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  ‘The clerk?’ I sipped the sharp whisky. ‘The court was a madhouse. Whatever they dish out there, it isn’t justice.’

  ‘You didn’t do too badly. Criminal damage, setting off explosives, assaulting the police? Even for a first offence, a fine was pretty lenient.’

  ‘I can’t explain it. Believe me, I don’t work for the security services.’

  ‘I didn’t think so.’ She nodded to herself, giving me the benefit of the doubt. ‘Still, we can’t be too careful. Our ancient democracy has its eyes and ears everywhere – cameras in teapots, microphones behind the chintz. Every time you take a pee some security man at MI5 is making a note of your manhood. We all do it. Those old togs you’re wearing – I take it they’re your disguise?’

  ‘In a way.’ I tried to straighten the lapels of the shiny herringbone suit. ‘I bought it from our gardener. I didn’t want to look too…’

  ‘Middle class?’

  ‘We’re supposed to know better. Anyway, we’re deeply unfashionable now. People think we need a good kicking.’

  ‘We do.’ She spoke matter-of-factly, as if confirming a change in the weather. ‘Your solicitor gave the game away. David Markham, consultant psychologist to Unilever and BP. Now you’re fighting with the police and trying to change the world. You’re lucky you weren’t locked up.’

  ‘And what about you? The Chinese girl and the clergyman?’

  ‘Sounds like a Bartok opera.’ She searched for her mobile. ‘I’ll call my doctor friend again. He should be in the theatre by now.’

  ‘Operating?’

  ‘Putting on a play written by his patients. Queen Diana.’

  ‘That sounds rather touching.’

  ‘No, sadly. They’re Down’s children. It’s sweet, but a total bore. Snow White rewritten by Harold Pinter.’

  ‘Interesting…It might make more sense.’ I tried to stand up. ‘I’ll see my GP on the way home.’

  ‘No.’ She placed a firm hand on my forehead. ‘Your wife doesn’t want you dying in the back of a cab. Besides, I need you to help us with our next project…’

  I watched her stride away on a stylish heel. She had brought me home out of genuine concern for me, but already I felt that I was becoming a prisoner. I lay back in the armchair, scanning what I could see of this scruffily attractive house, so different from our formal pile in St John’s Wood, furnished by a rich man’s daughter endowed with too much good taste. I liked the faint smell of pot, garlic and outrageous perfumes. Children’s drawings were pinned to the mantelpiece, stained with wine tossed into the fireplace, but it was clear that Kay Churchill lived alone. Dust lay on the coffee table and writing desk, a nimbus that seemed like an ectoplasmic presence, a parallel world with its own memories and regrets.

  A school bus moved past the window, filled with small girls in felt hats and purple blazers, the uniform of an exclusive private primary, whose fees would educate an entire East End bantustan. I was sitting somewhere in Chelsea Marina, an estate of executive housing to the south of the King’s Road and, to my mind, the heart of another kind of darkness.

  Built on the site of a former gasworks, Chelsea Marina was designed for a salaried professional class keen to preserve its tribal totems – private education, a dinner-party culture, and a never-to-be-admitted distaste for the ‘lower’ orders, which included City dealers, financial consultants, record industry producers and the lumpen-intelligentsia of newspaper columnists and ad-men. All these were blackballed by the admissions committee, though most would have found Chelsea Marina too modest and well bred for their rangier tastes.

  As Kay paced the hall, speaking into her phone, I wondered how she fitted into this enclave of middle-class decorum. She was telling off a luckless hospital receptionist, raising her voice to a fishwife shriek as she described my chest injuries and likely brain damage. All the while, she was watching herself admiringly in the coat-stand mirror. When she poured a tumbler of Scotch I noticed the deeply bitten nails, and the strong nose she had picked since childhood.

  ‘Dr Gould’s on his way.’ She sat on the arm of my chair and checked my eyes, bringing her body close to me. ‘Actually, you look better.’

  ‘Good. Anything to get away from that court.’ I pointed to the quiet street beyond the bay window. ‘So this is Chelsea Marina. It feels more like…’

  ‘Fulham? It is Fulham. “Chelsea Marina” is an estate agent’s con. Affordable housing for all those middle managers and civil servants just scraping by.’

