therefore he, Anatoly, needs to know a lot more about it.
Anatoly and Sveta Kustensky are a striking couple.
Anatoly is in terrific shape. He has a bodybuilder’s physique, with not one ounce of surplus fat on him. He is very good company, he has a ready smile that reveals even white teeth but he also has a quiet and unmistakeably authoritative presence. You straighten yourself up and measure your words more carefully, when you met him.
He is an interesting mixture of attitudes. He is traditional and loves his country. He has travelled widely for the government. He’s “at home” when he’s abroad but he will always be a Russian. He will never think of himself as “mid-Atlantic” or “pan-European.” On the other hand, he is progressive. He breathed a sigh of relief when the old Soviet State collapsed; seizing the opportunities to carve out a business empire for himself.
Business in Russia can be tough but you don’t cross Anatoly. He is strictly honest and upright in his dealings – and you had better be, too. He remains very well connected to the people who matter, when the chips are down.
Then again, while he is strictly honest, not all his enterprises are strictly legal. He has indulged some of his fantasies to good business effect. His “special employment agency” – most people would call it slave trading - is a good example.
For a slave trader, he is very anxious about the way his boys and girls are used. He provides a full after sales service and expects them to be well cared for. He ran into problems with a client once, who thought that purchase bought rights without responsibilities. Shortly after this came to Anatoly’s attention, the client had his tax papers called in and he is now in prison serving a long stretch. He was guilty, of course. It’s just that his behaviour with Anatoly’s protégés brought matters to a head very quickly indeed.
He served as a salutary example to others. Anatoly has had no cause for concern ever since.
He regards the Clegg Organisation as old fashioned and casual. Classic English amateurs! He doesn’t really understand how they go on getting away with the things that they do. A bit like those other amateurs in the Circus. He finds himself increasingly, almost irrationally, irritated when they bumble across his path, as he sees it.
Anatoly and Sveta met like many couples do, at work. In their case, they were both working for the KGB. Her special talent was “interviews” although her interviewees would describe it as interrogation. She is tough, sexy, terrifying, subtle and intuitive. She is also very beautiful; tall athletic and with the grace of a gymnast. She has a swarthy complexion and dark hair. She has high cheek bones and her black hair is free from grey – a sure sign of some Mongolian blood, somewhere in her family past, they say.
Sveta is happy for Anatoly to take centre stage but she is always there, just a step behind him. Sveta is very loyal to Anatoly and he to her in his own fashion, as the song goes. Sveta knows that loyalty doesn’t always mean exclusivity, but she demands complete honesty about any “physical adventures” he might have – and Anatoly has to accept that there will always be a price to be paid.
Several months ago, Anatoly “tried out” a beautiful black girl at the end of her training. She had carefully braided hair with silver beads at the end. Sveta’s price was characteristically ingenious and memorable: she had the girl’s head shaven and then had her roots lasered – so she is now permanently smooth. And Anatoly? He had his head shaven too. Sveta has not given him permission to grow his hair again and he had been wise enough not to ask: after all, he does not want to get a life sentence, as a reward for impatience. After all it was bad enough being beaten with the whip Sveta had made of the girl’s braids.
UNEXPECTED EVENING ENTERTAINMENT
That evening, Anatoly and Sveta retire early. Sveta has a surprise for Anatoly – two actually.
“So, tell me Anatoly,” she begins with a casual aside, “how was Angela?”
“Angela?” Anatoly is never sure how much his wife knows and how much she guesses.
“Tolya!”
“Yes, well she was fine. Yes, fine. You know how things are with Angela.”
“Sure, I know how things are with Angela,” repeats Sveta. “A lesbian who lets my husband screw her! That’s how things are, aren’t they? Right Tolya?”
Anatloy decides honesty is the best policy. He’s normally honest and he is absolutely honest with his wife. Especially when, as now, he is strapped down across their bed with his backside nicely elevated over a pile of cushions. “Sure,” he says.
“Hmmmm,” muses Sveta. “Good. I wanted an excuse. I have brought something just for you.”
Anatoly tenses, expecting pain but relaxes when Sveta rubs his bottom with a warm damp cloth. He relaxes and is taken completely off guard when Sveta lands a birch switch across both his buttocks at once! For several minutes she plays the fiery, stinging twigs over his thighs, his back, his bum.
