Gillian Slovo - Ten Days

‘In the marsh,’ he heard.

He came to with a start. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Your offices in Marsham Street? Is that where you want to go?’

He glanced at his watch: 5.53.

He could picture the fuss that would ensue if he pitched up at Marsham Street at such an early hour. Private secretaries, diary secretaries, and their secretaries, researchers and the tea makers who lubricated them all would be rousted from their beds and made to taxi in, and all because their Secretary of State was having trouble sleeping. Not the kind of reputation he wanted and, anyway, he needed time to think and calm to do it in. Where better than in his office behind the Speaker’s Chair? ‘If you wouldn’t mind dropping me at the House.’

‘Of course, sir.’

‘St Stephen’s entrance.’

He caught the surprised flicker of the driver’s eyes.

‘I like to, every now and then,’ he said. Because it reminded him, although he didn’t say this, of his first time walking in as an MP. And of the time before as well, the very first in his life, when he was the boy on a school trip who’d said out loud what he was thinking — that one day he would belong to this place — and then had to endure the mocking hilarity of his peers. ‘Is that a problem?’

‘I’m fond of St Stephen’s myself,’ the driver said. ‘We all are. But it only opens at eight.’

‘Drop me by Carriage Gates, then. I’ll walk the rest of the way.’

5.57 a.m.

The car carrying Met Commissioner Joshua Yares swept round Parliament Square and before it turned into Bridge Street Joshua’s gaze was snagged by the sight of a Jaguar that had stopped by Carriage Gates. That any car had been allowed to stop there rather than being waved away or through was what first attracted his attention, but what kept him looking was the sight of the door of the Jaguar being opened by a waiting policeman to allow the disgorgement of the portly figure of Home Secretary Peter Whiteley.

‘Strange.’

‘It’s early,’ the driver said. ‘And he is the Home Secretary. They wouldn’t normally stop there.’

‘Hmm.’ No point in telling his driver that the oddity Joshua had been pondering was not this random act of hubris but the sight of Peter Whiteley choosing to walk anywhere and so early. Wonder what he’s up to, he thought, as his car rounded the corner and Big Ben began to toll the hour.

6 a.m.

‘It’s 6 o’clock, and, as the countdown for next year’s election begins, the heatwave continues.’

As if anybody needed to be told that the temperature and humidity were breaking all records and had been for weeks. Cathy flung herself across the bed, banging on the radio to cut it off.

She was boiling. Picking up the sheet she had thrown to the floor, she wrapped it round herself and went over to the window.

Just as she thought: the bloody radiator was on. Those bastards in the housing department. They’d promised they’d solve the problem — the way they’d talked had led her to believe they had already solved the problem — but for the fifth day in a row the central boiler, which barely functioned in winter, had switched the whole estate on at five. The crazy logic of a council: too mean to hire a proper engineer to fix the glitch but prepared to pay the enormous electricity bills that would fall to them when the Lovelace came down.

It’s like a microcosm for the world, she thought: burning before final destruction.

A shower. Cold. That’s what was required.

She prolonged the shower’s beneficial effects by letting the water evaporate as she moved into the lounge.

With its heaters blaring, this room was also unbearably hot. If they don’t fix it soon, she thought, I’ll pull the radiators off the wall: that’d force their hands.

Catching the fury behind that intention, she thought maybe Lyndall was right: maybe they should cut their losses and move before the estate breathed its last.

The bedroom had to be cooler than this. She made her way back and, having opened the curtains, settled herself on top of the bed. And there she lay, letting her thoughts drift as she watched the night edged out by a bloodied dawn that washed the dirty white walls with pink. Soon after, bands of crimson and purple and deep dark red began to streak the sky in defiance of the rising sun.

Such a ferocious sight. Red sky in the morning: an omen.

For days now she’d had a feeling of something not being right. It wasn’t just Banji’s recent reappearance, or the impending closure of the estate; it was a feeling that something awful was about to happen. To her. To Lyndall. Or to somebody they knew. Banji perhaps.

She seemed to see again that vision of him, dwarfed by the helicopter, and then the lonely slope of his back as he had walked away.

She should have kept him with her, should not have let him go.

A crazy thought. She couldn’t have stopped him. Never could.

It’s the heat, she thought, it’s playing with my mind. Except this was not the first time that a similar foreboding had gripped her. She’d felt it just before her father had died, for example, or when…

No, she would not think of it. She reached out and switched on the radio.

‘It’s 6. 15,’ she heard, ‘and the temperature in London continues to climb.’

1.45 p.m.

All Joshua had to do was ask for coffee and it would be instantly supplied. But hours of speed-reading through seemingly unending piles of urgent for-his-eyes-only documents made him want a short break, and, as well, it would be good for him to be sighted by some of the thousands who worked in the building, especially on his first day.

He made his way down the corridor, reaching the lift just as the door began to glide shut. The policeman inside the lift jabbed at a button and the door slid open.

‘That’s all right, officer. I’ll take the stairs.’ As Joshua turned away, he took with him a frozen image of the man’s rictus grin.

He pushed through the swing doors and made his way down, two steps at a time, to the senior canteen on the third floor.

It was a quiet room, and luxurious, its windows lining the whole of one wall to look out on the Thames, and with plush tables and chairs that wouldn’t have been out of place in a five-star restaurant. Another of his predecessor’s extravagances, although, from what he’d read that morning, a comparatively small one. Even so, given the dire state of the Met’s finances, it would have to go.

No need, anyway, for silver service, especially when all you were after was a coffee. ‘No, thanks,’ he told the waiter who was bent on ushering him to the Commissioner’s special table, ‘I’ll get it myself.’

There was a queue by the takeaway counter, which evaporated at his approach. ‘Go ahead,’ he said to an officer who should have been in front of him, but she smiled and slunk away.

‘Coffee,’ he said. ‘Strong and black,’ and when the woman behind the counter reached for a cup from above the coffee machine, he added, ‘Takeaway.’

‘We can easily fetch the cup, sir. When you’re done.’

‘I’ve no doubt that you can. But why should you have to? A paper cup will do.’

Although she had a state-of-the-art espresso machine, the coffee she poured into the Styrofoam cup smelt stale. Still, she made it strong to suit his taste.

‘Thanks. How much is that?’

‘Oh no, sir, you don’t need to pay.’

‘Yes,’ he said, thinking that this was another thing he was going to have to change, ‘yes, I do.’

Turning to leave, he saw his deputy, Anil Chahda, sitting at a corner table with what looked to be half of the senior management team. They were clearly well settled in, the table littered with empty plates.