  ‘And the marina?’

  ‘The size of a toilet and smells like it.’ She raised her head, as if catching a whiff of this noxious aroma. ‘The whole place was purpose-built for the responsible middle class, but it’s turning into a high-priced slum. No City bonuses here, no share options or company credit cards. A lot of us are really stretched. That’s why we’re waking up and doing something about it. We’re holding a series of street demos.’

  ‘The problem is the streets all lead to the nearest police court.’

  ‘We can cope with that. Remember, the police are neutral – they hate everybody. Being law-abiding has nothing to do with being a good citizen. It means not bothering the police.’

  ‘Sound advice.’ I caught myself breathing too deeply, and eased the air from my lungs. ‘Learn the rules, and you can get away with anything.’

  ‘That’s always a shock to the middle classes.’ She ran a finger through the dust on the coffee table, like a bacteriologist surprised by a new growth in a Petri dish. ‘What was going on at Olympia?’

  ‘Nothing…’ I waited as Kay settled herself on the settee, ready to listen to me, and realized that this strong-willed and attractive woman was lonely. I was tempted to describe my search for the Heathrow bomber, but she was a little too watchful. She had heard my statement to the magistrates, and probably assumed that I was involved in the protest movements at a more serious level. Defensively, I added: ‘A cat show – sounds trivial, but it reaches the headlines. It’s unexpected, and makes people think.’

  ‘Spot on.’ She nodded vigorously. ‘We need to unsettle them. It’s not enough to be sincere – they assume you’re a whining Trot or some dotty old dear. You have to stick your neck out. I’ve tried, and God knows I’ve paid the price.’

  I pointed with my glass to the wall posters. ‘You’re a movie critic?’

  ‘I teach film studies at South Bank University. Or did.’

  ‘Kurosawa, Klimov, Bresson…?’

  ‘The last gasp. After that came entertainment.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ It was time to leave, but I found it difficult to rise from the chair. The whisky sealed in the pain, as long as I sat still. I scanned the titles printed on the hundreds of videos packed into the shelves behind the desk. ‘No American films?’

  ‘I don’t like comic strips.’

  ‘Film noir?’

  ‘Black is a very sentimental colour. You can hide any rubbish behind it. Hollywood flicks are fun, if your idea of a good time is a hamburger and a milk shake. America invented the movies so it would never need to grow up. We have angst, depression and middle-aged regret. They have Hollywood.’

  ‘Good for them.’ I pointed to the folders on the coffee table. ‘Script submissions?’

  ‘From my class. I thought they needed a day trip to reality. There’s too much jargon around – “voyeurism and the male gaze”, “castration anxieties”. Marxist theory-speak swallowing its own tail.’

  ‘But you cured that?’

  ‘I told them to take their cameras into the bedroom and make a porn film. Fucking is what they do in their spare time, so why not look at it through a camera lens? They wouldn’t learn much about sex, but they’d learn a lot about film.’

  ‘And that went down a treat?’

  ‘They loved it, but the dean of studies wasn’t impressed. I’m on suspension until they work out how to handle me.’

  ‘Quite a challenge.’

  ‘I thought so too. So, with all this time o
n my hands, I decided to start a revolution.’

  ‘A revolution?’ I tried to seem impressed. She appeared edgy and frustrated, staring at the frayed carpet like an actress deprived of her audience. The revolution, when it arrived, would at least provide a good script and some valuable parts.

  ‘You put on a great show this morning,’ I told her. ‘In fact, I’m surprised they found you guilty. Fining someone in holy orders…’

  ‘Stephen Dexter? Chelsea Marina’s resident vicar. I’m not sure if that qualifies as a holy office.’

  ‘So the Shepherd’s Bush protest was religious?’

  ‘Not for Stephen. Poor boy, he’s one of those priests who feels obliged to doubt his God. Still, it makes him useful to have around, especially on a demo.’

  ‘Twenty-seven pounds worth of damage? What did you do – upset a litter bin?’

  ‘We tore down some posters.’ She shuddered with genuine revulsion. ‘Corrupting stuff.’