The heat builds. Sveta pauses and wipes his skin once more but this time the warm damp cloth bights, too. It’s been soaked in brine and instantly, the stinging Anatloy feels is increased to a maddening degree. He squeezes his buttocks together and strains at the straps but He is held just where he is. Panting. Squirming.
Sveta’s lips are at his ear; “Do you know what Tolya?”
“No ….” Anatoly gasps and draws his breath in the respite. “What?”
“Alana is trying to start a family. They have been trying for several months, in fact over a year but nothing is happening so I have arranged for them to see a specialist. To give nature a helping hand!” Sveta sees nothing odd about discussing family business with her husband strapped over their bed with a birch striped arse. “And do you know something else?”
“But that’s wonderf …” Anatoly starts. “No what?”
“Alana will need help in the house. But I’m not leaving my career to be a babushka. Alana will need someone to stay home one hundred percent of the time, with her and the baby but it’s not going to be me. She needs a nanny. Reliable. Strong. Fit. Intelligent. Someone who will stay the course, Anatoly!” Sveta senses that Anatoly’s attention is wavering. She deals another couple of stripes to his backside. “I also want someone who will be with the growing family long term. Someone who won’t go away. Go find someone!”
Anatoly grunts. Sveta’s not sure if it’s a grunt of agreement, discomfort or irritation. She doesn’t care.
“Now, I’m going to bed in the guest room,” she announces. “You can stay here and make plans. Here is something to help.”
Sveta picks up the switch once more and slowly paints ten more fiery lines across his skin, from Anatoly’s knees up to his lower back.”
“AHHHHH! That stings!” Anatoly complains.
“Yes, it does, doesn’t it?” Sveta agrees. She takes the warm brine cloth and lays it carefully across his bum. However Anatoly wriggles he can’t dislodge it. It stays there, burning. “Goodnight, Tolya sleep well!” Sveta kisses him softly on the crown of his shaven head and then leaves the room, gently closing the door on her restrained, sweating, writhing husband.
In the small hours of the morning, Anatoly’s torment eases sufficiently for him to think about something other than the results of his beating.
First there’s the problem that Sveta wants him to consider; help for Alana. That’s only half of it though. The other problem is Clegg and whatever he’s up to.
Somehow Clegg’s organisation and Anatoly’s keep crossing paths. There was the business when they mistakenly abducted Alana. There’s whatever Clegg is up to in Kushtia. And now this business with Angela. It’s pretty obvious that Clegg is behind it. “And while I’m thinking about it – damn my arse hurts,” Anatoly thinks, “ - while I‘m thinking about it I’m still not convinced Clegg wasn’t the cause of that girl Trish being rescued. It would be just like him to look after his own. I never got her back. Clegg didn’t find a replacement for her either, There wasn’t anything to make up for the mistaken kidnapping of his daughter. Clegg really ought to answer some questions. Or somebody else ought to answer some questions on his behalf.”
Maybe just maybe there was a way to solve the two problems with one answer …
CLEGG’S CONCERNS
Freddie Clegg is deep in thought. He’s still not happy with what’s going on at Inward Bound. Larry gave him an update earlier in the day. Larry seemed pretty upbeat about progress but, for Freddie, there are still big questions about the McEwan girl in his mind. The “interrogation” that Connie had insisted on didn’t prove anything and he still isn’t sure about the role of that Professor. What was her name? Oh, yes, Dawney.
They could try having another chat, Freddie supposes, but would that help?
He stares out across the office. It’s empty now but perhaps he’ll talk to a few people in the morning. It’s still possible that there is more to the McEwan thing than meets the eye. The whole affair still has the distinctive paw marks of the Russian bear all over it. He wouldn’t be surprised if Anatoly was trying something to get his own back over the Trish debacle. Put McEwan into Inward Bound, and have her fuck up that relationship plus feed back to Anatoly some juicy titbits on Clegg’s operations as useful intelligence. That sounded just like the devious Russian. It wasn’t hard to imagine him coming up with a plant like McEwan. A handler like Dawney would be classic KGB operations too.
They’d kept quiet during their interrogation and McEwan had certainly convinced Connie that she didn’t know what was going on. Of course that doesn’t mean she wasn’t involved, did it? Clegg grunts and scowls. Double bluff, double cross, double back. He doesn’t like this at all.
