“Are the Village People a thing again?” someone asked in passing.
Roddy checked his watch: 7:55.
The first camera was fixed to the top of a gatepost, there to monitor tradesmen, religious nuts and charity bandits entering the apartment block it belonged to, but would inevitably catch passing vehicles. Maybe seven feet off the ground, which would have worried lesser mortals, but Roddy was on a mission, and this didn’t look any harder than your average slam dunk—he’d never actually played basketball, but college kids played it in the States, so how hard could it be?
His breathing was a trial, though. His heart was beating fast.
He stopped on the pavement, knelt and laid the jack aside while he fiddled with a shoelace, or that’s what it would look like to the civilian suckers. Obviously his laces didn’t need tying: Where are we, dude, 2009? But he needed a moment. The thing about Roddy Ho—one of the things: he was a man of many facets—but one of the things about Roddy, he moved among people who didn’t see below the surface. To the slow horses, he was the RodMan, the Rodinator; give him a task, it was good as done. His presence was like money in the bank; anything they needed, he could provide. King of the keyboard, prince of the city, boss of the boulevards. But in reality, man, he had his moments. He was tender like that. He had a vulnerable side. All confidence on the outside, because he’d never failed yet, but that didn’t mean he was arrogant . . . They talked about imposter syndrome, and fact was, Roddy had that in spades—constantly aware there were others out there who’d love to take his place: to walk in his shoes and wear his shades. And that could get you down, brother. Sister, that could wear you out.
Good job he was invisible right now, because if these folk round here could see him, it would break their ordinary hearts.
But the hummingbird knows. And this particular hummingbird knew it had a job to do: for Louisa, for Ash, for all Roddy’s fallen. Smash the camera, blind the streets, and let Lamb’s plan unfold. What are we waiting for? We are waiting for . . . now.
He grabbed the jack and leaped into the air from a crouching start. Sheer poetry. Didn’t quite rhyme, though, in the sense that while his swing of the jack did cause damage, breaking a chunk of sandstone from the gatepost, it didn’t make contact with the camera, which remained intact and watchful, its little red eye undimmed. Roddy hit the ground splay-legged, and couldn’t prevent an oath escaping as pain shot through both ankles:
“Skywalker on a bike!”
And here’s another funny thing: The invisibility that a high-vis jacket bestows only goes so far.
The car had picked up pace, and they were moving at what passed for speed in central London. Judd was mostly watching River Cartwright’s reflection, and it was giving little away. But Welles’s words were fresh in mind:
Meanwhile, it was important to remember that he was Peter fucking Judd, and last night had been an anomaly. The things that happened around him that he wasn’t in charge of were things like who was getting coffee, and where was the nearest dry cleaners. Stuff the little folk dealt with. So a not insignificant item on today’s agenda would be an assurance that when the official history of last night’s misadventure was written, sealed in a box file and buried in a cabinet deep in the bowels of the Park, it would reflect the courage he’d shown under fire. It was important to curate such records sensitively—if he’d wanted history to be an accurate depiction of events, particularly those he was involved in, he wouldn’t have led a life in politics. He’d have been, I don’t know, a fucking teacher or something.
