Dark Clouds (32 page)

I’m half hoping I might catch Therese the au pair wheeling her two adorable charges in their double buggy. I want to thank her for kneeling by my head and calling an ambulance when I was shot. But she’s not around, so I make straight for the Queen’s Arms, where I’m greeted by Joseph Carmody.

‘Yerra, Jeazus, Flynn ... I heard someone took a pot at you?’

An unfortunate incident, Joseph. Goes with the job, I’m afraid – so you’d best watch out if you write anything about volatile elements.

‘I spent a few years as a journalist in Northern Ireland at the height of the troubles,’ he tells me. ‘I was frequently seen as part of the problem by occupying forces – but the ones who really made life difficult for us were the Ulster police ... Prods to a man they were, and evil with it.’

I’m thinking of Brian and Calum and what they did to Khalad at the Regent’s Park military barracks. It was enough to make one sympathise whole heartedly with the Irish Republicans at the peak of their problems with the Brits.

‘And will you look at this,’ a familiar voice says from behind me.

Mairead Corrigan is more sharply suited than she usually is. She also has a small flower pinned to her lapel and her dark red curls are touching the collar of her jacket.

‘Ah – ’ I say, allowing my cheeks to be lightly brushed by Mairead’s. ‘And what are you doing up here in this old hacks hangout.’

‘Joseph and I are going to a wedding in the Hackney Town Hall, Rudi. The Prime Minister is also coming to make a speech ...you might like to join us?’

I see Mairead primarily as a Government spinner with a ruthless touch. I can’t really tie her in with weddings, flowers and tears of joy.

‘Who’s getting married?’ I ask when I’ve ordered a round of Brian the landlord’s best Merlot.

‘My friends Beth and Patsy,’ Mairead says. ‘We all work at Millbank, so we should have members of the cabinet there as well as the Prime Minister.’

I’m impressed, although I’m curious about Patsy. Is this a popular version of Paddy or Patrick – or what?

‘They’re both females,’ Mairead says when she’s tapped into where my head’s going. ‘And it’s a cause for celebration, Rudi.’

‘Of course – ’

‘Only there’s a lot of chauvinistic thinking these days about girl-
on
-girl relationships ... so support from our Government on these occasions is to be welcomed.’

And why would anyone think otherwise. I know for a fact that one of the
Sex and the City
girls has a female partner, and I think we’re all getting pretty grown up about these sort of issues.

‘What’s the Downing Street take on Nationalists at the moment?’ I ask when I’ve had a satisfying mouthful of Merlot.

Mairead’s not ready for this shift of emphasis, but Carmody – as usual – has an answer.

‘They’re going to have to pay attention,’ he says.

‘And why’s that?’

‘Because a lot of traditional Labour voters have sympathy with these people. They’ve watched over the years while everything they thought of as British got diluted or disappeared altogether. ‘

Mairead might conceivably have sided with Carmody on Irish issues, and certainly before the Prods and Catholics made peace with each other in Northern Ireland. Britain today is a different story though, and the Government spinner sees it as her job to make sure everyone’s got the Downing Street line.

‘That’s not altogether true, Joseph,’ she says gently while Carmody rolls his eyes. ‘We’ve been evolving for a while. Britain is no longer an insular little place. We’re a multicultural community and proud of it ... just like New York. Wouldn’t you agree, Rudi?’

I’m not sure if she’s comparing like with like here. OK – we are a mixed bag in most US cities, but for the most part we all salute the same flag, and we’d like to believe we’re a well integrated community. I’m not sure if it’s quite the same in England, and Brian the landlord has strong views on what’s happening in London.

‘Did you see the picture of that fellah with the baldy head who blew up those innocent people at King’s Cross?’ he asks.

Mairead feels impelled to adjudicate. Usually, she might slap a cheeky questioner down with a cutting quip, or even an expletive. Brian is however raising a point that’s on everyone’s mind at the moment. He’s also got Irish roots though and Mairead doesn’t want to find herself barred from the Queen’s Arms.

‘I think what happened at King’s Cross was appalling,’ she says. ‘There’s no excuse whatsoever for that sort of behaviour. However, some of these Nationalists have been rather provocative recently, and they have been saying unpleasant things about our ethnic minorities.’

Brian’s polishing a glass behind the counter. He’s giving it a little more attention than he usually does and a number of people around the bar are waiting for his response.

