When the ambulance arrived, the female paramedic chided her for climbing a ladder in a maxi skirt and high heels. ‘That’s an accident whimpering to happen,’ she said, in disgust.
Eva and Peter started to board up the window, to the sound of the crowd’s cheers and shrieks of excitement and dismay. Now they could see Eva in her nondescript clothes, with her unbrushed hair and bare face, they could not hold on to their previous belief in her.
PC Hawk shouted, ‘If she was a true saint, she’d be perfect in every way!’
A man with binoculars shouted, ‘She’s got sweat patches under her arms!’
A woman wearing a man’s suit and a dog collar said, ‘Female saints do not sweat, I think that Mrs Beaver has been posturing.’
PC Hawk had been ordered to get rid of the crowd. He shouted, ‘She’s been taken over by an evil spirit, and the spirit is in the holy chapatti!’
Some followed him to view the chapatti, which had been painted with preservative, varnished and was being exhibited in the local library. Others started to pack their belongings. There were emotional leave-takings, taxis came and went, until there was only William Wainwright sitting inside Sandy Lake’s tent. He might try to visit her in hospital tomorrow – but then again, he might not.
He was an anarchist, wasn’t he? And nobody could pin him down.
64
The twins were working on Brianne’s newly acquired desktop computer. They were exploring the labyrinthine corridors of the Ministry of Defence, after a failed attempt to destroy their father’s credit rating. It was hot in Brianne’s room and they were sitting in their vests and pants. Flies buzzed over half-eaten sandwiches.
From the open window they could hear students calling to each other, enjoying the Indian summer. A group of them were sitting on the grass outside Sentinel Towers, laughing and drinking from cans of cider.
A girl’s fragile voice sang ‘Summer Is Icumen In’.
Brianne muttered, ‘Fucking Performing Arts, don’t they ever stop performing?’
The girl’s voice was joined by others until each voice was weaving an intricate vocal pattern.
From a room where politics students had gathered to drink Polish vodka and condemn every known political system came the sound of bombs falling and machine-gun fire. They were remarkably good impressions – evidence of long hours of practice and, conversely, of the few hours spent in lectures or writing essays.
Brianne said, looking at the screen, ‘How many years, Bri?’
It was their private joke, short for, ‘How many years in prison?’
Their hacking was motivated as much by curiosity as it was by the accumulation of money.
Before Brian Junior could reply, there was a shocking crash and the door to the room fell in on them, followed seconds later by the sound of Brian Junior’s door collapsing. He tried to reach the computer to wipe the hard drive, but his wrist was chopped by a black-gloved hand. There was roaring shouting confusion.
Brianne was handcuffed, then Brian Junior. They were told to step over the splintered door, sit on the bed and keep quiet. Brian Junior could not work out who the people in the black overalls and smoked-glass helmets were.
It pained them both to see their computer, laptops, smartphones, cameras, notebooks and MP3 players packed carefully into evidence bags and cardboard boxes.
Brianne said, ‘You must know that we’re only eighteen.’ A woman’s voice said, ‘Yes, and playtime’s over, children. You work for us now So, if you wouldn’t mind removing your underwear and spreading your legs.’
When the twins’ orifices had been thoroughly examined, and they had been put into white forensic suits, they were led away. The other students in the block had been told to stay in their rooms and keep the main entrance clear.
Two people carriers with blacked-out windows waited for them at the kerb, their engines running. They were not allowed to speak before they got into separate cars, but Brianne communicated to Brian Junior that all would be well, eventually. And as Brian Junior was turned away from her, she shouted, ‘I love you, bro!’
Ho was lying in his own bed, kissing Poppy’s pregnant belly. He spoke to the baby, asking if it was a boy or a girl.
He should have been dissecting the cadaver he had been allocated, a Mrs Iris Bristol. She had donated her body to medical science because she’d spent her funeral money on a 46-inch 3D television. Ho was thinking that he ought to go back to Mrs Bristol and replace her intestines, which were strewn across the dissecting table.
Poppy had sent him a text:
Come at once
He had removed his gown, mask and boots and hurried to Poppy’s side.
She needed money again. She explained why to him, but it was a complicated story and Ho’s English was not top notch. Sometimes he thought the English textbooks he had used in China were a little out of date.
Since he had been in England, he had not heard a single person say, ‘Top hole!’
Poppy smirked at the memory of Brianne and Brian Junior being led away, in silly white suits and handcuffs. She was glad she had made the phone call. The person on the other end had asked her to keep an eye on the rest of Professor Nikitanova’s students, and she’d said delightedly, ‘It would be a pleasure.’
65
Brian was watching the repeat of Loose Women in room twelve of a Travelodge in a suburb near Leeds. He didn’t know what the Loose Women were talking about. And he had never heard of the orange man with the grotesquely white teeth and sticky black hair. The man was being interviewed about the county where he lived, Essex, but all he could say about this location was, ‘It’s reem.’
Brian tried to apply formal logic to the problem.
Could he decode it given the paucity of the information?
Earlier, he had stopped off at a retail park and bought a blue paisley one hundred per cent acetate dressing gown. He had debated with himself whether or not to buy some matching slippers. He looked around for some assistance. He needed a woman’s point of view He had approached a young woman in Marks & Spencer’s uniform who was newly returned after five weeks of sick leave due to stress.
He said, ‘I’m a mere man…
What Kerry, in her nervous state, heard was, ‘I’m a merman.’ She tried to remember what a merman was, then it came to her – a merman was a mermaid’s partner.
Brian continued, ‘And as a hapless male, I’d like some advice. I have a lady friend who’s more or less your age. Can you tell me what’s cool on the street regarding dressing gowns and slippers?’
When Kerry didn’t answer, he prompted, ‘Would a dressing gown and slippers be considered sophisticated bedroom wear or, as the kids say, “a turn-off”?’
Kerry, who was only passing through men’s shoes on her way to her tea break, hesitated. Her inability to make a decision had been a large part of her problem. She stammered, ‘I don’t know I can’t help you.’ Then she fled, knocking into a male mannequin dressed in discounted Late Sun pastel beachwear.
Brian was disgusted. M &S were féted for the quality of their shop assistants.
He had taken his dressing gown and slippers to the Food Hall where he bought a large baguette, French butter, cheese and a bottle of cava. Champagne was wasted on a young girl, he thought. On an impulse, he had grabbed a bag of multi-coloured lollipops. As he stood in the queue he was in a state of mild sexual arousal. He was looking forward to his early evening assignation.
He had been careful over the summer – each time they had met in a different hotel. Brian hadn’t seen Poppy since their last meeting, at the Palace Hotel in Leeds.
She had said then, ‘My love for you is infinite, Brian.’ Brian had been tempted to correct her use of ‘infinite’, but instead had said, ‘I love you more than there are stars in the sky.’