‘You don’t need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows,’ she said aloud.
The nagging bell was still ringing and she reached for her laptop. Repeating her earlier search, she ignored the videos and scrolled further. It didn’t take long. Three more clicks and she was there. Famie read fast, her finger following, underlining each word.
Terrorwatch International archive 1969. The WEATHERMEN. WEATHERMAN. WEATHER UNDERGROUND. Named after the line from Bob Dylan’s ‘Subterranean Homesick Blues’ (1965) ‘You don’t need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows’, this radical American left-wing terror group conducted a campaign of bombings through the mid-70s.
Famie’s head cleared fast, her headache lost in the adrenalin rush. She sat on the edge of the sofa, all thoughts of returning to bed fading like the night. The lyric was also the name of this group’s 1969 document which called for the destruction of US imperialism and the establishment of world communism. There were speeches to read, links to banned organizations to follow and whole histories to buy.
She stared out of the window to the already lightening sky; lines of grey cloud were flecked with egg-yellow sunlight, but Famie saw none of it. She looked back at the note.
Suddenly she was Slot again; assessing, judging, evaluating. She shook her head.
‘Nah,’ she said to the room. ‘You have to say that seems unlikely.’
14
Thursday, 7 June
FAMIE FIXED A pot of coffee and set herself up at the kitchen table. She flexed her fingers, took a deep breath. Three cups later she had composed her letter of resignation. She knew it was too angry and forced herself to walk round the flat a number of times. ‘Leave with grace,’ she heard Charlie say. ‘Why cause more trouble?’ she heard her mother say. She drained the coffee.
‘Fuck it,’ she said, and hit send.
Her phone rang. The display said ‘Andrew Lewis’, then, in smaller letters, ‘Be nice’.
She picked up. ‘Christ that was quick,’ she said.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Hello, Andrew. Sorry. I’ve just this second copied you in on an email, and then you called. Anyway, I just quit.’ There was silence. ‘Sorry about that,’ she added. She heard the depth of his sigh, its force rattling the phone’s earpiece.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘I was half expecting it. Listen, could you come in, Famie? Something’s come up and I’d rather talk here if you don’t mind.’
Famie shrugged. ‘Sure. I was coming in anyway. Start saying goodbye to the troops, you know.’
She showered and dressed, feeling lighter than she had for weeks. In her best T-shirt and favourite jeans she caught the tube. Headphones on, she selected the brightest, jauntiest aria she could think of. She would not think of Harry who had died on the Kentish Town steps and she would not think of Brian who had ended up under the train at Pimlico. Instead she would focus on the tumbling melodies tripping through her head.
At the Green Park line change, forced to engage with her fellow travellers, she found the ordinariness of the rush hour upsetting. London was back to normal. The trains were on time, the carriages were full. It felt to Famie like a collective, city-wide shrug of the shoulders. Recent headlines had been all about keeping calm, carrying on and the spirit of the Blitz, but she was sure that most had concluded that this was, quite specifically, an attack on journalists. So, unless you were one, you didn’t have to worry.
Ungrateful bastards, she thought.
However, in a month’s time she wouldn’t be one either. So what did that make her? Maybe the terrorists had won, maybe she was running away.
She had resigned to the head of Human Resources, Gibson Perks, a man she considered a patronizing fool. She knew he was sensitive about his name so Famie had always made a point of calling him Gibbo, even opening her resignation email with a brisk ‘Hi Gibbo’. She looked forward to their imminent meeting. He would, she imagined, be sitting with bureau chief Andrew Lewis, and that conversation would be tougher. He was a man who cared about his staff, knew what it took to file a good story, and when the strikes were called last year he was the first one out. Famie knew he would be sad and disappointed in her. Might even try to talk her out of it. But her mind was made up.
At Canary Wharf she texted Sam and Tommi to let them know that she had quit as she had said she would, and was on her way into work to say her farewells. In the plaza she paused for the scrolling news ticker. ‘London terror attacks: three further suspects sought. New statement from Home Secretary today. Victim’s wife asks for calm.’ Famie removed her headphones and reached for her pass. She glanced at her old ID photo encased under the plastic; a glasses-free, serious-looking, fatter-faced thirty-something stared back. She remembered that Charlie had been particularly difficult when the picture was taken – tantrums, bed wetting, even swearing at her teachers. Famie fancied she could see the stress in her laminated eyes. She’d be happy not to see it every day.
Famie bounded up the steps to the IPS building, rode the lift to the fourth. As she gazed out at the cavernous newsroom, the tables and computers fully loaded, her stomach tightened. This was what she was losing, this was what she was saying goodbye to. She reached for the typewritten windscreen note in her bag, pulled it out. Read it over.
‘So be it,’ she said, reassured. ‘Let’s do this.’
Across the floor, and as expected, Lewis was in his office with Gibbo hovering outside. Famie kept her head down and reached it without anyone noticing she was in. ‘Hey Gibbo,’ she said to Perks’s back, then knocked and entered. A tidy office, glass on two sides, framed photos of family and certificates on the other two. The desk held only a computer screen, a phone and a bowl of sweets. Unlike many journalists of his generation, there were no trophies in Lewis’s office. No photos of his reportage, no souvenirs of Berlin, Chechnya, Johannesburg or Rome. It was one of the reasons Famie liked him.
Andrew Lewis finished his call, beckoning her to the single chair on the other side of his desk. Perks had followed her in and had to stand.
‘Mint?’
Lewis offered Famie the bowl. She shook her head. He unwrapped one, slipped it in his mouth.
‘Well,’ Lewis said, exhaling sharply. ‘As I said, I can’t say I’m surprised. Utterly miserable of course, but not surprised.’
She thought he looked slightly better than he had at Seth’s funeral. There was at least some colour in his cheeks, but only just.
‘How many?’ asked Famie.
‘You’re the twelfth,’ he said.
‘Thirteenth,’ corrected Perks, bowing slightly as he spoke, ‘Brook Hitching. This morning too.’
Lewis ignored him. ‘I suppose there’s no point in arguing …’
‘None at all,’ said Famie.
‘Thought not.’
She stared at her soon-to-be ex-boss wondering if he too was considering his position. The wrong side of sixty and clearly bruised by the forced reorganization, it wouldn’t be a surprise.
‘You could be the fourteenth, Andrew. You must have considered it,’ Famie said.
Perks rustled his papers. ‘Ah. I’m not entirely sure that is—’