‘That fellah with the baldy head was a Paki – right?’

‘Yes ... that’s true,’ Carmody says.

‘And he was most likely a Muslim?’

No one answers on this, and Pat’s put down the glass he’s been polishing.

‘We don’t want these sort of people here,’ he says defiantly. ‘They’re our enemies. They want to kill or convert us, and at the minute, the only persons who are saying what everyone’s thinking are the Nationalists. They’ll have my vote at the next election, and anyone who disagrees with what I’m saying can fuck off out of here now ... and don’t come back!’

He’s definitely going over the top, we’re all embarrassed. Mairead however, is furious. She puts her half full glass of wine down on the counter and looks at Carmody. ‘Are you coming?’ she asks. ‘I don’t think I’ll be coming back here again anytime soon.’

Carmody shifts uncomfortably on his stool. He relies on Mairead for many of his news and gossip leads. It’s not an easy decision, because he quite likes to chill out in the Queen’s Arms. But he’s sliding his feet down onto the floor, and he nods helplessly at Brian the landlord before following Mairead to the door.

‘I’ll have another red wine,’ I say when they’re gone. I don’t approve of Brian’s outburst, but I’m not ready to leave yet.

‘I was maybe a bit too quick there,’ he says when he’s refilled my glass. ‘You can have this on the house, and maybe you’d tell Joseph that he’s welcome to come back ... only I don’t want to see herself.’

It’s getting tense and touchy around my adopted city. I thank Brian for his free drink though, and then mumble something about having to pop out and make a call in the garden. There are a couple of messages on my mobile, one of which is from Sheila, a valued magazine commissioning editor in New York, who keeps coming back for my take on whatever’s happening.

‘Rudi!’ she enthuses when I call her. ‘Where are you, honey? We’ve been trying to reach you, but you’re not picking up.’

I know. I’ve been unusually busy, but I’m back in the saddle now and going for it. ‘Only I was wondering, Sheila ... how would you like a few travel pieces from the Greek islands? You know – Patmos, Santorini, Rhodes ... all of the sun-kissed spots with a great Greek vibe?’

There’s a long pause in New York. ‘
Are you serious, man? I mean, for Christ’s sake, we’ve got experienced travel writers for that sort of stuff. What we want from you, Rudi, is hard, gritty in your face reportage from the world’s G-spots. We are not, I’m afraid, at themoment into sun, sea and sangria, or whatever ... OK?
’

Chapter 25

I try to call Ingrid, but her phone is switched off, so I leave a message. ‘
Need to speak, babe ... how am I going to survive on Patmos? Would gardening for expats be a possibility, or maybe a little light fishing?
’

I’m floundering professionally. I need guidance when Carmody texts: ‘
Mairead says come to Hackney Town Hall do ... lots of booze, food and girls – although not sure if latter would be suitable for you and I ... anyway, get yourself down here and fuck Brian the fascist!
’

‘I’m not sure about ‘ackney, guv,’ the cab driver says. ‘It’s a bit dodgy over there.’

Would an extra fiver help? Yes, of course – hop in and duck if you see any loutish elements clutching bricks, bottles or Kentucky Fried Chickens. It’s relatively peaceful on the drive from Islington. There are some noisy youngsters showing middle fingers to passing motorists. A few Community Police Support Officers look on sourly. ‘
Not quite our brief, sir, I’m afraid. ‘Cause, as I’m sure you’ll appreciate, we’re not actually proper police persons – legally like, if you know wha’ I mean.
’

The cab driver lowers his window as we approach the Town Hall on Mare Street. I can hear a mob chanting ‘
Allah out!
’ interspersed with police sirens and a hovering helicopter.

‘You’ll ‘ave to get out ‘ere, guv,’ he says, stopping in the middle of the road. ‘All right?’

Yes, of course. There are Union Jacks and flags with the St George emblem fluttering proudly above zipped-up bomber jackets and shaven heads.

‘They’re not so bad,’ my driver says indulgently. ‘It’s the Trots, liberals and lefties you want to look out for ... so take care, an’ watch your back.’

I’m sidling along by the wall of a theatre when a large cop in riot gear points his long stick at me and shouts: ‘
Hey – you. Fuck off ... it’s a restricted area!
’

‘I’m a guest at the Town Hall,’ I yell back, which seems to divert him as his colleagues prepare to disperse the Nationalists with horses and water cannon.

