“You’re going to walk out on your kids, the moment they exit the womb?”
“For another three months, I’m trapped. They all want the boy so much, they hardly let me out of their sight. Once I’ve given birth, it’ll be different. I can go. We both know I’ll be a lousy mother. They’re better off with the Rosses. Jago’s mother’s already lining herself up as a surrogate.”
Strike held out his hand for the walking stick. She hesitated, then passed it over. He got up.
“Give my regards to Amelia.”
“She’s not coming. I lied. I knew you’d be at Henry’s. I was at a private viewing with him yesterday. He told me you were going to interview him.”
“Goodbye, Charlotte.”
“Wouldn’t you rather have had advance warning that I want you back?”
“But I don’t want you,” he said, looking down at her.
“Don’t kid a kidder, Bluey.”
Strike limped out of the restaurant past the staring waiters, all of whom seemed to know how rude he had been to one of their colleagues. As he slammed his way out into the street, he felt as though he was pursued, as though Charlotte had projected after him a succubus that would tail him until they met again.
51
Can you spare me an ideal or two?
Henrik Ibsen, Rosmersholm
“You’ve been brainwashed to think it’s got to be this way,” said the anarchist. “See, you need to get your head around a world without leaders. No individual invested with more power than any other individual.”
“Right,” said Robin. “So tha’ve never voted?”
The Duke of Wellington in Hackney was overflowing this Saturday evening, but the deepening darkness was still warm and a dozen or so of Flick’s friends and comrades in CORE were happy to mill around on the pavement on Balls Pond Road, drinking before heading back to Flick’s for a party. Many of the group were holding carrier bags containing cheap wine and beer.
The anarchist laughed and shook his head. He was stringy, blond and dreadlocked, with many piercings, and Robin thought she recognized him from the mêlée in the crowd on the night of the Paralympic reception. He had already shown her the squidgy lump of cannabis he had brought to contribute to the general amusement of the party. Robin, whose experience of drugs was restricted to a couple of long-ago tokes on a bong back in her interrupted university career, had feigned an intelligent interest.
“You’re so naive!” he told her now. “Voting’s part of the great democratic con! Pointless ritual designed to make the masses think they’ve got a say and influence! It’s a power-sharing deal between the Red and Blue Tories!”
“What’s th’answer, then, if it’s not voting?” asked Robin, cradling her barely touched half of lager.
“Community organization, resistance and mass protest,” said the anarchist.
“’Oo organizes it?”
“The communities themselves. You’ve been bloody brainwashed,” repeated the anarchist, mitigating the harshness of the statement with a small grin, because he liked Yorkshire socialist Bobbi Cunliffe’s plain-spokenness, “to think you need leaders, but people can do it for themselves once they’ve woken up.”
“An’ who’s gonna wake ’em up?”
“Activists,” he said, slapping his own thin chest, “who aren’t in it for money or power, who want empowerment of the people, not control. See, even unions—no offense,” he said, because he knew that Bobbi Cunliffe’s father had been a trade union man, “same power structures, the leaders start aping management—”
“Y’all right, Bobbi?” asked Flick, pushing to her side through the crowd. “We’ll head off in a minute, that was last orders. What’re you telling her, Alf?” she added, with a trace of anxiety.
After a long Saturday in the jewelry shop, and the exchange of many (in Robin’s case, wholly imaginary) confidences about their love lives, Flick had become enamored of Bobbi Cunliffe to the point that her own speech had become slightly tinged with a Yorkshire accent. Towards the end of the afternoon she had extended a two-fold invitation, firstly to that night’s party, and secondly, pending her friend Hayley’s approval, a rented half-share in the bedroom recently vacated by their ex-flatmate, Laura. Robin had accepted both offers, placed her phone call to Strike, and agreed to Flick’s suggestion that, in the absence of the Wiccan, they lock up the shop early.
“’E’s just telling me ’ow me dad was no better’n a capitalist,” said Robin.
“Fuck’s sake, Alf,” said Flick, as the anarchist laughingly protested.
Their group straggled out along the pavement as they headed off through the night towards Flick’s flat. In spite of his obvious desire to continue instructing Robin in the rudiments of a leaderless world, the anarchist was ousted from Robin’s side by Flick herself, who wanted to talk about Jimmy. Ten yards ahead of them, a plump, bearded and pigeon-toed Marxist, who had been introduced to Robin as Digby, walked alone, leading the way to the party.
“Doubt Jimmy’ll come,” she told Robin, and the latter thought she was arming herself against disappointment. “He’s in a bad mood. Worried about his brother.”
“What’s wrong wi’ him?”
“It’s schizophrenic affection something,” said Flick. Robin was sure that Flick knew the correct term, but that she thought it appropriate, faced with a genuine member of the working classes, to feign a lack of education. She had let slip the fact that she had started a university course during the afternoon, seemed to regret it, and ever since had dropped her “h”s a little more consistently. “I dunno. ’E ’as delusions.”
“Like what?”
“Thinks there’s government conspiracies against him and that,” said Flick, with a little laugh.
“Bloody ’ell,” said Bobbi.
“Yeah, he’s in ’ospital. He’s caused Jimmy a lot of trouble,” said Flick. She stuck a thin roll-up in her mouth and lit it. “You ever heard of Cormoran Strike?”
She said the name as though it were another medical condition.
“Who?”
“Private detective,” said Flick. “He’s been in the papers a lot. Remember that model who fell out of a window, Lula Landry?”
“Vaguely,” said Robin.
Flick glanced over her shoulder to check that Alf the anarchist was out of earshot.
“Well, Billy went to see ’im.”
“The fook for?”
“Because Billy’s mental, keep up,” said Flick, with another little laugh. “He thinks he saw something years ago—”
“What?” said Robin, quicker than she meant to.
“A murder,” said Flick.
“Christ.”
“He didn’t, obviously,” said Flick. “It’s all bollocks. I mean, he saw something, but nobody bloody died. Jimmy was there, he knows. Anyway, Billy goes to this detective prick and now we can’t get rid of him.”
“What d’you mean?”
“’E beat Jimmy up.”
“The detective did?”
“Yeah. Followed Jimmy on a protest we were doing, beat him up, got Jimmy fooking arrested.”
“Bloody ’ell,” said Bobbi Cunliffe again.
“Deep state, innit?” said Flick. “Ex-army. Queen and the flag and all that fucking shit. See, Jimmy and me had something on a Conservative minister—”
“Did you?”
“Yeah,” said Flick. “I can’t tell you what, but it was big, and then Billy fucked everything up. Sent Strike sniffing around, and we reckon he got in touch with the gov—”
She broke off suddenly, her eyes following a small car that had just passed them.
“Thought that was Jimmy’s for a moment. It isn’t. I forgot, it’s off the road.”
Her mood sagged again. During the slack periods in the shop that day, Flick had told Robin the history of her and Jimmy’s relationship, which in its endless fights and truces and renegotiations might have been the story of some disputed territory. They seemed never to have reached an agreement on the relationship’s status and every treaty had fallen apart in rows and betrayals.