The Constant Gardener

"Like a hawk."

"And then we can tell you about the greedy coincidences in white coats. And you'll believe us. It's a deal?"

"Us?"

"Arnold."

The mention of Bluhm brought Woodrow back to earth. "I'll do whatever I can in the circumstances. Whatever it is. Within reason. I promise. Now try to get some rest. Please."

She reflects on this. "He promises to do whatever he can in the circumstances," she explains to the child. "Within reason. Well, there's a man. How's Gloria?"

"Deeply concerned. She sends her love."

Tessa lets out a slow sigh of exhaustion and, with the child still at her breast, slumps back in the pillows and closes her eyes. "Then go home to her. And don't write me any more letters," she says. "And leave Ghita alone. She won't play either."

He gets up and turns, for some reason expecting to see Bluhm in the doorway, in the posture he detests most: Bluhm propped nonchalantly against the door frame, hands wedged cowboy-style into his arty belt, grinning his white-toothed grin inside his pretentious black beard. But the doorway is empty, the corridor windowless and dark, lit like an airraid shelter by a line of underpowered lights. Making his way past broken-down trolleys laden with recumbent bodies, smelling the blood and excrement mingling with the sweet, horsy scent of Africa, Woodrow wonders whether this squalor is part of what makes her attractive to him: I have spent my life in flight from reality, but because of her I am drawn to it.

He enters a crowded concourse and sees Bluhm engaged in a heated conversation with another man. First he hears Bluhm's voice — though not the words — strident and accusing, echoing in the steel girders. Then the other man speaks back. Some people, once seen, live forever in our memories. For Woodrow this is one of them. The other man is thickly built and paunchy, with a glistening, meaty face that is cast in an expression of abject despair. His hair, blond to ginger, is spread sparsely over his scalded pate. He has a pinched, rosebud mouth that pleads and denies. His eyes, round with hurt, are haunted by a horror that both men seem to share. His hands are mottled and very strong, his khaki shirt stained with tramlines of sweat around the collar. The rest of him is concealed under a white medical coat.

And then we can tell you about the greedy coincidences in white coats.

Woodrow moves stealthily forward. He is almost upon them, but neither head turns. They are too intent on arguing. He strides past them unnoticed, their raised voices lost in the din.

* * *

Donohue's car was back in the drive. The sight of it moved Woodrow to sick fury. He stormed upstairs, showered, put on a fresh shirt and felt no less furious. The house was unusually silent for a Saturday and when he glanced out of his bathroom window he saw why. Donohue, Justin, Gloria and the boys were seated at the table in the garden playing Monopoly. Woodrow loathed all board games, but for Monopoly he had an unreasoning hatred not unlike his hatred of the Friends and all the other members of Britain's overblown Intelligence community. What the devil does he mean by coming back here minutes after I told him to keep his bloody distance? And what kind of weird husband is it who sits down to a jolly game of Monopoly just days after his wife is hacked to death? House guests, Woodrow and Gloria used to tell each other, quoting the Chinese proverb, were like fish and stank on the third day. But Justin was becoming more fragrant to Gloria with each day that passed.

Woodrow went downstairs and stood in the kitchen, looking out of the window. No staff on Saturday afternoons, of course. So much nicer to be just ourselves, darling. Except that it's not ourselves, it's your-selves. And you look a bloody sight happier with two middle-aged men fawning on you than you ever look with me.

At the table, Justin had landed on somebody's street and was paying out a stack of money in rent while Gloria and the boys hooted with delight and Donohue protested that it was about time too. Justin was wearing his stupid straw hat, and as with everything else he wore, it became him perfectly. Woodrow filled a kettle and set it on the gas. I'll take out tea to them, let them know I'm back — assuming they aren't too tied up with one another to notice. Changing his mind, he stepped smartly into the garden and marched up to the table.

"Justin. Sorry to butt in. Wondered if we could have a quick word." And to the others — my own family, staring at me as if I've raped the housemaid — "Didn't mean to break this up, gang. Only be a few minutes. Who's winning?"

"Nobody," said Gloria with edge, while Donohue from the wings grinned his shaggy grin.