I’m frisked for weapons with a hand-scanner at the steps to the entrance. Carmody’s waiting in the reception lobby and he assures the Council commissionaire that I’m a legitimate guest, even though I don’t have a wedding invitation.

‘Come,’ he commands, taking my arm and leading me to a grand hall that’s been decorated with balloons and bunting. A Turkish group in traditional dress is playing Anatolian tunes on banjos and guitars, and Mairead joins us as soon as we appear.

‘Oh Rudi ... I’m sorry about making a scene at the pub,’ she says. ‘But that barman fellow really is a nasty bit of work, don’t you agree?’

I’m not going to argue with Mairead, so I nod and say that Brian was completely out of order. ‘And I may seriously consider switching over to the King’s Head on the Upper Street,’ I confide. ‘It’s a much more agreeable place, and the bar staff are cool.’

I’ve never been inside the King’s Head, although I’ve been told they’ve got a theatre in the back room and that they have live music with heavy metal and punk bands several times a week.

‘Now I’m going to introduce you to the soon-to-be weds,’ she tells me, and we’re heading up to the front of the hall where everyone is wearing smart silk frocks and colourful hats. The soon-to-be weds look great in full length yellow wedding dresses and each has a small tiara made with fragrant roses.

‘Beth and Patsy,’ I’d like you to meet Rudi, Mairead says. ‘He’s an American journalist here in London and he’d like to write a piece about your wedding today for one of his New York newspapers or magazines ... perhaps the
Post
or the
Courier
, Rudi?’

Definitely. I’ll knock out a thousand words, although I can’t guarantee I can place it ... but if Mairead can get me some good snaps, who knows? Beth and Patsy want to shake my hand. They’re both in emotional heaven, and I’m on the point of weeping myself as two tears roll down along Beth’s a-list model league cheekbones.

‘We’re very honoured,’ Patsy says, ‘and we’re overwhelmed by the well wishers.

‘Well – you’ve got the Mayor next,’ Mairead tells them and then ... guess who?’

‘Oh my god – no!’ They both cry excitedly.

‘Yes ... the Prime Minister and two members of the Cabinet. They wanted to show their appreciation for all the excellent work you’ve done for us at Millbank.’

There are carefully selected newspaper photographers waiting to take pictures of the soon-to-be weds and as they move in, Mairead draws me discreetly aside.

‘I mean it about you doing a piece on this,’ she whispers ominously. ‘It’s a unique event ... I feel it’s about time we started celebrating girl-
on
-girl relationships ... yes?’

I agree of course, and in return I’m allowed to join Carmody at the free drinks table.

‘So you’re getting well in there,’ he quips with a lascivious chuckle as Mairead disappears. ‘Only I wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of Miss Corrigan.’

Me neither. She’d be a formidable opponent. For now though, it’s generous quantities of whatever one fancies on the alcohol choice and when I’ve downed a glass of boxed red, everyone starts to clap.

The Mayor, Councillor Stokes, has arrived with his deputy, Raja Ibrahim: a tall, handsomely bearded man with a smart Muslim tunic and a delicately embroidered kufi hat. They both ascend steps to the stage together. The mayor’s having trouble with his chain of office, but when he’s straightened it out, he blows into the microphone.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he says laboriously. ‘We are gathered here today to celebrate a special event. It’s the wedding – which a Council registrar will conduct shortly – of Beth and Patsy ... two fine young people who work for our Labour Government at Westminster. We believe in equal rights and opportunities for everyone ... but I have to tell you we have a very special guest here on this occasion ... ’

While he’s speaking, plainclothes police have slipped into the hall and one of them now holds open the main entrance door.

‘Comrades and friends,’ the Mayor announces ‘ ... our Prime Minister!’

There is spontaneous applause as a small man enters. He grins at everyone and does his own bit of hand-clapping for the audience while walking up the steps to the stage.

‘It’s an honour to be here,’ he says, shaking hands with the Mayor and his deputy before waving them off to a couple of chairs behind him. ‘And I’m particularly pleased to be able to come along to congratulate Beth and Patsy on their big day ...

‘We’re living in troubled times at the moment, but we’re a strong nation. We coped well with challenges in the past and my plea today to everyone in Britain is for tolerance. We need this in every aspect of our lives and between each other at all times.