That evening, the Yellow Vests had gathered around Oxford Circus. Though traffic continued to flow, the protestors were confident of their right to occupy the pavements, and their presence had swollen to cover all four corners of the junction, blocking the entrances to the Tube. But rush hour was over, and there was no sign, tonight, of any counter-demonstration by those who were similarly angry but for diametrically opposed reasons, so the usual business carried on at the usual pace; chanting and jeering and outbursts of ragged song. Leaflets, as always, were thrust on anyone passing; these leaflets, as always, now littered the pavements. And all the while the usual targets attracted attention shading into abuse: the too well dressed, the obviously indigent, the clearly foreign, cyclists, drivers who sounded their horns in derision, drivers who failed to sound their horns in support, women in groups, women in pairs, women on their own, and anyone whose skin tone deviated from the yellow-vested norm, which self-identified as white, though would have passed for pasty grey. It was a scene that might have been playing out in any British city, any European town, though if you looked upwards, over the heads of the furious, you could only have been in London, among London’s beautiful buildings, framed by London’s starless skies.
Not far off – up Regent Street, just this side of Portland Place – a black cab hovered, its passenger having requested it to wait while he made a phone call.
‘I watched you on the news,’ he was told.
‘It’s important to remember the camera adds pounds.’
‘I suppose you’re expecting my thanks.’
‘Oh, I never expect thanks. I simply expect repayment, in due course.’ Peter Judd shifted in his seat, so he could see himself in the driver’s mirror. Put his free hand to his jowls, and gripped. His face tightened in response, and he became several years younger. Hmm. ‘They were wondering if you’d be available for an interview.’
‘I’d be delighted.’
‘I said no.’
‘You what?’
‘You’re not ready, Desmond. You don’t mind Desmond? I’d use Flinty, but I’d sound like an idiot, or a sportsman. Which yes, I know, same thing.’
‘… What do you mean, not ready? I’ve been giving interviews for months.’
‘To spotty interns on freesheets, or virgins from websites. Channel Go is hardly Newsnight, but its presenters can at least conduct a grilling without falling off their desks. So if, for instance, you should reveal your understanding that Downton Abbey was written by Jane Austen, you’re unlikely to find them agreeing with you. As happened in that Q&A with, what was it? The Little Englander?’
‘A New England.’
‘Thank you.’
On Oxford Circus, with no apparent triggering event, a protestor whose red sweater was visible beneath his high-vis tabard hoisted a newspaper dump bin, earlier stacked with Evening Standards, at the curved glass window of a clothing store.
It bounced off, to jeers, and some laughter.
Judd released his chin, and his face resumed its current age.
Flint said, ‘So you’re saying I need a crash course in general bloody knowledge before I’m allowed to lay out my vision for the future of this country?’
‘It wouldn’t hurt. But no, what I’m saying is, we need to be sure that the agenda you’ll be called upon to address will be focused on those issues you’re happy discussing. Rather than on anything which might reveal any, ah, gaps in your hinterland.’
‘Bloody cheek!’ That this sounded to Judd’s ears a token protest was no surprise. Token protests were the bedrock of Flint’s campaigning history. ‘And I suppose you have an idea as to how to set that agenda?’
‘I always have ideas, Desmond. It’s why I’m in such huge demand.’
‘It sounds like you’re in traffic.’
‘I am,’ said Judd. ‘I’m in a cab watching your troops perform their evening manoeuvres. Extraordinary. Like watching the Home Guard morris dancing, with malicious intent.’
‘Why do you never say anything I can understand first time?’
‘Blame my schooling. But let’s try this – you might want to get down here.’
‘I was there earlier. And it’s a peaceful protest. As usual.’
‘Yes, well. It is at the moment,’ said Peter Judd, as the red-sweatered mastermind on the corner collected the dump bin and threw it at the window again. ‘It is at the moment.’
White walls meant a clean conscience, Catherine liked to imagine. Back in her worst days, in that Dorset retreat where the Service sent its damaged people, she’d had fevered nights; dreams of being trapped inside a glass house, whose shifting rooms offered no escape. And during the days spent coming to terms with her new reality – my name is Catherine, and I’m an alcoholic – she found herself longing for bare, unvarnished shelter; somewhere with no traces of her previous life, or anyone else’s. Somewhere she might be brand new. Vacant possession.
Well, here it was.
The mews cottage Lamb had led them to, on a cobbled lane near Cheyne Walk, had the white walls she’d dreamed of; white walls and little else. The kitchen was functional – a fridge hummed; an oven waited – but there was no furniture, no carpets, no art; only windows, each framing a view that perfectly matched the time of day. It was a blank canvas, with no regrets. A small house, but one that seemed pure and unsullied. Not yet stained.
‘Well, fuck a number of ducks,’ said Lamb. ‘Someone spent a lot of time on all fours for the keys to this pad.’
Louisa, Lech and Shirley checked it out: two rooms upstairs, plus bathroom; kitchen and sitting room down. Approaching two million quid, Louisa thought: like everyone who’d recently bought property she’d acquired an estate agent’s gene, impossible to switch off. Lech and Shirley, both London renters, viewed it as they would a palace or a cathedral; somewhere they might get to visit, but short of revolution, meteor strike or raging zombie virus, nowhere they’d ever live. Lamb, meanwhile, had perched in the sitting-room’s window recess, where the incoming light etched a golden thread round his bulk. Henry VIII, Catherine found herself thinking. Minus the finery, obviously. But with the same propensity for getting his own way, and not much caring who faced the blade.
Roddy Ho had found an outlet in the corner, and was charging his laptop. This was possibly at odds with the going-dark scenario, but he’d roll his eyes at any suggestion that his online presence might be detected. That was the thing about Roddy, thought Catherine. He couldn’t open a door without hurting himself or offending a woman, but give him a keyboard and he could skip a fandango with his eyes shut.
The others reappeared. The house was clean, as advertised: no bugs, no tripwires.
‘What about the neighbours?’ asked Louisa.
‘We’ll tell ’em we’re rat-catchers, and might be here a while,’ Lamb said. He turned to the others. ‘So – Dildo Baggins and Captain Coke. Been sandbagging tourists, I gather.’
‘It was an accident.’
‘We thought he was Park.’
‘Well, according to Taverner he wasn’t, which means you two shat in your porridge. So you might as well start planning your leaving party. I can’t come, by the way. I’m drinking in my office that night.’
‘We were going to return his stuff,’ Shirley sulked.
‘Is that the highest priority right now?’ said Lech. ‘I mean okay, we screwed up. But people are dying.’
‘River’s still not called in,’ said Louisa. ‘Nor has Sid.’
‘Cartwright’s gone dark,’ said Lamb. ‘So either he’s remembered his training, or someone’s pulled his blinds down. We’ll find out which when he turns up or his corpse starts to smell. Meanwhile, I’ve got my own problems. Anyone got a light?’