Dead in the Water (19 page)

The rain is heavier now. He makes a run for
St James Park
tube station, where he switches on his mobile. In amongst the usual bollocks there are messages from Joanna and Sara. Joanna wants to know if he’s heard from Stephen or Rachel. Sara is hesitant: “Hello Mark. It’s me… I’m sorry I’ve been avoiding you… It’s not fair, and I know we should talk, but I don’t want to do it on the phone… I’m not in tonight. Perhaps we could meet somewhere for a meal tomorrow?” He listens to the message a couple of times. He considers ringing her back, and thinks better of it. Maybe when he gets home. He checks the phone log. There are two missed calls from Stephen. He tries to call him back, but Steve’s phone’s not on. The missed calls are unsettling. If he could ring, why not leave a message or send a text?

On impulse, he decides to get himself over to the London offices of
One World
, where he used to be based before being drafted in to Angela Walker’s government. Islington’s not on his route, but he’s in no hurry to get back to the flat. If the PM wants him to be his old self, he could do worse than take a refresher course in conviction politics. And he has a hunch that they might have heard from Stephen, who is a regular volunteer.

He emerges from
The Angel
tube station, into a dark unfamiliar place. The sky has unleashed the downpour, tropical in intensity, that has been threatened for weeks. The streets are awash, water levelling the roads and pavements, bubbling pewter grey; waterfalls bursting from gutters and drains; cars and buses churning past like motorboats, overtaken by glossy black-clad bikers, the new jet-skiers of Islington, revelling in the challenge of cheating death in new ways.

He’s shocked to find the
One World
shop front boarded up and the front door locked. He goes through the alley and up the old metal staircase, as slippery and as rickety as ever. The handrail’s still not been fixed – it’s been loose for at least three years. The familiarity of the decrepitude is faintly reassuring, as is the sickly mixture of cooking smells which emanate from the kitchens of nearby restaurants and takeaways. Somebody has finally got round to giving the back door a fresh coat of paint and there’s a new sign indicating that these are the registered offices of
One World
; but otherwise nothing much has changed. He tries the back door; but it, too, is locked. A stream of water cascades down from a cracked gutter onto the metal walkway beside him; but he is already so drenched that he makes little effort to avoid it.

He rings the bell. A tall and rather intimidating young man boasting a shaven head, nose stud and somewhat hangdog expression, opens the door. “You a volunteer?” Mark says that he’s very willing to help out, before explaining who he is, and that he used to work here. The young man nods and leads Mark through to the kitchen, where Cathy Barnes is making a pot of tea. With aloof detachment, the young man announces Mark; then goes about his business.

Cathy’s sparkling energy, colourful clothing and extraordinary optimism was always infectious in small doses, if rather exhausting when he had to share an office with her. “Hello Mark,” she says. “Is this a social call?” He had expected her to bounce across the room and embrace him, but her smile is strained and when she comes over to him, she takes both his hands and says, “My God, you’re wet.”

“
I never carry an umbrella,” he says.

“
Some things don’t change then.”

“
It’s nice to see you, Cathy. It’s been ages.”

“
We have some volunteers in.”

“
Your man mentioned ––”

“
John,” she says. “He organises that side of things. Don’t mind him. He can be a bit gruff if you don’t know him. It’s just his way. A really hard worker.”

“
He reminds me of our Stephen.”

“
Really?”

“
Shave Stephen’s head and they’d even look alike.”

“
Here, says Cathy, with a weary smile. “Give me a hand with these,” passing him a battered tray with mugs, milk and sugar on it. “Then we’ll get you dry.”

Mark carries the tray through to what they used to call the Committee Room. It was ridiculous to hope that Stephen might actually be here. Half a dozen volunteers are sitting round a big table, going through address books and card indexes , addressing envelopes by hand, stuffing envelopes with a photocopied letter. Apart from John, the surly young shaven-headed Stephen lookalike, there are no familiar faces, and nobody seems to recognise him; but Mark is glad of the anonymity. People seem to accept him as just another volunteer – until John, who has been talking to someone on a mobile, ends his call and loudly announces:

“
This is Mark Boyd. He works for the government.”