However, he can understand Anatoly still being pissed about Tricia. Anger, a sense of betrayal, a desire for revenge; he understands all of those. Any one of them would prompt Anatoly to cause problems. Slipping McEwan under the radar as a sleeper that doesn’t even know she’s sleeping, run by Dawney who thinks she’s working for Mother Russia, is grade A Kushtensky as far as Freddie is concerned.
Freddie doesn’t like sitting back quietly and waiting to see what happens. Maybe a little, say, intervention is required; something that will keep the Russians off his back.
...........................................................................................................................
Footnotes.
1. Hotel Tatiana: www.hotel-tatiana.ru
2. Mood’s Median Test: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Median_test
3. Greenham Common: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Greenham_Common_Women's_Peace_Camp
4. The Circus : the headquarters of the British secret intelligence services in the 1960’s
5. Babushka is the Russian name for a grandmother who, traditionally, would stay at home to help look after her grandchildren
6. The misadventures of Trish. See Market Forces by Freddie Clegg. Chapters 68 and 73
CHAPTER 8: THE UNEXPLAINED: MAY
“Did you get that phone call?” I call out to Jenny, as she gets in from the University.
Jenny stows her bag under the table in the hall. “What call? I don’t think so.” She picks up the envelopes from that morning’s post. I went through it when I came back from work. She will find it’s the usual stuff: a couple of bills, junk mail, yet another letter from the bank saying that they’ve adjusted their interest rates.
“Someone was trying to reach you. Called here just before lunch. I told them you were at work. Gave them your mobile and the office number. Thought it might have been one of your friends from Suffolk.”
As soon as the words are out of my mouth I realise I have used the wrong tone. It will sound unkind and dismissive. Jenny patiently ignores my barbed remarks. Things have been getting difficult again lately. It’s partly what’s been going on at Inward Bound. That and my next trip abroad which is only a few weeks away. I will be away in June and then again in November. Things always get a bit strained between us when I have to go away. “No, nothing.” Jenny puts her head around the lounge door and finds me sprawled on the couch, beer in hand, flicking through the channels on the TV. She comes across and sits on the floor beside me. “Tough day?”
I toss the remote down on the coffee table, leaving the TV tuned to News24. I feel guilty because I have not made any attempt to prepare a meal for us. “No, not really; I was able to finish my report and distribute it on email. It should keep the office happy for a bit. How about you?”
“OK. Angela’s fussing but that’s normal. Quiet day really. I had the mobile on all the time though. No one called.”
“They’ll find you if it was important, I guess.” I think back to the call. It had been a woman, foreign. She’d almost seemed surprised that anyone had answered the phone. I was left feeling uneasy but I could not explain to myself why I should feel that way. “Oh, and I picked up your parcel from the Post Office when I went down into town this afternoon. It’s in the spare room. More books?”
Jenny nods. She had ordered an odd collection of psychological papers and back numbers of Second Skin and she had been anxious to get her hands on them so she could press on with her research. I reach down and stroke her neck. It’s a placatory gesture. I know the “Suffolk” remark was off side. She arches her head back. “Mmm,” she says. “That’s nice,” and I feel I have been forgiven, once again.
“Good. Now, you go check your parcel and I’ll fix you a drink. Then you can cook.”
Jenny seems to like it when I tell her what to do, but I still find it difficult to take a “dominant” role. On the occasions when I can overcome my reticence, Jenny always seems to finds it a real turn on. “Yes, sir,” she says with a smile. She kisses me on the cheek and heads upstairs and I feel another pang of guilt for being so conventional, so un-adventurous.
In the room Jenny uses for her study, she finds the parcel sitting on her desk and opens it. It’s just what she expected. She adds the articles and magazines to the pile. As she does so, she stops and thinks. She was sure there had been a copy of Second Skin on top of the pile. She remembered the cover photograph on the magazine: a girl wearing a scarlet and black corset. So! Joe has been having a quick look while she’s been out. Ah well, that’s a good sign, she thinks. That is progress! She wants to jot herself a note, just a reminder to check the new articles against the list of items she still has to read, but where is her pen? Jenny is certain that she left it on the desk but finds it only after a search on the floor. It doesn’t matter; it’s only an old ballpoint but it’s annoying, to have to look for it. And where are the post-its? They turn up in the desk drawer.
