Not to mention this:
That Jim and Jane were leaving, the lighter Jim had just tossed towards the sleeping bag still tumbling over itself in mid-air, more slowly than gravity usually allowed, its flame somehow holding on despite the gyrations it was going through. Already Struan was getting to his feet, and had managed as far as his hands and knees before the lighter hit the bag the way shit hits the fan: with a whump, and an air of there being no going back. Jim and Jane were at the door, and then the door was swinging shut, and there was a ratcheting noise, something indescribable, but perfectly captured by the vision of a length of wood being inserted through a pair of metal handles. There was no way of confirming this from Struan’s side of the door, but its refusal to open told a story. He hammered on the frame, sounding like a German rock group. ‘Please!’ There were flames behind him, the sleeping bag going up, and fire spreading everywhere, greedily swallowing the liquid Jim had sprayed around, and then scarfing up everything else in its path: clothes, some books, the fat in that dirty pan, the sweater he was wearing. ‘Open the door! Please!’ You spent half your life pleading let me in, but when it came down to it, what you really wanted was to be set free.
But no matter how hard he banged, how loud he screamed, nothing happened next except the rest of everything, or Struan Loy’s everything, which involved heat and flame and flesh and smoke and far too much noise, and then silence.
6
DAMIEN CANTOR WAS WATCHING a video submission, citizen footage of police officers hassling Yellow Vests, when his office door opened and two men entered, black-jeaned, polo-necked and plugged into their mothership, judging by their earpieces. Without word they proceeded to give his office a once-over as he muted his laptop, stared in amazement, and finally said, ‘Excuse me? Excuse me? What the hell?’
Neither paid attention.
He picked up his phone then replaced the receiver: if Sally wasn’t in the room apologising already, she was either being forcibly restrained or had committed seppuku in reception. So he slipped into a smile, leaned back and said, ‘Okay, guys. Knock yourselves out.’
They did and they didn’t. There was no self-harm involved, but they quietly, methodically, finished their tasks: the point wasn’t securing the room, but letting Cantor know he was their bitch. Which made this office politics, and you didn’t get to his position – the fifty-second floor of the Needle, snugly inside the Square Mile’s nest of bankers, lawyers and other corporate scam artists – without knowing how to take a dagger in the back. So when they reached his desk he simply raised his arms so they could lift his laptop and check its underside. ‘Want to pat me down?’ he said. ‘Shall I assume the position?’ Not a flicker of response. ‘Give me a call now,’ he said as they exited. ‘Don’t be shy.’ They left the door open, but it was closed by invisible hands once Diana Taverner was in the room.
‘That was exciting,’ he told her. ‘I felt like a movie extra.’
‘Oh, I’m sure you felt more important than that.’ She sat on the opposite side of his desk, and despite the view on offer looked nowhere but at him. He supposed, once you’d had professionals do the business for you, you didn’t need to pay extra attention.
‘Coffee? Tea? I used to have a PA somewhere.’
‘I won’t be long. You were at the Park yesterday.’
‘I was.’
‘Can I ask why?’
‘There’s a visitors’ tour. Fascinating stuff. Fascinating.’
‘And you thought it would be cute to tag along, oohing and aahing with the common herd.’
Cantor was wearing a blue suit today, with matching tie and three-day stubble. For his common-herd outing, he’d worn windcheater and nerd-specs: plastic frames with vanilla lenses. He wasn’t surprised he’d been recognised.
Taverner said, ‘Do I have to explain to you why it’s not a good idea that our connection be flagged?’
‘And yet here you are. Openly and in broad daylight.’ He smiled. ‘I don’t mean to teach you your trade. But doesn’t the full court press compromise the, ah, clandestine nature of our relationship?’
‘Well, now. Imagine how complicated it would be to explain away a furtive encounter.’
He was nodding already; his expression that of the bright child who understands first time of hearing. ‘So your coming here in the open renders our meeting official but banal. Remind me why it’s happening?’
‘I’m curious about footage you’ve been airing. Wanted to quiz you on its provenance.’
‘Which is something First Desk would do.’
‘It’s something this First Desk does. As the fact of my doing so might indicate. Mr Cantor—’
‘Damien.’
‘Damien, I’m going to outline how our relationship works. And then, if you see any difficulties arising, we’ll know we need to rethink its viability.’
‘Oh, I’m liking this. Loving it.’
‘This is not a partnership, Damien. This is a strictly one-way arrangement. You, along with a number of others, dispense funding. In doing so, you’re providing a service to the nation, in return for which the nation is in a better position to be able to protect those things you value and hold dear. With me so far?’
‘I am.’
‘What you don’t get is any say in the uses to which I put that funding. That can not and will not happen. Ever. I would have hoped Peter Judd had made that perfectly clear.’
‘Oh, he did. He did.’
‘Further to which, I’m not saying there might not be advantages to your role. Potential priority when stories are breaking, for instance. But you can forget about my appearing anywhere near a newsroom camera.’
He showed his palms. Total surrender.
‘Well then. Now I’ve underlined the message, we have no more to discuss.’
‘Of course not. But just so I’m not getting any wires crossed,’ he said. ‘It’s like I make a donation to the Red Cross. That doesn’t give me the right to tell them how to apply bandages. Yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘Or say I give a dosser in the street ten quid. If he wants to piss it up against a wall, that’s his choice.’
‘Or perhaps he’ll just piss all over you, Damien. That would be his choice also.’ She stood.
‘Sure you won’t stay for coffee?’
‘I’m sure.’
‘Or a tour of the company? I mean, you’ve shown me yours. By the way, I keep meaning to ask, do you ever get called “M”?’
‘Enjoy your day.’
He said, ‘One other thing. How’s Doyle working out?’
‘… What’s that?’
‘My man Tommo Doyle. Joined your internal police a few months back, what do you call them? The Dogs?’
Taverner said, ‘In what way is he “your man”?’
‘He worked security for me a couple of years, but he was wasted, frankly. I’m not exactly a high-risk subject. And Tommo was SAS, back in the day. Definitely a good fit for you guys.’
‘I’m not personally acquainted with Mr Doyle,’ she said.