‘When did you realize your crimes? Say it out loud.’ The student placed a curled finger under the sweating man’s dropped chin, pushed it back up again. ‘Tell us.’
The man bristled, leant forward. He turned his head and spoke his words to the leader. ‘My crime,’ he said, speaking with a controlled emphasis, ‘was not to see that globalization had made slaves of us all, that the corrupt oppressor class had control of the so-called left as well as the right, that human rights are an imperialist vanity and that elections don’t mean shit.’ He sat back.
The student leant in again. ‘What doubts do you have about our project?’
‘None. I have no doubts. This country is weak now. It is not how it was. Everyone knows this. Our analysis – your analysis – is the right one. It is ready for insurrection. The institutions are discredited, dysfunctional. All of them. Christ, even the ruling class attack their own Parliament and judges. The country is weak but our cells are strong. Some well-aimed blows and it all could crumble. So no, I have no doubts.’
The student kept his eyes on him. ‘That’s not quite right, is it?’ he said.
The sweating man’s eyes flashed with irritation. ‘OK, sure, well I found the whole secrecy thing difficult for a while. That’s not a secret. It’s the twenty-first century. Using old tech seemed weird to me. But I get it now. The best way to avoid detection is to have no digital footprint. I honestly get it. Typewriters, letter drops, invisible ink, phone boxes, all of it.’
The leader removed his glasses. He was getting restless. The student had to go for it now.
‘Are you a saboteur?’ the student said.
The question caught the man off guard and he looked startled. ‘Am I a what?’
‘Are you a saboteur?’ the student repeated, the words sticky in his mouth. ‘A class traitor. An informant.’
The sweating man’s face had changed from sneering aggression to extreme discomfort in a moment. His mouth fell open, his eyes darted between the student and the leader. ‘Sweet Jesus, you’re serious.’
The student punched him in the face. The leader took out a knife. Wooden handle, long blade.
Wade in filth. Embrace the butcher. Change the world.
22
Saturday, 9 June, 4.35 a.m.
THE STUDENT COULDN’T stop the leader’s words rattling around his head. He might as well have ‘embrace the butcher’ tattooed on his eyelids. And yesterday they had all learnt the longer version. Just before the leader performed the cut. He had closed his eyes, as though making an ecstatic religious utterance. Said the words came from a play. His voice was controlled, soft, but his eyes had been wild. He had glowed with pleasure as he spoke.
If you could at last change the world, would you step up and do it? Wade in filth. Embrace the butcher. Change the world.
Then he had taken the sweating man’s ear, stretching it out. The knife he rested on the top, the helix, its outer fold. He was ready to slice. He had addressed his words to the student and the woman. The jury.
‘The operation is close. Very close. Soon, all the citizens will strike. We will get our chance to make our mark. To strike against the enfeebled imperialists that devastate the lives of so many. But the closer we get to the enemy, the more likely their attacks on us. We must be watchful. Always watchful.’ He had stood on tiptoes. ‘We too have a traitor. Yes? And who else than the fascist?’
The leader had cut. The sweating man had screamed.
Now the student lay on his bed, staring at the small red bulb of a smoke alarm high above his head. He had done his best with the salve and the bandages. The sweating man had slept, but his breathing was shallow, troubled.
The student thought about his sisters and took courage. As soon as the shops opened he would check the newspaper. If the IPS woman had replied, he’d buy a prepaid phone and send the next message. He ran through the words in his head, then muttered them under his breath.
They felt right. He swung out of bed and dressed quietly.
23
7.45 a.m.
THE CARTERS’ SPARE room was tiny with barely enough space for the single bed and upturned wooden box that functioned as a bedside table. Famie hadn’t slept much. She’d texted Charlie from bed, then got woken up by her reply at four a.m. That had been that. She’d lain awake with images of yesterday’s journalist scrum at her front door running through her head.
A gentle knocking brought an already dressed Jo into her room. ‘Sorry to disturb,’ she whispered, ‘but thought you’d like to see the paper.’ She left a Telegraph on the end of the bed and exited.
Famie wiped sleep from her eyes and sat up. ‘Thanks,’ she called after Jo.
The paper had been folded at the Classifieds page. Her ad was nestled between an apocalyptic quote from the Book of Revelation and an advert for a new cat food.
Long-range forecasting is complicated.
Which way is the wind blowing?
Famie was pleased with it, given the haste of its composition. Her weatherman wouldn’t miss it. If he, or she, was looking.
She swung out of bed and pulled her hoodie over Sam’s old Def Leppard T-shirt that she’d ended up sleeping in. It came down to her thighs. Just about modest enough to eat breakfast in.
‘So we’re in then,’ she said, flourishing the Telegraph as she entered the kitchen.
A radio by the sink played classical music. Sam stood by a coffee machine, frothing milk. He raised his hand in acknowledgement. Jo was eating a bowl of fruit at a small, round kitchen table, with more cut flowers displayed in a tin jug at its centre. Delightful, thought Famie, though trying too hard. Who had fresh flowers at breakfast? Sam handed out three coffees. He pointed at what he could see of his old T-shirt. A good twenty centimetres hung loose from beneath the hoodie.
‘I looked for a Mozart but could only find Def Leppard,’ he said. ‘Suits you more than me anyway. Sorry it’s not longer.’
Famie pulled her hoodie tight around her. Kept her knees together. ‘It’s hideous. But thank you anyway.’
‘You can keep it if you like,’ said Sam. ‘If the media pile-on is still in position by your flat, you might need it again. You’re welcome here any time.’
‘You’re too kind,’ said Famie. ‘But I reckon it’ll be OK today.’
Sam and Jo exchanged glances.
‘You’re not just on page forty-five,’ said Sam. ‘You’re on page one too.’
With a sinking feeling, Famie unfolded the paper. An old photo of Seth Hussain was topped with the words ‘Slain man’s brother linked to al-Qaeda’. Her trained eye scanned the text – her name was in the last paragraph: ‘Detectives have been speaking to IPS journalist Famie Madden, 43, who is believed to have been in a relationship with Mr Hussain.’
She closed her eyes, sighed deeply. ‘They got my age wrong,’ she said. ‘But obviously the rest is true. Did everyone know?’ Sam and Jo both shook their heads. Then, another thought. A prickle down her spine. ‘Not good,’ she said. ‘Not good to be even a small part of this story.’
‘You think you might be a target now?’ said Sam.