Gillian Slovo - Ten Days

He could have reached them, he should have, but something, perhaps the way they stood, so close to each other, held him back.

She was safe. That’s all that mattered. He saw them turning away. Like he should too. Get back to his own mother.

The fire around the police car had helped clear the path, especially now that some of the crowd were making for the bus. He could easily have gone and caught up with Lyndall. And yet knowing she was safe had released him.

To what?

To be here. In this moment. With all these people. Some of whom he knew. Some of whom he didn’t. All of them flushed by the heat, and the fires, and not knowing what was going to come next, and, yes, now he felt it flooding through him he could name it for himself: exhilaration.

His life upturned. His early rises to open and clean the shop and buy the breakfast and bring it back and leave it for his mother who, despite how hard he shook her, never would get up. And then the trudge to school, and he always on the late register, and those mouths that spoke at him words he was too tired to take much notice of, detentions handed out which he had to miss because it was time to get back to work again.

All those people — his teachers, his boss, the social workers. These people who were always telling him who he was and what he had to do. They were nowhere here. Fuck them. Fuck their rules. Fuck their prohibitions. The things they told him he couldn’t do. The things they told him he couldn’t have.

They were nowhere here. Those people who always told him what he was allowed.

The police, yes, he could see them, were there, but they just stood and looked. And here he was with all the others. He could do what they were doing, he could pick up a brick, look there was one, he felt its rough edges in his hand, and he could surge on and into one of the broken shops.

‘Let’s get ‘em’ — that chorus rising and he joining it — ‘Let’s get ‘em’, and he didn’t care who it was they were going to get, he just wanted to act, to be carried along by the crowd and to do what they were going to do. And already there was the sound of breaking glass, and shadows were flitting in and out of shops that had been blasted open, and people coming out, not just the young and not just men but all kinds of people, holding things they’d grabbed, and he too, all he had to do was move with the tide and he could have some of what they were having, things he’d only ever dreamt of owning: trainers, not the old sad ones he wore, but the ones other kids flaunted, the confident boys who stood out. He didn’t even have to break in or anything — he let drop the brick he was holding — it was already done. All he had to do was follow. And now, before it all disappeared.

‘Come on.’ He was talking to himself and to the night: ‘Come on,’ urging himself forwards, laughing even, oh how much he wanted to do something, anything, without first having to think of the consequences. To be in the now, like he never was.

Because. He stopped. The crowd surging past.

Because.

If he got caught.

If he didn’t make it home.

If he wasn’t there to buy the breakfast.

If he didn’t put it on the table.

If all those ifs came to pass.

She wouldn’t manage. Not if he wasn’t there.

‘Come on.’ They were calling to each other, and they were still coming on.

All of them but him.

He dropped his head and turned away.

9.55 p.m.

The table was groaning with Frances’s splendid food and lit by candles to soften the velvet night. Around the table were close friends, all of whom were supportive of his leadership bid. Not that it had even been broached: they knew, without Peter having to say as much, that what he needed more than anything was a break from the relentless pressure. So they gave it to him, following his lead in keeping the conversation light.

Oh, the joy of relaxing with people who understood and who, even more importantly, were not going to sell his every unguarded word to the tabloids.

He kept their glasses topped up with a particularly subtle Gigondas rosé, which had gone down very nicely. If the heatwave continued, which the weathermen were now saying was a distinct possibility, he would have to organise another couple of cases. He reached for the bottle.

‘Here, let me.’ Frances’s hand covered his before slipping under it to take the bottle. She got to her feet and began doing the rounds of the table, and by the time she’d reached him, the bottle was empty. He twisted round: there were two upturned empties in the ice bucket and that was it.

He made to rise, but Frances now laid her hands on his shoulders. ‘Don’t worry, darling, I’ll fetch more.’ For a moment she stayed where she was and, although it was hot, he felt his tight shoulders relaxing under the pressure of her kneading fingers. He let out a long sigh of contentment.

‘Me next’ — this from one of their guests.

Frances laughed, removed her hands and, having guaranteed ‘I’ll be back’, made her way through the garden and to the kitchen.

‘A marvellous woman. You lucky man.’

A chorus of agreement circled the table while Peter thought about his luck. He reached for his glass and drained it of its last few drops. More soon to come.

Not, however, that soon. The conversation moved through the greatest gaffes ever committed in public, and then, raucously, in private, and still Frances did not return. There were bottles in the wine fridge: he knew because he’d put them there. He turned to look through the darkness and towards the house.

The kitchen was lit up, so he could see her clearly. She was standing with her back to him. She wasn’t moving — not bringing out dessert, then — and she wasn’t anywhere near the wine fridge. What on earth? He was about to go and check on her, but when she turned to look his way he saw that there was a simple enough explanation for her immobility: she was on the phone. He could see her nodding as she held it to her ear. Someone must have phoned, although he hadn’t heard the ringing, which, given they’d rigged up an amplification system, was odd.

She seemed to be staring straight at him, although since she was in the light and he in the dark he knew that she wouldn’t be able to see him. Perhaps she was just glaring in that way of hers in order to transmit to whoever was on the other end that they needed to stop talking and hang up. Which is exactly what happened. Her hand moved the phone down to the counter.

She’d be back soon. He turned to their guests. And heard her calling. ‘Peter.’ She’d stepped out of the kitchen, phone in hand. ‘You had better take this.’

He glanced at his watch. Nearly ten. It must be important or Frances would have given the caller short shrift. He sighed and pushed himself to his feet. ‘Duty calls.’ He took a step forward, only to trip over the blasted dog, who was always underfoot.

‘Steady.’ As the dog yelped, one of the guests reached out a hand to stop Peter falling. ‘Better have some coffee, old boy.’

To prove that he wasn’t really drunk, he walked in a deliberate straight line to the kitchen, where Frances stood, phone still in hand. ‘It’s the Commissioner,’ she said. ‘Something about Rockham.’

‘Covering his arse, I bet.’ Peter reached for the phone.

But Frances kept hold of it for a moment. ‘If it’s serious, take it seriously. With the PM at the summit, this is your chance. The Party already knows what you’re capable of; if you play this right, you can also show the Country.’

‘Indeed.’ He took the phone from her. ‘Home Secretary here,’ sitting down as he listened to what Joshua Yares had to say. In the background, Frances busied herself making coffee.