Chapter 8
London, 8 August 2011
‘We’re dealing with the riots. Hundreds of arrests. Are you hearing me? Your case will have to wait.’
‘It waited this long. What does it matter?’
‘Don’t disappear on me. Stay in London and I’ll be in touch. This is murder we’re talking about, however long ago. We’re taking this very seriously.’
‘I won’t disappear. I’m here now. Queen Isabella won’t let me go.’
‘Good. You catch up with your friends and I’ll call you when all this is under control.’
‘What did he say?’ asks Isabella.
‘He said it can wait.’
I call Ben. I’d asked him to stay at my flat and look after Mahler for me. I didn’t want to bring Mahler to London. I wanted him to be safe, and he would be, at home with Ben.
‘How are you?’ I said. ‘How’s Mahler?’
‘We’re all good, old lady. Everything’s fine. How’s London?’
‘On fire.’
‘Ye better watch yersel. Keep safe.’
‘I am safe.’
‘Where ye staying?’
‘Some cheap hotel. It’s far away from the riots, so don’t you worry. How’s Mahler and Sam?’
‘I cannae move right now, can I? Mahler is stretched out on my legs. Sam is snoring by the fire.’
‘That’s good, Ben. I’m glad Mahler has you.’
‘Did ye see that Detective yet?’
‘Not yet. He’s busy with the riots.’
‘He harasses ye and now he doesnae even want to speak to ye?’
‘I can wait. I hope you’ll be alright looking after Mahler a bit longer.’
‘Aye, he’s nae bother. Though, I dinnae ken why ye didnae take him with ye.’
‘I wanted him to be safe.’
‘He’s safe as can be, dinnae worry.’
‘Good. What have you been up to, Ben? Are you still smelling books?’
‘I don’t do that anymore. I’ve gone back to reading – I’ve reached K.’
‘What K book are you on?’
‘The Palace of Dreams by Kadare. It’s about some totalitarian government that monitors people’s dreams. Just like living under a Tory surveillance state, eh?’
‘It sounds good.’
‘It is. I’ve had to read a lot of rubbish first, though.’
‘Life’s too short for bad books – why don’t you skip them?’
‘Then I wouldnae be reading from A to Z. It wouldnae be right.’
‘I miss you, Ben,’ I say.
‘Are ye laughing at me, old lady?’
‘Maybe. But I like your dedication.’
Ben doesn’t reply.
‘Ben? You still there?’
‘Aye, sorry. I better go – Mahler’s woken up and wants his walk. Not sure I can get Sam moving, though.’
‘Give Mahler a hug for me.’
‘Aye. And take care of yersel, mind. Dinnae go out in the streets.’
‘I’m fine, Ben. You don’t need to worry about me.’
CCTV, cameras, mobiles. Everything is recorded. News channel helicopters circle. Rioters and looters film each other.
I walk the streets and see the ghosts of the buildings that haunt this city. We erase the past and the present, but it all stays, hunkered down.
A car is crumpled beneath flames. A rioter stalks past, beer in one hand, a stick in the other, their face covered by a scarf, hood pulled over their head. Joining others outside a supermarket, they smash a window. I watch the glass cave in. They hop through the window and emerge with anything they can carry. In and out they go. Some stock up trolleys and wheel them off.
I once said to Ben, what would you do if these buildings disappeared? If they went up in flames? How would you feel? I’d dance in the flames, he said. I’d dance. So I close my eyes and I dance. ‘Stay safe, old lady,’ he said to me, but London burns and I sway, feeling the heat. When I open my eyes, I see the looters have joined my dance. Some dare each other, dancing close to the flames. I weave my way through them and walk away from the fire, my feet crunching on smashed glass.
Time has collapsed, and we are there and here. London is burning, the headlines scrolling in a flurried panic across the screen. BREAKING NEWS. A capitalist warzone of burning cars and stolen flat screen TVs.
The pet massacre has been wiped off the page of every newspaper. What does the past matter when London is in flames now?
London, April 1941
‘It was an accident,’ they said, ‘we’re sure it was an accident.’ Sure, I thought, sure, we all know it wasn’t any kind of accident. Ma was dead, drowned herself in the Thames. Ma was dead and I was gone. I didn’t go with the policeman. I slipped through that door, jumped on my scooter and I was off. They weren’t taking me to some orphanage. They weren’t putting me on a train to the sea and the attic and the unholy bastards. I was my own person now and I had a family to look after. I waited, watching until they’d gone and I crept back and I gathered my family and blankets and food and off we went on the Underground to Kensal Green and our new home in the crypt.
‘It’s only temporary,’ I said to them. ‘It’s only until the heat is off.’
Captain Flint sat on my shoulder. Groo prowled round the crypt, sniffing and peeing and scratching.
‘Get!’ I yelled, ‘Don’t go stinking up this crypt. Do your peeing outside.’
‘Well, this is a fine situation.’
Queen Isabella, Amelia and Scholler were standing at the entrance, looking down on us all.
‘Yes,’ said Amelia, ‘a fine situation.’
‘Don’t you two start. I’m doing the best I can.’
‘It’s the orphanage for you,’ said Amelia, looking very smug indeed.
‘No, Miss Amelia, I’m not going to some orphanage to be murdered by the likes of you,’ I said, collecting some leaves for the chickens, ‘I’ll get our house back. I will.’
‘We’ll see,’ said Amelia.
‘Come,’ said Queen Isabella, ‘I can’t stand the stink of these beasts.’
‘A lot of good you lot are,’ I said, watching them walk off amongst the gravestones.
I got some more leaves and put them in the corner and the chickens scratched around and clucked and seemed content, but then Dr Kemp started pecking at Billy Bones. That Dr Kemp would peck Billy Bones’ feathers right out so that he’d be all patchy and his arse was as naked as could be. That naked chicken arse looked like a chicken arse you’d eat, just like you’d get from the butchers, except this chicken was walking around and if you so much as tried to shove it in the oven for the Sunday roast it would peck your eyes out for certain. It made me think of Cornwall and that old Wendy who really did have a face like a chicken arse and I started to think about that and about Angel and the sea. I wrote to her and told her all my woes, but I didn’t send it. I read it over then ripped it up. I was going to write to her after she told me Ann and Bill were adopting her but I didn’t and she sent me another postcard saying she’d made a friend, one of the town kids. She said I’d like him, he was almost as crazy as me. I didn’t reply. The next few postcards she was more worried and I liked making her worry, making her wait. And anyway, I had more important things to think about, I had problems to solve; a home to get back and a stressed out chicken I needed to keep from bullying Mr Bones.