EIGHT

The table of twelve planned for dinner had become a table of ten, with the advantage, according to Dangerfield, of more elbow room all round. He had devised a seating plan based on the alphabetical order of the Clean Sheeters' surnames, from which he had exempted only himself. He was seated at the head of the table, with Dr Starkie and Erica Rawson to his left and right. In Askew's absence, Harry found himself sitting next to Erica, with Fripp on his other side and Wiseman opposite. Judd, at the far end of the table, looked disappointed by his distance from Erica and shot Harry an envious glance as they sat down.

It was the same room where they had eaten their plain and not always wholesome meals during Operation Clean Sheet, but barely recognizable as such. Silver service, fine napery and haute cuisine heightened the contrast. 'Danger's doing us proud,' Harry murmured to Fripp. But the response hardly came freighted with gratitude. 'I wish I'd gone into oil instead of bookkeeping. My God, I do.'

It was no hardship for Harry to concentrate his conversational attentions on Erica Rawson. To his surprise, she spoke to him more than anyone. Dangerfield and Starkie became immersed in a discussion of the effects of the oil boom on Aberdeen, while Tancred and Wiseman began trading points in delicately barbed arguments ranging from politics to poetry.

'It's a pity only eight of you made it in the end,' Erica said, as she toyed with her starter. 'Eight out of fifteen isn't very representative.'

'Representative?' Harry responded. 'Are you studying us?'

'In a sense, yes.' She turned to smile at him. 'I hope you're not shocked.'

'Depends why, I suppose.'

'Oh, to see whether Professor McIntyre's experiment really was as futile as his colleagues maintained. Ever since Dr Starkie told me about it, it's interested me. This reunion gave me a chance to meet some of the people I've only previously known by name.'

'What exactly do you do at the University, Erica?'

'Teaching and research. In the Psychology Department. My specialism's the effect of extreme environments on mental states, short- and long-term. Aberdeen's a good base for it, what with the offshore oil and gas industries and the fishing fleet.'

Harry suspected the rig workers and fishermen would be duly grateful for her ministrations. But all he said was, 'There was nothing extreme about the environment here, I can tell you.'

'No. But it was unusual, wasn't it? Very unusual, I'd say.' She laughed. 'That counts as extreme for my purposes.'

'I'm afraid we didn't learn much, despite Professor Mac's best endeavours.'

'Are you sure?'

'I think so. Well, I'm sure I didn't.'

'What about Barry Chipchase? Johnny tells me you and he stayed friends over the years. Do you mind me calling you Harry, by the way? I can't get the hang of these nicknames you've all been throwing around.'

'Harry's fine.'

'Great. So, Harry, do you think your friend Barry Chipchase got much out of his time here?'

'Same as me, I'd say.'

'Zilch?'

'More or less.'

'You see, I don't buy that. I've checked the facts as best I can. A surprisingly large proportion of you have gone on to achieve success in your own field. You may not have learned much that was tangible or examinable, but what you may have acquired… is a certain way of thinking.'

'Kind of you to say so, Erica, but—'

'Did life seem clearer after you left here? More manageable? Did you feel, however slightly, different?'

Harry thought for a moment, but the instinctive reply did not change. He felt obliged, though, to dress it up a little. 'I knew a few more Shakespearean quotes. And I thought I understood relativity. That was about it. Mind you, I've forgotten most of the quotes since. And I've had second thoughts about understanding relativity.'

Erica laughed. 'I get the feeling you're underselling yourself, Harry.'

'Impossible.'

She laughed again. 'Come on. Johnny said you were over from Canada, right?'

'Right.'

'Whereabouts?'

'Vancouver.'

'What took you there?'

'Er, my wife… works at the University of British Columbia.'

'Really? So she's an academic — like me?'

'Well, yes.'

'Small world, hey? But hold on. Barnett. She's not Donna Trangam-Barnett, is she?'

Harry could not have looked more surprised than he felt. 'Yes. How did—'

'I read her piece on disconnection syndromes in one of the neuroscience journals a few months back. Impressive stuff. You're married to her?'

Harry shrugged. 'I am.'

'Amazing. And it rather proves my point, doesn't it?'

'Does it?'

'Well, we've Johnny here, the affluent oilman. Plus a merchant banker and an art dealer across the table. Then there's you, husband of an eminent neuroscientist. Given the position you were all in before coming here, isn't that quite something?'

'I don't—'

'And mightn't it be partly because of what you learned while you were here?'

'Maybe. Maybe not.' Harry was confused. There was something about Erica's line of reasoning he did not trust. He was not sure, in fact, that he trusted her at all. He had the disquieting impression that she knew more about him than she logically should. 'I got lucky. Several of us did. But several of us didn't. That's life.'

'Exactly,' Wiseman cut in. Harry looked up, unaware till then that anyone had been listening to their conversation. Clearly Wiseman had for one, though for how long was hard to guess. His hooded gaze was fixed on Erica. 'Harry's quite right, my dear.' He had dropped Harry's nickname, as if some contexts were too important for its use. 'I'm afraid the idea that the three months we spent here fifty years ago had a significant effect — or any effect at all — on our lives is, well, I won't say absurd, but…'

'Wide of the mark?' suggested Erica, with a self-deprecating smile.

Wiseman returned the smile. 'I'm afraid so. Ask any of us. It really didn't amount to anything.'

'That you're aware of.'

'Well, obviously.' Wiseman sighed and sat back in his chair. He sipped some wine. 'That goes without saying.'

'Not planning to psychoanalyse us this weekend, are you, Erica?' Harry asked, seeking to lighten the mood.

'Absolutely not.' She turned to look at him. 'Unless you want me to.'

—«»—«»—«»—

Their conversation drifted onto other, blander topics as the meal progressed. Mellowing with each glass of wine, Wiseman reeled off a few entertaining anecdotes about the art world. Dangerfield chipped in with some less rarefied recollections of the oil business. Starkie said little, as had always been his wont, but watched Erica closely throughout. Harry tried not to wonder why. His own attempts to draw Erica out on the subject of her career were deftly deflected and he was too fuddled by alcohol and fatigue to sustain them. He kept reminding himself to drink plenty of water, as Donna was forever encouraging him to do, but somehow found himself picking up the wineglass more often than not. The evening took a woozy turn. Dangerfield made an impromptu speech. There was a lot of laughter, then an adjournment to the bar, where Harry was persuaded to sample one of the hotel's malts. He was going to regret drinking it, he knew. Dawn was going to be a painful experience. But it tasted very, very good.

—«»—«»—«»—

Halfway through his second whisky, Harry became aware of Dangerfield waving to him through the doorway from the corridor leading to reception. He managed a quizzical gesture of raised eyebrows and hands, but Dangerfield went on waving, if anything more frantically. Harry had thought he was on the other side of the bar, puffing at a cigar, and so he had been at one point. But no longer. There was no sign of Lloyd either, who had surely been with him. Harry registered this much during his unsteady progress across the room.

'What's up, Danger?' he asked on reaching the corridor.

'Jabber and I are in the conference room,' Dangerfield replied in a whisper. 'With the police.'

'The… what?'

'The police. They want to talk to you.'

'What about?'

'Not what. Who. Peter Askew. He's dead.'