She was trapped. She approached the line. ‘I live in the Lovelace,’ she said. ‘I’m on my way home from work. Could you let me through?’
The policeman whom she’d addressed stared straight ahead. As if she wasn’t there.
‘Could you?’
‘I’m sorry, madam,’ he was speaking softly and out of the side of his mouth. ‘You’ll have to wait.’
Wait. For what?
No sooner had the question occurred than the dark was lifted by the simultaneous switching on of the street lights and a blaze of something much brighter than any street light could ever be. She turned to look.
The first police had formed themselves into a line that stretched the width of the High Street and blocked it. Ahead, an unoccupied section of the road was lit by a dazzling beam from the top of one of the trucks. One hundred yards further on was a different barricade, this one forged not from uniforms but from shopping trolleys, old doors and bricks and pieces of wood. Behind this barricade were knots of young people. Quiet and still. Expectant. Waiting for the next move.
It came in the form of a policeman in a peaked hat, who detached himself from the line-up of his colleagues and began to move towards the barricades. He was met by a barrage of stones, all dropping to the ground in the area in front of him. He stopped and raised his megaphone: ‘This is a final warning. Go home or we will arrest you for obstruction of the public highway.’
Another barrage that also fell short.
The policeman turned and made his way back towards the line of his shielded colleagues, who parted to let him through. Or at least that’s what Cathy thought they were doing, but the gap they had created was much wider than one man would ever have needed and, besides, he had already stepped onto the pavement.
Engines started up, and then both trucks began moving through the gap and beyond it, heading for the crowd. Behind them the line of police re-formed and started walking forward, slowly, in their wake.
A fresh bombardment from behind the barricade, lit now by the bright light. As the trucks moved forward, more projectiles flew, a hard rain that thudded down on the metallic scoop on the truck in front. The truck stopped, engine still revving. The second truck lined up beside it. A moment’s pause and then a powerful jet of water shot through the nozzle of the water cannon to hit the barricade, sending pieces of masonry and wood flying.
There was a further inching forward of both trucks, so that the next shooting jet of water reached the crowd. One man in front took the full force of the water that pushed him over, and spun him round, and kept tossing him as he scrabbled, arms out, trying to find something to hold on to. Seeing what was happening to him, his companions ran from the hard spray that still kept hitting out, at the same time as both trucks were moving forward until they reached the barricade and, with the water cannon still firing onto what now looked like an empty section of the road, the shovel of the companion lorry smashed straight through the line of shopping trolleys.
11.30 p.m.
Joshua’s car crunched around the Chequers’ driveway and drew up outside the house, which looked to be in total darkness. But as he got out of the car, the door opened and the Prime Minister himself emerged. Another sign as to the urgency of the summons, now reinforced by an accusatory ‘You took your time’ from the Prime Minister.
‘There was trouble in Rockham,’ Joshua said.
‘When isn’t there?’ The PM’s frown turned into a glower. ‘You’ve got to get a grip, you know.’
Yes, I know, Joshua thought and said: ‘I trust you’re feeling better, Prime Minister?’
‘Better?’
‘I heard that you were ill.’
‘Oh that.’ The Prime Minister sighed. ‘No, I’m not ill. But, no, I am also not feeling better.’ He looked at Joshua’s driver: ‘Take the car round the back. Someone will show you where to wait,’ and then, to Joshua: ‘Let’s walk.’
He turned on his heel, leading Joshua away from the house and the formal gardens, striding down the long drive and through the gates, all the time remaining silent. His only words, ‘We’re fine on our own,’ were addressed to the policeman who made a move to accompany them. He continued on, briskly, over a field and up by the side of an electrified fence, his shoes crunching against the parched ground as he made for Coombe Hill.
The moon was full and it lit the ploughed fields around them, the nearest of which, Joshua could see, had almost turned to dust. The night had brought with it little relief, hot air seeming to rise up, so it was almost as if they were walking over a thin crust of volcanic earth.
Not that the Prime Minister seemed to notice. He kept up a brisk pace, still without a word, his bullish head down and his shoulders rounded as if he were trying to shield himself from something unpleasant. And then, abruptly, and for no apparent reason, he stopped.
‘Look at that.’ He was pointing above Coombe Hill and at a full moon over which layers of red and orange mist seemed to be drifting. ‘Eerie, isn’t it?’ the Prime Minister said. ‘They say it’s an optical illusion caused by the light passing through the Saharan dust in our atmosphere. Given that there is not even a puff of wind to blow in a single cloud, it’s a mystery how half of the Sahara managed to make its way here. A red moon: a sign of strife to come. Which, speaking of,’ and only now did he look at Joshua, ‘what the hell is going on in Rockham?’
‘We had to go in hard,’ Joshua said, ‘to find the missing officer, and this has inflamed an already tense situation. Come nightfall, gangs of youths, many of them from outside the area, set up roadblocks. We couldn’t let them turn Rockham into a no-go area, so we had to go in even harder. We used water cannon – not something I wanted to do, but we had no choice. It was a well-planned and properly executed operation, and it worked. Rockham is quiet and the blockages have been removed. But we had to deploy so many resources to the area, other parts of London have suffered. It’s a setback. It’s going to take another couple of days to fully restore order.’
