A Delicate Truth A Novel

Jamming the note to the back of the document, he avidly scanned the top page:
     
    OPERATION WILDLIFE – AFTERMATH AND RECOMMENDATIONS
     
    By now his heart was racing so fast, his breathing so uneven, he wondered whether, after all, he was about to die. Perhaps Emily was wondering too, because she had dropped on her knees beside him.
    ‘You opened the door. Then what?’ he stammered out, frantically leafing through the pages.
    ‘I opened the door’ – gently now, to humour him – ‘he stood there. He seemed surprised to see me and asked if you were in. He said he was a former colleague and friend of yours, and he had this parcel for you.’
    ‘And you said?’
    ‘I said yes, you were in. But you were unwell, and I was your doctor attending you. And I didn’t think you should be disturbed, and could I help?’
    ‘And he said? – go on!’
    ‘He asked what you were suffering from. I said I was sorry, I wasn’t allowed to tell him that without your permission but you were as comfortable as could be expected pending further examination. And I was about to call an ambulance, which I am. Are you hearing me, Toby?’
    He was hearing her, but he was also churning his way through the photocopied pages.
    ‘ Then what?’
    ‘He seemed a bit thrown, started to say something, looked at me again – a bit beadily, I thought – and then he said might he know my name?’
    ‘Give me his words. His actual words.’
    ‘ Jesus , Toby.’ But she gave them anyway: ‘“Would I be impertinent if I were to ask you your name?” How’s that?’
    ‘And you told him your name. You said Probyn?’
    ‘Doctor Probyn. What do you expect me to say?’ – catching Toby’s stare. ‘Doctors are open , Toby. Real doctors give their names. Their real names.’
    ‘How did he take it?’
    ‘“Then kindly tell him that I admire his taste in medical advisors,” which I thought was a bit fresh of him. Then he handed me the package. For you.’
    ‘ Me? How did he describe me?’
    ‘“For Toby !” How the fuck d’you think he described you?’
    Fumbling for the note that he had shoved to the back of the photocopied pages, he read the rest of its message:
… you will not be surprised to learn that I have decided that a corporate life does not, after all, agree with me, and I have accordingly awarded myself a lengthy posting to distant parts.
Yours as ever,
Giles Oakley.
PS. I enclose a memory stick containing the same material. Perhaps you will add it to the one I suspect you already have. G.O.
PPS. May I also suggest that whatever you propose to do, it is done swiftly since there is every sign that others may act before you? G.O.
PPPS. I shall refrain from our cherished diplomatic custom of renewing my assurances of the highest esteem, since I know they would fall on deaf ears. G.O.
    And in a transparent plastic capsule pasted to the top of the page, sure enough: a memory stick neatly marked SAME DOCUMENT .
     
    *
     
    He was standing at the kitchen window, uncertain how he had got there, craning his neck to look down into the street. Emily stood at his side, one hand to his arm to hold him steady. But of Giles Oakley, the diplomat who does everything by halves and had finally gone the whole hog, there was no sign. But what was the Kwik-Fit van doing, parked just thirty yards away on theopposite side of the street? And why did it take three burly men to change the front wheel of a Peugeot car?
    ‘Emily, please. Do something for me.’
    ‘After I’ve taken you to hospital.’
    ‘Rummage in the bottom drawer of that chest over there, and find the memory stick of my graduation party at Bristol University. Please.’
    While she rummaged, he punted himself along the wall until he came to his desk. With his undamaged hand he switched on the computer and nothing happened. He checked the cable, the mains switch, tried to reboot. Still nothing.
    Meanwhile, Emily’s rummaging was rewarded. She had found the memory stick, and was holding it aloft.
    ‘I’ve got to go out,’ he said, ungraciously seizing it from her.
    His heart was racing again. He felt nauseous, but clear-headed and precise.
    ‘Listen to me, please. There’s a shop called Mimi’s in the Caledonian Road. Opposite a tattoo parlour called Divine Canvas and an Ethiopian restaurant.’ Why was everything so clear to him? Was he dying? From the way she was staring at him, he might as well be.
    ‘What if there is?’ she asked him. But his eyes had gone back to