The Spanish Game by Charles Cumming Page A

now hung in the sitting room of his London flat. ‘I thought that I might give you something in return.’
    ‘Oh yeah?’
    Keen was quickly into the briefcase, leaning down beside his chair. The box was covered in a thin mock-velvet cover and he handed it to Mark.
    ‘Are we getting married?’
    ‘Just open it. Have a look.’
    ‘What is this?’
    Keen was improvising.
    ‘Call it a present. Of a family nature. More accurately described as an heirloom.’
    Inside, Mark found the gold-banded signet ring, set with an engraved bloodstone.
    ‘This is for me?’
    ‘I’ve wanted you to have it for some time. It was your grandfather’s.’
    Mark was oblivious to any deception. Prising the ring from its box he began turning it in his fingers. A small smudge of grease formed on the gold and he wiped it away with his napkin.
    ‘This is really kind of you,’ he said, finding that he was actually blushing. ‘You sure about this, Dad?’
    ‘Of course I’m sure. Why don’t you put it on?’ Mark looked briefly around the restaurant, as if conscious of being watched. Then he placed the ring on the fourth finger of his left hand and held it up for inspection.
    ‘That’s where it’s supposed to go, right? The “pinky”? Is that what it’s called?’
    ‘I believe so.’ Keen cleared his throat. ‘I don’t suppose they’re really the fashion these days among the nightclub classes, but you can always give it a go.’
    ‘I’m really touched. Thankyou.’
    And now he played the ace.
    ‘I wonder how Ben would feel if I were to do the same for him.’
    From the direction of the kitchen there was the sound of a plate smashing on stone. Silence briefly engulfed the restaurant before conversations resumed.
    ‘I’m not following you.’ Mark looked slightly worried.
    ‘There are two signet rings in the family,’ Keen explained. ‘One belonged to your grandfather, the other to his brother. As you may know, Bobby died without producing any children. I’ve always thought his ring should be passed on…’
    ‘So you thought you’d wait twenty-five years and get me to do it for you?’
    Keen acknowledged the slight with just a tilt of his head. He was determined that the plan should succeed.
    ‘Point taken,’ he said. ‘But would you be prepared to have a word with your brother, to perhaps sound him out?’
    Mark ground his chair a foot backfrom the table.
    ‘Haven’t we just had this discussion?’
    ‘It’s just that I feel we’ve never really given Benjamin a chance to come forward, to give his side of the story.’
    ‘To come forward ?’
    Keen pushed his glass to one side, as if making a clear channel through which any request could not realistically be turned down.
    ‘I apologize,’ he said. ‘I’m obviously not making myself clear. Call it a symptom of my frustration. You have always presented Ben’s reluctance to talkto me as a fait accompli . The idea that he might change his mind has simply never been tabled. Well, I propose that we should give it a shot, askhim straight out what exactly it is that he’s afraid of.’
    ‘Brother’s not afraid of anything. I’ve told you that…’
    ‘Then let’s at least clear the air. I would rather have the opportunity of being castigated face-to-face than endure this rather childish stand-off.’
    ‘Well, you see, that’s just the problem. Ben doesn’t really care what you think.’
    Mark’s candour had the effect of silencing his father. Like a man who has suffered a losing hand at poker, he fell back in his chair, as if conscious of the hopelessness of his position. It was the first time that Mark had ever observed any trace of defeat in his father’s face. And it worked.
    ‘Look, I’ll see what I can do,’ he said.
    ‘Would you really?’ Keen’s eyes lit up with hope. ‘I thinkit would be in everyone’s best interests. Imagine if we could all just get along, make a fresh start. You, me, Benjamin, Alice. I’d like to get to know her,