“
It’s great to be here,” says Mark, smiling warmly, in defiance of John’s open hostility.

Back in the kitchen, Cathy gets him a towel. He takes off his jacket and dries his hair. Sitting at the table, drinking tea, she recounts the events of the past few days. On Saturday morning the office was raided by armed police. Citing the Anti Terrorism laws, they took away all the computers and anything with names and addresses.

“
Has anybody been arrested?”

“
Nobody who actually works here. Maybe they don’t see us as a threat. I don’t know how to take that,” she says with a wry smile. “Actually Saturday wasn’t too bad, believe it or not. We got on the phone, rang around. Word of mouth. So many people came in, Mark. It was wonderful. Turned into quite a party. We were here until late. Then about ten a clock a gang of lads threw bricks at the window and ran off. We called the police; but they didn’t come for ages. I guess they have loads of calls at that time on a Saturday. And nobody was hurt.”

“
That’s not the point.”

“
Mark, I don’t know whether it was mindless vandalism, kids on a drunken rampage, or whatever.” She is not as calm as she would like to appear.

“
So there are thugs out there lumping anybody with an interest in green politics in with the terrorists. And the police aren’t bothered.”

“
We set up a rota – at least two of us here at any time. We’ve got bedding. It’s quite fun really.” The optimism sounds hollow and Mark is not convinced.

“
I don’t suppose Stephen’s been in has he?”

“
He might have been, but not when I’ve been in. Not for a month or so. Is he alright?”

“
He’s fine. A bit nervous about exams. I just wondered.”

“
John’s been organising volunteers for the past three months. Have a word with him.”

Cathy would normally have seen through Mark’s bluff assurances about Stephen, but she’s still suffering the trauma of the police raid, and even at the best of times her conversation tends to be fidgety.

“
Do you remember Allan Hunter?” she asks. The name’s familiar, but he can’t place it. “The guy who tried to organise the CARECO thing. You offered him advice. Helped him get off a charge of breach of the peace.”

“
Bit part actor, wasn’t he? Full of himself. Short guy. Blue eyes. Surprised we hadn’t seen him in an episode of
The Bill
. That the guy?”

“
Suzie White, his partner, came round on Sunday. The police have taken him in. She was distraught. They hadn’t even informed her that he’d been arrested. Wouldn’t tell her anything. Police searched her house, took stuff away. One of our volunteers who’s a solicitor finally got the police to admit that Allan is being held under the Terrorism Act. They don’t have to charge him. And if she makes a fuss they’ll arrest her for obstructing a terrorist investigation.”

“
Could he be part of it?”

“
The bombing?”

“
Connected in some way.”

“
His girlfriend’s certain he’s got nothing to do with it.”

“
And what about your guys out there? The volunteers. What do they think? About the bombs.”

“
Ask them. All shades, Mark. I know some of them are shaking a clenched fist and shouting, ‘About bloody time’, but…” she sighs. Mark has never seen her so burdened.

“
What do you think, Cathy?”

“
I can’t see how it’s going to help. Screws up any possibility for consensus. Had you heard about the police raid? Is that why you came over?”

“
I’d no idea. I wondered whether anyone had seen Stephen. And, I guess, I wanted to borrow some of your enthusiasm.”

“
Sorry. In short supply right now.”

“
Shall I go and stuff some envelopes?” He’d like to show willing and play out his role as the listening ear of government.

The room is cramped and airless.

“
I’d like to help. Is there anything I can do? Should I stuff these?” he asks, referring to a box of photocopied leaflets and a pile of envelopes in the middle of the table.

The room has quietened. John, standing by the photocopier in the corner, asks, “What are you doing here?”

