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A rising tide was said to lift all boats. If this was indeed the case, thought Peter, then perhaps he was aboard another sort of craft entirely. For while Smiley's fortunes rose ever higher, his ascent only threw Peter's disappointments into sharper relief.
At the helm of the Circus, Smiley had come to resemble a winner. It wasn't that his gait had grown swifter or his waistline slimmer. But as he peered down from the head of the table, his gaze now reflected an element of vindicated satisfaction, which was magnified by his eyeglasses into smugness. Through unofficial channels, Peter had even heard that Lady Ann's Daimler had been seen in Bywater Street, Smiley's wife home for Christmas.
The universe had offered Peter no such present, and little in the way of reflected glory. Smiley counseled patience: "You shall get your due, Guillam. The wheels turn slowly, but turn they shall." In the meantime, Peter needs must be content with the scraps that were brushed off the top table and flung in his direction: at least they were larger and meatier than what Brixton had received under Alleline's charge.
But if Peter was not yet a permanent resident of the fifth floor at Cambridge Circus, at least he was able to look after himself. Richard, on the other hand, had not an ounce of natural guile in him. He smiled at strangers. He had been pickpocketed twice. He ambled about the city without the compulsion to look over his shoulder, as though he hadn't spent half his life in London. So Peter reckoned there would be no harm in checking up on him just once. Richard would never even feel his eyes on him.
Regular in his habits, Richard always left the school by the same route, an hour after dismissing his pupils. He had not altered his routine in the intervening months since Peter had seen him last. Peter fell in behind him and assessed him from the back: his muffler was new, and Peter wondered where he'd got it. Otherwise, he appeared much the same.
But Richard took an unexpected turn, ducking into the unmarked bar where he had met Peter two years prior. As Richard pulled the door gently shut behind him, Peter winced; he sank down under a great crashing feeling, familiar from that afternoon in North Africa when he learned that his network had been blown.
When Richard emerged, though, he was alone. He thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his overcoat and, coughing from the wind, strode away with his head bent.
A stop for bread, a stop for cigarettes, and Richard climbed the steps of a shabby brick building that faced a grocer. He pressed his key into the lock, and Peter, bowing to the inevitable, cleared his throat and stepped up behind him.
Peter knew what was coming the instant Richard tightened his grip on the doorknob. While Richard's reflexes might not have been bad for a schoolteacher, he was no match for a spy.
Peter screwed his eyes shut. A fist connected with the base of his nose. He staggered backward a step, mastering the impulse to lunge at anything that flew towards him. His eyes began to water from the shock of it and the cold.
"But it's me," he said, sounding rather more plaintive than intended.
"Bastard," cried Richard, shaking out his hand. "What do you mean by creeping up like a bloody cat?"
"I reckon you weren't expecting me. Tell the truth, I've been following you since you left the school."
"Not expecting you? I might have killed you," he said, breathing hard.
"It's all right," said Peter.
"It's not. Do you realize what I might have imagined? That somebody'd come to bash in my skull? I might have killed you. You're damned lucky I knew it was you who were following me." Richard's voice was gruff. There was no give in it. He turned the key and stepped inside without glancing behind him.
The door creaked a bit on its hinge and came to rest, still ajar.
"How long did you know I was watching you?" asked Peter through the opening, with a measure of wounded professional pride.
There was no answer. Drawing upon memories of a time when he would not have needed an invitation, he stepped inside unasked.
The flat was spare and devoid of his personality. The furniture might very well be hired. In no way did it resemble a home, thought Peter with a twinge.
The entryway opened onto the kitchen, where Richard stood with his arms crossed and his back against the cabinets. "All right, I didn't know it was you," he admitted. "I imagined I was about to lose my life to highwaymen."
Peter looked around the living room. A low table in sat front of the sofa, with half-marked essays laid across its glass surface. "Since you've barged in, you may as well sit down," said Richard. "If you want a cold compress, you can rummage through the freezer."
"It's not as bad as that," said Peter. He sat gingerly on the sofa.
"Suit yourself, then." Richard turned his back and set about pouring himself a brandy, albeit with more slamming of drawers than seemed strictly necessary.
The noises from the kitchen ceased. Richard was suddenly near. "I changed my mind," he said. "I don't want it on my conscience."
Something frozen pressed up against Peter's face: three cubes of ice wrapped in a tea towel. The pressure was gentle, but the cold was jarring nonetheless. Richard sat atop the table, facing Peter. Their legs nearly touched. In Richard's other hand was the brandy, which he set on top of the essays.
Peter reached up and clasped his hand over Richard's where it held the base of the towel in a twist.
"I am trying to decide," said Peter slowly, "how to explain in a way that will make you forgive me."
Richard pulled his hand away. "Don't bother. Did he tire of you, whoever he was? I'm sure he was right to chuck you out--you're no prize."
"There's been no one else," Peter said, and swallowed. "For me it is always and only you."
Like an owl Richard stared into his eyes. He sat there on the table with both hands in his lap, looking wary and drawn into himself.
"Liar," he said softly, but his heart wasn't in it.
Peter shook his head. "In one respect only. You see, I don't work at a bank." He shut his eyes for a moment. "Could you believe me if I told you that the fate of England lay in the balance? That nothing lesser could have induced me to part with you?"
Richard grunted and looked away. "I suppose the whole thing is a game to you. Aren't you a bastard."
"Mostly," said Peter, "what I am is a fool."
"Don't sell yourself short. You're fully capable of being both at once." He tipped up the brandy glass and drained it. "I don't regret hitting you."
"Nor should you," said Peter. He licked gently at the split in his lip. "Never apologize for taking a swing at someone who deserves it."
Peter stood by that sentiment--he was not in charge of scalphunters for nothing. Under ideal circumstances, violence had a way of distilling and expressing one's position all at once.
He was aware of his heart, the measured beat of it, the way it pushed his blood through with a regular pulse of pain.
Peter dropped the tea towel and leaned--or, it could be said, fell--forward. His left hand, which had gone slightly numb from the compress, came to rest behind Richard's head and was warmed by it.
Patience was one thing, and love was another. A pang radiated through Peter's face as his swollen lip collided with Richard's mouth. The brandy on his tongue tasted medicinal. Peter caught his eye and pressed deeper into the ache.