Hari was startled by what he had done, stunned at the reaction. Kamran had cut his own letters as soon as Hari had suggested it. The others had swiftly followed. It wasn’t that they didn’t want to be left behind, they had wanted to join in. A herd branding. His own knife work was precise, the scar would be neat, and he was off the hook. Gregor’s was bigger, the letters longer. His ‘B’ was botched, looking like a childish, sideways M, but no one cared and certainly no one thought of pointing it out. Collins had cut her left forearm. She waved it at Hari, and mouthed a ‘wow’ from across the room. Hari could see that Binici, too, was thrilled. He wore a strange, teeth-filled, beatific smile.
Hussain, however, was torn. Hari could tell he liked the bonding, approved of the pre-battle psychology. The troop camaraderie. But throughout all the bizarre ceremonies his eyes kept coming back to Hari. He had barely moved. Around him his men were strutting and roaring, but there was a stillness about this new arrival that Hari found chilling. Kamran, Hari’s new best friend, had whispered his name.
Shadow had claimed the whole room by the time Hussain, Gregor and Binici returned to speak to Hari. Red Head and Teeth had crashed on the mattresses upstairs, Tattoos and Kamran were perched against the wall, under the windows, arguing about something with Collins. Hari was about to stand when Hussain approached, but the Egyptian motioned him to stay where he was. Hussain sat in front of him, cross-legged. Binici and Gregor stayed standing.
‘A neat trick,’ said Hussain, nodding.
‘It wasn’t a trick,’ said Hari.
Hussain tilted his head from side to side, as though weighing the evidence. Maybe yes, maybe no. Maybe a traitor, maybe not. ‘So you say.’
‘I’ve explained.’
‘You have. And your heroics were impressive.’
‘They weren’t heroics.’
The head tilt again. Maybe yes, maybe no. ‘We’ll see.’
Hari felt Hussain’s gaze as a physical weight. He had bought himself time but maybe that was all. Although Binici had spoken for him, his judgement was under scrutiny too.
Hussain produced the photo again. The white-framed Polaroid. Millie and Amara. Not smiling. He folded it in two, placed it in Hari’s top pocket. ‘You will be with us for tomorrow, Mr Roy. We are too close now for changes. The men want you there. They expect to embrace the butcher. We can all embrace the butcher.’ He patted the folded photo. ‘But you should know that your sisters will be there too. I will see to it. An insurance policy for me. And I’ll be right behind them myself.’ He tried a smile. ‘Just in case it was a trick,’ he said.
63
AS THE LAST of Wednesday’s light leaked from the warehouse, Amal Hussain told the Coventry and London Citizens where Thursday’s attack would take place, when it would happen and who would be attending. He wished them a good night.
No one expected to sleep well.
64
10.34 p.m.
DON HARDIN CRADLED his baby daughter over his shoulder. He hummed her a tune as he did laps of his lounge. She snuffled and coughed a little but seemed settled. He inhaled what was left of her new baby smell. Wipes and nappy cream was some of it certainly, leftover amniotic fluid was, apparently, the rest. He’d looked it up. She was asleep for now, his wife too. Tomorrow was busy, he’d be out all day, so it was his turn. All night. The bottles were ready, the spare bed made up. His vestments were ironed and packed, his day clothes laid out. Tomorrow he’d wear the shorts and T-shirt for the walk to the cathedral, then stay in the cassock and alb for the service and the demonstration.
‘Demonstration.’ He said the word out loud. Trying it on for size. ‘Protest,’ he said. ‘Protester.’ The smallest of smiles. He whispered to his daughter. ‘Your daddy is a “protester”. How about that?’ He stroked her few silky strands of black hair till they were flat. ‘I know the bishop will quote St Paul to me. He loves that letter to the Romans.’ A few more strokes. ‘He’ll say, “Let every person be subject to the authorities.” Then he’ll say, “The person who resists such authority resists the ordinance of God.”’ Hardin sucked in his cheeks until he thought he looked like the bishop. ‘What a pompous arse he is.’
The television lit the room, sound off, subtitles on. The local news carried a brief item about the university’s precautions for Thursday’s demonstrations. The vice-chancellor said he had confidence in the police and the good reputation of his students. Three men in hoods promised a day to remember.
Hardin kissed his daughter’s head and, eyes still on the screen, muttered a blessing he remembered from college.
‘May the nourishment of the earth be yours, may the clarity of light be yours, may the fluency of the ocean be yours, may the protection of the ancestors be yours.’
His daughter stirred. Soon she would be keening for a bottle. He held her a little tighter.
65
11.30 p.m.
FAMIE AND CHARLIE took the bed in 204, Sophie and Sam the bed in 203. Sam offered to sleep on the floor, Sophie told him not to be stupid. They lay with as much space between them as the barely-double mattress allowed. Sam gave a rueful laugh.
‘What?’ said Sophie, eyes closed already, hands over her stomach.
‘If Jo knew I was in bed with Sophie Arnold,’ he said, ‘she’d melt the walls.’
Sophie turned, propped herself up on one elbow. Pushed hair from her eyes. ‘Me in particular or just someone from work in general?’
Sam smiled. ‘Oh, you in particular,’ he said.
Sophie
