‘Isn’t that a bit of a busman’s holiday?’
‘Best sort.’
They walked around the building, past a stone temple, frozen flowerbeds and laurel hedges until they reached the back. ‘This is the old orangery.’ Carver put his face to a window and pointed. ‘And that’s the listening room.’
Patrick took a look. This was home to a group of people that Patrick had long considered the most intriguing of BBC employees: the Monitors. ‘Great. Are we going in?’
Carver shook his head. ‘’Fraid not, all shut up for Christmas. But I thought you should get a look at it.’ He turned to leave. ‘McCluskey wanted to meet away from work anyhow. It isn’t far.’
The red brick, two-up, two-down was on a small estate halfway between Caversham and the local golf course. Patrick had an idea which house they were heading for from some distance away, the clue being a thicket of short-wave aerials poking from the eaves. As they drew closer he saw a white-haired woman kneeling on the grass on the other side of a low flint wall.
Carver called out. ‘Hello, McCluskey.’
She ignored him. The woman was crouched above a frozen fishpond with a claw hammer raised high above her head. Patrick saw half a dozen blurs of orange beneath the ice.
‘Are they alive?’
‘Shut yer mouths. I need to concentrate on this or I’ll brain one of my fishes.’
She smacked the ice with the hammer and the orange blurs flicked back to life. ‘There we go.’ She glanced up at her visitors. ‘You’re early, Carver, but then you’re always early. Help me up, will ya?’
She had a thick Glaswegian accent. As William went to help, Patrick studied her. McCluskey wore a black polo neck jumper, green quilted jacket and tweed skirt. Her hair looked like white candyfloss and she had the most enormous ears Patrick had ever seen. Carver huffed and puffed as he pulled McCluskey to her feet.
‘Christ. You’re not getting any lighter in your old age.’
‘You can talk, you fat bastard.’ She shot Patrick a look. ‘Who’s this? Your carer or your grandson?’
Carver smiled. ‘That’s Patrick.’
William and Patrick sat in the living room while McCluskey went to make tea. The furniture and decor reminded Patrick of his old nana’s house, oversized, floral-patterned armchairs and side tables all over the place, although in McCluskey’s house every table was in use. There were snow globes everywhere – side tables, windowsills and every other flat surface. The pick of the collection was lined up on the mantelpiece either side of a gold carriage clock. Patrick stood and took a closer look: there was a New York skyline with the Twin Towers still intact; the Sydney Opera House; Paris at night. He picked up the Great Wall of China and gave it a shake; it was still in his hand when McCluskey appeared pushing a tea trolley.
‘It’s a terrific collection.’
‘Yes.’
The woman glanced at the gap on the mantelpiece where the Great Wall globe belonged; Patrick took the hint and put it back down carefully. Carver’s attention was focused on the tea trolley.
‘Have you got any of those little cakes? The kind you had last time?’
‘Fondant fancies.’
‘That’s them.’
While she went to find the cakes, Carver gave Patrick a little of Jemima McCluskey’s background. Scottish dad and Polish mum, she’d been raised speaking both parents’ native tongue as well as Russian. She learned French at school and whichever part of the brain needs to be exercised in order to master a new language was so well developed by the time she went to university that she had no trouble adding Italian and Spanish. She joined Caversham with these six languages then learned Arabic when it looked like Arabic would be useful. ‘It was McCluskey who saw what Pope John Paul’s visit to Poland would mean for the Soviet bloc.’
Patrick gave Carver a blank look.
‘She knew the Berlin Wall was coming down weeks before anyone else and she was on duty when it fell.’ It was clear that he could have gone on and would have done so if their host hadn’t returned with a plate of brightly coloured cakes in one hand and a pile of papers in the other.
‘Have a cake and then take a read of these.’ She handed Carver the untidy sheaf of A4 photocopies.
From where Patrick sat he saw that each page had a different dateline at the top. The dates were recent – all within the last month – but the locations various: Tunis, Tripoli, Algiers, Cairo, Rabat, Sana’a, Riyadh …
Carver read in silence, pausing occasionally to help himself to another cake.
