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By the time Ruby reached her parents’ home in Bristol, the doctor had issued the death certificate and a post-mortem had identified the cause of death. The funeral directors collected the body from the hospital for embalming and the burial in five days’ time. Ruby’s mother, Patience, hardly spoke. Relatives and friends arrived at the house to pay their respects every half hour. The older Parkers weren’t like their daughter. They’d had an established place in a tight-knit community.
Audley Parker was buried at the City of Bristol Greenback Cemetery on a cold, windy morning at the end of October. The service took place in the Anglican church of Saint Bartholomew. Every pew was filled and several people had to stand. Ruby sat at the front with her mother and her aunt Harriet. The vicar spoke of Audley Parker’s leadership of several community organisations, his work for development charities, and read out extracts from tributes provided by friends and acquaintances. He said nothing about his background in Montserrat, other than that he was born there. An hour later, Ruby threw soil onto the coffin.
All the time she’d been outside since getting back to Bristol – and even in the church – she’d noticed she was being watched. Nothing overt. Two men, sometimes the same individuals, sometimes not; sometimes in suits, sometimes dressed more casually. MI6 was keeping an eye on her, making sure she kept her appointment for debriefing. It infuriated her that, at a time like this, they couldn’t be discreet to the point of invisibility. Once or twice, she thought about absconding.
Absconding – as if this wasn’t a free country and she wasn’t at liberty to do what she liked!
Or maybe she should go up and challenge them. Why are you following me? What do you think I’m going to do? Leave me alone! She felt close to tears at one point, but tears of anger. They hadn’t even given her a date to be in London, get the whole wretched business over and done with. While she’d have liked to put that down to compassion, she didn’t for a moment think that’s really what it was.
The day after the funeral, she went out to the shops to buy provisions. When she got home, her mother and her aunt were in the living room, talking. She went in to ask if they wanted anything. They sat together on the sofa, holding hands.
“Ruby,” her mother said. “I’ve something to tell you. I’m going to London to live with Harriet.”
The way she said it made it sound like a done deal. But it couldn’t be. Her mother was all she had.
“But I can look after you here!” she said.
“I can’t do that to you,” her mother said. “I’m not well. I’ll sell up and give you three-quarters of the money. You can become truly independent. That’s what your father always wanted. It’s what’s going to happen. I’m not prepared to tie you to me. I love you.”
“I’m not taking her away from you,” Aunt Harriet said. “It’s only London. You can come and visit as often as you like. You could even come and work there, once you’ve finished your degree.”
She didn’t know what to say. Whether argument would look selfish. God knows, she needed her mother more than her mother probably needed her. And she likely couldn’t look after her properly, at least not as well as Aunt Harriet. Nor would she be as good company as Aunt Harriet. Some people would probably say she’d had a lucky escape, but she didn’t think that. When the shock finally sank in, she went up to what used to be her room and wept bitterly. Now, at last, she was truly, truly alone.
The following day, feeling vaguely disgusted by her self-pity, she went back to her flat in Saint Andrews to check the post. Nothing. She made herself a cup of tea and looked through her university things. Three overdue library books, a list of questions to ask next time she was in a seminar and a reminder to renew her canteen card. She looked around at the gaudy wallpaper and the threadbare carpet and realised she hated living here. And how she shouldn’t think that, given the situation of most people in the world, etc.
On the way back to her mother’s, she bought a Guardian and turned to the international news. Edward Seaga’s JLP had won the Jamaican general election by a landslide, gaining fifty-one out of sixty seats. Preliminary indications were that he would pursue a Thatcherite economic and political agenda and close the Cuban embassy. He looked forward to getting down to work.
When she got home, there was a letter waiting for her on the kitchen table. Her mother was upstairs, sorting through her things.
“Is that you, Ruby?” she called. “There’s a letter for you on the kitchen table.”
She tore it open. It was the usual vague you have been successful in your recent interview and we would like you to attend nonsense, but none of the peremptoriness of last time, nor the scarcely concealed ultimatums. The last paragraph took her completely by surprise. They were sending a car to pick her up. She wasn’t even expecting them to pay her train fare.
Of course, that was probably because they knew she was in mourning. So they did have some sensitivity, after all.
When the car arrived outside her parents’ house in Bristol, she was waiting. The driver opened its rear door for her, as if she was royalty. She knew her mother and Aunt Harriet were watching from behind the net curtain, and she felt pleased, even though she’d have difficulty explaining it to them later. The journey to London took three hours. She wore a new grey skirt-suit and court shoes and read a Portuguese novel to show how unfazed she was by the attention.
They reached 100 Westminster Bridge Road at midday. The driver hopped out and opened the rear door for her again. She thanked him and smiled, and walked to front desk. The receptionist was obviously expecting her. “Please take a seat,” she said warmly.
Exactly ten seconds later, Jack Maddison arrived in the lift. They shook hands rather formally. He looked a lot smarter than she remembered. Maybe he’d decided retirement wasn’t his thing, after all.