  ‘Ungodly?’

  ‘In a way. Deeply seductive.’

  ‘At a shopping mall? What was this? A pro-vivisection reading room?’

  ‘A travel agency.’ She turned to face me, chin raised. ‘As it happens, we’re against the whole concept of travel.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Tourism is the great soporific. It’s a huge confidence trick, and gives people the dangerous idea that there’s something interesting in their lives. It’s musical chairs in reverse. Every time the muzak stops people stand up and dance around the world, and more chairs are added to the circle, more marinas and Marriott hotels, so everyone thinks they’re winning.’

  ‘But it’s another con?’

  ‘Complete. Today’s tourist goes nowhere.’ She spoke confidently, with the self-assurance of a lecturer never interrupted by her audience, holding forth in this shabby living room in her passionate way. ‘All the upgrades in existence lead to the same airports and resort hotels, the same pina colada bullshit. The tourists smile at their tans and their shiny teeth and think they’re happy. But the suntans hide who they really are – salary slaves, with heads full of American rubbish. Travel is the last fantasy the 20th Century left us, the delusion that going somewhere helps you reinvent yourself.’

  ‘And that can’t be done?’

  ‘There’s nowhere to go. The planet is full. You might as well stay at home and spend the money on chocolate fudge.’

  ‘The Third World gains something…’

  ‘The Third World!’ Her voice rose to a derisive hoot. ‘Gangs of coolies who mix the cement and lay the runways. A select few get to mix the cocktails and lay the tourists.’

  ‘Hard grind, but a living.’

  ‘They’re the real victims. God, I’d like to let off a bomb in every travel agency in the country.’

  I held my ribs, no longer thinking of whether I could walk as far as the King’s Road. Kay Churchill was launched into a well-rehearsed rant, counting off the chipped beads in her catechism of obsessions. According to Henry Kendall, the tape found in the Heathrow air vent had contained a similar tirade. I remembered the amateur video of Laura lying among the glass and suitcases, and listened to Kay addressing her real audience, the weary magistrates who would finally consign her to a cell in Holloway. It was hard to believe that this intriguing but erratic woman had the self-control to plant a bomb. But had she heard on the protest grapevine of the carousel attack, and fed the Heathrow tragedy into her inflamed world-view?

  ‘David?’ She sat beside me, a motherly hand on my forehead. ‘I enjoyed our chat. I’m sure we see things the same way. We need more recruits, especially someone at the Adler. When you’re better we’ll talk about it. We’re moving into a more serious phase.’

  ‘Violence isn’t for me, Kay.’

  ‘Please, I don’t want violence.’ From her lips a soft scent breathed over me. ‘Not yet. But the time may come sooner than people think.’

  I looked up at her wary but determined face, at her uneven teeth and steady eyes. I guessed that for years she had been detaching herself from the real world, and in her mind rode a ghost train through a fairground she had built herself.

  ‘There was a bomb at Heathrow,’ I reminded her. ‘Two months ago. People were killed.’

  ‘That was dreadful.’ She gripped my hands in sympathy. ‘Meaningless, though. People who use violence have to be responsible. It’s such a special key. Everyone dreams about violence, and when so many people dream the same dream it means something terrible is on the way…’

  A motorcycle’s throat-clearing rumble disturbed the road, drumming against the windows. After a coda of obligatory throttle work, a Harley-Davidson approached the kerb and stopped beside Kay’s Polo. The rider, in full biker’s gear, switched off the engine and sat back to savour the last tang of the exhaust. Behind him on the pillion was a small Chinese woman in a Puffa jacket, helmet hiding her face. I had seen them both at the magistrates’ court, but now they seemed less demure.

  They sat together, black astronauts of the road, in no hurry to dismount, preparing themselves for re-entry into the non-biker world. Kay waved to them from the window, but neither acknowledged her, immersed in the arcane formalities of unbuckling the clips and press studs that held their costumes together.

  ‘I need to get home.’ With a huge effort I managed to stand, propped upright by the ballast of alcohol. ‘The local vicar? He was at Hammersmith Grove this morning. I need a doctor, not the last rites.’