‘They let you take all this stuff out of Caversham?’
‘No, ’course not. All our emails are monitored these days too. I copied them on the quiet and tucked them inside my undies. Security would rather swallow a gob-full of polonium than search me down there. What do you think?’
‘Not very interesting individually, but I guess when you put them all together …’
McCluskey nodded. ‘That’s right.’ She paused. ‘I can usually tell I’m on to something when those spooks up on the top floor start showing an interest and they’re very interested in all this.’
Carver stopped reading and waved the papers in her direction. ‘So you think all this adds up to something?’
‘I wouldn’t drag you out here if it was nothing. It’s something. Maybe one of those somethings that changes everything. Take it all away with you if you like. Just don’t show anyone else.’
McCluskey refilled the teapot and replenished the plate of cakes. Patrick and Carver emptied it while he and Jemima chatted around the general theme of things not being what they used to be. Carver had heard rumours that the BBC might even consider closing Caversham. McCluskey enjoyed a good rumour but she didn’t like this one.
‘Nah, bollocks they will. The boss class are stupid but they’re not that stupid. They’ll never sell that place. There’s no room for us in W1 and not a hope in hell they’d persuade all those spooks up on the top floor to move anywhere else.’
‘I hope you’re right.’
‘I am.’
Patrick cleared his throat and risked an opinion. ‘I suppose the problem is the technology is changing so fast. Everyone is a monitor now … or can be. Anyone with a mobile phone in their pocket?’
There was an agonising silence before McCluskey spoke. When she did Patrick was relieved to see she was nodding.
‘It’s a fair point. A bog-standard smartphone can access as much information now as all the gizmos in Caversham could a few years back. That’s not the hard part anymore. The hard part’s knowing what’s important. Monitors filter as much as monitor – tell you the difference between the cream and the crud. The truth and the lie.’
Carver stood; he could feel the tea swilling in his stomach, his mouth claggy with fondant fancies. He asked to use the bathroom and suggested that he and Patrick should leave before too long. As soon as he’d left the room, McCluskey took the chair closest to Patrick’s. She spoke in a low whisper.
‘Carver looks like he’s put on a few pounds. That dreadful suit looks even worse than last time I saw it. He’s all right, is he?’
Patrick tried to reassure her and he did a fair job. When he’d finished speaking he looked over and saw that she was smiling.
‘It’s interesting …’
‘What is?’
‘Carver’s been the rogue male so long … do you know that term?’
Patrick shook his head.
‘A solitary beast … widowed or wounded usually.’
‘I see.’
‘Anyway, he’s been that way so long. I never thought he’d end up with …’ McCluskey examined Patrick over the rim of her teacup, trying to work out what he was.
Patrick tried to help. ‘A partner?’
‘A cub.’
There was a farting sound of trombone-like proportions from the toilet and then the sound of flushing and an air freshener being sprayed. Carver returned a little red in the face.
‘We should make a move
…’ He retrieved the papers. ‘Thanks for this, McCluskey. I’ll check it out.’
‘You do that. Bring me back a snow globe.’
Carver smiled. ‘I’m not sure they do snow globes in North Africa.’
‘They do snow globes everywhere.’
Patrick laughed. ‘That’s globalisation I guess?’
The carriage clock on the mantelpiece chimed the hour. Eventually McCluskey spoke. ‘I believe there’s a train at half past. You might make that.’
Back at Paddington station, they were about to go their separate ways when Patrick cleared his throat and muttered.
‘William … earlier, when Rebecca was shouting down at me.’
‘Yeah?’
‘She wanted me to ask you for dinner. You know? Like a late Christmas dinner? At our place?’
Carver nodded. ‘Right, I see.’
‘So what do you think?’
Carver paused. ‘Thank Rebecca for the thought, Patrick. But I’m busy, other plans, you know?’
