The Constant Gardener

He was facing the door to Arnold's room, so named because when Arnold stayed in the house he never failed to leave behind a wistful claim to permanence — a pair of shoes, an electric razor, an alarm clock, a pile of papers on the abysmal failure of medical aid to the Third World. The sight of Arnold's camel-hair cardigan sprawled over the back of his chair nevertheless stopped Justin short, and he was close to calling Arnold's name as he advanced on the desk.

Ransacked.

Drawers prized open, papers and stationery yanked out and slung carelessly back.

The klaxon was honking. He raced downstairs, steadying himself as he reached the front door. Kevin the flower boy was red-cheeked and small, a Dickensian flower boy shiny from the winter cold. The irises and lilies across his arms were as big as he was. A white envelope was tied to the wire that bound the stems. Rummaging through a fistful of Kenyan shillings, Justin found two English pounds, gave them to the boy and closed the door on him. He opened the envelope and took out a white card wrapped in thick paper so that the writing wouldn't show through the envelope. The message was electronically printed.

Justin. Leave your house at seven-thirty tonight. Bring a briefcase stuffed with newspaper. Walk to the Cineflex theater in the King's Road. Buy a ticket for screen two and watch the film till nine o'clock. Leave with your briefcase by the side (western) exit. Look for a parked blue minibus close to the exit. You will recognize the driver. Burn this.

No signature.

He examined the envelope, sniffed it, sniffed the card, smelled nothing, didn't know what he was expecting to smell. He took the card and envelope to the kitchen, set a match to them and, in the best traditions of the Foreign Service security course, put them in the sink to burn. When they had burned, he broke the ash and coaxed the fragments into the disposal unit, which he ran for longer than necessary. He started back up the stairs, two at a time till he reached the top of the house. It was not haste that drove him but determination: Don't think, act. A locked attic door faced him. He held a key ready. His expression was resolute but apprehensive. He was a desperate man steeling himself for the leap. He flung back the door and strode into the tiny hall. It led to a run of attic rooms set amid jackdawinfested chimney pots and secret bits of flat roof for growing potted plants and making love. He barged forward, eyes wrinkled into slits to resist the glare of memory. Not an object, picture, chair or corner but Tessa owned it, dwelled in it, spoke from it. Her father's pompous desk, made over to him on her wedding day, stood in its familiar alcove. He threw back the top. What did I tell you? Pillaged. He yanked open her clothes cupboard and saw her winter coats and frocks, torn from their hangers and left to die with their pockets inside out. Honestly, darling, you could have hung them up. You know perfectly well that I did, and someone pulled them down. Delving beneath them he unearthed Tessa's old music case, the nearest he could get to a briefcase.

"Let's do this together," he told her, aloud now.

About to leave, he paused to spy on her through the open bedroom door. She had come out of the bathroom and was standing naked in front of the mirror, head to one side as she combed out her wet hair. One bare foot was turned ballet-style toward him, which was what it always seemed to do when she was naked. One hand was lifted to her head. Watching her, he felt the same inexpressible estrangement from her that he had felt when she was alive. You're too perfect, too young, he told her. I should have left you in the wild. Bullshit, she replied sweetly, and he felt much better.

Descending to the ground-floor kitchen he found a heap of old copies of the Kenyan Standard, Africa Confidential, the Spectator and Private Eye. He stuffed them into her music case, returned to the hall, took a last look at her makeshift shrine and the Gladstone. I'm leaving it where they can find it in case they're not satisfied with their work this morning at the Office, he explained to her, and stepped into the freezing dark. The walk to the cinema took him ten minutes. Screen two was three-quarters empty. He paid no attention to the film. Twice he had to slink to the men's lavatory, music case in hand, to consult his wristwatch unobserved. At five to nine he left by the western exit to find himself in a bitterly cold side street. A parked blue minibus stared at him, and he had an absurd moment of imagining it was the green safari truck from Marsabit. Its headlights winked. An angular figure in a seaman's cap lounged in the driver's seat.

"Back door," Rob ordered.