They talked a little about Bethany Waites, and about Heather Garbutt. Donna is putting together a map of all the CCTV cameras in Fairhaven for Chris. It is not an enjoyable job.
Now, not only do people in Poland make films, it turns out they make very good ones. Donna had worried it might be a searing portrayal of love and loss across the generations of a remote farming family, and she would have to keep turning to Bogdan and pretending to nod wisely. But not a bit of it. There was murder, there was fighting, there was a cop in a ripped shirt; it wasn’t bad at all. Every few minutes Bogdan would lean into her and she readied herself for a kiss, but he was just pointing out occasional inconsistencies in the subtitles. She held his hand, her red wine slipped down a treat, the gal got the guy, and someone shot down a helicopter. Eight out of ten, would recommend.
They went back to his, there wasn’t even a question. Where would they have parted? And why?
Bogdan is currently in the bathroom, and Donna is frantically rehydrating, and trying to recall if she has ever been happier.
They had talked a little more about Bethany Waites. Donna had looked into the files on Jack Mason, the businessman. A record as long as a Post Office queue. Charming but dangerous.
Talking of which, Bogdan walks back into the room, and gets into bed. She puts her arm around him, sleepy and safe.
They laugh. God, this feels right. It feels natural, and true, and unforced. It feels like all those things you read about relationships, but assume are lies.
Bogdan’s mobile phone rings on the bedside table. They both look over at it. It is two a.m.
Well, here we go, thinks Donna, her reverie immediately broken. All those things
Bogdan looks at the number, then back at Donna. ‘I have to get this. I’m sorry.’
Donna shrugs. She had been planning to stay until morning, but now she starts scanning for her clothes.
Elizabeth and Stephen have been dropped by the side of a small road in a big wood. The moon is high and full, and pale light zigzags through winter’s bare branches above them.
‘You gave quite the start when he mentioned Viktor Illyich,’ says Stephen.
‘I gave a start? I thought I covered it pretty well. Does anything get past you?’
‘That’s a kind thing to pretend. Old friend is he, Viktor?’
‘Old enemy if anything. KGB Head of Station in Leningrad, 1980s,’ says Elizabeth, her breath smoke in the clear air. ‘Then upwards and upwards.’
One of the photos of Viktor in the folder the Viking had given her was of Viktor in his prime. Not prime exactly perhaps: the head was already balding, the thick, pebble-lensed glasses too big for his face. But young at least. The most recent photo brought the shock of age. Old, lined, strands of grey hair clinging to the cliff edges. The glasses still too big, but look behind them and there he was. Viktor. The mischief and intelligence in his eyes. The rival who became her friend. The enemy who became … her lover? Had they? Elizabeth doesn’t recall, but she wouldn’t put it past herself.
Viktor will look at her photograph in the same way, she is sure. Who is this old woman?
Elizabeth’s phone is dead, and Stephen doesn’t have his, so on they walk.
‘Without speaking out of turn,’ says Stephen, ‘you have a look that says you don’t much want to kill him?’
‘No, I don’t,’ says Elizabeth.
‘And do you imagine he will try to kill you?’
‘Goodness, no. He’ll take one look at the photograph and roar with laughter.’
They listen to the owls talk for a while, and hold each other close for warmth as they walk. How often do you walk down a new road with an old lover? Elizabeth looks at the moon, and at her husband, and thinks to herself that this is an unusual time to feel happy.
‘But if you don’t kill him,’ says Stephen, ‘then our Viking friend will kill Joyce?’
‘That’s where we find ourselves.’ This takes the edge off her mood somewhat.
‘Hell of a choice. And, as yet, we have no idea who this Viking is?’
‘Not yet we don’t,’ agrees Elizabeth, as she spies a public phone box on the roadside ahead. ‘But, first things first, we need to get you home. I don’t suppose you have twenty pence?’
Stephen fishes in his pocket and hands Elizabeth a coin.
‘It’s the middle of the night, dear, don’t forget? Everyone will be asleep.’
Elizabeth dials the number she knows by heart. She knows all her important numbers by heart. It must be two a.m., but the phone is answered before the first ring is completed.
‘Hello, Bogdan,’ says Elizabeth.
‘Hello, Elizabeth,’ says Bogdan. ‘What do you need?’
‘A little help,’ says Elizabeth. ‘Right away if possible.’
‘OK, are you at home?’
‘Bogdan, I hear a noise in the background. Is somebody there?’
‘Is the TV.’
