As he talks I realise he’s enjoying himself, holding court, having an audience. And then it dawns on me that I haven’t seen him speak to anyone since I arrived. He’s barked orders, taken reports, had brief conversations about logistical issues, all with his fellow ex-SAS inner circle or the newly recruited chancers and religios. But I’ve picked up no sense of camaraderie, no friendship, just cold business.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” I say as it hits. He turns to look at me.
“What?” he asks.
“You’re lonely. That’s it, isn’t it? It’s lonely at the top for the poor slave trader. You don’t have any friends, only subordinates and acolytes. You don’t want a girlfriend, necessarily. You just want someone to talk to.”
He says nothing, but the smile has gone from his face, the mask has dropped and there’s a warning in his eyes. He doesn’t try to deny it, though.
“So you think I’ll just hang out with you while you tell me top Parliament facts, and bitch about how hard it is pimping for a vampire? You think we’ll end up buddies? That I’ll gradually come to understand, to empathise and commiserate? And how do you see this ending, huh? Will I fall into your arms and soothe away your ennui, finally won over by your dignity and…”
A single, shocking slap to the face silences me. But only for a moment.
“You are fucking deluded, you know that? Look at where we are. Look at what you do. You’re the fucking king, Cooper. You don’t get to have friends. You get to have subjects. You don’t get understanding. If you’re lucky, at best you get loyalty, at worst obedience through fear and then betrayal. That’s the job, your majesty. Fucking live with it.”
I fall silent, breathing hard, furious and defiant.
He waits for a moment, although whether he’s waiting for me or him to calm down, I’m not sure.
“You just demonstrated exactly why I want you around, Kate,” he says softly, his face full of something like admiration.
“What, ’cause I think you’re pitiful?”
“No. Because you kept talking even after I slapped you.” He turns on his heels and walks away briskly. “Try anything clever and you’ll be shot,” he says over his shoulder. “See you at seven sharp for dinner.”
SO HERE I am, given the run of the Houses of Parliament. I’m not alone, though. I’ve got a shadow; a bored looking soldier who lurks around corners and watches from a distance in case I try and scale the barbed wire fences, stroll through the minefields or jump into the river… actually, that’s not a bad thought.
I gaze out of a first floor window, considering the current of the Thames. I can see it swirl and roil beneath me, strong, tidal and deadly. Freezing cold, too. I dismiss the idea. It would be suicide. I glance at the ornate cornices that decorate the outside, wondering if maybe I could climb down at low tide. But no. Again, suicide.
A rope perhaps? I file that thought away.
I notice a sign directing me to the House of Lords and I figure I may as well take a look. I’m surprised to find a guard on the door. He sits on a chair staring into space, not enough wit even to read a book to pass the time. As I approach I wonder if he’s in some kind of coma, but he looks up as I reach for the doors.
“You got the boss’s permission to go in there?” he says, his voice a low moan of thoughtless boredom.
“No. Do I need it?”
He purses his lips and shrugs. “Knock yourself out,” he says. “The one with the tattoos swings both ways. You clean up after yourself, though. If you damage anything, I mean. I’m not bloody doing it.”
I have no idea what he’s talking about, but I push open the door and enter the second chamber.
I’m greeted by a young black woman in a short black dress.
I stare at her for a moment, in surprise. Then my gaze moves past her to take in the room beyond. There are about twenty women here, all dressed casually. The upper benches have been made into little nests, with blankets and pillows and piles of clothing. It only takes me a moment to work out what I’ve walked into.
“Hey Jools, we got fresh blood!” yells the woman in front of me. A short Asian woman steps down from her nest and walks across the floor towards me. All eyes are on me.
Jools stands in front of me, hands on hips, assessing me.
“You a bit scrawny,” she says. “They’ll feed you up, though. You got a name?”
“Jane. I’m, um, not… Are you the boss here?”
A chorus of cackled laughter makes me blush. “Look behind you, sweetheart,” says Jools. I turn and there, written across the doors in white paint is the legend: “We are your lords now. Bow down before us.”
“Only boss here is Spider,” she says. “But he visits me more than most, so I got his ear, like. You know?”
A woman on the bench behind her laughs and says: “You got his cock, more like!” More laughter from the ranks.
I can’t help but assess Cooper’s preferred concubine. My height, small hips and breasts but a pretty heart shaped face. A woman, but girlish. Tough though, streetwise.
“So that makes you, what, top dog in the harem?” I ask.
“Summat like that, yeah. So we’ll get you a bed sorted then you can tell us your story.”
“No,” I say hurriedly. “I won’t be staying.”
She cocks her head and narrows her eyes, all welcome swept away by sudden suspicion.
“That so.”
“I’m a doctor,” I say, as if that explains anything.
“Shit, I was an MP,” comes a voice from somewhere to my left. “Don’t make no difference here.”
“I mean,” I go on, “that I’m here to help. How many of you are there?”
Jools doesn’t answer.
“Are you all well? When did you last have a check up?”
“We all clean, if that’s what you mean. If we weren’t, we’d be in the river.”
“That’s not…” I’m too uncomfortable to know what to say. I’m out of my depth here.
“How many of you are there?” I ask again.
“Nineteen,” says Jools.
“Okay. Thanks. I’ll, um, I’ll see you around, I guess.”
Jools steps forward and gets right in my face, chin up, eyes wide. “Not if I see you first,” she says.
I can’t get out of there fast enough.
Yet as I walk away from Cooper’s rape room, it occurs to me that there are nineteen women in that room, and the ones who haven’t gone all Stockholm will be very angry indeed.
I have nineteen potential allies on the inside. It’s not much, but it’s a start.
THERE IS A special quality behind the eyes which all the men who work for Cooper have. Something cold and dead and hidden. Every one of them has it. The guy following me around Parliament is the same. It makes sense, I suppose; to be the kind of person who treats other people as cattle you must either have to kill some part of you off, or be born without it in the first place.
Whatever that part of a person it is — compassion, empathy, simple kindness — it dies easy. All it takes for it to wither away is peer pressure and time.