They had to drag the second supremacist out of a bed that wasn’t his own in a fifteenth-floor apartment that reeked of damp and rat poison. The woman next to him didn’t even wake up. When they got him into the living room he was mumbling, incoherent with ingested chemicals and sleep. They took an arm each and ran him head first against the balcony window until it smashed through. Outside, on the glass-strewn balcony, dawn was turning the night air slowly grey and there were birds singing in the trees below. Neither of them were sure if the man was dead or not. They stopped over the body, careful to avoid getting glass in their hands, picked him up and threw him over the rail. The birdsong stopped abruptly with the impact on the concrete below.
In the kitchen, Mike left money for the broken window.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The sun caught them leaving the zones somewhere south of London Bridge. The streets were already full of pedestrians on their way to work and Mike had to hoot repeatedly to get them out of the road as they approached the checkpoint. Queues backed up hundreds long, snaking randomly away from the various turnstile entrypoints. There was even a queue at the road barrier, three rusting buses that looked almost pre-millennial, one of them belching oily fumes from its exhaust. Beyond the checkpoint, glimpsed through the low rise of preferential South Bank housing, gold light impacted and dripped on glass skyscraper panels across the river.
‘Jesus, look at this,’ said Bryant disgustedly. ‘Emissions monitoring, my fucking arse. Look at the shit coming out of that bus.’
‘Yeah, and it’s packed. We’re going to be here for a while.’
It was true. Armed guards were ordering the passengers out of the first bus, lining them up. The first line had already assumed the position – right hand on the back of the head, passcard held up in the left. A single guard moved down the line, scrutinising the cards one at a time and swiping them through his hip unit. Every second card needed repeated swipes.
‘Don’t know why they bother,’ Chris yawned with a force that made his jaw creak. ‘It’s not like there’s been anything resembling terrorism in London for the last couple of years.’
‘Yeah, and you’re looking at the reason why. Don’t knock it, man.’ Bryant drummed his fingers on the wheel. ‘Still, this is going to take forever. You want to get breakfast?’
He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. Chris twisted about in his seat. A handful of frontages down the street they had just driven up, a grimed sign said Café. People flowed in and out with paper packets and garishly coloured cans.
‘In there?’
‘Sure. Cheap and nasty, plenty of grease. Just what you need.’
‘Speak for yourself.’ Chris still felt slightly queasy when he thought about what Mike had done to Griff Dixon’s eye. ‘Think I’ll stick to coffee.’
‘Suit yourself.’ Bryant plugged the BMW into reverse and punted it back along the street. The engine whined high with unnecessary revs. Pedestrians scrambled to get out of the way. Level with the café, Bryant slewed into the curb and jolted to a halt at a rakish angle. He grinned.
‘Man, I love the parking in this part of town.’
They climbed out to hostile stares. Bryant smiled bleakly and alarmed the car with the remote held high and visible. Someone behind Chris rasped something unintelligible and hawked up spit. Twitchy with the events of the night, Chris pivoted about. The phlegm glistened yellow and fresh near his feet. Not what he needed.
He scanned the bystanders’ faces. Mostly they shuffled and looked away, but one young black man stood his ground and stared back.
‘You got something to say to me?’ Chris asked him.
The man stayed silent but he didn’t look away. His white companion laid a hand on his arm. Bryant came round the car, yawning and stretching.
‘Problem?’
‘No problem,’ said the white one, pulling his friend away.
‘Good, you’d better get cracking then.’ Bryant jerked a thumb up the street. ‘That’s a hell of a queue up there. You coming, Chris?’
He shoved back the door of the café and they worked their way past the line of people waiting at the take-out counter to the seating area at the back. There were no customers apart from a black-clad old man who sat alone, staring into a mug of tea.
‘This’ll do.’ Mike slid into a booth and beat a drum riff on the tabletop with the flat of both hands. ‘I’m starving.’
There was a menu scrawled in luminous purple marker across the quickwipe surface of the table. Chris glanced across it and looked away again, nervous of the standing queue at his back. He knew the food. He’d eaten in places like this most of his teens, and occasionally, after a mechanic’s night out with Carla and the others from Mel’s Autofix, he still did. Like prime-time satellite programming, it would be a loudly flavoured blend of low-grade bulking agents seasoned with garishly advertised vitamin and mineral additives. The sausages would average about thirty per cent meat, the bacon came swollen with injected water. He was glad he had no appetite.
A waitress appeared at the booth.
‘Getya?’
‘Coffee,’ said Chris. ‘White. Glass of water.’
‘I’ll have the big breakfast,’ said Mike expansively. ‘You get eggs with that?’
‘They’re Qweggs,’ said the waitress sullenly.
‘Right. Better give me, uh, six of those then. And plenty of toast. Coffee for me too. Black.’
The waitress turned her back and strode off. Mike watched her go.
‘Friendly here.’
Chris shrugged. ‘They know who we are.’
‘Yeah, which means a massive tip if they can just secrete a little common courtesy. Pretty fucking short-sighted attitude, if you ask me.’
‘Mike.’ Chris leaned across the table. ‘What do you expect? The clothes you’re wearing cost more than that girl makes in a year. She probably lives in an apartment smaller than my office, damp walls, leaking drains, no security, and about two-thirds her weekly wage just to cover the rent.’
‘Oh, and that’s my fucking fault?’
‘It isn’t about—’
‘Look, I’m not her fucking mother. I didn’t pop her out in the zones, just so I could claim breeding benefit. And if she doesn’t like it here, she can make her own sweet way out, just like anybody else.’
Chris looked at his friend with sudden dislike. ‘Yeah, right.’
‘That’s right. Listen, Troy was born and bred in the zones, he made it out. James is off to the Scratcher in six weeks, he could end up making more money than both of us. So don’t tell me it can’t be done.’
‘And what about Troy’s cousin? The one got raped two nights ago by Dixon and his pals. How come she hasn’t made it out?’
‘How the fuck should I know?’ Bryant’s anger collapsed as rapidly as it had sprouted. He slumped back in his seat. ‘Look, all I’m saying, Chris, is some of us have what it takes. Others don’t. I mean, this isn’t some cut-rate little African horrorshow of a nation. You don’t have to live in the zones because of your tribe or something. No one cares what colour you are here, what religion or race. All you’ve got to do is make the money.’
‘They seem to care what colour you are in Dixon’s neighbourhood. ’
‘Yeah, that’s fucking politics, Chris. Some maggots’ nest of little local government thugs looking for a way to build a powerbase. It’s got nothing to do with the way the real world works.’
‘That’s not the impression I get from Nick Makin.’
‘Makin?’
‘Yeah, you heard him in that meeting. He’s a fucking racist, that’s why he can’t handle Echevarria.’