A Perfect Spy

It was dawn. Unshaven, Pym sat at his desk, not wanting the daylight. Chin in hand he stared at the last page he had written. Change nothing. Don’t look back, don’t look forward. You do it once, then die. A miserable vision assailed him of the women in his life vainly waiting at every bus stop along his chaotic path. Rising quickly he mixed himself a Nescafé and drank it while it was still too hot for him. Then took up his stapler and marker pen and set himself busily to work — I am a clerk, that is all I am — stapling his cuttings and cross-indexing the helpful references.

Extracts from Gulworth Mercury and Evening Star reporting Liberal Candidate’s fighting stand on Eve of Poll night in the Town Hall. For libel reasons writers omit direct reference to Peggy Wentworth’s accusations, referring only to Candidate’s spirited self-defence against personal attack. Enter at 21a. Bloody stapler doesn’t work. This sea air rusts everything.

Cutting from London Times giving results of Gulworth North by-election:

McKechnie (Labour) 17,970

Lakin (Cons.) 15,711

Pym (Lib.) 6,404.

Semi-literate leader ascribes victory to “miscalculated intervention” of Liberals. Enter at 22a.

Extract from Oxford University Gazette notifying waiting world that Magnus Richard Pym has been awarded a B.A. Hons. degree in Modern Languages, Class I. No reference to night hours spent studying previous examination papers, or informal exploration of tutor’s desk drawers with the aid of the Michaels’ ever-handy steel dividers. Entered at 23a.

But actually not entered at all, for in the act of marking this cutting, Pym set it down before him and stared at it, head in hands, with an expression of revulsion.

Rick knew. The bastard knew. His head still between his hands, Pym returns himself to Gulworth later the same night. Father and son are riding in the Bentley, their favourite place. The Town Hall lies behind them, Mrs. Searle’s Temperance Rest is approaching. The tumult of the crowd still rings in their ears. It will be another twenty-four hours before the world will learn the name of the winning candidate, but Rick knows it already. He has been judged and applauded for all his life till now.

“Let me tell you something, old son,” he says in his mellowest and kindest voice. The passing streetlights are switching his wise features on and off, making his triumph appear intermittent. “Never lie, son. I told them the truth. God heard me. He always does.”

“It was fantastic,” says Pym. “Could you possibly let go of my arm, please?”

“No Pym was ever a liar, son.”

“I know,” says Pym, taking back his arm anyway.

“Why couldn’t you have come to me, son? ‘Father,’ you could have said—‘Rickie’ if you like; you’re old enough—‘I’m not reading law any more. I’m building up my languages because I want the gift of tongues. I want to go out into the world like my best pal, and be heard wherever men gather regardless of colour, race or creed.’ Because do you know what I’d have answered if you’d come to me and said that to your old man?”

Pym is too mad, too dead to care.

“You’d have been super,” he says.

“I’d have said: ‘Son, you’re grown up now. You take your own decisions. All your old man can do is play wicket-keeper while Magnus here bats and God does the bowling.’” He grasps Pym’s hand, nearly breaking the fingers. “Don’t shrink away from me like that, old son. I’m not angry with you. We’re pals, remember? We don’t have to tiptoe round each other looking in one another’s pockets, poking in drawers, talking to misguided women in hotel cellars. We come out with it straight. On the table. Now dry those old peepers of yours and give your old pal a hug.”

With his monogrammed silk handkerchief the great statesman magnanimously wipes away the tears of Pym’s rage and impotence.

“Want a good English steak tonight, son?”

“Not much.”

“Old Mattie’s cooking us one with onions. You can invite Judy if you like. We’ll all have a game of chemmy afterwards. She’d like that.”

Raising his head, Pym recovered his marker pen and went back to work.

Extract of Branch minutes of Oxford University Communist Party regretting departure of Comrade M. Pym, tireless worker on behalf of cause. Fraternal thanks for his tremendous efforts. Entered at 24a.

Pained letter from Bursar of Pym’s college enclosing his cheque for his last term’s battles, marked “Refer to Drawer.” Similar letters and cheques from Messrs. Blackwell, Parker (Booksellers), and Hall Brothers (Tailors), entered at 24c.

Pained letter from Pym’s bank manager regretting that following return of cheque drawn in Pym’s favour by the Magnus Dynamic & Astral Company (Bahamas) Ltd., in the sum of two hundred and fifty pounds, he has had no alternative but to refer to drawer the cheques as at 24c.

Extract from London Gazette dated March 29, 1951, appointing official receiver in yet another petition for bankruptcy of R.T.P. and eighty-three associated companies.