“We’re going upstairs now for your psychological evaluation and debrief,” he said in a ‘brace yourself’ tone. “It should only take an hour or two, then we’d like you to stay the afternoon in The Gladstone hotel. Just in case we need to call you back for clarification. We’ve booked you a room and you’ll be chauffeured over there. Afterwards, five o’clock at the latest, you’re free to go home. Of course we’ll drive you back to Bristol. ”
It all sounded very nice, a million miles from last time. He escorted her into the lift, pressed ‘7’ and guided her from there into a large office where five chairs had been arranged in the beginnings of a circle facing a sixth chair, obviously hers. A low table separated them. Three middle-aged men stood chatting with a woman of about fifty, glamorous, big black hair and dressed in a suit. They stopped when she and Maddison entered. Ruby’s first impression was that they didn’t look like psychologists, but she realised that was silly. What does a psychologist look like?
Maddison introduced her to them by name, but not job description – Richard Luce, Ian Bancroft, Arthur Franks, Celia Demure – and asked her to be seated. They sat down facing her and asked her to describe her experiences in Jamaica.
She began nervously, but soon got into her stride. They all seemed intensely interested, but oddly, not one of them had a clipboard, or even looked disposed to write anything down. They just listened. Occasionally, they exchanged eye-contact. They didn’t smile.
When she finished her account, there were several what if questions about advice to third parties and diplomatic affairs. If a spy was in such-and-such a situation, what would you counsel him to do? If you were running an agent in Monrovia from London and you got a message through telling you he’d been arrested, how might you proceed? How important do you think it is for Britain to maintain friendly relations with other countries at the expense of human rights? What, in your opinion, is the ideal relationship between trade, diplomacy and espionage? She had the feeling of floundering once or twice, but generally these were things she’d thought about, and she’d come here determined not to be overawed or intimidated, so she answered them with willed confidence. She sounded quite impressive, even to herself.
The interview ended so abruptly she thought she must have said something wrong. Richard Luce looked at his watch and murmured something about having to be back. The others whispered about how they didn’t realise how much time had passed. Apart from their conversation the room was silent. She hoped they didn’t think she couldn’t hear them because that would make them foolish. They stood up and thanked her. They each shook her hand.
It wasn’t until she was downstairs and being chauffeured to The Gladstone that it struck her how odd all of this was. So unlike a psychological evaluation or a debriefing that it couldn’t plausibly be either of those things.
She realised something momentous was about to happen. They were going to offer her a job. There was no other explanation. When she reached her hotel, she picked up the key from the front desk and went straight to her room. She walked to the window then put the radio on to stop herself thinking. To build up her hopes up at this point might well be fatal. All she had to do was wait till five o’clock, and all would be revealed. Nina Simone sang, ‘I Wish I Could Feel How it Feels to be Free’. Outside, tourists and commuters strode past each other at haphazard angles like Jamaican traffic.
At four thirty, there was a rap at her door. The bell boy, a slim middle-aged man with grey hair and stripy trousers, stood with his feet together. “There’s a car waiting for you downstairs, miss.”
She switched off the radio and almost ran down the stairs in her hurry to get out. It was probably the car to take her back to Bristol, but one way or another, she had to know. The suspense was burning her brain out.
“Where are we going?” she asked the driver breathlessly as he held the door open for her yet again.
“Westminster Bridge Road, ma’am,” he replied.
Her mind went blank. She looked out of the window as they pulled out. She took in the objects and people and they filled her consciousness and left no room for anything else. Everyday images that might remain burned there for the rest of her life. For a minute, she didn’t dare speculate, but then realised she had to. They were probably going to offer her another one-off, like she was some sort of casual worker. If they were calling her back, they must need her. So she had to negotiate. She wanted the post of agent, a permanent contract, no quibbles. She’d earned that much.
When the car reached its destination, she got out with a spring in her step, ready to do battle. Maddison was waiting for her in reception. He smiled but said nothing. They did a re-run of their earlier journey, getting in the lift together and alighting on the seventh floor. When they went into the office, the chairs had all been cleared away. Only one of the three men remained. The woman had gone.
“I introduced you earlier of course,” Maddison said, as he closed the door behind them. “Arthur Franks, head of the Secret Intelligence Service. Ruby, I’ll come straight to the point. We’d like to offer you a job. We’d like you to take over the position Roger Parton left vacant, but with a slightly wider remit.”
For a moment, she thought she’d misunderstood him. Take over - ? And had he said Head of the Secret Intelligence Service? The head? The possibilities for making herself look idiotic were suddenly so many and varied so couldn’t bring herself to speak.
“We’re merging the Caribbean and West African desks,” Maddison continued, “And we’d like you to head them up.”
She half-laughed. “‘Head them up’? You mean ...”
“We’re asking you to accept the post of Chief of West African and Caribbean Operations,” Franks said. “You’ll have your own office, obviously. You’ll be in charge of twenty-three officers and a variable number of agents, depending on the political climate. You don’t have to accept now, of course. You have twenty-four hours to think about it.”
“On the face of it,” Maddison said, “if you were to accept, it would be an eccentric promotion, to say the least. But not wholly without precedent. The point is, you have all the right qualities. And none of the other possible candidates has.”
“You have exactly what we’re looking for in abundance,” Franks said. He chuckled. “It pays quite well too.”
For a split second there was silence. Then she recovered.
“In that case,” she said, as casually as if she’d seen it coming all along, “I don’t have to think about it. I accept.”