‘Did you at least find your man?’
‘Afraid not.’
‘Jesus, Joshua. If you don’t get control soon, we’re going to have to call in the army.’
‘Before it comes to that, every single police officer, no matter what their rank, up to and including me, will be out on the streets.’
‘Every other officer maybe.’ In the pause that followed, Joshua saw how the Prime Minister’s gaze seemed to catch fire, the whites of his eyes turning almost as red as the moon. ‘But as for you . . .’ Another pause and then, ‘You know you were my choice for Commissioner, Joshua, and you know I fought with my Home Secretary, who was spoiling for a public ruck, to get you in. But no sooner did you take up the post than the whole bloody world explodes.’ The Prime Minister, who had almost been spitting in his fury, swallowed, stood silent for a moment, blinked once and then continued, in a quieter voice, ‘Let me correct that last: it’s not the whole world, just the world that you are supposed to be in command of. While the copycats in other cities have been subdued, London is still in uproar. Instead of restoring order, your men are stirring up even more trouble by looking for a bastard who clearly should never have been in the police force, never mind running around on his own.’
Was this why he’d been summoned all the way to Chequers – so that the Prime Minister could read him the riot act? Something he could easily have done on the phone?
He didn’t think it could be, not in the middle of a riot.
Silence, into which the Prime Minister blinked again, and after that Joshua heard rustling that he at first took to be the wind. But the night was hot and still, and a series of high mewling whistles soon told him that the sound was birds.
‘Red kites,’ the Prime Minister said. ‘There are scores of them roosting in the woods over there.’ He sighed.
‘Something you want to tell me, Simon?’
The use of his Christian name brought back the Prime Minister’s gaze. A series of blinks: once, twice and for a third ti
me. No anger in his expression now, only a sort of sad neutrality as he shook his head. ‘It will have to wait. Just a warning: look to your own, Joshua. Not all of them are on your side. Come on, let’s get going.’ And with that, and not another word, the Prime Minister led the way back.
Thursday
3 a.m.
Peter lay on his back listening to the soft rise and fall of Frances’s breaths and wishing he was likewise asleep. But every time he closed his eyes, an image of the death struggle of the pigeon combined with another that he would rather not imagine filled his mind’s eye.
Enough. Counting the plaster flowers that spiralled through the ceiling architraves, lovingly restored under Frances’s supervision when they had first moved in, might lull him to sleep. He’d give it a try, starting at the opposite corner of the room and working his way round.
He looked towards the right-hand corner. It was too far away for him to make out many details. Come to think of it, the only reason he could see even as much as he could was because there was a street light glinting through a gap in the heavy curtains. Not that this was stopping him from going to sleep, but now that he was aware of it, he’d not be able to let it pass.
He slipped from the bed and padded quietly over to the window.
As he reached up to pull the curtains to, he caught a glimpse of something red, and when he parted the curtains to try to work out what it was, he saw a full moon over whose surface floated a bloodshot mist. He snapped the curtains tight shut and made his way through the darkness into bed.
He waited for his breath to calm before he carefully pulled at the sheet that Frances had wound around herself, at which point she spoke.
‘What are you going to do if he calls your bluff?’
‘I’m sorry, darling. Did I wake you?’
‘I wasn’t asleep. What will we do?’
‘He won’t. He can’t. Chahda’s solid.’
(Hoping this was true, and on the wings of this hope, seeing that same distasteful image. Stop it. Enough. Answer Frances.)
‘The PM can disown Yares,’ he said. ‘I’m pretty sure he already has.’
(Chahda must be solid: hadn’t he told Patricia of Yares’s abrupt departure for Chequers?)
‘But that won’t let the PM off the hook,’ he said.
‘Don’t underestimate him. He’s a doughty fighter.’
Not like her to have misgivings. ‘Don’t worry, darling.’ He reached out a hand, which she took.
He squeezed her hand, and she squeezed his back. And yawned.
‘Tired?’
‘Mmm.’ She yawned again.
‘I’m so sorry. I’m disturbing you.’
She muttered something that he couldn’t quite make out. ‘I beg your pardon?’
She said, more clearly, ‘Sleeping pills in the cabinet. Or brandy might help.’
‘Thanks, darling.’ And he did need sleep. ‘I’ll try one or both. And so that I don’t keep you up, I’ll sleep elsewhere.’
Another inaudible comment as she wound the sheet more completely around herself.
He took the sleeping pills from the bathroom cabinet and then downstairs, belt and braces, poured himself a large brandy.
There were other bedrooms in the house, but on the occasions when he couldn’t sleep, he always liked to go to Charles’s. Something comforting about the almost monastic feel of the room, combined with its dinosaur curtains (which Frances really should soon change).
He was tired. He needed sleep. He chased a sleeping pill down with a slug of brandy. Squeezed himself into the bottom bunk. Closed his eyes. And saw those two images again: the first of the pigeon struggling to free itself from the pelican beak and, superimposed on that, a great bear of a man crying out as he entered Patricia.
