Hari was sure he was reddening. ‘Me?’ he said, surprised. ‘But you can look after yourself, Sara.’
‘I can,’ said Collins. ‘Trust me, I really can. But it’s a numbers game, Hari. I’ve heard so many bad stories. It’s just easier this way.’ She stared at him. ‘This isn’t pretending any more, Hari. This is revolution. Bad things will happen. This’ – she waved her arm around the room – ‘has all just been pissing about. But it’s about to get fucking scary, so if we can make life easier for ourselves we should. I trust you. So. You watch out for me, I’ll watch out for you. Comprende?’
Hari nodded. ‘Comprende,’ he said.
50
7.57 a.m.
DRESSING GOWN PULLED tight and flip-flops slapping the pavement, Sara Collins exited number 26, turned right and headed for Hari’s smashed-up car. She ignored the police; if she did her job correctly, they’d be following her anyway. She shuffled across the road just to make herself as obvious as she could, a red revolutionary rag for the fascist bull. Most houses in Boxer Street had their windows wide open already and a street’s worth of breakfast routines spilled out into her path. Music, voices, television, radio, washing up, hoovers, the clatter of life.
Collins was twenty metres from the yellow police incident tape when she heard the slamming of car doors behind her. She smiled and picked up her pace to where the white van had smashed into a row of cars. The van was gone but Hari’s car, the Ford Galaxy and a Fiat Punto were still there, doors, mirrors and windows caved in or missing altogether. The road had been perfunctorily swept to keep it open, but a carpet of glass and twisted metal lay underneath the vehicles.
The tape stretched around two lampposts, the pavement, the three damaged cars and two large orange bollards, one placed by the Punto, the other by Hari’s VW. Collins ducked under the tape. The Ford Galaxy was the worst hit. Both right-side doors were gone, the windscreen and rear window shattered. The chassis had buckled on impact, with the metal floor ripped open and both front seats thrown forward on to the dashboard. Tiny squares of glass littered the interior. Collins peered into the wreck then crouched and picked up an empty Coke tin from the rubble.
‘Are you looking for something?’
She looked up to see one of the policemen staring at her through the still intact passenger window. He was on his own. Late thirties, cap on, no jacket.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Is this Alfred Graham’s car?’ she said.
‘Is it what?’
‘Your colleague, the one who knocked, told me who these cars belonged to. I’m sure he said it was an Alfred Graham who owned this. Or Graham Alfred maybe, I’m not sure.’ She put the can back.
‘It’s Sara Collins, isn’t it?’ said the policeman. He held up his ID. ‘PC Jon Roberts, Coventry Police. You need to leave the car alone. Step behind the tape.’
Collins stayed in the crouch, checked her watch. Seven fifty-nine. She glanced down the street. The other policeman, the bearded driver, was out of his car and, one hand on its roof, was staring at her.
‘It’s just I remember him now. I’m sure I do,’ she said. ‘He’s a tall man. Kind. Always helping others.’ She pulled out some chocolate wrappers from behind the pedals, folded them together, then put them in the pocket of her dressing gown.
‘What are you doing?’ PC Roberts walked round the front of the Galaxy, stood behind her. ‘Ms Collins, step away from the car. Behind the tape.’
Collins kept rummaging. ‘Needs a tidy, don’t you think?’ she said, reaching again into the car.
The constable stepped over the tape. ‘Enough,’ he said. ‘Go back to your house.’
The sound of a radio news bulletin’s opening headlines. Eight o’clock. Collins climbed into the car.
From the bay window, Hari switched his attention to the police car opposite. The bearded officer had stepped out of the car to watch his colleague’s approach. He had stretched, radioed once, put his sunglasses on. He had seemed nothing more than curious initially, but now slammed his door shut and jogged to join his colleague. Binici, at Hari’s shoulder, was muttering. Turkish, Hari assumed. It sounded like a chant, a prayer, an incantation.
‘Now would be good,’ said Hari, glancing left to the other end of the street.
‘And now is good,’ said Binici.
The prayer had worked. On the main road, a plain white van was approaching the turn into Boxer Street. Slowing, indicating left. It edged into view before stopping just shy of the corner. Two faces strained at the windscreen, peering, twisting. Looking for parking, looking for cops, looking for trouble.
‘Stay here,’ Binici said. He flew from the room, then took the stairs in a few jumps. ‘Be ready on the door!’ he called from the hall, then slipped noiselessly from the house.
He was alone. It would only be for seconds but for the first time in days, Hari wasn’t being watched. Run. Hide. Last chance. Next stop the butcher’s shop. But stage left was Binici and the London goons, stage right were the cops. The fash. If he hid with a neighbour, in a shed, in a cellar, he’d be too late to stop Binici’s revenge. Same equation, same algorithm, same result.
Paralysed, Hari watched both dramas. Binici checked right then jogged left. Hugging the wall, he briefly disappeared from view before reappearing crossing the road at the T. He held up a hand. The men in the van didn’t respond. Hari swept right. One policeman was bent over, hand on the car roof, the other stood face on to Collins. Both were concentrating on getting the mad woman out of the car. Hari swept left. The van and Binici had disappeared. Boxer Street was clear.
Three minutes past eight.
He looked right. Collins was still inside the car, both policemen were crouched.
He looked left. Still nothing.
Right. One
