Slough House полностью

He drew back from the edge, still on his knees, every muscle trembling. Sid, too, had shuffled away. With distance between them they were breathing in unison: hard ragged gulps of air. He was soaking wet, he noticed. Sweat and blood. Lake water. Something to think about if this ever happened again: bring a change of clothing. He wanted to be sick. Even as he had the thought, Sid threw up. He wiped his mouth, as if it were hers.

Somewhere behind them an owl hooted. And then, from the other side of the lake, another replied: Hu-whit. Hu-whuh. Life went on.

A CROWD DEFAULTS TO ITS dominant emotion. Recent years had seen children taking to the streets, angry at the damage their elders have done to their planet, but fired by hope nevertheless. For others, rage remained the easier option.

That evening, the Yellow Vests had gathered around Oxford Circus. Though traffic continued to flow, the protestors were confident of their right to occupy the pavements, and their presence had swollen to cover all four corners of the junction, blocking the entrances to the Tube. But rush hour was over, and there was no sign, tonight, of any counter-demonstration by those who were similarly angry but for diametrically opposed reasons, so the usual business carried on at the usual pace; chanting and jeering and outbursts of ragged song. Leaflets, as always, were thrust on anyone passing; these leaflets, as always, now littered the pavements. And all the while the usual targets attracted attention shading into abuse: the too well dressed, the obviously indigent, the clearly foreign, cyclists, drivers who sounded their horns in derision, drivers who failed to sound their horns in support, women in groups, women in pairs, women on their own, and anyone whose skin tone deviated from the yellow-vested norm, which self-identified as white, though would have passed for pasty grey. It was a scene that might have been playing out in any British city, any European town, though if you looked upwards, over the heads of the furious, you could only have been in London, among London’s beautiful buildings, framed by London’s starless skies.

Not far off – up Regent Street, just this side of Portland Place – a black cab hovered, its passenger having requested it to wait while he made a phone call.

‘I watched you on the news,’ he was told.

‘It’s important to remember the camera adds pounds.’

‘I suppose you’re expecting my thanks.’

‘Oh, I never expect thanks. I simply expect repayment, in due course.’ Peter Judd shifted in his seat, so he could see himself in the driver’s mirror. Put his free hand to his jowls, and gripped. His face tightened in response, and he became several years younger. Hmm. ‘They were wondering if you’d be available for an interview.’

‘I’d be delighted.’

‘I said no.’

‘You what?’

‘You’re not ready, Desmond. You don’t mind Desmond? I’d use Flinty, but I’d sound like an idiot, or a sportsman. Which yes, I know, same thing.’

‘… What do you mean, not ready? I’ve been giving interviews for months.’

‘To spotty interns on freesheets, or virgins from websites. Channel Go is hardly Newsnight, but its presenters can at least conduct a grilling without falling off their desks. So if, for instance, you should reveal your understanding that Downton Abbey was written by Jane Austen, you’re unlikely to find them agreeing with you. As happened in that Q&A with, what was it? The Little Englander?’

‘A New England.’

‘Thank you.’

On Oxford Circus, with no apparent triggering event, a protestor whose red sweater was visible beneath his high-vis tabard hoisted a newspaper dump bin, earlier stacked with Evening Standards, at the curved glass window of a clothing store.

It bounced off, to jeers, and some laughter.

Judd released his chin, and his face resumed its current age.

Flint said, ‘So you’re saying I need a crash course in general bloody knowledge before I’m allowed to lay out my vision for the future of this country?’

‘It wouldn’t hurt. But no, what I’m saying is, we need to be sure that the agenda you’ll be called upon to address will be focused on those issues you’re happy discussing. Rather than on anything which might reveal any, ah, gaps in your hinterland.’

‘Bloody cheek!’ That this sounded to Judd’s ears a token protest was no surprise. Token protests were the bedrock of Flint’s campaigning history. ‘And I suppose you have an idea as to how to set that agenda?’

‘I always have ideas, Desmond. It’s why I’m in such huge demand.’

‘It sounds like you’re in traffic.’

‘I am,’ said Judd. ‘I’m in a cab watching your troops perform their evening manoeuvres. Extraordinary. Like watching the Home Guard morris dancing, with malicious intent.’

‘Why do you never say anything I can understand first time?’

‘Blame my schooling. But let’s try this – you might want to get down here.’

‘I was there earlier. And it’s a peaceful protest. As usual.’