“
I used to work here.”

“
But you don’t now. You work for the government. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“
Not all bad, I hope,” says Mark, with a big smile, playing the young man’s aggression as an in-joke between the two of them. “I came down here to lend a hand.”

“
We can manage,” says John. Several of the volunteers are looking embarrassed.

“
I thought there might be something I could do”

“
There’s plenty you could do. But not in this room. If being in power means compromise, then it’s not power. The best thing you can do, Mr Boyd, is publicly resign in protest at your government’s betrayal of the green movement.”

Mark wonders how long he has been rehearsing this little speech. “I take your point,” he says with calculated grace. He wants to remind him that he is an adviser, not a minister; and that his advice has actually made a substantial difference. But John is spoiling for a fight and he has youth, self-righteousness and an abundance of testosterone on his side. No amount of reasoning is going to persuade him of the need for building a consensus.

“
You and Andrew fucking Linden.”

“
Andrew Linden is hardly a close friend,” he says calmly.

“
Right wing bastard.”

“
Know thine enemy.”

“
And what is that supposed to fucking mean?”

“
It’s important to talk to these people. Hearts and minds, John. Hearts and minds. It’s not you we have to persuade. It’s the Andrew Lindens of this world. And, believe it or not, he’s more open to persuasion than you might imagine from his public image.” For the benefit of the other volunteers, Mark continues to beam as if to an admiring public, and adds with cultivated sincerity: “I would resign immediately if I thought resignation was the most effective way of getting things done.”

In the kitchen, Cathy is still on her mobile. Mark grabs his jacket, holds up a hand in a goodbye wave, and mouths to her that he must be going, it’s been good to see her again. Talk to Andrew, get him to talk to Robert Britton and a note to Mrs W: the government has to distance itself from the draconian police action.

Outside, the rain has stopped, the sun is shining and there’s a rainbow in the sky. The pot of gold looks like it might be in Finsbury Park. Or might once have been.

Like desert cactuses bursting hastily into flower, every restaurant, every café, bar and pizzeria in Islington has blossomed in the unexpected late evening sunshine and expanded onto the pavement. Having attempted to negotiate the obstacle course of proliferating tables, chairs and parasols, he sits down and orders a seafood salad and half a carafe of Pinot Grigio. While waiting for his meal to arrive he tries Steve’s mobile; but it’s switched off and there’s no reply from the landline for his flat in Hackney.

With an accent from somewhere in Eastern Europe, the waitress speaks just enough English to express pleasure at the glorious late evening sun. Mark encourages her to teach him her word for sunshine; and he wallows in the flattery of her broad smile.

John’s hostility has left him feeling strangely purged.

3
4
La Esmerelda, Venezuela

“
Señor Peters, I tell you, this is not so strange. José Dias and Pablo, often they do not telephone for many weeks.” On the outskirts of the little town of La Esmerelda, on the upper reaches of the Rio Orinoco, on the edge of the area designated as Duida-Marahuca National Park, the
Forest People’s Alliance
has an office in a prefab house made from local materials. It has its own solar- and wind-powered electricity generators, with diesel backup, and even though Ronaldo and Chimo are the only staff who work here on a regular basis, it’s currently better equipped than the
One World
offices in either London or Caracas. With the benefit of various grants from global ecological organisation, they boast a working computer, printer, satphone and video camera. While Ronaldo is reading through legal documents, Chimo’s on the phone to Jeremy Peters, the English guy from Caracas. Again. He rang on Friday, three times on Saturday, twice yesterday and this is the second call today. Chimo is trying to be patient; he can only repeat what he’s been saying for the past few days. Apart from Rachel’s strange text message, they’ve heard nothing. “When they arrive, then I will telephone you. I promise.” He puts the phone down and gets two cold beers from the fridge in the kitchen at the back, one for him, one for Ronaldo, puts his feet on the desk and lights a cigarette.