‘In Exeter? Jesus Christ.’ Slamming door, quieter acoustic. ‘You’re on the train now?’
‘Yes, and without a ticket. Gonna be expensive.’ Charlie’s voice was a breathless whisper.
‘I’ll pay it,’ said Famie. ‘What happened to the girl?’ The rustle of fabric crackled down the phone.
‘Mum, listen.’ Charlie was making her voice as small as she could. ‘I was at the cinema too. It happened just before I got out. We got delayed because Emily needed a piss. When we got out people were screaming and this girl was just lying there, holding her stomach. Blood everywhere. But, Mum …’ A deep breath. ‘She looked like me. She had crazy hair and the same rucksack. I noticed her going in. Emily pointed her out and we laughed. From behind we looked the same.’
Famie closed her eyes. She fought to keep her voice calm, to keep the bile from rising in her throat. ‘When was this, Charlie?’
‘About an hour ago. We stayed until the police and ambulance came and she was still alive then. Her friends were with her. We didn’t see the attack so we didn’t say anything. But, Mum, she looked like me!’
‘Where’s Emily? Is she with you?’
‘She’s got an exam tomorrow. Last one. At least I’m done.’
‘When does the train leave?’
‘Two minutes.’
‘Find the busiest coach,’ said Famie. ‘Sit with people. Talk to them. Make friends. All the way. I’ll meet you at Paddington.’
‘Can we keep talking till the train leaves, please?’ said Charlie.
She sounds like she’s ten years old again, thought Famie.
‘Sure,’ she said. ‘And you do know that this is probably a coincidence, don’t you. That no one really looks like you. That it was probably a gang thing. Or a mugging. Or a domestic.’
There was a long pause from the train.
‘OK,’ said Charlie. ‘Let’s stick with that one. But you don’t believe it, Mum, and neither do I. I’ll go and make friends.’
42
9 p.m.
THE LAST OF the day’s sun at 26 Boxer Street. Hari Roy, Abi Binici and Sara Collins were in the courtyard. The student, the leader and the woman. Three chairs, three cups, one pot of tea. Despite the heat, Hari sat with a blanket over his legs. His eyes were closed as he listened to the to and fro between the leader and the woman. Binici was explaining again why he thought Zak had run away and why they now had to be extra vigilant. But Hari knew what had happened, had seen the blood stains under the rearranged matting in the hall. Zak was dead, Binici had killed him, and he, Hari, was responsible. He knew that. He had deflected suspicion, sown doubt, and Zak had paid the price. His body could well be still in the house. In the heat and under the blanket, Hari felt his flesh creep.
Wade in filth …
And now he was in terrible danger. He had tried to get ‘left behind’, to convince the leader he was a liability, yet here he was, back on the front line. He’d passed the note to the woman Gyongyi but had no way of knowing if she’d done anything with it. He had to assume she hadn’t. That he was on his own.
It was another airless evening. The street’s open windows and doors made for a backdrop of constant cacophony: music, voices and barbecue clatter that drifted in from all sides. It gave a surprising cover of privacy to the conversation at number 26. Binici was talking – lecturing – about Britain as a failed state, its moral collapse and the self-evident virtue of violent rebellion. The woman, Collins, made the occasional comment but this was not a discussion. It was never a discussion.
‘In 1913 Lenin told his wife that revolution wouldn’t happen in his lifetime,’ said Binici. ‘That they were nowhere. That the Czarist secret police were too strong and the opposition too weak. But! But! It turned out that Russia was hollow. A clanging, empty vessel. And when the revolution came it was a spontaneous, disorganized, chaotic uprising. Well.’ Hari heard him sip tea, put his cup on the ground. ‘This so-called United Kingdom is decaying fast,’ he continued. ‘The people know they are run by a failed class of the hyper-rich, the neoliberal elite who care nothing for their homes, their jobs or their families. Their votes are irrelevant, their marches are irrelevant. They see that now. Even the so-called left are millionaires and children of the establishment. When the people see what a few committed revolutionaries can achieve, they will welcome us.’ Binici spread his arms wide. ‘Imagine it! Lenin said one of the chief symptoms of every revolution is the sudden increase in ordinary people taking an active interest in politics. Well? Isn’t that now?’
Embrace the butcher …
‘Tomorrow we greet five more citizens. Thursday we strike.’
There was a pause.
‘Strike what?’ said Collins.
So she didn’t know either.
‘If we’re making this great leap forward, citizen,’ Collins continued, ‘it would help if we knew where we are going.’
Hari opened his eyes. Binici, fully in the house’s shadow, was smiling and shaking his head. White collarless shirt, black baggy trousers. Collins, sitting in the last corner of the yard with sunshine, wore large-framed shades, a loose-fitting grey T-shirt and denim shorts.
‘Tomorrow, Sara, tomorrow. When the others get here. Then we can plan. Then your training will be for the benefit of all the cells. They are all watching, you know. Every citizen is waiting for us. As we waited for May twenty-two, they wait for us. When we move, they move. Hearts on fire, brains on ice.’
Hari stirred and they turned. He pulled the blanket higher. In truth, his throat and stomach were largely recovered but the blanket gave him some cover, a shield between him and the madness in front of him.
‘What sort of work is it?’ he croaked out.
‘Noble work,’ said Binici. ‘Historic work.’
‘Suicidal work?’ Under the blanket, Hari held his breath.
Binici removed his glasses, wiped them with a cloth, replaced them and blinked twice. ‘We are the vanguard. Our duty is to lead, not to conform. There are always dangers associated with storming the palaces of the ruling class. Of course there are. But we are smarter. We are prepared. This is progress, citizen, and progress can have a price.’
So yes, then, Hari thought.
Change the world …
From somewhere not far away, a screech of brakes and the percussive thumps of metal-on-metal collisions. Hari jumped, then instinctively turned his head to the street.
‘That’s close,’ he said.
Binici and Collins were on their feet. They waited. Suspicious.
‘Too close,’ said Collins.
They ran inside. From the hall they heard shouting – two, maybe three male voices – then screaming. From the bay window of the upstairs room they could see a white van had crashed into a number of parked cars and then stopped, blocking the road. The van door was open. A crowd was gathering, some had hands in front of their faces, others were making calls.
‘Someone’s under the wheels,’ she said.
‘Doesn’t involve us,’ said Binici.
Hari was silent. He could see that his car was one of those hit by the van. The rear passenger door had caved, its window smashed. The van had then buried itself in the Ford Galaxy beyond. He strained to see what was happening. Might this be a police operation? A rescue? Had the woman in the hospital passed on the note after all? Or was it just an accident, of no significance to anyone other than the injured and the owners of the damaged cars?