‘They’d not have got out of hand if you’d not put someone up to it.’
‘Oh, come on. Left to themselves, they’d have cooked and eaten each other. It’s one thing to play the sentimental card for an audience, Desmond, but don’t wave the dignity-of-the-working-man flag with me. There’s never been a working man who wouldn’t bury his shovel in his neighbour’s head for a free pint of beer and a fuck. So yes, I applied a little petrol to the flames, but that was a matter of scheduling rather than outright interference. And as of tonight your stock’s in the ascendant, so let’s not worry about what might have been. And listen, because this is important, you’re not holding your glass correctly. Cup it like this, in your hand. See? Warms the brandy. You want it blood temperature.’
Desmond Flint adjusted his hold on his brandy glass, and said, ‘How does that mean, my stock’s in the ascendance?’
‘Ascendant. It means the newspapers will be queuing up. Question Time is already in the bag, I imagine. They’re awful star fuckers at the Beeb, don’t you find? All of which puts us in the right place to take the next step. And look for the right ring to throw your hat into.’
‘You’re talking about standing for election?’
‘That I am.’
Flint was shaking his head. ‘I’m not one for elections. Nor are my supporters. The reason we’ve taken our argument onto the streets is because we’ve lost faith with politicians. Broken Britain starts at the top, any fool can see that. Parliament’s a busted flush.’
‘Ah yes, your supporters. They’ve got you this far, which is nice of them, but you’ll soon find you won’t need their approval quite so much. Obviously you’ll want to stay true to your roots and all that, but the only way to climb the beanstalk’s by looking up. And that means appealing to those who until now have seen you as beneath their notice. And that kind of approval comes, in the first instance, at the ballot box.’
‘But I’ve said—’
‘And I’ve listened to your objection, given it due consideration, and filed it under I for ignore. How are you liking the brandy?’
‘I’m— It’s fine. It’s fine.’
‘Good answer. It is fine. It’s not magnificent.’ Judd paused to confirm his judgement, rolling the liquor round his mouth before swallowing. ‘Not magnificent. Now, I said election, you immediately jumped to Parliament. I was actually thinking of the mayoralty.’ He paused again. ‘That means mayor,’ he continued.
‘Of London?’
Judd emitted an involuntary snort of laughter. ‘Ha! Good one! … Oh, you were being serious. Well then, yes, London. London mayor. A big, ah, ask, but we have two years to prepare, which is more than Shaw gave Higgins, so we shouldn’t be too downhearted.’
The blank look this provoked might have disheartened a less confident man, but Judd simply smiled and raised his glass. ‘Two years,’ he said again, and held the pose until Flint joined in the toast.
Later, after Flint had left, Judd ordered a second brandy and applied himself to the view once more. He’d suggested that this would be livelier had Flint’s appeal to the mob gone unheeded, but in truth, a few statue-topplers apart, he doubted a British mob’s ability to vent its rage properly. There’d have been smashed glass and torched cars – a few broken heads, a few cracked ribs – but it would have soon dissipated in an orgy of petty theft. Looting was the British mob’s default mode, and what began in principled outrage would inevitably end with high street showrooms ransacked. Actually, Judd approved. Depend on the British character – be generous, and call it human nature – to back away from revolution in favour of a flatscreen TV or two: instead of aristocrats lined up against a wall, you had magistrates working overtime for a few weeks, some hand-wringing columns in the broadsheets, and then it was back to counting down the shopping days to Christmas. But still, times were changing. Not so long ago, the notion of a Desmond Flint even standing for London mayor, let alone being in with a shout, would have brought the average Islington dinner party to climactic levels of self-congratulatory derision; but now, when the time came to announce his candidacy, you’d hear the foreboding the length and breadth of the liberal left. The status quo had been shattered, whether through greed, idealism, malice, or sheer stupid incompetence hardly mattered any more, and while the formerly complacent were still weeping over their losses, there were opportunities galore awaiting those prepared to rejig the shards.
‘Here’s to rejigging,’ he murmured to himself, raising his glass to his lips. It wasn’t magnificent, was merely fine, but it was early days yet.
Dogging. River didn’t know much about it, except that it happened: people watching strangers having sex in parked cars. There might be more to it, but you’d have to have taken part, or known people who had, to grasp the fine detail, and no one he knew had ever indulged. Or if they had, it had never come up.
‘Which one’s the car?’ Lech asked.
River pointed, and Lech pulled up a few yards parallel, causing those gathered in the parking area to stir, attention snagging on this new arrival the way movement attracts zombies. Most were huddled in the far corner, where a car rocked in response to internal activity. The group round the body car – Jane in the boot, Jim in the back seat – were two men and a woman, each in outdoor gear. Just popping out for a walk, dear, River imagined them saying. Just heading down to the bird hide.
Unsurprisingly, there was little sign of internal activity in this vehicle, but the trio seemed entranced regardless.
Killing the engine, Lech said, ‘You’re a mess.’
‘Style tips welcome. But maybe later?’
‘Don’t be an arsehole. I meant, let me do the talking.’
He got out, and River followed.
It was dark, and the ground pitted and rough. One of the men had a torch, but held it down, so it acted as ambient glow, not floodlight. He had his back to Lech and River, but turned as they approached. The other two, a man and a woman, were standing on the other side. They might have been a couple.
Lech said to the lone man, ‘Anything good?’
The three exchanged glances, then looked away. There was an etiquette, River supposed. Small talk not encouraged. He felt wary about getting close, his hair dirty, his face banged about – people who looked like they’d walked into trouble looked like they’d walk into more – but they didn’t much bother with him. It was Lech they focused on, all three backing away as Lech bent and peered through the car window. After a moment, River did the same.
Jim’s body was as he and Sid had left it: prone in the gap between front seats and back. A dark lump showing white at the hands and face; the latter stained perhaps, or just in shadow. River was trying to see this as a stranger might – a passing citizen, your friendly neighbourhood sex aficionado – but Jim seemed pretty dead however you looked at it.
The woman spoke softly. ‘We were wondering. Just … Should we call someone?’
‘Anonymously,’ one of the men offered. ‘We could just … leave. And call it in.’
Lech stepped back. ‘He’s corpsing,’ he said. ‘You’ve never seen it before?’
‘… “Corpsing”?’
‘Sometimes called deading. It’s what it sounds like.’ He’d adopted the patient tone you’d need when talking to an infant. ‘You lie still as you can, hardly breathing. Sometimes you fake a wound.’
‘I can see blood.’
‘There you go.’
‘But I mean, he actually looks dead.’
‘Yeah, he’s a good one.’ To River’s ear, Lech sounded expert. Let me do the talking. Fine by me.