We heard voices raised in anger. I averted my eyes from a quarrelsome group of people by the reception desk. I had had enough of human life in the raw for one day. Then someone shouted, ‘Order is Slavery!’ I saw, handcuffed to a policeman apiece, Dodge and Yell. Dodge had a swollen eye that was nearly closed and Yell’s nose was dripping with blood. Despite this there was evidence that the fight had not been knocked out of them. A broken chair lay on its side and several posters had been torn from the walls.
‘Pigs! Capitalist zombies!’ screamed Yell.
‘Harriet!’ Dodge must have forgotten about the opprobrious middle-classness of my name. ‘Have those fascists been beating you up? Hey! You!’ He addressed Inspector Foy. ‘You leave my girlfriend alone! I know what our rights are!’ The inspector looked hard at me. I felt myself grow hot.
‘Where’re you taking those two?’ he asked one of the handcuffed policemen.
‘Down the nick. They’ve made a nasty mess of the nice cell we put ’em in. They’re asking for a bit of rough treatment. I think we can arrange that.’
‘Don’t let the bastards intimidate you, Harriet.’ Dodge’s voice was almost tender. ‘Refuse to say anything. They’ll have to let us out on bail. See you in court.’ He waved his free fist. ‘Fight for freedom!’
‘Are you all right?’ I looked from Dodge to Yell. She raised two fingers, discreetly so Dodge could not see. ‘They won’t be hurt, will they?’ I asked the inspector as they were led away, chanting slogans. ‘It isn’t a crime to try and make things better for other people, is it?’
‘If you’ll take my advice you won’t go to Owlstone Road tomorrow.’
‘Oh. No.’ I was too taken aback by the compass of the inspector’s knowledge to dream of rebelling against his authority. ‘I won’t.’
‘Good girl. Sergeant Tweeter will take you home. Good night, Miss Petrelli.’
Maria-Alba’s reply was inaudible.
‘Drat it!’ said Sergeant Tweeter, pushing ahead of us through the vestibule. ‘Them para-patsies are on to us. Inspector Foy had the idea of sending ’em to Hammersmith. He set up a decoy car but o’ course it was only going to fool ’em for a bit.’
I crossed the threshold and was dazzled by the bursting of flashbulbs. ‘Just look this way, miss. How’s your father, Miss Byng? Has Waldo Byng been charged yet? Over here! Which daughter are you?’ There was extraordinary menace in these demands and questions. Now I understood why primitive peoples believed that cameras stole their souls. The explosions of light in my face greedily sucked up all my reserves of strength. Maria-Alba was sick without warning on the top step and, taking advantage of the gap that opened up as the reporters backed away from the pool of vomit, I put my arm round her and followed Sergeant Tweeter, who was breasting his way through the photographers. He pushed Maria-Alba into the car. Hands pulled at my arms, even held on to the collar of my coat. I felt the helpless paralysis of nightmare. The next moment I was inside the car and Sergeant Tweeter had slammed the door painfully against my hip.
Maria-Alba was sick again, this time into the foot well, and Sergeant Tweeter swore loudly but it may have been in reaction to the faces pressed against the windows, the popping of bulbs and the banging of fists on glass as we moved slowly forward. Maria-Alba held her handkerchief to her face and drew sobbing breaths, hyperventilating. With a proficiency born of experience I emptied the contents of my bag on to my knees and pressed it over her face to restrict her intake of oxygen and increase the level of carbon dioxide in her blood. We left the crowd behind and sped away through the dwindling evening traffic. I rubbed Maria-Alba’s shaking hands and tried to give her words of comfort. It seemed a long way to Blackheath.
A succession of thoughts, half formed, slippery, disappearing the moment I defined them, raced through my brain. My father was alone in that dreary place, acting like mad to an almost empty auditorium. I felt that I had abandoned him. From childhood, from that first moment when I was able to isolate one distinct feeling from the flood of sensations that constitute infant consciousness, I had known intuitively that my parents needed protection from a hard, ungenerous world. That intense love that children have for their parents was never, afterwards, untouched by fear.
As I grew in experience the sense of danger increased to include their own excesses. They enjoyed living dangerously, being either aux anges or in the depths of despair, and they rarely troubled to conceal their state from us. They saw emotional extravagance as living life to the full and perhaps they were right. But I was a changeling. Circumspection, one might fairly call it cowardice, was part of my character. I seemed to have everyone else’s share of prudence and I was often afraid on their behalf. I was fairly sure the performance I had just seen was the product of euphoria generated by shock. My father’s confidence must have received a fearful knock. What if his courage should desert him in the long hours of the night?
We crossed Tower Bridge without my noticing it. Was Inspector Foy convinced of Pa’s guilt? Would he sift the evidence carefully or did he hope for a quick conviction? How many innocent men were serving sentences in prison for crimes they had not committed? Was my father innocent? The idea that he might not be was so frightening that I had to clench my jaw to stop myself from screaming. After an unhappy fifteen minutes we were in Blackheath and Sergeant Tweeter was saying, ‘Is there a back way in, miss? Them buggers – pardon the language, miss – the ladies and gentlemen of the press are here an’ all.’
At least a dozen people stood in the shadows around our gate. I could just make out Bron in their midst. He was turning his head from side to side, posing and smiling. I directed the sergeant into the mews. No sooner had I hauled a gasping Maria-Alba from the car than I heard running feet and what sounded like baying for blood.
‘You get in, miss. I’ll hold them off. Now then, you lot!’ Sergeant Tweeter shouted as he got out of the car. We scuttled through the gate, sprinted through the convolutions of Loveday’s maze and dashed into the house. I locked and bolted the back door.
‘Madre di Dio!’ wheezed Maria-Alba. ‘Sono le pene dell’ inferno!’
She did not exaggerate.
‘I can’t go on saying I’m sorry.’ Bron stood before the drawing-room fire, smoking a Passing Cloud through a long cigarette holder. It was later that same evening. He sounded aggrieved. ‘How was I to know you were in Garbo mode? They seemed like rather good types to me. They’d been hanging around our gate for hours. It was common courtesy to ask them in.’
‘All right.’ I must try to keep calm, be reasonable. Above my right eye throbbed a severe pain as though someone was boring a hole with a brace and bit. ‘Let’s forget it. Only it was rather like finding a herd of snapping crocodiles in one’s bed. It must have been obvious I didn’t want to talk to anybody. I’m not at all surprised Maria-Alba had a screaming fit. I wanted to have one myself.’
‘How like a girl to say “let’s forget it” and then go on about it. I sent them away when you asked, didn’t I?’
It was true that Bron had got rid of the reporters with the promise of an extended interview the next day. Later, he had gone out to rescue the hapless journalist who had been wandering about for ages, lost in Loveday’s maze. I knew Loveday would be delighted.
‘All I ask is that you don’t let them back in.’
‘I’m going to give my press conference at The Green Dragon. The landlord’s thrilled to have the free publicity. My agent’ll be pleased too.’
‘Have you understood what’s happening? Pa’s about to be sent to prison for the rest of his life and all you can think about is promoting your career.’
‘Not really?’ Bron looked quite anxious. ‘That would