Jen starts the car.
The Mechanic puts the bag in the boot. He gets in. Shakes his head.
They drive back to Shrewsbury. They park outside the terrace –
The Escort isn’t here.
They go inside. No Schaub. No Leslie. The Mechanic goes upstairs –
The Tinkerbell is still sat on the bed. Headphones in his hand. He looks up –
‘What the fuck happened in there?’ he asks the Mechanic.
‘What do you mean?’
‘The phone’s dead.’
‘What?’
‘I can’t hear anything —’
The Mechanic goes straight back down the stairs.
Jen’s just put the kettle on. She says, ‘What is it?’
‘Come on,’ the Mechanic tells her. ‘Quick!’
They go back outside to the car. They drive back to Sutton Road –
No Escort here either.
They park at the end of the road –
‘Wait here,’ the Mechanic tells Jen.
‘You’re never going back in there?’ she says. ‘She could come —’
The Mechanic gets out. Closes the door. He walks along the street. Comes to the house –
The curtains are drawn. Lights on inside –
Fuck.
He goes up the drive. Round the back of the house. The door wide open –
Fuck.
He leans inside. Shouts out, ‘Hello? Anybody home?’
There’s no answer.
He steps inside the house. Dirty washing scattered all over the kitchen floor. Two handbags emptied on to the table. The telephone ripped from the wall.
He goes into the living room then the study –
No one.
He goes upstairs. One of the railings in the banister is missing.
He goes into the front bedroom –
No one.
Into the bathroom –
No one.
The back bedroom –
Fuck –
Wet towels on the floor. The bed stripped –
Blood and semen on the mattress.
The Jew hasn’t been to sleep for days. He’s too excited. Too busy –
He’s just had his tour of the thirteenth floor of New Scotland Yard –
The National Reporting Centre.
Neil Fontaine opens the back door for the Jew. The Jew gets in.
‘Downing Street, if you would please, Neil.’
‘Certainly, sir.’
The Jew tells Neil of the twenty-four-hour operations and the banks of telephones, the walls of maps and the coloured pins –
‘They keep them in biscuit tins,’ he laughs. ‘Would you believe it? Biscuit tins.’
Neil Fontaine stops for a red light. He glances at his watch then the rearview –
The Jew is wearing a dark blue pinstripe suit, a pale blue shirt and a white silk tie. The Jew has another report to make; another speech to give –
‘There will be no ballot. That much is clear,’ the Jew is saying aloud in the back. ‘The strategy of the committee must be based upon this reality. The Employment Acts have to be kept in reserve. No resort to ballot, no resort to court. In the very unlikely event of a national ballot and an even unlikelier vote for a strike then, and only then, should the Employment Acts be used to protect those areas that will inevitably defy the ballot and continue to work —’
The Jew is practising his speech again. The Jew is out to turn the screw –
He talks to himself in the back of the Mercedes. He talks about Social Security. Talks about the non-payment of benefits. About late payments. He talks about the Electricity and Gas boards. Talks about demanding weekly payments. About cutting the strikers off. He talks about the banks and the building societies. Talks about mortgages –
About repossession –
The Jew wants to turn the screw. To turn it again and again –
Week by week, little by little, day by day, piece by piece –
‘To roll back the frontiers of Socialism for ever, Neil!’
Neil Fontaine stops at the checkpoint at the end of Downing Street.
The Jew puts on a pair of aviator sunglasses and his large-brimmed panama hat. He takes a deep breath. He says, ‘Wish me luck, Neil.’
‘Good luck, sir.’
Neil Fontaine watches the Jew disappear into Number 10, Downing Street.
Neil Fontaine looks at his watch again. He starts the Mercedes –
He has his own screws to turn. Different screws.
Midnight Wednesday into Thursday. Dark side of the moon. They pull up outside Vince’s bungalow. No lights on –
‘Wait here,’ the Mechanic tells Jen.
He gets out. He goes up the drive. Rings his bell. Bangs on his door.
‘Who is it?’ shouts Vince from inside. ‘What do you want?’
‘It’s me,’ the Mechanic says. ‘I want a word.’
Keys turn. Chains fall. Vince Taylor opens the door —
The Mechanic shines the torch full in his face. Vince’s hand goes up –
Vince knows.
‘Dave,’ he says. ‘Put that away.’
‘Vince,’ shouts his wife down the hall. ‘What the bloody hell’s going on?’
‘Nothing, love,’ he says. ‘Go back to sleep.’
The Mechanic lowers the torch.
Vince tightens the belt on his dressing-gown. He looks down the drive. He says, ‘Who you got in the car with you?’
‘Jen.’
‘Fucking hell,’ says Vince.
The Mechanic nods. He says, ‘Schaub? Leslie?’
‘Just Leslie,’ says Vince.
‘Schaub?’
‘Fuck knows.’
‘So where’s Leslie?’
‘He’s afraid, Dave.’
‘We’re all afraid, Vince,’ the Mechanic tells him. ‘Now where is he?’
‘Dave —’
The Mechanic shakes his head. He asks him again, ‘Where is he?’
‘They call it Little America,’ says Vince. ‘But, Dave —’
‘Where is it, Vince?’
‘Atcham on the way to Telford. It’s a disused airfield.’
‘What’s he doing there?’
‘He’s hiding. What you think he’s doing there?’
The Mechanic looks at his watch. He says, ‘Put some clothes on, Vince.’
Vince shakes his head. Vince says, ‘Dave —’
The Mechanic grabs Vince Taylor by his dressing-gown. He says again, ‘Put some fucking clothes on.’
Vince goes to get dressed. Vince comes back out. Vince sits in the front seat –
And off they set.
Thirty minutes later, Vince points to the left –