Dave ranked up by the cop shop on Old Burlington Street and walked down towards the offices of Undercroft Mendel. Since coming off the antidepressants he still felt the elbow-jabs of reckless thoughts — but mostly he felt better. Much better. Even so, he couldn't judge whether his damp palms were a withdrawal symptom or a dread anticipation. The newspaper rattle of pigeons taking flight startled him — and he mounted the steps feeling dizzy, fists clenched in the pockets of his old tweed jacket.
There were no sugar-dusted shortbreads or gold-rimmed coffee cups. There was no propelling pencil or unctuous manner. Instead of tipping back in his chair, Mitchell Blair leaned forward, doodling nervily on a yellow legal pad in unadorned biro. 'The thing is, Mr Rudman … at the end of the day' — he picked out demotic phrases from a mental file he maintained for such occasions — 'it isn't down to the Lord Justice, CAFCASS or even the courts' — he glanced towards the reassuringly open door — 'whether or not you resume contact with, er, Carl.'
'With my son, you mean.' Despite the rehearsals he'd been through with Phyl and every internal restraint he'd imposed upon himself, Dave was already warming up.
'Well, that's precisely the issue.' At this, Blair, losing all professional detachment, ducked down behind a barricade of heavy volumes. 'Ms Brodie has raised the matter of Carl's paternity. To be blunt, she doesn't believe that you are his biological father.'
Dave shook his head slowly — a great lummox pole-axed by a low blow. He felt uncomprehending and untidy. He groped automatically for a cigarette, although, even while so doing, he was appalled to hear his voice going on without him: 'Whaddya mean?'
'I mean — that is to say, I can state with some certainty' — Blair was recovering his sang froid, his fiddly features reappeared from behind the leather shield — 'that it has been established that Carl's biological father is, in fact, Mr Devenish.'
'Cal Devenish?' Dave kept on shaking his head. 'But that's impossible — how? When?'
'Mr Rudman.' Blair was now fully composed. He lay back in his chair, the sole of his loafer cleaner than Dave's shirt. The gold propelling pencil was out, the toothy timpani began. 'Ms Brodie had no intent to deceive you — both she and Mr Devenish understood that he was … well, he had had a vasectomy. However, these, ah, things can happen. Very rarely — but they do happen. Your ex-wife thought you would be upset, she understands that she owes you a full explanation. Were it not for your er' — he paused, smiling faintly — 'behaviour in the past, she would've been present for this meeting. Instead, she has given me this letter for you' — he placed it on his blotter — 'and should you — quite reasonably — require verification, your own nominated doctor can take both your blood and the boy's. Arrangements can be made for these DNA samples to be independently tested …'
By the time Blair had completed his speech, Dave was already on the stairs. He hadn't bothered with Michelle's letter. The phrase that stayed with him — albeit edited — was take … your … blood, for his very blood had been taken from him. Or had it? Checking himself in every reflective surface he passed — brass plates, plate glass, wing mirrors — Dave was forced to concede that this hereditary cap didn't fit at all well. You suspected all along … The dates never made sense. . never added up … She got funnier about it the older he got. . And Carl, well, he. .he just doesn't LOOK ANYTHING LIKE YOU.
The fare, chunk of silicone chips soldered to his ear, was going to check out David Blaine. The American illusionist was sealed into a perspex box, which had been dangled from the arm of a crane on the south side of Tower Bridge. The new London Assembly had appeared near by — beamed down from the future so suddenly that its concrete and glass walls bellied with the impact — and all that was left of the park that used to occupy the site was a patch of exposed dirt. Every day a crowd gathered here to bay, catcall, take photos, catapult hamburgers, hold up babies, flash their tits and bums, frolic, gass, guffaw — and generally confirm the truth that, as Blaine's beard grew and his fat evaporated, nothing ever changed in this city: the most grotesque of street theatre always had — and always would — take place within the very shadow of governance.
The Fairway was snarled up in Tooley Street. In front was a white Securicor van with plexiglas windows. Sweatboxes, that's what they call 'em. Some crim who used to drink in the Old Globe told Dave all about them — the tiny, individual cells in the bouncing vehicle, no room for the prisoners to stretch their legs, no handholds, everything made of plastic. In winter they were like … fucking fridges. . but in summer the cons slopped in their own sweat. Still, wasn't the whole of London an endless bloody sweatbox? nuffing to hold on to, everyone going somewhere to do nuffing. The cab limped past the London Dungeon, where a dummy felon hung from a fucking toyist gibbet. The fare had run out of friends to call … no wonder … and was scratching his balls.
Tiring of this tax on disorientation, Dave saw a parking place and plonked the cab in it. 'Wossup, mate?' said the fare, who was young with a vulnerable dimple in his chin. 'I'll stroll down there with you,' Dave explained. 'I fancy a gander at this chancer.' They clambered out, and Dave locked up. He asked for a fiver, even though there was twice that on the meter. As they walked along past Hay's Galleria towards HMS Belfast Dave wanted to put an arm around the lad's shoulders, because he was another one young enough to be my son. But not.
It was a weekday, and the crowd wasn't that big. There were dossers struck by White Lightning … language-school Lolitas … and because it was lunchtime the Pret-a-fucking-Manger mob were ranged along the parapet of Tower Bridge, swigging mineral water and chomping baguettes. In an enclosure immediately beneath Blaine's box snappers and camera crews oscillated to find the best angle. All eyes were raised towards the modern Diogenes, who slumped in a starved torpor, a silvery space blanket serving him for a robe. Everyone bayed for his attention, while he looked deep inside himself, focusing with steely resolve on major fucking sponsorship deals.
Dave had lost the ex-fare and was sitting on a bench when he became aware of a wholesale perturbation in the crowd. Eyes were swivelling away from the hunger artist towards the top of the northern tower of the bridge, where an oddly attired group was clambering out on to the parapet. Dave was up on his feet — even at this distance, and outlined against deceptive bends and furbelows of cloud, he could see that the three men were wearing historical costumes: cockade hats, cloaks and doublets. One of them was a dumpy fellow struggling with the end of a long, sausage-shaped bundle. 'Bluddy el!' exclaimed a dosser who was beside Dave. 'Iss isstree cum ter lyf!' The crowd, grasping that something — or somebody — was going to be pitched over the edge, 'ooed' and 'aahed' with sadistic glee. The London Show — in its two thousandth year at the same venue — was hotting up.