“I think my brain’s seizing up,” Jenny says as she sits down beside me and accepts the gin and tonic I have poured for her; it could be early onset Alzheimer’s!”
“Gin should help that,” I reply, teasing her. “You won’t forget any less but it won’t worry you so much. What have you lost now?”
“Oh, it’s all right. Just my pen and some other things turned up in the wrong places, I am sure I did not leave them, in the places where I found them. You didn’t move anything, when you put that parcel up there?”
“No, not at all. Actually I looked for your pen when I took the parcel up. I was going to write you a note but I couldn’t see it on the desk. Then the phone went and…”
“Oh, don’t worry,” Jenny replies. “I expect I just knocked it down.”
Privately, Jenny is hoping that her husband’s curiosity has been aroused and that this is evidence of his furtive exploration of the world she is researching, the worlds where she is most at home. If true, this would be progress, she thinks. Jenny takes a sip of gin and soon the problem is forgotten. Neither Jenny nor Joe imagine that someone else may have been in the house; someone interested in Jenny and the work she is doing; someone who should really have been more careful not to leave traces of their visit.
It’s Friday. Jenny McEwan calls to see Professor Dawney, her research supervisor. Because of what has happened in the past, there is a tension which neither of them is prepared to acknowledge. Each blames the other for things that happened, but neither wants to let the other know that is the case.
“Well, Jenny, how are you getting along?” Professor Dawney exudes uncomplicated, professional, coolness.
“I’m quite pleased with progress.” Jenny replies brightly. She is also keeping her true feelings in check, submerging them under the minutiae of her project activities and the politeness of professionalism. “Data collection is complete and I have been able to send the data capture forms to Data Prep, to be coded, cleaned and entered into the statistical analysis programme. Once that’s done, it won’t be long before I have my hands on the descriptive statistics and we will then get some idea of what analytical work we can do …..”
“Jenny, that’s excellent. You are using SPSS? ” Dawney is also perfectly happy to focus on the project and to ignore what has gone before. “I’m pleased. This project is really beginning to gather some momentum.”
“I think so. It certainly seems that way.” Jenny is keen to take advantage of the Professor’s apparent approval. “Er, next week Joe is going abroad: would it be OK with you if I had an away-day in London to see him off? Andy says he can cover my undergraduate tutorials and there are some references I would like to follow up at the Royal Society of Medicine. They have some hard copy journals that our library does not take. I think it will be quicker to take advantage of Joe’s trip than arranging an inter-library loan or asking the RSM to send photocopies.”
Dawney is happy to have the chance to grant Jenny a favour. She likes to build up credits with her students. “Jenny, of course. That would be just fine. Enjoy the trip – let’s get together again after the weekend and when you’ve got the first results back from the data.”
Jenny nods, “Sure. Thanks. Oh, by the way how was your Russian trip?”
“Oh, fine. Chance to meet some old friends. That seems so long ago now! I’ve had a lot on my mind for the past few months ...” Angela looks a little wistful, Jenny thinks. This is very uncharacteristic but she’s soon back to the one thing she talks about best: work. “Some interesting new research is going on too. I’ll let you see if you read the proceedings. Some of the methods being discussed might be relevant, when you come to work up your data.”
Jenny is happy. She has the chance to have a last day out with Joe. That will be a good way to send him off.
On Tuesday morning, Jenny and I leave home for London. I have a meeting with the consulting engineers working with my employers on a new project in Cambodia. The project Team (including me) will then travelling on to link up with our Korean partners in Seoul. The London engineers maintain a smart office in Fitzroy Square and it’s not too far from the Royal Society of Medicine where Jenny is going after we have to say goodbye each other.
We catch the 9.49 from Warwick and arrive in London for 11.30. I hail a taxi and ask the driver to take us to a very nice Venetian restaurant I know, on Wigmore Street and then take my luggage on to the engineer’s office in Fitzroy Square where I will catch up with it later, when I meet the rest of the team.
We have time to enjoy a leisurely lunch together before its time for me to go to the meeting. It is a beautiful cloudless day and we walk slowly along, enjoying the closeness of each other’s body and the warm reassurance of holding each other’s hands.
All too soon we are standing in Fitzroy Square.