‘’Course, ’course, yes. I thought you’d probably …’
‘Some other time. Have a good evening – the pair of you.’
Patrick nodded.
‘And call me tomorrow, first thing. We need to start making travel plans.’
‘Sure. Hey, William, thanks for today. I mean thanks for asking me along.’
Carver was pulling his tie from his collar; he stuffed it into his pocket then zipped up his anorak. ‘No problem. Merry Christmas.’
Carver did his best thinking on the move. He took the Bakerloo Line down to where it connected with the Northern Line. Opting for southbound, he walked to the end of the platform and when the next train drew in he settled himself in the last carriage, next to the locked driver’s cab. He read through McCluskey’s collection of stories slowly and in date order. When the train reached Morden he got out, crossed the platform and took the next train north, back the way he’d come. On the return trip and on a whim, he got off at Embankment. He walked along the river for a while, quieter than usual, although a few tourists were braving the cold. At Westminster Bridge he cut up on to Whitehall and headed north. It was almost dark, the sky a midnight blue and a few stars visible in the cold air. Government business had stopped for the Christmas week. The only sign of life – one bright rectangle of light from the office building opposite Horse Guards. Carver glanced up at the uncurtained window and then looked around to get his bearings: the Ministry of Defence.
2 Kifaya
DATELINE: Tahrir Square, Cairo, Egypt, January 25 2011
Nawal tried to remember when she’d stopped being scared. A few weeks ago she would have turned tail at the sight of a police van – the smallest hint of trouble. Now, when she heard sirens and the swell of noise coming from the other side of Tahrir, from close to the governing party headquarters, she shouldered her rucksack and practically ran in that direction.
The square concrete block of a building was alight, the windows at the top spitting broken glass down on to the street below. Nawal moved closer, near enough to feel the heat of the fire on her face. A looting operation was under way with a steady stream of people running in and out of the tall black doors at the front of the party HQ. Those on their way out of the building carried wooden chairs, desks, photocopiers and more old-fashioned-looking pieces of office equipment. A man walked past her carrying a mechanical adding machine; another was struggling under the weight of a golf-ball typewriter. The women involved in the looting had different priorities: they seemed to be more interested in official files than office furniture. One group of women – several generations of the same family – strode from the building carrying armfuls of grey box files. Nawal knew the reason why – inside these files they hoped to find answers to questions they’d been asking for years: information about missing husbands and brothers, daughters and sisters and sons. She got out her phone and started typing.
A Day of Anger some were calling it but Nawal felt no anger, she was euphoric.
By the early evening, the worst of the fighting in and around Tahrir Square was over but there was no clear winner. The police had managed to push the protesters back from the centre of Tahrir, but they still held one corner of the square – an area the size of half a football pitch or maybe slightly more. The demonstrators were regrouping inside that space.
Standing on the steps up to the Omar Makram statue, Carver surveyed the scene. He counted three armoured personnel carriers, burned black and upturned like dead beetles. A couple of ambulances had found a way through the barricades that both sides had set up to control access to Tahrir and paramedics were dealing with the casualties. Ten yards from where he stood, Carver saw one of these medics kneeling over a young man with a stomach wound; the medic’s green tunic was sleeved in blood. Carver had counted seventeen injured so far, eighteen including this kid. Eighteen protesters and three police.
He reached into his yellow plastic bag, pulled out his reporter’s notepad and jotted down these numbers. Usually he’d trust this sort of detail to memory, but it had been a long day and he was tired – tired and hungry. He took another look inside the bag and saw the chicken shawarma sandwich he’d bought for breakfast; the brown paper wrapping was stained dark by the grease and it smelled a little ripe. Carver decided to give it a go anyway.
Patrick arrived in time to see his colleague gobbing a masticated mouthful of chicken on to the ground. ‘Lovely.’
Carver shrugged and put the sandwich back in the bag. ‘How many injured have you seen?’
‘I counted nineteen protesters, three police.’
‘Nineteen? You’re sure?’
