‘Are you Vincent Reynolds?’ the boy at the cafeteria counter called across to him. ‘There’s a phone call for you.’
‘I thought I’d find you in there,’ said Sebastian. ‘I tried you at the entertainment place and they said you’d gone for the day. Listen, I can’t make our appointment on Friday, but I can do lunch tomorrow. Would that be convenient?’
Say no, the voice inside his head hissed, if you see him in person you’re bound to say something dumb and give the game away. You know too much about him now, and you’re a crap liar. Say no. But it would be the last time they would hang out together, and his growling stomach got the best of him. It wasn’t as if Sebastian was a convicted murderer or anything. Vince was really going to miss the lavish meals of the past month.
‘That would be good,’ he heard himself saying.
They dined in a busy Cal-Ital restaurant in a Kensington backstreet. Meeting in a crowded area seemed the safest thing to do. Recently Sebastian had taken him to a very old dining club just off Threadneedle Street where he was treated like a visiting member of the royal family, and Vince—after he had been fitted with a stained club tie—was pointedly ignored. The experience had left him feeling very strange, like a paid escort getting caught out in a smart hotel.
This place was full of young media-types with switched-off mobile phones beside their wineglasses. Everyone looked the same: smart and confident, Gap-advertisement bland. As the waiter showed him to the table he had a fleeting fantasy, that all these diners were friends of Sebastian’s, all members of his secret club, and that they were simply awaiting a prearranged signal to fall upon his gratingly common companion like a pack of starving vampires.
Sebastian arrived wearing his usual immaculate black suit, white shirt and crimson tie. He looked like a wealthy man dabbling in the stock market because it amused him. Vince watched warily as they ate. It seemed bizarre that Sebastian had not stopped talking since they’d met, and yet he had revealed less about himself than could be gleaned from a single newspaper article. It was impossible to find anything in his appearance or his gestures that indicated the kind of man he really was.
Vince, on the other hand, had proven to be an open book, describing his disastrous engagement at the age of nineteen, his brushes with the law over a missing van and some stolen computer software, his parents’ endless arguments and his father’s unexpected death. He now felt uncomfortable about having been so forthcoming.
For a while the talk was even smaller than usual. Sebastian remained circumspect about his own political beliefs. Indeed, Vince could hardly recall a single serious discussion on the subject. He had always taken care to avoid such topics himself; at home, religion, sex and politics were the three things the family never discussed, for fear of initiating one of his father’s apoplectic rants about Catholics and Communists.
He knew Sebastian could sense the change in atmosphere between them. When their conversation finally grew too laboured he returned to safer discussion ground.
‘Strategy games are best, but it’s hard to find worthy opponents. Obviously, the sides must be well balanced. Great historical battles are always interesting to recreate, just to see if you can change the outcome. Waterloo, for example, becomes much more interesting if one removes Napoleon’s fatal half-hour of indecision. Gallipoli’s a good one for the novice, an outcome changed if you allow our artillery bombardment to continue for another ten minutes.’ He grew more animated when embarking on a favourite subject. ‘I’ve always wondered what would have happened to the course of the Second World War if Hitler and Churchill had actually met one another. They very nearly did, you know. As early as 1932, in the Regina Hotel in Munich. Churchill had been befriended by a man named Hanfstaengl, who told him the Fuehrer was coming to the hotel at five that day, and would be pleased to meet him. Churchill ruined his chances by asking Hanfstaengl why his chief was so prejudiced against the Jews, and Hanfstaengl immediately cancelled the meeting. So if it hadn’t been for Churchill’s insensitivity, the Second World War might even have been averted.’
This was an ominous turn in the conversation. ‘Churchill was right to speak out,’ Vince said. ‘A man can’t help how he’s born.’
Giving Sebastian grounds for an argument, he realised, was not the smartest of moves under the circumstances. Vince could sense the side that was closed off from public view. He wanted to leave, to push aside his meal and get out into the night air, just as much as he needed to hear the truth.
‘I want to ask you some things, but I don’t know the right way to go about it,’ he said finally.
‘Just go ahead and ask. I won’t bite.’
He took a deep breath. ‘It’s about the New Statesman article, the one where they called you a Nazi.’
‘Why didn’t I sue them, you mean?’
‘Well, there’s that, yes.’