“I do hate it when you have to go Joe”
“Yes, I know you do. Me too,” I reply.
We are alone in the Square. The rest of my colleagues must have arrived and I am grateful for that. I do not want to indulge in breezy conviviality with the boys and try to enjoy my last moments with Jenny at one and the same time. Be thankful for small mercies!
We embrace tightly ….
“Just four weeks,” I say.
“I know,” she says. “I’ll make sure I get ahead of schedule so there’s plenty of time for us when you get back.”
“OH, I do hate going.”
“Yes, I hate you going too...”
“Look it’s time.”
“I know.”
We hug tight once more, kiss and part. I turn one last time on the threshold of the office door. Jenny waves one last time and blows me a kiss.
I smile and turn away.
Inside the Reception Area I find my bags and also find, to my great surprise that I am first to arrive.
The Receptionist shows me to the meeting room where I spend several minutes alone.
Suddenly I hear the commotion of people arriving and follow the noise out to Reception where I find the rest of the boys, who have been held up in traffic. Whilst they haul their bags out from the taxi and collect their papers for the meeting, I take the chance to make a final call to Jenny.
“Joe? Hi!” she says. I can hear the delight in her voice.
“The boys were held up in traffic! They are just arriving, so I thought I’d snatch a final call.”
“That’s nice.”
“Did you get to the library yet?”
“Aha, well I’m afraid I’m being just a little bit naughty ….”
“Oh? That sounds as if it could be interesting. Tell me more!”
At which point, my call to Jenny breaks up in a fizz and crackle of static.
“Jenny? Jenny?” is all I can say before someone is talking to me over my shoulder:
“Hi, Joe, sorry we are late.”
“Bloody mobiles,” I say as I close the call. Technology is all very well when it works, and it works much less often than the electronics people are prepared to admit.
The meeting has been convened to reviewing the project outline and to confirm our understanding about exactly what each of the team will be responsible for and our aims for the forthcoming meetings in Seoul and the field trip to Cambodia, afterwards.
The meeting goes smoothly, surprisingly smoothly; smoothly enough to give me time to text Jenny to see if she is OK, after the interrupted call.
One of the team calls me out to the office vestibule, saying that their taxi to Heathrow is due. I check my mobile. There is no reply from Jenny. Small talk flows as we stand around in the lobby, ready now to be on our way. I excuse myself and call Jenny. Once again, there is no reply, so I leave her a voice mail.
The taxi arrives. We clamber aboard and begin our journey to Heathrow. It’s late afternoon but traffic is flowing smoothly.
“You OK Joe?” Craig Evans, sitting alongside me, has noticed that I seem a bit abstracted.
“Yes, sorry Craig, I’ve been trying to call Jenny but I can’t get through.”
“She came to see you off?”
“She did. I think she told her Boss that she had work to do down here, though!”
“Bright girl! She’s going to go places.”
I laugh out loud. Yes, Jenny will go places but it’s the actual places that I still worry about!,
“Ladies and Gentlemen. We are now on our final descent to Incheon International Airport. Please return to your seat and fasted your seat belts. Your tray tables should be stowed and your seats in the upright position ……”
One of my companions nudges me in the ribs, as I wake reluctantly from sleep to the bustle of the cabin and the cabin crew carrying out their final checks, before landing.
Arriving? Thank goodness. Just why do you get so tired, just sitting, eating and drinking?
I fill in the immigration paperwork as the Boeing makes its final approach. I glance out of the cabin window. There’s a shifting panorama of clouds, hills, the sea and a distant cityscape.
Flight KE204 touches down with the usual comforting thump of the 747’s sixteen wheel main undercart. The aircraft threads its way through the other ground traffic to its assigned gate. Soon enough we dock with the airbridge, the engines start to wind down and a “bong” on the PA announces the usual dash for the exit.
The journey has taken almost eleven hours. For me, it’s nearly five o’clock in the afternoon of the following day, Wednesday. I never find it easy know which day is, which on these trips!
We file from the aircraft into what is Asia’s most modern airport. For several years in succession it’s won awards as the world’s most efficient terminal; a breathtaking symphony of steel, glass concrete and technology. Although we all flow effortlessly through baggage reclaim, immigration and passport control, the official checks and monitoring is meticulous.
