Free What Will Survive by Joan Smith Page B

hands under control — had been so reasonable, ignoring his outbursts as though they were talking to a fractious child. Tim wished someone would shout back, but he knew it was more important to concentrate on all the things that needed to be done. The boys, Aisha’s sister May in France, her assistant Becky — Tim had put off making the calls he most dreaded, taking an almost spiteful pleasure in cancelling a meeting with a planning officer and an uncongenial client, and then calling directory inquiries a second time to ask for the number of the House of Commons. He didn’t know what Stephen Massinger could do exactly but the wretched man was an MP and he must know people at the Foreign Office.
    Hesitating in the hall after speaking to Massinger’s secretary, who sounded efficient if not exactly friendly, Tim had forced himself to dial Ricky’s mobile and felt guiltily relieved when he got voicemail; a few minutes later he tried again, unable this time to keep an edge of anxiety out of his voice.
    As for Max, who was on the other side of the world, just the thought of speaking to his younger son made Tim’s stomach churn. Max had a mobile that worked in South America, Aisha had seen to that — Tim had a sudden memory of Ricky showing Max how to access his messages, his dark head bent over the phone while his brother looked on. Max’s hair had been red at the time, almost mahogany, and cut like a bog brush in imitation of some pop star — a typically idiotic gesture, Tim thought, when Max was about to visit a country which had been run by a military junta in the not-too-distant past. Aisha smiled when he complained to her, tolerant of the boy’s eccentricities in a way Tim was not.
    â€˜I expect there are punks in Latin America,’ she said calmly. ‘He’s not going to get arrested just for a haircut.’
    â€˜Punks? Is that what it’s supposed to be? You mean he’ll be wearing tartan trousers with giant bloody safety pins when he gets off the plane in Santiago?’
    â€˜I didn’t mean literally. He’s eighteen, remember.’
    â€˜Going on eleven.’
    Recalling the conversation, one of their last before Aisha flew to Amman, made Tim feel even worse. In something close to desperation, he had grabbed the phone between calls from reporters — how on earth was the Foreign Office supposed to get through when total strangers kept leaving incredibly long messages? — and dialled the number of Aisha’s friend Iris Benjamin, whose daughter was travelling with Max.
    â€˜Iris — have you heard?’ It came out more abruptly than he intended.
    â€˜Heard what? Is it Max? Has something happened to Clara?’
    â€˜Not Max. It’s Aisha.’
    â€˜Aisha?’
    He explained, stumbling over the phrase ‘life-threatening’, which suddenly struck him as a hateful euphemism.
    â€˜You mean she —’ There was a long pause. ‘Tim. I’m just going to sit down. Wait.’
    Did she always have to be so damned collected? Just because she was a fucking shrink. Tim heard footsteps, an exclamation of pain, a door closing, and found himself yelling into the phone.
    â€˜Iris? Iris? What am I going to tell Max? How can I ring the lad in Santiago and tell him his mother’s—’
    â€˜I can hear you, Tim. Try and breathe deeply, don’t think about — are you going to fly out there?’
    â€˜To Chile?’
    â€˜Beirut.’
    â€˜I wanted to but the chap from the Foreign Office said — I think he was telling me to wait and see what—’
    At the other end of the line, Iris drew a shuddering breath. ‘Have you told Ricky?’
    â€˜I — no. Look, I’ve left messages on his mobile, it’s not my fault if—’
    Iris said incredulously: ‘You left messages?’
    â€˜Just to ring home, I’m not completely witless.’
    Iris exhaled. ‘How