‘Irish.’
‘I see. Are you, uh… visiting? Or do you live in London, or something?’
‘Just visiting.’
‘Uh-huh.’ That sounded to him more like a disappointed ‘ oh ’.
She tapped the keyboard in silence for a moment, the soft blue glow on her face flickering with screen refreshes. Finally she looked up, her lips playing with words silently for a moment before picking one or two to start with. ‘I… I… don’t normally…’ Her face flushed pink.
‘Don’t normally? What?’
‘I wonder…’ she continued, her eyes firmly locked on the lens screen, far too embarrassed to look up at him and meet his eyes. ‘Whether you’d care to… care to have some tea and brancakes?’
‘Tea and…?’
‘Brancakes. Lunchtime? With me?’ She dared a glance up at him. ‘I have a lunchbreak coming soon, at one. I eat it outside by the fountain.’ She laughed nervously. ‘Sometimes I feed the pigeons with my cakes if they’re too dry, though.’
‘I…’ Liam was pretty sure his cheeks looked as red as hers did now. ‘I… well, uh… I’m awfully sorry, I have to run along. I’m only passing.’
‘Oh! I’m… s-sorry. No, don’t worry!’ she cut in too quickly. ‘Just a thought. Just an idea. I’ll… just…’ Her fingers knotted together uncomfortably. ‘I’ll just go and check on your book. See if someone’s retrieving it for you.’
She turned and hurried away from the counter through swing doors and out of sight.
Maddy managed to pick up half a dozen discarded newspapers and shove them under her arm. She was beginning to think she looked like some mad bag lady — like that old vagrant in Times Square with his tarpaulin- covered shopping trolley and all that bin-rummaging.
The people in Piccadilly Circus seemed far too preoccupied to care about her, though.
Watching the comings and goings, the exhaust-spewing bubble cars, the hundreds of people on bicycles, some of them so overburdened with things she wondered how they didn’t topple over. She was reminded of images of Beijing, of Mumbai, of Havana. There was an exciting, almost frenzied, whirlwind of chaotic activity going on all around her. But like those places, looking closely, she’d begun to note a threadbare quality to everything: a stiff- lipped impoverishment hidden away behind broad smiles and exuberant ‘how-do-you-do’s. A make-and-mend place of limited resources.
The cars all looked old, patched up, held together in places with tape, ribbon and rope. So many items of clothing seemed to sport discreetly sewn patches. At first she’d thought it might be some sort of fashion thing — a particular passion for elbow patches. But she noted thread giving way on shoulder seams, trousers worn tissue-thin at the knees, shoe leather worn to a rough suede.
They’re really struggling. Britain’s poor.
She was about to grab another discarded newspaper left on a bench near the fountain surrounding Eros, when a church bell — at least that’s what it sounded like — gave an ominous single claaaang. She looked up towards where it seemed to have come from and saw that the large television screen had a logo slowly crawling across its black and white pixel blocks. Maddy recognized it as the clock face of Big Ben. And beneath it: SRBBC 1 — LUNCHTIME NEWS.
She noticed how many people in the bustling space turned to look. The trams continued, of course, the bubble cars rattled on, but the bicycles pulled over, the pedestrians stopped and turned. All those who could stop seemed so very keen to view the screen and listen to the news.
A newscaster appeared in blocky black and white pixelvision: smart, formal, a bow tie and a dark jacket. Silver-haired and with a reassuring fatherly smile, he looked like Dumbledore after a wet shave and a sensible haircut in smart gentleman’s-club evening wear.
‘ Good day, citizens. This is your News at One.’ A pause. A very long pause.
Looking around, Maddy noticed how many of the upturned faces around her seemed to wear a frozen expression of anticipation.
No… more than that. Dread.
‘ The ultimatum presented by Secretary Andrei Bechemov of the Soviet Republic, and Secretary Andrew Benn of the Socialist Republic of Britain, has expired without any official response from President Jonathan Elroy Bush. The convoy of American warships crossing the Atlantic carrying the atomic materials to France appears to be proceeding undaunted. It is thought that the convoy will cross the 20 degree west longitude — otherwise known as the Bechemov Ultimatum Line — at some point late tomorrow afternoon. Discussions are continuing among the other gathered heads of state in Berlin as to the official response to the crossing, should it happen. There have been increased calls for a naval interception. Soviet warships despatched over a week ago across the Arctic Sea and around the top of the Atlantic and into the American-enforced “Trade Embargo Noose” will be in a position to meet the convoy should it make any attempt to cross the line.’
The newscaster took a breath.
‘ Secretary Benn reiterated that the proliferation of atomic weapons, specifically President Bush’s insistence on deploying a forward atomic weapons base on French soil, was a flagrant attempt to provoke hostilities. French leader, President Durant, responded that France was at one with American foreign policy in wanting to preserve a robust frontline against socialist encroachment.’
‘Oh, that doesn’t seem good,’ Maddy whispered. She checked her watch. The one-hour window was due in just under ten minutes. She decided to make her way back across Piccadilly Circus; now, with the exception of the rattling wheels of the trams and the overhead fizzing of sparks along the contact wires, it was an almost completely frozen tableau.
She walked up the steps and through the frosted-glass double doors they’d emerged through earlier. Halfway down the dimly lit hallway, she passed the office on her left. The sound of clacking keyboards had ceased and she glimpsed inside — every typist in the long room was now gathered round a single desk, watching something glowing a flickering blue. She could hear the thin warble of the newscaster’s voice echoing out of the still and silent office, following her down the dark hallway towards the doorway opening on to the yard.
‘… for everyone to be prepared for the worst possible scenario. That a state of war may soon exist between… ’
In the yard she was relieved to see Liam was waiting for her, a fat, heavy-looking book tucked under one arm.
‘I think this might not be a future we want to hold on to,’ said Liam as Maddy joined him.
She checked her watch. Five minutes to go.
‘I’ve got a feeling you may be right.’
Chapter 65
15 December 1888, Holborn Viaduct, London
‘This is incredibly fascinating,’ said Maddy. She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. ‘From Jack the Ripper goofing up and getting himself killed in 1888, here we have a 2001 sitting on the brink of global thermonuclear war!’ She looked at the others. She had the history book Liam had ‘borrowed’ open on the desk in front of her and resumed reading passages aloud.
‘ The revelation that the Whitechapel murders were perpetrated by a Cathcart-Hyde, a member of the House of Lords, proved to be the final straw. His intended victim, Mary Kelly, a common street woman, was hailed as a hero for overpowering him and killing him in self-defence. Upon her arrest for his murder, riots erupted across the East End of London.’
She looked up at them. ‘Which we saw for ourselves.’ She resumed reading. ‘ Her trial in the spring of 1889 led to mass riots across the country. She was prevented from taking the stand and testifying publicly, because the authorities feared Mary Kelly would incite the working class to open revolt, so popular a figure was she by then. ’
Maddy turned the page, and scanned the text.