I glance at my phone; the strength of the mobile signal is excellent. I turn the phone from “flight mode” to “active” and open the desktop to see if there are any messages or emails but there is nothing from Jenny. It’s odd; she normally emails to say she hopes I had a good flight and a safe arrival. I think about texting her but as I emerge from the arrivals channel I see the driver who been sent to collect us. I’ll wait until we reach the hotel before trying again.
At the monolithic Marriott Hotel in the city centre a smiling concierge in traditional Korean dress greets us. After the usual hotel formalities, she sees to it that we are ushered to our rooms.
I take immediate advantage of the internet connection and check my e-mail. There is no message from Jenny. No message at Reception. No text on my phone. No voicemail. I’m beginning to feeling quite anxious. Jenny usually keeps in contact when I’m away. Since her stint at Inward Bound she has been really conscientious …
At least, I can send an email: ‘Hi, Jenny it’s me. We arrived OK. But what about you? Your call broke up and I wasn’t able to reach you again? R U OK?
Love, Joe.”
I check the time, trying to get my mind to comprehend what time it is here, what time it is back home and what time my body thinks it is. It’s now 7pm local time but Seoul is 9 hours ahead of the UK, so 7pm in Seoul here is 10 am in the UK. Better not ‘phone now; Jenny will probably be at work. I will leave it till tomorrow, when I’m less tired. Perhaps 6pm tomorrow evening? That will be 9am in the UK. Yes, that will be much better.
Flying eastwards scrambles my body rhythms very effectively. I slept on the flight and now my body is becoming more alert even though here, in Seoul, night is drawing on.
As result I spend a fitful night. I wake only partially refreshed. Sleep has been constantly disturbed by worries about Jenny. Still perhaps it’s not her mobile that’s at fault. Maybe it’s mine? There were no messages on my phone from anyone. Aha! So that’s it. Yes. Must be a fault on the ‘phone. I’ll use the hotel telephone in the morning.
Unfortunately, my good intentions are ignored, because I finally fall asleep. I awake only just before I’m due to meet the others.
Thursday starts early and finishes late. We meet with our South Korean partners to review development opportunities in what used to be called IndoChina. The Koreans are very interested in Cambodia and proudly describe the humiliation of the quaint French colonial cityscape in Phnom Penh by a multi story gold coloured tower block. It would be at home in any city anywhere around the world and has nothing to indicate that it is a Cambodian building. But it is very cleverly engineered.
We discuss the hydrology of the Mekong river system and the potential for hydro-electric power generation or rather the lack of potent, as a consequence of the management of the river by the Chinese within their territory. We look at proposals for wind farms and solar power generation schemes - and much else besides.
The pace of the day does not slacken as evening draws on. Our hosts are welcoming. Lavish hospitality is provided. Protocol and the desire for future cooperation between companies, ensure that the hospitality is accepted and enjoyed by us all.
Thursday becomes Friday which merges into Saturday and suddenly I realise with a start, that I haven’t tried to contact Jenny or checked to see if she has tried to contact me. But that’s what weekends are for. Sightseeing and families. I’ll touch base with Jenny after breakfast.
During breakfast on Saturday, I get my mobile out and go to call Jenny. Then I remember, maybe it’s my phone that has the fault. I get half way to one of the hotel lobby phones when I realise that it’s now 11pm on Friday, in the UK.
If Jenny has stuck to her plans to get well ahead of her research schedule, she will have been working very intensively and may be fast asleep in bed. I decide to try my phone again with a text: “Hi, Jenny. It’s me. Got to the hotel safely. It’s Saturday here. Got the chance to do some sightseeing today. I’ll call later. Love Joe”
I’ve only just pressed “send” when the phone rings. I pick up the call immediately, expecting to hear Jenny at last. I’m disappointed. It isn’t her. It’s Chris Parker, saying that the guys are heading off sight-seeing soon and do I want to come?
Well, why not I think. I look across the hotel lobby and there they all are. We head off to see what Seoul has to offer.
It’s 6pm when we return to the hotel. I go up to my room to phone Jenny. It’s 9am in the UK on Saturday morning. The call connects without problems. There’s the comforting ring of our home phone. It rings …… and rings …….. and rings …… Then there’s an answer. It’s her voice but it’s not her. “Hi, thanks for calling. Jenny and Joe can’t take your call just now but leave a message and we will get back to you. Leave your message after the beep ……..”
