‘But if this is a war, then you’ve lost.’ Still Robin refused to take the gun. ‘There’s no way you win on the battlefield. Your ranks are what, a couple dozen? At most? And you’re going to take on the entire British Army?’
‘Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong,’ said Griffin. ‘The thing about violence, see, is that the Empire has a lot more to lose than we do. Violence disrupts the extractive economy. You wreak havoc on one supply line, and there’s a dip in prices across the Atlantic. Their entire system of trade is high-strung and vulnerable to shocks because they’ve made it thus, because the rapacious greed of capitalism is punishing. It’s why slave revolts succeed. They can’t fire on their own source of labour – it’d be like killing their own golden geese.
‘But if the system is so fragile, why do we so easily accept the colonial situation? Why do we think it’s inevitable? Why doesn’t Man Friday ever get himself a rifle, or slit Robinson Crusoe’s neck in the night? The problem is that we’re always living like we’ve lost. We’re all living like you. We see their guns, their silver-work, and their ships, and we think it’s already over for us. We don’t stop to consider how even the playing field actually might be. And we never consider what things would look like if we took the gun.’ Once again, Griffin offered the gun to Robin. ‘Careful, it’s front-heavy.’
This time Robin accepted it. He aimed it experimentally at the trees. The barrel did, indeed, tip downwards; he tilted his hand up against his wrist to keep it level.
‘Violence shows them how much we’re willing to give up,’ said Griffin. ‘Violence is the only language they understand, because their system of extraction is inherently violent. Violence shocks the system. And the system cannot survive the shock. You have no idea what you’re capable of, truly. You can’t imagine how the world might shift unless you pull the trigger.’ Griffin pointed at the middle birch. ‘Pull the trigger, kid.’
Robin obeyed. The bang split his ears; he nearly dropped the gun. He was sure he had not aimed true. He had not been prepared for the force of the kickback, and his arm trembled from wrist to shoulder. The birch was untouched. The bullet had flown pointlessly into the dark.
But he had to admit that Griffin was right – the rush of that moment, the explosion of force contained within its hands, the sheer power he could trigger with just a twitch of his finger – it felt good.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Oh those white people have small hearts who can only feel for themselves.
MARY PRINCE, The History of Mary Prince
Robin couldn’t fall asleep after Griffin left for Glasgow. He sat in the dark, thrumming with nervous energy. He felt a breathless vertigo, the sensation of looking out over a steep cliff the moment before he jumped. The whole world was on the verge of some cataclysmic shift, it seemed, and he could only cling on to what was around him as they all hurtled towards the breaking point.
An hour later the Old Library began to stir. Just as the clock struck seven, a symphony of birdsong echoed through the stacks. The noise was too loud to be coming from outside; rather, it sounded as if a whole flock of birds was perched invisibly among the books.
‘What is that?’ Ramy asked, rubbing his eyes. ‘Have you got a menagerie in a cupboard out the back?’
‘It’s coming from here.’ Anthony showed them a wooden grandfather clock decorated with carved songbirds around the edges. ‘A gift from one of our Swedish associates. She translated gökatta to “rising at dawn”, only in Swedish, gökatta has the particular meaning of waking up early to listen to the birds sing. There’s some music box mechanism inside, but the silver really imitates true birdsong. It’s lovely, isn’t it?’
‘Could be a little quieter,’ said Ramy.
‘Ah, ours is a prototype. It’s getting old. You can get these in London boutiques now, you know. They’re very popular, the wealthy love them.’
One by one they took their turns at washing themselves with cold water in the sink. Then they joined the girls in the Reading Room around yesterday’s clustered notes to resume their work.
Letty looked as if she hadn’t slept a wink either. She had great dark shadows under her eyes, and she hugged her arms miserably against her chest as she yawned.
‘Are you all right?’ Robin asked.
‘It feels rather as if I’m dreaming.’ She blinked around the room, her gaze unfocused. ‘Everything’s upside down. Everything’s backwards.’
Fair enough, Robin thought. Letty was holding up rather well, all considered. He didn’t know how to politely phrase what he wanted to say next, so he asked obliquely, ‘What do you think?’
‘About what, Robin?’ she asked, exasperated. ‘The murder we’re covering up, the fall of the British Empire, or the fact that we’re fugitives now for the rest of our lives?’
‘All of it, I suppose.’
‘Justice is exhausting.’ She rubbed her temples. ‘That’s what I think.’
Cathy brought out a steaming pot of black tea, and they held their mugs forth in gratitude. Vimal stumbled yawning from the bathroom towards the kitchen. A few minutes later, the wonderful aroma of a fry-up seeped up through the Reading Room. ‘Masala eggs,’ he announced, heaping scrambled eggs in a tomatoey mess onto their plates. ‘There’s toast coming.’
‘Vimal,’ Cathy groaned. ‘I could marry you.’
They wolfed down their food in fast, mechanical silence. Minutes later the table was cleared, the dirty plates returned to the kitchenette. The front door screeched open. It was Ilse, back from the city centre with that morning’s newspapers.
‘Any word on the debates?’ Anthony asked.
‘They’re still at loggerheads,’ she said. ‘So we have some time yet. The Whigs are shaky on their numbers, and they won’t hold a vote until they’re confident. But we still want those pamphlets in London today or tomorrow. Get someone on the noon train, then get them printed on Fleet Street.’
‘Do we still know anyone in Fleet Street?’ Vimal asked.
‘Yes, Theresa’s still at the Standard. They go to print on Fridays. I can get in and use the machines, I’m sure, if you have something for me by tonight.’ She pulled a crumpled newspaper out of her messenger bag and slid it across the table. ‘Here’s the latest from London, by the way. Thought you’d like to see it.’
Robin craned his neck to read the upside-down text. OXFORD PROFESSOR MURDERED IN CANTON, it read. PERPETRATORS IN CONSPIRACY WITH CHINESE LOBBYISTS.
‘Well.’ He blinked. ‘I guess that’s got most of the details right.’
Ramy flipped the paper open. ‘Oh, look. It’s got drawings of our faces.’
‘That doesn’t look like you,’ said Victoire.
‘No, they haven’t quite captured my nose,’ Ramy agreed. ‘And they’ve made Robin’s eyes very small.’
‘Have they printed this in Oxford, too?’ Anthony asked Ilse.
‘Surprisingly, no. They’ve kept it all quiet.’
‘Interesting. Well, London’s still cancelled for you lot,’ said Anthony. They all began protesting at once, but he held up a hand. ‘Don’t be mad. It’s too dangerous, we’re not risking it. You’re hiding out in the Old Library until this is over. You can’t be recognized.’
‘Neither can you,’ Ramy retorted.
‘They think I’m dead. They think you’re a murderer. Those are very different things. No one’s printing my face in the papers.’
‘But I want to be out there,’ Ramy said, unhappy. ‘I want to do something, I want to help—’
‘You can help by not getting yourself thrown in gaol. This isn’t open war, as much as dear Griffin would like to pretend it is. These matters demand finesse.’ Anthony pointed to the blackboard. ‘Focus on the agenda. Let’s pick up where we left off. I think we tabled the issue of Lord Arsenault last night. Letty?’