But there were more important things to occupy his mind than the pleasures of self-analysis.
Budget Day was just under a fortnight away, so this seemed the obvious timelimit referred to.
But his own importance in all this was still a mystery. The official attitude to him for twenty-five years now had been quiet suppression. Nothing dramatic enough to bring him into the public eye. He was never allowed to become a hero — or a martyr. The storm surrounding his resignation was allowed to subside. But his efforts to rejoin Parliament in opposition were efficiently and unobtrusively thwarted. And thereafter he found himself continually and inevitably channelled into obscurity.
Now suddenly power had been handed back to him. He was worth bribing, worth threatening. And he had no idea of the reason why.
“You’d best be on your way then, sir.”
The old man’s unease showed clearly through his deference.
“I’II call the lift for you.”
“No, don’t do that, Jody. I’d rather leave nice and quietly. I could probably find my own way out without being seen, but it’s been a long time since I was here and I shouldn’t like to give the impression of prowling about. But I’m sure you can find me a nice side exit if you try.”
Jody obviously did not like the idea of Matlock ‘prowling about’. He stood uncertainly for a moment, then said with stiff formality, “Come this way please, sir.”
Five minutes later Matlock was walking across Westminster Bridge.
He paused to peer down at the Thames. The crystal clear water was dotted with hover-taxis and sight-seer craft, though there were fewer of these than had once been the case before travel restrictions had become more stringent. The purification of the Thames had taken place during Matlock’s own lifetime. Now it was worth fishing off Westminster Pier.
We have done something worth while. We have made an open sewer into a waterway fit for the barge of a queen.
The romantic thought amused him. The visionary in him had been left a long way behind.
But there is a poem I once knew. About Westminster Bridge. ‘Earth has not anything to show more fair.’ That’s it.
Something of comfort began to steal over him as the lines came back.
Something about ‘a calm so deep. The river glideth at his own sweet will. Dear God! The very houses seem asleep. And all that mighty heart is lying still.’
That mighty heart.
What shall I do? rose the great cry in his mind. How shall it all end?
He turned in anguish to continue his walk. Coming towards him from the south, unhurrying, his loose robe flapping in the slight east wind, was the bearded man he had seen outside his flat the night before.
Matlock turned quickly. He wanted no conversation at the moment. His mind was confused, in turmoil. He had to have time to work out the full implications of the morning. This seemed the day for old quotations for now another rose into his mind.
He who hath wife and children hath given hostages to fortune.
To Browning. Hostages to Browning.
He set off at a brisk pace back the way he had come. Once off the bridge he glanced back. The bearded man had fallen further behind. But as he turned into Victoria Embankment his sense of being pursued suddenly doubled and his legs seemed to lose their strength. They felt old, wasted.
Like dry sticks. Sticks with expensive cloth flapping around them. How shall I escape?
He glanced round again. There was no sign of the bearded man. Just ahead was a building he knew well. The Globe Slow-Theatre. He and Lizzie often went there. He did not even pause to look at the posters but strode quickly across the foyer to the ticket machines. Clutching the metallic disc he headed for the escalator. He stepped on and was sucked up into the green-lit dimness above.
Having no idea which dance was being performed today, Matlock had no logical preference for any level. He got off at the third for no better reason than that this had been Lizzie’s choice on their last visit, though he had argued in favour of the fourth as giving a more aesthetically pleasing angle for that particular dance.
At this time of day there was little difficulty in finding an empty box. He pressed the button which opened the door.
He entered an ovoid cubicle, soundproofed to prevent disturbance from or to the neighbouring boxes. The glass shell before him was so clear that, as always he had to touch it to make certain it was there. He leaned back in the ergonomically designed chair and brought his attention to bear on the stage.
The Slow-Dance was the artistic product of an aesthetic theory which had its roots in the orientalization of Western philosophy in the last three decades of the twentieth century. Meditational processes, flower symbolism, the new Hermetism and a myriad of other elements had combined to produce the simple proposition that all art should mirror the great imperceptible movements of life, invisible yet inevitable — the blossoming of a flower, the growth of a tree, the cycle of the seasons.
The ageing of man, thought Matlock.
But his mind was already beginning to react to the scene on the stage below.
Five dancers knelt in a circle. They faced inwards but their bodies were arched back till their heads almost rested between their ankles. Their eyes were closed, the lids painted a matt white so they stared dully, blankly, sightlessly from the circular stage.
In the centre of the circle stood another dancer. He stood upright, heels slightly raised, arms by sides, hands with their palms facing forward. All the dancers looked as if they were resting in perfect stillness but Matlock knew that slowly, inexorably, they were moving. This was one of the classical rising movements and would take at least another three hours to complete. They must have been at it for over an hour already.
He settled back in his seat to enjoy the performance. It was one of the most relaxing experiences he knew. It was the awareness of movement without the perception of movement that drew out time into long valleys of peace, he had decided. Like watching a clock, which moved though you could never see it moving.
How much of the hour had gone, he did not know. But suddenly the performance was horribly, violently disrupted. From the side of the auditorium appeared a man. He staggered across to the circular stage and tried to climb it, but collapsed with his legs trailing over the edge. He was hardly a yard from one of the choral dancers, and the sight of that body heaving with the effort of breathing so close to the exquisite stillness of the dance was an obscenity in itself.
But worse followed. From all sides of the auditorium came the police. Tall dark-uniformed men, about a dozen of them, guns at the ready, moving without haste (though relatively their movements seemed violent, outrageous) towards the stage.
The fugitive looked round wildly, made a final effort and dragged himself wholly on to the stage. He was shouting now, opening his mouth into a cavern of terror and despair. But the whole scene was made even more horrible to Matlock because the glass shell before him kept all sound out.
The police reached the side of the stage. Ten of them stopped there. Two vaulted lightly on to the platform.
The fugitive backed away, crashing into one of the choral dancers and sending him flying. He was old, Matlock saw. Old and terrified. This was no escaped criminal, he knew. This was one who had fled the moment of death. This was a man whose time had come and who had broken under the knowledge.
The police had reached him. They bent down and took him gently by the arms. He screamed silently. Shook them off and flung his arms around the central dancer. The police pulled, the dancer toppled. For a few vile moments they all thrashed around in orgiastic violence. Then Matlock saw one of the police press an anaesthetic disc on the back of the old man’s neck and within seconds he was as still as the remaining choral dancers who had held their position throughout the confusion.