I’m left feeling disappointed, irritated - and anxious. Perhaps Jenny has gone shopping? The local Tesco is open 24 hours and on a Saturday it would make sense to get there early before the crowds of other Saturday shoppers arrive. Why am I getting so uneasy?
My day ends. Before dinner I check my phone. There’s still no reply from Jenny. I check my e-mail; no message from Jenny there either.
My unease is getting worse. The strands are beginning to mass together into thick dark clouds of real anxiety. I join the rest of the team for dinner but my mind is thousands of miles away, in the English midlands.
I try to think through the possibilities. It’s obvious that it’s not a problem with my own phone; Chris called me this morning. Jenny’s phone could be broken, I guess, but then why hasn’t she e-mailed or responded to the message I left on our home phone? So, maybe Jenny’s phone broke down but when she got home she had to deal with something urgent which took her away. That’s possible, but what?
A deadline from Angela? It wouldn’t be the first time but these day’s I can’t imagine her jumping to keep Angela happy. Perhaps one of Jenny’s parents has been taken ill or there’s some other family crisis? That’s possible, although from the time I’ve spent together with them, I don’t think Jenny’s parents do crises any more than she does!
It could be something to do with Inward Bound, I suppose. She didn’t say she was planning to go there but perhaps something has come up with her research programme. Maybe she needed to go back to Suffolk? That would certainly put her out of contact.
I chew over the possibilities once more. It’s impossible, from this distance to guess.
“Parent problems” are the most likely possibility. But perhaps Jenny has been taken ill? Could she be in hospital in London? Was that why her call broke off?
“Hey! You still suffering from jet lag?” It’s Chris. I’m miles away, not paying any attention to what’s going on around me. I make some apologies, as the meal ends. All I can think of is trying to lose my worries in sleep. I excuse myself and head for bed. It doesn’t do me much good. Sleep eludes me for most of the night.
*********
I’m surprisingly alert when I wake. It’s often that way. It seems as if I am not sleeping but then I wake up. A plan was formed, overnight, in my mind. I guess it comes with the job. I’m an engineer and, like any engineer, I’m always happier with a plan.
First: I’m going to call Cath. She’s Jenny’s best friend and colleague in the Department of Psychology. We’re good friends with Cath and George, her husband. If Jenny is at work, Cath will know and everything will be all right. She will almost certainly know what the problem has been, too.
Second, if Cath has no news; I’ll call Jenny’s parents and ask after them. When I know the lie of the land, I can bring the conversation round to mention Jenny. If there is a serious parent problem, I’ll find out.
Third: the worst-case scenario: no one has seen Jenny and so by a process of elimination the next possibility is that she has been taken ill and is in hospital in London. I’ll ask our Human Resources people at Head Office for their help. I’m sure they can make some general enquiries for me. They’re supposed to look after staff welfare, after all, aren’t they?
It’s 8:00 am here. I’ll wait till 6pm before I call Cathy and George Corbin. Then it’ll be, what, Sunday morning in the UK?
When I call, Cath is cheerful and her voice carries no hint of bad news as she greets me. Just for a moment, it is a relief. “Hi, Joe!” she says. “So are you two having a sly few days away?”
“Huh? Sorry?” I’m wrong-footed by Cathy’s unexpected question.
“You and Jenny! When she didn’t show on Wednesday I knew she must have arranged to skip off for a few days. Tell her the best thing is Prof: she is furious! So where are you two??”
The longer Cath keeps up her breezy patter the sicker I feel. Eventually I interrupt. “Cath, look it’s not like that. I was just calling to ask if you have seen Jenny at all. I was on the phone to her shortly before I left - I’m in South Korea by the way. We were cut off and I haven’t been able to reach her since last Tuesday. She usually leaves me an e-mail or something but this time there’s no e-mails, she is not answering her mobile and there is no reply at home. So I’m a bit concerned really …..”
I can tell that my words have wiped the smile from Cath’s face. I can hear it straightaway in her voice. “Oh, Joe …. look I’m so sorry … I didn’t mean to go on like that. You must be worried sick. Well, I don’t know what to suggest. She has not been in work at all …. Look I’ll go round to your place and see if can see any sign of her.”
