Hari Kunzru - My Revolutions

“Chris?”

“Miles?”

“I couldn’t decide if it was you. Someone had to move you in case you burned yourself. Man, what are you doing here?”

“I don’t know. I came with some people.”

“You must be cold. Give him a blanket, Milly.”

Milly looked about thirteen, but there was something about the way she carried herself that made me think she must be a good deal older. She draped a patchwork quilt over my shoulders, looking at me incuriously with her ceramic blue eyes. Someone was building up the fire and within a few minutes I was huddled next to it, poking my feet as far forward as I could get without melting the soles of my boots.

“You fought them, you know.”

“What?”

Miles grinned. “The people who tried to move you. You’d passed out completely, but you woke up and tried to fight them.”

“Shit.”

“You didn’t hurt anyone.”

I watched Milly make tea and my mind raced as I tried to work out how much trouble I was in. I didn’t think Alison had any connection with Miles. I saw no way he could have engineered this encounter unless Alison had been placed in the street, waiting for me to go by. But I hadn’t seen him since he was kicked out of Sylvan Close. I knew I needed to be careful.

“It’s been a long time,” he said. I nodded, looking over his shoulder to see if I could spot Alison in the crowd. People were milling about, looking for breakfast, making their way down to the river to wash.

“You were calling out, too, you know. When they were trying to move you.”

I must have looked worried, because he held up his hands and smiled. “Impossible to tell what you were saying. Just noises.”

We sat for a while, poking the fire with sticks. I was beginning to warm up, to master my shivering.

“What have you been doing?”

“Not much. You know.”

“You’re still in Hackney?”

“I’m staying with friends.”

“I’ve got a houseboat down in Chelsea. Just off Cheyne Walk.

You should come and take a look at her one day. She’s called the

Martha . You can still see a place on the side where she got hit by

a German shell at Dunkirk.”

“Very patriotic.”

“Goodness. Dirty words, coming from you.”

Milly made beans on toast, which I ate gratefully, the reviving

warmth of the food doing what the fire hadn’t quite managed.

“Very bad about Northern Ireland,” said Miles, as I scraped the

plate with the side of my fork.

“Let’s not discuss politics. Not today.”

“That’s unlike you.”

“What?”

“Not to want to talk politics.”

“I feel like shit, Miles.”

“Of course. Sorry. How’s Anna?”

“She’s — ne.”

“So you’re still in touch?”

I was too tired to lie. “Sure.”

“And Sean? I haven’t seen him around.”

“Why would you? You’re not exactly his favorite person.”

“I suppose you’re right. Good to know you’re all still together,

though.”

There was a massive hinterland to his words, a realm of

insinuation. He reached into a pocket and pulled out a pen and

a little notebook. What kind of person carried a pen at a festival?

He scribbled something down, tore out the sheet and handed it

to me.

“Take this, while I remember.”

“What is it?”

“My address. The boat. I’ve put my phone number on it.”

“Thanks.”

“You really should come by. I always feel I ought to keep up with

friends a little more than I do. People have missed you, Chris.”

“Oh, yeah? Like who?”

“Me, for one. But there are others. I’ll be honest, people say things. What with all the raids and everything — well, when heavy people like you and Sean and Anna drop out of sight — you know. There’s talk.” He left it hanging in the air. “Chris, whatever you’re into, you should be careful.”

I stood up and brushed myself down. I was covered with dried mud and bits of grass. “I should find my friend Alison.”

“Really? Perhaps I’ll see you later.”

“Maybe. Do you know her?”

“Alison?”

“Her surname’s Jenner, I think. Dark hair. Used to work at BIT.”

“No, doesn’t ring a bell.”

“I thought she might be a friend of yours.”

Miles stood up and put his hands on my shoulders. It was an oddly intimate gesture for such an unphysical, self-contained man. “If I don’t see you, call me when you get back to London. I mean it. If you ever need someone to talk to about anything. Anything at all.”

I waved to Milly, thanking her for the beans in a strained, over-cheerful voice. Then I went around the camp, trying not to get spotted by Alison as I hunted urgently for someone who was driving back to London. In the end I got a lift with a couple who said they could take me as far as Reading. I got into the backseat of their old Hillman Avenger and was halfway to Bristol before I realized I’d left my sleeping bag in Alison’s tent.

Miles remembered the festival as a bucolic moment, a highlight of our shared youth. It was evidence, he told me, that we’d once been friends. He hoped that even if I felt angry now, I appreciated that he’d acted in as decent a way as possible.

“Unfortunately,” he said, in a tone of infinite resignation, “Mrs. Ellis is being pigheaded. It was put to her that now might be an appropriate moment to step down from frontline politics and do something more suitable.”

“What does suitable mean?”

“Voluntary sector. Academia. The places they keep the more intractable old lefties.”

“And she refused.”

“Sadly.”

“Because your insinuations aren’t true.”

“Yes, they are.”

“Who says?”

“You do.”

I watched the shoppers trudging past the café window.

“You’re an evil bastard.”

Miles sighed. “Chris, I’m not doing this to be vindictive. In fact, you shouldn’t go away with the impression that I give a damn one way or the other, because quite frankly I don’t. I don’t care what you did thirty years ago, or what Pat Ellis did. Believe me, I’d rather be doing anything with my day but this. I realize how it’s going to disrupt your life, but it’s unavoidable. You’ll be in the spotlight for a while, which is also unavoidable. The thing to remember is that it’ll only be for a short time, the exposure. They get bored. It stops. And you won’t be on your own while it’s happening. We’ll help you through. You’ve had a good run, but it’s over. You have to understand that.”

“I’m not doing anything for you.”

“Chris, I’m sorry. But it’ll be a lot better if we do it my way. The other way you wouldn’t like. It’s time to come out of hiding. It’s time to tell your story.”

I asked him if he wanted another coffee. He shook his head. “So,” I asked wearily, “what are you proposing?”

“You’ll give an interview to a journalist, a man called Gibbs. He’s someone I’ve worked with before. Very reliable. An arsehole, of course, all those guys are, but he’s not unpleasantly rabid. In it, you’ll describe your remorse for your actions, your secret double life and so forth. Your “explosive revelation”—as their headline writer will no doubt dub it — is the fact that a serving government minister was present during the manufacture of the Post Office

Tower bomb. You’ll throw yourself on the mercy of the British justice system. You’ll be given the opportunity to remind readers how young you were. In return, I’ll try to minimize the legal consequences. It’s not something I’ll be able to control entirely, but I promise I’ll give it my best. Have you told your wife yet?”