Flint was shaking his head. ‘I’m not one for elections. Nor are my supporters. The reason we’ve taken our argument onto the streets is because we’ve lost faith with politicians. Broken Britain starts at the top, any fool can see that. Parliament’s a busted flush.’
‘Ah yes, your supporters. They’ve got you this far, which is nice of them, but you’ll soon find you won’t need their approval quite so much. Obviously you’ll want to stay true to your roots and all that, but the only way to climb the beanstalk’s by looking up. And that means appealing to those who until now have seen you as beneath their notice. And that kind of approval comes, in the first instance, at the ballot box.’
‘But I’ve said—’
‘And I’ve listened to your objection, given it due consideration, and filed it under I for ignore. How are you liking the brandy?’
‘I’m— It’s fine. It’s fine.’
‘Good answer. It is fine. It’s not magnificent.’ Judd paused to confirm his judgement, rolling the liquor round his mouth before swallowing. ‘Not magnificent. Now, I said election, you immediately jumped to Parliament. I was actually thinking of the mayoralty.’ He paused again. ‘That means mayor,’ he continued.
‘Of London?’
Judd emitted an involuntary snort of laughter. ‘
The blank look this provoked might have disheartened a less confident man, but Judd simply smiled and raised his glass. ‘Two years,’ he said again, and held the pose until Flint joined in the toast.
Later, after Flint had left, Judd ordered a second brandy and applied himself to the view once more. He’d suggested that this would be livelier had Flint’s appeal to the mob gone unheeded, but in truth, a few statue-topplers apart, he doubted a British mob’s ability to vent its rage properly. There’d have been smashed glass and torched cars – a few broken heads, a few cracked ribs – but it would have soon dissipated in an orgy of petty theft. Looting was the British mob’s default mode, and what began in principled outrage would inevitably end with high street showrooms ransacked. Actually, Judd approved. Depend on the British character – be generous, and call it human nature – to back away from revolution in favour of a flatscreen TV or two: instead of aristocrats lined up against a wall, you had magistrates working overtime for a few weeks, some hand-wringing columns in the broadsheets, and then it was back to counting down the shopping days to Christmas. But still, times were changing. Not so long ago, the notion of a Desmond Flint even standing for London mayor, let alone being in with a shout, would have brought the average Islington dinner party to climactic levels of self-congratulatory derision; but now, when the time came to announce his candidacy, you’d hear the foreboding the length and breadth of the liberal left. The status quo had been shattered, whether through greed, idealism, malice, or sheer stupid incompetence hardly mattered any more, and while the formerly complacent were still weeping over their losses, there were opportunities galore awaiting those prepared to rejig the shards.
‘Here’s to rejigging,’ he murmured to himself, raising his glass to his lips. It wasn’t magnificent, was merely fine, but it was early days yet.
Dogging. River didn’t know much about it, except that it happened: people watching strangers having sex in parked cars. There might be more to it, but you’d have to have taken part, or known people who had, to grasp the fine detail, and no one he knew had ever indulged. Or if they had, it had never come up.
‘Which one’s the car?’ Lech asked.
River pointed, and Lech pulled up a few yards parallel, causing those gathered in the parking area to stir, attention snagging on this new arrival the way movement attracts zombies. Most were huddled in the far corner, where a car rocked in response to internal activity. The group round the body car – Jane in the boot, Jim in the back seat – were two men and a woman, each in outdoor gear.
Unsurprisingly, there was little sign of internal activity in this vehicle, but the trio seemed entranced regardless.
Killing the engine, Lech said, ‘You’re a mess.’
‘Style tips welcome. But maybe later?’
‘Don’t be an arsehole. I meant, let me do the talking.’
He got out, and River followed.
It was dark, and the ground pitted and rough. One of the men had a torch, but held it down, so it acted as ambient glow, not floodlight. He had his back to Lech and River, but turned as they approached. The other two, a man and a woman, were standing on the other side. They might have been a couple.
Lech said to the lone man, ‘Anything good?’
