‘Thank you so fucking much. Do I get a badge or something? ’
‘I’m having a special commemorative medal struck tomorrow. ’
‘Did she shut the fuck up about leaking the story eventually or did you just throw her out the fucking window?’
‘That would be Option A there.’ Phil nodded. ‘Though it did take Boulen and I threatening to resign if she insisted on going ahead. I did also somewhat talk up your acquaintanceship with Sir Jamie; she might have got the impression that if anything happened you didn’t like, you’d take it up with the Dear Owner the next time you’re playing polo together.’
I shook my head, drank. ‘I bet she leaks it anyway.’
‘I don’t know.’ Phil thought. ‘Wouldn’t like to hazard a guess. But I wouldn’t be at all surprised. I’ve never met anybody who thought quite so much like a spreadsheet.’
‘Well, never mind. Fuck it. Fuck her.’
‘Hmm. Well, after you.’
‘Hey, look, Phil, can I stay at your place tonight?’
‘Jo’s away again, is she?’
‘Yeah. I hate sleeping alone on the boat.’
‘Well, no, you can’t. Sorry.’
‘Oh, come on.’
‘No.’
‘I’m vulnerable! Don’t abandon me!’
‘Stay with Craig.’
‘He’s got Nikki staying for the weekend.’
‘So?’
‘They don’t want me there.’
‘So get a hotel.’
‘I don’t want me there. I…’
‘What?’
‘Nothing. Let me stay at yours, Phil. Come on. Please.’
‘No. You’re probably safe now; they know you’ll be wary.’
‘I’m trying to be fucking wary! That’s why I’m asking you to let me stay with you.’
‘No.’
‘Please.’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘I have a friend staying.’
‘What, the compulsively tidy jacket-cleaner?’
‘What about Ed?’
‘He’s away.’
‘Oh. Forgot to tell you; those Winsome people rang again, just before we left.’
‘The Breaking News company?’
‘Yes. The thing with this Holocaust denial bloke is back on. Second or third week in December, though that’s still tentative. ’
‘Tentative. Really. Right. But don’t go changing the subject. Come on; let me stay over. You’ll never know I’m there.’
‘No. Stay in a hotel, or go back to the boat.’
‘Look, man, I’m fucking frightened, don’t you understand?’
‘You have to face it sometime.’
‘I don’t want to fucking face it! I want to fucking live!’
‘Even so.’
‘I’m thinking about asking Ed to get me a gun.’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake.’
Six. LONDON EYE
‘Nah, mate. Sorry, no.’
‘Ed! Come on!’
‘Na. Now, that’s wrong, Ken. You shouldn’t even have asked me. Let’s forget you did. Look at the view instead.’
I sighed and leaned back against the curve of glass. We were on the London Eye, riding one of the big, bulbous cars on its grand forty-minute rotation through the air. We were about two-thirds of the way round now, slowly descending. It was a bright end-of-November day and the air was clear. Most of Ed’s extended family were here, laughing and pointing and generally having a fun time. Ed had reserved the car for us. The blazered attendant and I were the only white people on board.
I’d become quite worried on the way up; it had suddenly struck me that the Eye would be a perfect terrorist target. The supporting legs stretched out behind it – looking, I thought, a lot like the marching hammers in The Wall – splaying down to the ground by the side of the old GLC building… they and their supporting wires and cables suddenly appeared terribly vulnerable. Jesus, I’d thought; a big enough bomb there, blowing the whole structure forward to fall into the river just a bridge away from Westminster… but we were on the way down now, my atypical paranoia subsiding along with the gradually flattening view. Downriver, the tall white support towers of the new works on the Hungerford Bridge seemed to echo the architecture of the Eye itself.
Ed had just come back from DJing in Japan and this was the first chance I’d had to catch up with him. It had taken a good twenty-five minutes – and the passing of the best of the view at the top of the circle – for me to get him alone.
‘Would you get me a gun if I was black?’
‘Wot?’ Ed said loudly, incredulous. A few of his family turned and looked at us. I guess we’d made it obvious this was meant to be a private word. He lowered his voice. ‘Listen to youself, man. Ken! I mean, fuckin ell.’
I shook my head, patted his forearm and sat forward, my head in my hands. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, sighing. ‘I’m sorry, Ed. That was, that was truly, truly shit. I…’
‘Look, mate, I can see you’re really shaken up wif this. Don’t blame you.’ Ed leaned down so that he was level with me and he could say even more quietly, ‘But a shooter is not going to solve your problems. It’ll just add to them. Plob’ly.’
‘It’s only for self-defence,’ I said lamely. But I’d given up. I knew I wasn’t going to convince him. Worse, I knew he was probably right.
‘Yeah, that’s what they all say, chummy.’
‘You’re not denying you know people who could get me one though, are you?’
‘Course not. But come on, Ken,’ Ed said. He gestured at the mass of people in the car. ‘Look at this lot.’ I looked at them. They were a colourful, happy, mostly female bunch, all bright dresses and laughter and flashing smiles. You’d rarely see so many smiles in the one place these days. At least not without a bottle of pills. Ed’s mother saw me looking at her and waved, her smile as wide as the view of London. I returned the wave, and could not help but smile back at her. I was well in her good books because I’d remembered to tell her as we boarded the car that her hair looked wonderful. I mean, it did look good, but it wasn’t the sort of thing I’d usually comment on because, well, I’m a man… but Ed had given me the tip years ago that, with black women in particular, complimenting them on their hair was a bigger step into their affections than anything else he could think of, certainly than anything else he could think of that was free. At the time I’d told him this was appallingly cynical and accused him of belonging to that vast and mostly black movement: Sexists Against Racism, but of course I’d used it ruthlessly ever since.
‘I’m not some fuckin Yardie nutter,’ Ed told me, nodding at his family. ‘I got all them to fink of, an a career. I’m a bleedin businessman these days, know what I mean? I don’t need the sorta people who never leave the ouse wifout a Uzi. I’ve seen what that leads to, Ken, an it’s shit. It just does the job the cops an the racists want done for them. Fuckin ell; look at the States. Amount of black-on-black is fuckin heart-breakin, man. The amount of bruvvers in jail an on def row is fuckin obscene.’
‘I know.’ I sighed. ‘I’ve mentioned this on the show.’
‘Yeah, well a lot of that is down to fuckin ordnance, mate, an unless you got no uvver choices – which you ave – an you know zactly wot you’re doin – which you don’t – you just don’t want to get involved.’
‘I’m not asking you to hand me a piece, I just want a name, a number, a place to go. What was that pal of yours that did the time? Robe? Couldn’t he-?’
‘Na. Not Robe. Loss contact, aven’t I?’
‘Just a number, Ed.’
‘I can’t do that, Ken.’
‘You mean you won’t.’
‘I can’t wif a clear conscience. You know what I mean.’
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘I know what you mean.’
‘If you feel freatened in London, take a holiday; go back to Scotland maybe.’
‘I’ve got commitments, Ed, a show to do. I’ve got a contract.’