‘To a crisp,’ she agreed. And then, to Loy, she said some words he didn’t follow: a pattering of tongue on palate in a language from far away.
‘… What?’
‘Oh, just an observation.’
Jim was holding the bottle upside down now, pouring its contents onto Struan’s sleeping bag.
‘Hey! What the hell you doing?’
‘What? Oh, this.’ He stopped pouring. ‘Well. You can’t drink it. That’s for sure.’
‘That’s for damn sure,’ added Jane, and they both laughed.
Jim started prowling the living space, shaking the bottle on the move: liquid spattered everywhere, onto Loy’s possessions, onto the metal walls.
‘Will you stop that?’ He moved forward, intent on delivering a physical rebuke, but he was on the floor suddenly, his legs a tangle beneath him. Jane stepped away, a small smile on her face. And then Jim was shaking the bottle in his direction, so it was spattering down the front of his sweater, his holey old sweater too long in the sleeves.
‘Right. That’s it. Fuck off out of here, both of you!’
‘I think he’s right,’ said Jane.
‘Bottle’s empty anyway,’ said Jim.
‘Shall we tuck him in?’
‘Not sure he’s in the mood.’
‘Fuck off,’ Loy said. He was sober again, he was sure of it. ‘Right off. Now.’
Who they were, what they wanted, other questions: they’d still be there in the morning. But one thing he knew: these people, this Jim and this Jane, were remnants of his old life, when he’d been in the Service. This was a call to action. Tomorrow he’d be back at the Park, banging on the door. Home was where, when you went there, they had to let you in. This, they’d want to know about. And he felt a spark light up inside, familiar from years ago: the feeling of belonging, and of being useful, and having something to bring to the fight. He didn’t yet know what the fight was, but had a shrewd idea of who the enemy were. And there was a strange smell, too, which wasn’t vodka but was more energetic, not to mention acrid, not to mention dangerous.
Not to mention this:
That Jim and Jane were leaving, the lighter Jim had just tossed towards the sleeping bag still tumbling over itself in mid-air, more slowly than gravity usually allowed, its flame somehow holding on despite the gyrations it was going through. Already Struan was getting to his feet, and had managed as far as his hands and knees before the lighter hit the bag the way shit hits the fan: with a
But no matter how hard he banged, how loud he screamed, nothing happened next except the rest of everything, or Struan Loy’s everything, which involved heat and flame and flesh and smoke and far too much noise, and then silence.
DAMIEN CANTOR WAS WATCHING a video submission, citizen footage of police officers hassling Yellow Vests, when his office door opened and two men entered, black-jeaned, polo-necked and plugged into their mothership, judging by their earpieces. Without word they proceeded to give his office a once-over as he muted his laptop, stared in amazement, and finally said, ‘Excuse me? Ex
Neither paid attention.
He picked up his phone then replaced the receiver: if Sally wasn’t in the room apologising already, she was either being forcibly restrained or had committed seppuku in reception. So he slipped into a smile, leaned back and said, ‘Okay, guys. Knock yourselves out.’
They did and they didn’t. There was no self-harm involved, but they quietly, methodically, finished their tasks: the point wasn’t securing the room, but letting Cantor know he was their bitch. Which made this office politics, and you didn’t get to his position – the fifty-second floor of the Needle, snugly inside the Square Mile’s nest of bankers, lawyers and other corporate scam artists – without knowing how to take a dagger in the back. So when they reached his desk he simply raised his arms so they could lift his laptop and check its underside. ‘Want to pat me down?’ he said. ‘Shall I assume the position?’ Not a flicker of response. ‘Give me a call now,’ he said as they exited. ‘Don’t be shy.’ They left the door open, but it was closed by invisible hands once Diana Taverner was in the room.