  ‘I’m not sure Stephen would pronounce them. He’s grounded himself.’

  ‘Grounded? He’s a pilot?’

  ‘As it happens, he was. Though that isn’t what I meant. He was a flying vicar in the Philippines, island-hopping with the word of God. Then he crash-landed on the wrong island.’

  ‘He can’t fly?’

  ‘Spiritually. Like you, he’s unsure about everything.’

  ‘And the Chinese girl?’

  ‘Joan Chang. She’s his navigator, steering him through the dark wood of the world.’

  I listened to the sound of heavy boots on the stone path. My head was clearing, as the anaesthetic effects of the whisky rapidly faded. Somewhere inside my chest a Rottweiler had woken from its sleep and was eyeing the world.

  ‘David, try to rest. Doctor’s coming…’

  Smiling at me in the kindest way, Kay took my hands and steered me towards the settee. Behind the living-room door was a poster of The Third Man, a still showing Alida Valli, a haunted European beauty who expressed all the melancholy of post-war Europe. But the poster reminded me of another Carol Reed film, about a wounded gunman on the run, manipulated and betrayed by the strangers with whom he sought refuge.

  Trying to steady myself as Kay went to the door, I realized that I was a prisoner in this modest house, trapped among the dreams of melodramas I had seen years earlier with Laura at the National Film Theatre. I could hear leather jackets unzipped in the hall, velcro strips torn back, and voices that talked of police heavy-handedness, an unnamed doctor and then, very distinctly, Heathrow. The doorbell rang again as I tried to calm the Rottweiler inside my chest and slumped to my knees on the dusty carpet.

  8

  The Sleepwalkers

  WOMEN MOVED GENTLY around me, easing off my shoes and loosening my belt. The Chinese girl leaned over the settee and unbuttoned my shirt. A faint but expensive scent floated between us, the tang of an unusual toothpaste, hints of the first-class lavatories on long-haul Cathay Pacific flights, a dream of sable coats and Hong Kong boarding lounges.

  Then a harsher odour intervened, the coarse petroleum reek of lubricating oil. The biker-clergyman, Stephen Dexter, lifted my head onto a corded cushion handed to him by Kay. His heavy thumbs touched my forehead, the clasp of a priest summoning a soul into the light.

  There was another figure in the room, a slim man in a black suit whose face I never saw. I guessed this was the doctor, Richard Gould, whom Kay had called. He sat behind me, listening to my lungs through his stethoscope. When he ga
ve me an injection I noticed his bloodless hands and chipped nails, moving in the furtive manner of a Philippine faith-healer.

  Waiting for the painkiller to take effect, he rested a hand on my shoulder, and I sensed a fleshless body anchored to me like an incubus, the drained physique of a doctor in his thirties, some exhausted houseman roused by Kay from his afternoon sleep. A less agreeable odour than engine oil or Cathay Pacific toothpaste hung around the stained sleeves of his suit, a hint of the unwashed bodies of Down’s children.

  Seeing that I was almost asleep, he finished with me and withdrew to the kitchen. The others deferred to him as he spoke, but I caught only my own surname. A refrigerator door closed and feet moved down the hall to the front steps. Chairs scraped around the kitchen table, and there were the sounds of the television news as I fell into a blurred half-sleep, the report of a fire in the bookshop at the British Museum.

  When I woke, Joan Chang was sitting on the chair beside me, smiling amiably under her bangs. The news broadcast was still playing in the kitchen, and I guessed that I had only been asleep for a few minutes. But I felt surprisingly better, and the pain in my chest and diaphragm was a faint echo of itself. I remembered the clear reference to Heathrow I had overheard before falling asleep, but decided not to follow this up for the time being.

  ‘Mr Markham? You’ve come back to us.’ Joan nodded with relief, as if expecting someone else to emerge from my sleep. ‘Kay was really worried.’

  ‘God, I’m breathing again. That pain…’

  ‘Richard gave you a shot.’ She wiped something from my chin. ‘Rest for half an hour and then go home. See your doctor tomorrow. No ribs broken, but maybe your spleen is bruised. Those police boots, I guess.’