7 a.m.
The light filtering through the thin curtains told Peter that he must have overslept, although, without his watch, he had no idea of the time. His head was hurting. Looking forward to clearing it with a long cold shower, he climbed out of the narrow bunk and made his way back to the master bedroom. There the drawn curtains had kept the room dark. And quiet. Frances must still be sleeping to the sound of someone outside who was clipping a hedge.
Except, he realised, the sound was coming not from outside but from inside the room. Odd. He peered through the gloom. And saw Frances not only awake but also out of bed. She was sitting on the carpet surrounded by what seemed to be a heap of clothes. He clicked on the light.
They were clothes – his clothes – and the sound that he could still hear was Frances, who, head bent, was cutting them.
‘What are you up to?’
She held up a pair of his trousers. One of his black pairs.
‘They don’t need repairing.’
‘They didn’t,’ she poked one hand through the hole she must have just made in the crotch, ‘but they do now.’
Had she gone mad? He crossed the room, intending to take the scissors from her, but before he could get close, she was on her feet and stabbing the scissors in his direction.
She knows, he thought. Said, ‘Frances. Darling.’
‘Fuck you.’ Her blue eyes blazed from a face that normally pale was dark red as, still jabbing the scissors, she advanced on him. ‘I warned you.’
He was slowed down by sleep. At the very least, he was going to end up badly cut.
‘I told you what I would do.’
He was closer to the bathroom than to the landing. He backed away and then, when she began to run at him, the dog now yapping at her heels, he turned and also ran, straight into the bathroom. He caught a glimpse of the scissors stabbing down as he banged the door shut. When he drew the bolt, they hit the door so hard they made it shake.
She wouldn’t have enough strength to stab through the wood. Would she? He stepped away from the door.
Silence. He checked that the bolt was securely in place.
She must know, he thought, but who could have told her? And then he thought that the Frances he knew so well would never have threatened violence. This had to be a dream. He glanced at the bath and saw that it was blue.
Definitely a dream from which he would soon awake. In the meantime, he was sweating. He went over to the basin to wet his face, after which he held his wrists under the running water.
The sound of something being dragged.
Back at the door, he pressed his ear against the wood. He thought he could hear Frances’s hard-won breaths, but they might have been his.
Footsteps – and her voice, ‘Come on girl,’ and then he assumed that the soft click he heard was the door being closed.
He stood, quietly.
No further sound, or at least none that he could hear. He switched off the tap and went back to put an ear against the door. Still nothing. He started counting and only after he had got to fifty did he call out, ‘Frances?’
No answer.
He tried again: ‘Frances?’
It was possible that she was still there and if he came out she’d launch a fresh attack. But he was properly awake by now (this was no dream), and if she did he would close the door on her arm.
Holding his breath, he used his left hand to carefully draw back the bolt while with his right he held the door against the door jamb. Then slowly, slowly and inch by inch he opened the door.
She wasn’t there, not that he could see. But something else was. He opened the door a fraction wider and saw that she had dragged her dressing table across the room so as to stop him coming out. He called again: ‘Frances?’
When still she did not reply, he decided to risk the room.
He’d either have to push the dressing table out of the way, which would be noisy and might fetch her back, or else he needed to crouch down and climb under. Not very dignified, but in this situation to hell with dignity. Having said ‘Frances’ one more time – although by now he was pretty sure she wasn’t there – he widened the opening of the door before getting down onto his hands and knees and crawling through.
The room was empty.
Thank heavens for small mercies.
He looked at the devastation she had left behind, with what appeared to be his entire wardrobe scattered about. When he picked through the pieces, he saw that she had attacked every one of his trousers, in some cases severing the legs, while his shirts were splattered with blue ink that was now beginning to leak onto the carpet.
For the house-proud Frances to have done that, she had to know. Someone must have told her.
His dressing gown was hanging in its usual place on the back of the door. When he tried to put it on, however, he discovered that it had also been shredded. Turned into a tattered shawl. No other option but to go down in his pyjamas.
What if she were waiting for him on the landing? And what if she attacked again? He cast around for something with which to defend himself. He could only see her hairbrush, so he grabbed that.
No one on the landing. He tiptoed across and to the stairs. Nothing. And down. Still nothing.
But he could soon hear the burble of a radio coming from the kitchen. No other choice but to brave her there. Big breath in and then he strode across the hall and wrenched open the door.
What he saw almost convinced him that this must be a dream.
She was at the table drinking tea – a familiar sight of many years duration – with a neat pile of newspapers awaiting his perusal. She was dressed in her pale-blue frock, the one he particularly liked and which showed off her figure to best advantage. Her hair was coiffed and smooth.
She clicked the radio off. Looked up. Said, ‘What are you doing with my brush?’
And a weird dream as well. He put the brush down on the nearest counter. ‘What time is it?’
‘Time for you to see the PM,’ she said. ‘His office has been ringing.’
He looked to the counter where the phone usually was.
Ten Days Page 27