‘I knew they would find enough fuel to justify the claim. No smoke without fire and all that. They only had to look at the company I was keeping in those days.’
‘So you don’t see the same people now?’
‘Good God, no. One grows up, moves on. Anyway, you mustn’t believe everything you read. Journalists have hidden agendas, too.’
He wasn’t apologising for his past, Vince noted.
‘What happened to your girlfriend? I read there was some trouble—’
‘I don’t consider that a matter for public discussion,’ he replied, steel entering his voice. ‘Is there anything else you feel the need to ask?’
‘Your involvement in the League of Prometheus, I don’t understand what that’s all about.’
‘Oh, that. I wonder you haven’t brought it up before. We meet informally,’ Sebastian explained, ‘just a group of like-minded individuals, as they say. The one thing we have in common is a passion for debate and a desire to see reform. I thought I’d mentioned it to you.’
‘No, never. I read about it.’
‘I wasn’t aware we were written about.’
‘On the Internet. Perhaps I could attend one of your meetings.’
Sebastian refused to catch his eye. The shutters had come down once more. ‘I’m afraid there are no outside members allowed—it’s an old rule, there’s nothing I can do about it.’
‘An old rule. Then this society of yours isn’t new? I mean, you didn’t start it?’
‘God, no, it’s been around for generations. I’m merely the present chairman. The custodian of the League’s charter.’ He thought for a moment. ‘What else have you been able to discover about our little club?’
‘Nothing much, really. But I have my suspicions.’
‘Oh, really? You’d better make sure you have proof to back them up before you publish. I’d hate to see you get into trouble. Legally, I mean. You’ve barely touched your meal.’
‘I’m not very hungry.’
‘Then leave that and we’ll have some decent brandy.’
‘No, Sebastian. I have to go soon.’
‘Tell you what, I’ll get the bill and we can have a snifter at my club.’
‘I really can’t. Too much to write up.’
He cooled instantly, sensing the change. ‘All right. If that’s what you want. I’ll get you a taxi.’
‘I just want to walk for a while and clear my head,’ he replied a little too fiercely, rising from the table.
‘Well, you must do as you feel fit.’
Vince stood awkwardly at the corner as Sebastian hailed a cab. After entering it and shutting the door, he pushed down the window.
‘I think I’ve disappointed you, Vincent. Not something I intended to do.’
‘We’ll stay in touch,’ he said, shamed by the lie.
‘It’s probably best that I should wait to hear from you,’ said Sebastian civilly. ‘Take care, old chap. Don’t leave it too long, eh?’
The cab pulled away and disappeared into the afternoon traffic. Vince knew that this was an official end to their meetings, just as Sebastian knew that there would be an unofficial continuation. He should have been relieved, but one thought kept running through his mind. What if I’ve made a mistake? Suppose he’s reformed since those articles were written, does it really matter what his politics are? What right do I have to judge him on the events of the past?
On the tube back to Tufnell Park he found it hard to shake the terrible sense of foreboding that had descended upon him. Suppose there was some kind of comeback from all of this?
Some things in life were dangerous; that was knowledge quickly learned. A burning cigarette-end flicked from a car. A bad neighbourhood late at night. The sound of breaking glass. Voices raised in drunken anger. These were reasons to be fearful. When Vince was a child, his father used to show him how his open razor would slice through a sheet of paper just by resting the blade on the top of the page. Its casual power appalled the sensitive young boy; it was intended to.
He had been an easily frightened child. His world was darkened with dangers. His father’s timidity was as inoperable as cancer, and it had turned him into a bully. His endless warnings destroyed the little confidence his son possessed. Harm was found hiding in the most mundane events; the turn of the tide could transform a beach stroll into a race against the incoming sea. A picnic in the woods could conjure images of the family lost and starving among lightning-blasted trees. In his father’s world, the simple act of replacing a three-pin plug became a feat so fraught with electrical hazard that only a fool would attempt it. The destruction of his confidence, Vince came to realise, was the most damaging childhood loss of all.
When his father died, Vince cried because they had not been able to resolve their differences. He had wanted to show his father that all those years of cautionary advice had been wasted, that far from being scared to live he was now ready for anything the world could throw at him. One week after the funeral, Vince left his mother’s house to seek adventure in the city. Now that he had finally found it, he began to realise that there were bigger things to fear.