His heart kicked up a notch. ‘Yes, of course.’
Gyongyi appeared, face like stone.
He reasoned he had thirty seconds, maximum. As she bent to retrieve the tray, he rescued the comments card from under the plate. Placing a finger over his lips, he took a biro from her breast pocket. He scribbled furiously on the card and handed it to her. He leant in close and whispered fast. ‘I’m in big trouble with her. She’s not a good person. Please post this to the address I’ve written here. Please. Please.’ He slid the card back under the plate.
She held the tray and stared back at him. Startled. Frightened.
He placed his hands over hers. ‘Please, Gyongyi. Last post.’
She nodded, and left the room.
35
4.35 p.m.
THE MINICAB DROPPED the leader two blocks from 26 Boxer Street. He paid cash and said nothing to the driver. He didn’t tip. A three-minute walk to the house. He paused on the doorstep, key in the door. Late afternoon, a heavy heat, the street was quiet. The house was quiet too. The woman had taken the next shift in the hospital. He had the space to do what he had to do.
He turned the key slowly and slipped inside. Standing still, head cocked, he felt a breeze from the backyard blow through the house. It brought with it the shuffling, slapping sound of a man in sandals. He felt the smoothness of the wooden-handled knife in his trouser pocket. His thumb traced the spine of the folded blade all the way to the butt. He rolled it around his fingers.
From the kitchen he could see him pacing the courtyard. The table had two half-drunk cups of black coffee on it and a used, unwashed plate. A dirty knife and fork had been discarded nearby.
The leader picked up both mugs, the plate and the cutlery, and put them in the sink. He wiped the table with a cloth, then rinsed, folded and placed it over the mixer tap.
‘Oh hi,’ said the sweating man, pushing sunglasses back on to his forehead as he entered. ‘Thought I heard you back. How is he?’ He wore a Clash T-shirt, cargo shorts, sandals. A large plaster covered his right ear.
It was clear the sweating man hadn’t given a thought to his appearance.
‘Dressed for the revolution, citizen?’ said the leader.
He glanced down at his outfit as if seeing it for the first time. ‘It’s hot.’ He shrugged. ‘What should I be wearing?’
The leader stood with his arms folded. ‘You know we’re close to operations, yet you dress for the beach. It’s a mindset. A lazy mindset. A counter-revolutionary mindset.’
The sweating man was uncomfortable now, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. In a glance he noticed the now-clean table.
‘Look, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t mean anything, honest.’ He retied his ponytail. ‘I’m ready for anything, you know that.’ He looked imploringly at the leader. ‘Is there something you’d like me to do?’
The leader didn’t move. ‘Sit down,’ he said. He pointed at the nearest kitchen chair, then drew out a second chair to sit opposite. He leant forward, elbows on his knees.
The sweating man sat down, eyes suddenly wide. ‘We’ve done this before,’ he muttered.
The leader ignored him. ‘Our friend has been poisoned. You asked how he is. Well, he is poisoned. With radiation of some sort. He should recover. The dose he received was small, too small to cause permanent harm.’
‘Well that’s a relief—’
‘Not a relief, no. He was betrayed. Someone knew where he’d be, someone gave him away. A traitor.’ A sheen had appeared on the leader’s face, neck and scalp. ‘Who do you think it might have been, citizen?’
Eyes still wide, hands gripping the sides of the chair, the sweating man’s words deserted him. ‘What? Well … you said … but that …’
‘Who betrayed him?’
‘I have no idea. Are you sure—’
‘Of course we are sure.’ The leader’s hand was back in his pocket. His fingers slowly traced the metal rivets of the knife handle. ‘You heard and saw the evidence. The dead drop was compromised. We have to look for someone who might be collaborating.’ His glasses had slipped down the bridge of his nose; he pushed them back. ‘Someone who has a history of contact with fascists.’ His voice was getting quieter. ‘Where would you start, citizen?’
The sweating man was silent. His eyes darted around the room, his head moving left and right. Appraising his options.
The leader knew it. ‘Thinking of running?’
The sweating man shook his head. ‘Thinking this is madness.’
‘How so?’ Almost a whisper. His left hand palmed the knife.
Finally, the sweating man had had enough. ‘Because you’re fucking deranged, that’s why. You were raised to see conspiracy, so you always see bloody conspiracy. Well get this, smartass. There isn’t one! There really isn’t! There are no traitors here, just revolutionaries waiting to be told what to do.’
He stood abruptly, knocking the chair over. The leader stood too, arms at his side. His chair didn’t move. The sweating man was eight inches taller than the leader, who looked surprised by the advantage.
The sweating man leant in, their faces just a few centimetres apart. ‘But you never tell us anything,’ he said. ‘All we get is secrets and silence. You think I’m a collaborator, or a traitor or something ridiculous. You have no evidence, you just have your bullshit theories. So I’ll take my chances, thank you very much.’ He strode to the door, reached the foot of the stairs in two strides. He turned. ‘I know you’ll remind me about how you have my parents’ address, how you know where they live, blah blah blah.’ He wiped his face with his T-shirt. ‘More bullshit.’ He leapt up the stairs.
The leader stood still, listening to the sounds of a man packing, fast. The fingers of his left hand felt for the blade again, tugging it free. He tucked it in his waistband, covering the handle with his shirt. He wiped a handkerchief over his face, then moved to the foot of the stairs and waited.
The breeze had gone, the house was airless.
The packing didn’t take long. The sweating man appeared with a rucksack inside two minutes. The sight of the leader leaning against the balustrade caused him to pause briefly on the top step.
‘You know, this could have worked,’ he said, climbing down. ‘When you talked about how we had learnt from jihadists. How they had shown that small groups, organized, working together, could change history. We were listening to that.’ He had one hand on the banister, one on his rucksack strap. ‘How revolution could start with just a truck and a few knives. We got that. But nothing happened. We failed. It was all fucking noise and posturing.’
There was no eye contact. The leader had kicked off his shoes and was staring at the floor. The sweating man passed him and walked the four metres of the hall, not hearing the leader fall into step behind him. He reached for the latch. As the sweating man pulled at the door, the leader reached for his ponytail and yanked hard. There was a brief, strangled shout of alarm as his head snapped back. The point of the knife entered with the blade flat, cutting edge to the right. With one left-to-right jerk he severed the larynx and most of the muscle groups. The leader stepped sideways, the man fell to the floor.