She finished her drink—her fourth, maybe, but counting was for babies—and left the bar to find herself not far from Shoreditch High. Mentally, she plotted her journey home: tube-wise she’d be better off starting from Slough House. And if she went that way she could pop into her office and collect her iron, before one of her colleagues walked off with it.
Darkness had settled on London’s streets, and probably elsewhere too, but it had a particular flavour here; the shadows congregating overhead, their whispered plotting barely audible. Shirley headed back the way she’d come: up onto the Barbican walkways. Lights were on in the towers, evidence of lives lived elsewhere. She wondered what it was like, being one of the people you passed at a distance; glimpsed once, then seen no more. Crossing the footbridge, she saw that Slough House’s lights were mostly off, though Roddy Ho was still in his room, doubtless pursuing some online fancy. She’d nip in, collect her iron. Catherine would be gone, and there’d be no reprise of the afternoon’s lecture.
The stairs were a little unsteady, but that was Slough House for you. Always shifting underfoot.
In her room, she grabbed her iron; on the way out, she paused on the landing, hearing voices from Ho’s office.
Did he have company?
He didn’t, but only in the technical sense that there was nobody in the room with him. Taking the larger perspective, Roddy was surrounded by admirers, though that was barely worth the footnote: if the Rodster wanted crowds, crowds happened. Charisma was the word. He should link to an online dictionary, email the definition to Mr. Lightning. Not that he believed what Wicinski had said about a twenty-second victory margin, but it was as well to keep a rival in his place. Mr. Lightning might have them gasping in awe on the hub, exclaiming fork! and sheet! every time he flexed his digits, but if he thought he was a match for the Rodinator, he had brutal lessons coming. As for Wicinski, a lesser man might be tempted to seek revenge and cancel his direct debits, but the more enlightened soul would rise above the insult, and pass by on the other side.
Because, Roderick Ho reminded himself, there comes a time when you accept your maturity. Graduate from fresh-faced acolyte to wise mentor, at whose feet new generations gather, eager to collect the pearls that drop from your lips. The puppy becomes the full-grown hound; the cub becomes the lion. Which, in a nutshell, was why he was in a Zoom room now, with women digitally queued before him, each of them seeking the aid, the salvation, only Roddy could bestow.
Help me, Hobi-Wan Kenobi. You’re my only hope.
How many times had he heard that?
(Six.)
But it had to be said, this latest attempt lacked what you might call feeling. Didn’t do justice to herself or, especially, him.
Roddy allowed the slightest of frowns, the merest flicker of disappointment, to cross his worldly features.
“Let’s try that again.”
“Why, what was wrong with it?”
What was wrong with it was, he’d just told her to try it again. Had this woman never been mentored before?
He said, “It lacked . . . gravitas.”
“Yeah, well, it’s spelt wrong. It should be Obi-Wan. You’ve got Hobi-Wan.”
Her fellow hopefuls watched mutely from their little windows, one or two shaking their heads, as well they might. It was round one of the audition process—early days—but you had to live the part, and if you were Princess Leia, you didn’t answer back to Hobi-Wan.
But then, sad truth, Roddy wasn’t working with the cream of the crop. Of the eight would-be Princess Leias, six were overweight and this one downright bolshy, and even if any were capable of delivering their key line with the sincerity he was looking for, the gold-bikini round was going to see most of them hitting light-speed on their way out. They’d be in a galaxy far, far away before you could say I have a bad feeling about this.
He said, “If you’re having difficulty with the script—”
“Didn’t say I was having difficulty. I said it’s got the wrong words.”
Roddy’s right hand gripped the hilt of his light sabre. This couldn’t be seen by anyone, but it was important to have the props if you were going to project the image. Subtle, but key. Not that it was his actual light sabre, which was in a cupboard at home, in the box he’d never taken it out of, but a stand-in he’d improvised using a length of strip lighting, an adaptor cable, and duct tape for a handle. He’d plugged it in, and it actually hummed when he wielded it, but you had to be careful not to turn it on for long, on account of duct tape peeling off when it got hot. All of which was information the bolshy Princess Leia might usefully have been given—she might get the message that you gave it a hundred per cent or you took an early bath—but Roddy just sighed. Sometimes the points you wanted to make screamed like an X-Wing over the heads of the ill-informed. More in sorrow than in wrath he terminated her part in the discussion, then gazed at the remaining faces. “I’ll say it again,” he said. “South Bank CosPlay. One of the biggest gatherings of the Jedi community on this or any other planet. And only one of you can go as Princess Leia.”
“Well, that’s not true,” one of the women said. “We can all go as Princess Leia if we want.”
Roddy terminated her too. “Only one of you can go as Princess Leia with me,” he told the others.
“Jesus screaming fuck!” said Shirley.
“Force-be-with-you-I’ll-be-in-touch,” said Roddy, killing his screens.
“I mean, shit!”
“Get out of my office!”
“Door was open.”
“No, it wasn’t!”
“It clearly was. Are you on Zoom? Is that a cape?” She came further into the room, whose door had indeed been open, once she’d very quietly given it a push. “Are you . . . are you dressing up?”
Roddy said, “It’s not a cape.”
It was in fact a cagoule draped over his shoulders, and he let it fall to the floor as he stood. If this was an attempt to reassert his dignity, it failed.
“Is that a light sabre?”
“No.”
“Can I have a go?”
“No. What are you doing here?”
“Collecting my iron.” She held it up in evidence. “But fuck me, this is brilliant. The others are literally going to shit themselves. I mean, literally. There is going to be shit, everywhere.”
“You tell them and I’ll fuck you up.”
“Totally worth it. Who were those women? They were women, right?”
“Friends.”
“You haven’t got any friends.”
“Neither have you.”
“Dickhead.”
“Beast.”
“Asshat.”
“Spreader.”
“. . . Spreader? What does that even mean?”
Roddy said, “You know, like, spreader. Like, you spread the virus.”
“Nobody says that.”
“Some people do.”
They glared at each other; Shirley brandishing her iron, Roddy with one hand on the hilt of his light sabre.
If you strike me down now, I will become more powerful than you can possibly imagine.
Shirley said, “So what was that, anyway, some kind of fancy dress booty call?”
“None of your business.”
“Seriously, this is everyone’s business by first thing tomorrow. You might as well save us the bother and fill in the blanks.”
“I don’t fire blanks,” Roddy said. With his free hand he waved at his laptop, nestled amidst the ranked screens. “Say hello to my leetle fren’.”
“You don’t scare me.”
“Someone sounded their horn at me in a crosswalk once. I came right back here and sold their house.”