Patrick nodded and watched as Carver corrected the tally in his notebook.
‘Okay, we better update that last bulletin piece then.’
Patrick stared at his colleague. Carver’s face was grey, his voice thinner than usual. ‘Why don’t you have another blast of the inhaler first, William? There’s still a bit of tear gas blowing about. You’re sounding wheezy.’
Carver found his puffer and took a gulp, and within a minute or so his voice was back to normal. He nailed the forty-second-long bulletin piece first time.
‘We’ll need to check in with the hospitals. I’ve seen a couple of nasty-looking injuries. One kid I saw looked like he might be bleeding out.’
Patrick nodded. ‘I can do that.’ He got his phone out and checked his Twitter feed, looking for any recent posts from a pro-democracy campaigner he’d started following. Sure enough:
@tsquarelawan
New Cairo Hospital needs help. Anyone with blood type O please go. Big shortage of type O!
Patrick would try the New Cairo first, then the others. He checked the time and saw to his surprise that it had already gone seven. They’d been working for ten hours solid, filing bulletin pieces for the top of each hour and collecting more than enough material for their longer Today programme piece. He glanced across at Carver, who was flicking through his notebook; he looked knackered. ‘How about you knock off for now, boss? Nothing else huge is going to happen here. I’ll check the hospitals then meet you back at the hotel?’
Carver reluctantly agreed to call it a day. He set off walking east on Al-Bustan; his plan was to move away from Tahrir Square and the worst of the traffic before doubling back in the general direction of the river. He had half an eye out for a taxi although he knew the chances of finding one were slim. He walked the back streets, the hot stink of human excrement, rotting rubbish and petrol thick in the air. It was a smell he’d got used to – perhaps even rather attached to – on his visits to Cairo. Certain things about the city had changed down the years, but the smell had not.
Carver emerged from the back streets close to the Kasr Al Nil Bridge. This wasn’t where he’d expected to find himself – Cairo’s labyrinthine streets never seemed to take you the same way twice – but it was in broadly the right direction. Halfway across the bridge, his legs started to feel heavy and he decided to take a rest. Down on
the wide, yellow-brown Nile, a brightly lit party boat was chugging by, Egyptian pop music blaring from its speakers. It seemed odd that ordinary everyday life could be carrying on when so much of the city was in turmoil. Carver reached into the plastic bag for his MiniDisc recorder; he knew that Patrick would be able to do something interesting with the sound.
He was standing with his back against the cold stone, his headphones down around his neck and the tape machine running when he heard a single exuberant voice shouting, calling out in time with the boat’s loud music.
‘Kifaya … Kifaya … Kifaya.’ Looking to his right, Carver saw a young man walking at impressive speed up the middle of the pavement, singing as he came. He had a strange gait, both arms and one leg swinging wildly as though he were marching in a military parade. As he drew closer, Carver saw first the boy’s clubfoot and then the broad smile, so bright that he could not help but smile back. The policeman was walking in the opposite direction, away from Tahrir and the disabled kid clocked him more or less at the same time as Carver did. He stopped singing but kept walking. As the two came closer, just as they were about to cross, the boy raised his hands – a gesture of conciliation or understanding and smiled again, broader still. What happened next happened quickly and just a few yards from where Carver stood. The policeman snatched the baton from his belt, lifted it high and brought it down hard on the side of the boy’s head. Carver winced and turned away.
The noise was unlike anything he had ever heard. It was the sound of the hardest kind of plastic that man could make, hitting and breaking a boy’s skull; it was the sound of someone’s brain shifting in its housing and spilling out. The young man’s scream was like an animal in pain. The baton broke the thin bone at the boy’s temple, tearing the artery. The kid performed a macabre, jolting dance and then fell to the floor. The policeman stood above him for a moment, then glanced at the baton, seemingly surprised at how effective his single blow had been. His arm was still raised and he appeared to be in two minds about whether to hit the boy again. He tucked the baton back into his belt and walked on.
A Single Source Page 2