“Thanks Cath.” I’m still really worried but at least I feel I’m getting something done. “I’d really appreciate that. Why don’t you call me when you get there? You’ve still got our spare key haven’t you? Use our phone. It’s expensive to call my mobile right out here.”
“Joe, don’t worry about the expense. I’ll call you back as soon as I can. Right?”
“Thanks, Cath. Thanks.”
I wonder whether to phone Jenny’s parents, the Palmers, right away. I bring up their number on my phone and - hesitate. I’m not sure about pressing “call”. In the end I don’t. I decide to wait for Cath. To see what she has to say.
In the event I only have to wait another hour until Cath returns my call. “Joe?”
“Yes. Cath?”
“Mmm. Look I’m so sorry. There’s no sign of Jenny at all. There’s mail behind the front door and the house is cold. I don’t think anyone has been here since last week.”
I’m not really surprised but it’s still a shock. “OK Cath,” I say, trying to keep my voice calm so that I don’t worry Cath more than I have already. “Thanks so much for going round. I’m sure she’s all right really. Maybe one of Jenny’s parents has been taken ill and she has had to go there? I’ll call their number and see what’s up. I’ll let you know what’s going on. Thanks for going round.”
“No, look that’s fine. Is there anything else I can do?”
“Well, you could let Angela know? She seems able to sniff Jenny out from wherever she is.”
Cath laughs. So do I. The barbed remark at Professor Dawney’s expense has broken the tension because we both know I am probably quite right.
I call the Palmers. I’ve carefully rehearsed how to play the conversation, picking my words carefully according to what they say, giving them the space to tell me any news of their troubles before launching in to mine. Perhaps the search for Jenny will end here?
“Hey, Inga Palmer!” Jenny’s mother sounds very bright – as she always does. Even after thirty years in the UK her voice has Swedish accents. She says “Hej” not “Hello” and says her name as “Ee-ing- ga”.
“Hi, Inga, it’s Joe!”
“Ah, Zhoe! Andrew and I were just talking about you. Isn’t it time you came for a weekend? After you get back from your next trip. Zhenny said you would be away soon? Oh and Zhenny – I have been trying to reach her. Where have you put her, Zhoe?”
Where have you put her? Inga’s question is an answer in itself. Jenny is not with her parents and they do not know where she is.
“Erm, er well it’s Jenny I’m calling about.”
“Ah, Zhoe, what’s wrong? I know she’s not pregnant because I know she would tell me first!”
“No, look, er it’s just that I can’t find her.”
There is a moment of silence before Inga says, “Zhoe, you had better tell me all about it.”
“Well, I’m in South Korea right now. When I made a last call to Jenny, just before I went to the airport, we were cut off. She usually leaves me an e-mail to pick up when I arrive but she didn’t this time and I haven’t been able to reach her since. I thought, well, maybe one of you had been taken ill and she had gone to help look after you.”
Inga cuts in, “No, we are both very well. Have you thought about your phone at home? A fault on the line?”
“No. Our own phone is OK because I left a message on the answer machine. She is not answering her mobile and her colleagues at work have not seen her. One of them went round to our place but there was no sign..”
“Ah. Ett orgonblick …..”
In rather more than “an eye blink” Jenny’s dad comes on the line.
“Look Joe, where are you now?”
“South Korea.”
“Bloody South Korea???”
“Yes. I’m going to come back early. I was thinking that perhaps Jenny was taken ill in London and is in hospital or something.”
“That’s probably what it is. I’m sure she’s all right. If you give me some details, I’ll see what I can find out.”
“Well I was going to get our Personnel Department to see if they could help with hospital enquires.”
“Yes, I’m sure they would but why don’t I see if I can make a start?”
“Andrew: thanks. I’ll be back as soon as I can get a flight. You’ve got my number if you find anything.”
Footnotes.
1. SPSS. Statistical Package for the Social Sciences. www.spss.com
2. The Royal Society of Medicine has the best medical library in the United Kingdom. www.rsm.ac.uk
3. Gold Tower 42. http://www.skyscrapercity.com/showthread.php?t=573861
4. Tesco. A famous and all pervasive supermarket chain in the UK
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© Freddie Clegg & Phil Lane 2010
All rights reserved. Not to be reproduced or reposted without permission
All characters fictitious
E-mail: freddie_clegg@yahoo.com
Web Group: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/freddies_tales/
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