From deep among the trees Sparrow could feel an approaching beat, not as stealthy as it thought it was, and underneath that a more primal rhythm, one close to Sparrow’s heart. In the breast pocket of his camo-gilet, in fact: the thrumming of his mobile phone.
With the unhurried ease of a gunslinger he slipped it free of his pocket. “You pick your moments.”
The crashing came nearer; the sound of a large, urban type imagining it was possible to be silent in a wood.
“Oh, you know. Day off. I like to get close to nature.”
Excuse him a moment, he thought but did not say, and instead of listening to whatever his caller said next, fastened the phone into a Velcro-secured sheath at shoulder level, so he could speak and be heard and mostly hear, a long-established set of priorities. That done, he settled into a crouch and wrapped both hands round the stubby branch from which he had stripped all unnecessary twigs and leaves.
“Okay, this is the usual daily bullshit, nothing to worry about. Just because there’s a problem doesn’t mean we need a solution. We simply reframe the narrative. Hang on a sec.”
A figure crashed into Sparrow’s clearing and halted, scanning the terrain. Being of average height he was easily four inches taller than Sparrow, an advantage in most hostile situations except those where both parties have testicles but only one is wielding a club. Sparrow’s caught the newcomer sweetly in the crutch. He made a noise like a baby seal and collapsed in a heap.
“Yes, or dispense with the narrative altogether. This time tomorrow it’s yesterday’s news . . . No, I’m fine. Just doing some stretches.”
While his caller launched into a soliloquy, Sparrow focused on his immediate situation: weapon in hand, fallen warrior at his feet, trees everywhere . . .
He prodded his would-be attacker with a foot, eliciting a groan, then noticed the silence on the line.
“. . . Yeah, still here. And I have ideas, don’t worry. You know me. Ideas is what I do.”
Which was as well, because Anthony Sparrow had some work-related issues of his own that he’d rather his caller didn’t know about. Some, though, might be alleviated by discussion with Benito once the more aggressive aspects of the afternoon’s agenda had been settled. The fact that you were mortal enemies didn’t mean you couldn’t do business. If that were the case, you’d never get anything done. Besides, Benito was a fellow alpha. Sparrow mostly worked among malleable idiots, so it was something of a pleasure to negotiate on his own level.
Speaking of malleable idiots . . .
On closer inspection, he noticed that his victim wasn’t one of Benito’s crew at all, but on Sparrow’s own side. Still, there he was, prone and useless, and Sparrow holding a club.
His caller was still talking, so he tapped a finger against his phone three times, a signal both knew meant the conversation had passed all useful purpose. Then waited a moment.
“Not at all. What I’m here for.”
He waited some more. And then:
“Yes, prime minister. See you in the morning.”
And, call over, Sparrow raised his club and brought it down as hard as he could, and then again, and again, until this anonymous creature was where all his opponents ended, dumb and dusted at his feet.
The wind, with its hands in its pockets, whistles a tune as it wanders down the road—a jaunty melody, at odds with the surroundings—and the theme is picked up by everything it passes, until all of Aldersgate Street, in the London borough of Finsbury, has joined in. The result tends towards the percussive. A bottle in the gutter rocks back and forth,
