‘It’s Andrea bloody Blackman.’ The blank look on Carlyle’s face told her that he was none the wiser. ‘Olivia’s mum.’
‘And “Jemima” is Alice?’
‘Yes. The woman has used her in one of her tawdry little columns.’
‘What does Alice think?’ Carlyle asked.
‘I think it’s bloody hilarious,’ said Alice, sticking her head round the kitchen door. ‘Olivia’s mortified, though. And she has to put up with this kind of stuff all the time.’
‘Poor kid,’ Carlyle clucked. ‘Imagine having your life turned into a newspaper column. That must be tough.’
‘But did you go over there to smoke dope and be sick?’ Helen asked.
Alice stepped into the kitchen. Not for the first time, she had borrowed his Clash T-shirt. ‘Nah. We only smoked a little. No one puked up. Olivia’s mum has to exaggerate things to make her stories more interesting.’
‘What will they say at school?’
‘For God’s sake, Mum,’ Alice pouted, ‘no one pays any attention to that rubbish.’ She gave her dad a shameless wink. ‘Anyway, my grades have been really good recently.’
‘Yes,’ Helen admitted, ‘but-’
Alice cut her off. ‘Even the Headmaster said “well done” the other day.’
‘Long may it continue,’ said Carlyle with feeling. A couple of years earlier, Carlyle and Helen had been summoned to Dr Terence Myers’s office after Alice had been suspended for possession of cannabis. At the time, Carlyle had been both surprised and relieved that his daughter had only got a suspension. All the same, he was in no hurry to repeat the experience.
‘And,’ Alice squealed, ‘I’m giving up the drugs. It’s all getting a bit boring.’
Giving them up? Carlyle thought suspiciously. ‘I hadn’t even started them at your age,’ he grumbled.
‘It’s a different world today, Dad,’ Alice told him. ‘Kids grow up quicker. I’m probably already as mature as you were when you were nineteen, or even twenty.’
Fucking hell, thought Carlyle, that’s a result. Let’s just hope she doesn’t change her mind again next week.
‘I’d say you’re already more mature than he was when he was thirty,’ Helen grinned, giving Carlyle a dig in the ribs, ‘at least.’
‘As if.’ He gave them both a hurt look.
Alice did a little jig of delight. ‘Face facts, old man.’
‘Old man?’ Carlyle echoed. ‘In that case, maybe you can let me have my T-shirt back.’
‘I don’t know about that,’ Alice said, beating a hasty retreat towards the safety of her bedroom.
‘Thank you, Jemima,’ he shouted after her. ‘Make sure it’s washed and ironed – inside out – when you’re finished with it.’
‘Leave the kid alone,’ Helen admonished him. ‘You don’t need to iron a T-shirt.’
‘But it is The Clash,’ Carlyle reminded her. ‘You have to show some respect.’
Helen, always more of a Paul Weller devotee, was less than convinced. ‘Yeah, right.’
‘Seriously. That T-shirt is vintage.’
‘Just like you,’ Helen couldn’t resist saying.
‘It cost me a tenner from Camden market thirty years ago.’
‘And the rest.’
‘Anyway. It’s irreplaceable. It needs to be properly looked after.’
‘It’s just a bloody T-shirt. You can probably get a new one on the internet.’ With that, Helen padded off into the living room. After adding some more hot water to his tea, Carlyle followed her. Lowering himself onto the sofa, he rested his head on her shoulder and lifted his feet on to the coffee table.
On the TV was a story about the arrest of a dozen men on suspicion of the commission, preparation or instigation of an act of terrorism in the UK. A serious-looking blonde reporter Carlyle didn’t recognize stood in front of a fluttering police tape on a suburban South London street and began speaking live to camera: ‘Searches at several London properties began after the arrests, with detectives and forensics experts looking for any scientific evidence of materials that could be used to make explosives. The counter-terrorism operation targeting some of those arrested had been under way for some time, and is described as “significant”. At least some of those arrested are believed to have been under surveillance.’
‘That doesn’t tell you much, does it?’ Carlyle mused.
A familiar face appeared next to the blonde. Metropolitan Police Assistant Commissioner Quentin Collymore was the country’s leading anti-terrorism officer. He began explaining how the raids were launched to take action in order to protect the public. ‘This,’ he said carefully, ‘is a large-scale, pre-planned and intelligence-led operation involving several forces. The operation is in its early stages, so we are unable to go into detail at this time about the suspected offences. We know we face a real and serious threat from terrorism and I would like to thank the police and security service for working to keep our country safe.’
‘Sounds like bollocks to me,’ Helen scoffed. Somewhat more of a liberal than her husband, she had always been rather bolshie when it came to what she considered the ‘political’ areas of Carlyle’s work.
‘They have clearly got something,’ Carlyle said gently, not wanting to have the same conversation for the millionth time.
‘But we’ll never know, will we?’ she countered.
‘We might, we might not,’ Carlyle said. ‘That’s just the way it is. These guys could be doing a great job, they could be doing a shit job – you’re right, we’ll never know. But you’re not going to put it to the test and then find some nutters from Stoke, or Bradford or Blackburn or wherever, are able to waltz down here and blow us to smithereens.’
‘You’re beginning to sound like Harry Ripley,’ Helen teased.
‘We should build a big wall round the M25 to keep all these fucking people out,’ Carlyle opined, warming to his theme.
‘You could have a word with your mate Christian Holyrod,’ his wife smirked. ‘They could deport you back to Scotland while they’re at it.’
‘Me?’ Carlyle folded his arms in mock indignation. ‘I’m as much of a Londoner as you are.’ They both knew that wasn’t true. Helen’s family had been Londoners, born and bred. Carlyle’s parents had only arrived from Glasgow in the 1950s, heading south as de-industrialization and long-term decline kicked in at home.
Helen kissed him on the head. ‘Speaking of Harry,’ she said, changing the subject, ‘I saw him a couple of days ago. He’s beginning to look really quite frail.’
Carlyle scratched his armpit. ‘That’s hardly surprising, given his age.’
‘I just hope that he can stay at home. I said I’d see about trying to get the council to give him more help.’
‘Good luck with that,’ Carlyle snorted. ‘With the budget cuts, he’ll be lucky to keep what he’s got.’
SEVENTEEN
Kicking off her shoes, Sandy dropped her bags on a chair in the corner. Ignoring Gavin Swann lying on the bed, scratching his balls, a half-empty bottle of beer in his free hand, she went straight to the mini-bar and pulled out a couple of miniatures of vodka. She waved them at Kelly, who shook her head. ‘Maybe after.’
‘Suit yourself,’ Sandy mumbled. Unscrewing both caps, she chugged them down, one after the other. In front of her, Sky Sports News was playing on the TV with the sound down. On the rolling ticker at the bottom of the screen, the news flashed up that star striker Gavin Swann was expected to be out of the game for up to a month with a groin strain. She tried to remember the name of the team he played for but the vodka had left her mind a complete blank. Football was so boring. It was unbelievable that blokes got so worked up about it; the whole thing was a joke. At the thought of it, she let out a quiet laugh.
Kelly gave her a quizzical look. ‘What’s so funny?’
‘Oh, nothing,’ Sandy replied. Beginning to feel happily pissed, she watched Kelly crawl onto the bed. Looking like a scared kid, Swann sat up, spilling beer over his crotch in the process.