Lawrence detected a coolness about both men. The earlier excitement Bartram had displayed at the prospect of looking for Sarah-Kelly was gone. Lawrence sensed they were about to tell him to sling his hook and not come back.
“Won’t the children be home soon?”
“They’re back at school.”
Lawrence glanced anew at the sun. He must have slept for several hours, it was mid-afternoon now. Bill returned to his labours in the Newman’s basin, while Bartram led in silence into the house and stood at the head of the dining table, where he laid a hand on several sheets of good-quality typed paper. He was agitated about something.
“There’s been some developments—quite a few developments. My problem, Lawrence, is that out there—” He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder to indicate the outside world. “—out there a bunch of idiots is running around screaming this and that and threatening to shoot everyone. The National Party are ruling the roost now and I don’t like their flavour at all. Skay made me believe they were quite sensible people. What I’ve seen of them is that they’re a bunch of kids with guns. Except one. There is one who is an intelligent human being He came here to talk with the Basin Council. Can you guess who it was?”
“No.”
“Your brother Donald.”
Lawrence was too baffled to respond.
“Now he’s got a grand title,” Bartram said. “Minster for trade of the Republic of the New Nation, or something like that, longer than any of my barges.”
“Did you say that Donald, my brother, is with the National Party?”
“He’s one of their head honchoes, right up there with Farkas.”
“And he was here in this basin?”
Bartram took up the papers from the table.
“This lot came down from the National Party HQ—by dedicated motorcycle courier no less. It scared the shit out of me when I opened the envelope, because Prentice was right where you are. The National Party want to speak with you up at Brent Cross. They’ve sent a cover letter that will get you through any check point and into their main office up there. Do you know where it is?”
Lawrence tried to say “yes” but only managed a croak. He cleared his throat. “Yes. I did some work there a few days ago.”
“The summons has been signed by no less than Madam Sarah-Kelly Newman. Seemingly she is something called lead statement manager for the Atrocity Commission. I have absolutely no idea what that is all about, but she’s alive and obviously thriving and that’s all I care about.”
Lawrence took the cover letter and put it in the side pocket of the plus fours. He felt liquid fear inside, even if he hoped to maintain his poise on the surface.
“How did she know I was here?” he asked.
“No idea. I’m simply not getting involved with radicals. All I care about is my business and getting her back into it.”
“I understand. Could I have a sou’wester and oilskins?”
“Of course you can. I’ve a warehouse full of that stuff.”
*
Outside the gates of the Friendly Cooperative of North Kensington basin, Lawrence hung about, indecisive. He watched a company of the new National Army march past in smart step on its way to Ladbroke fort. The uniforms were a hotchpotch of General Wardian, Universal Parrier and Guards to the People. It was the national tricolour armband that bound them now. The National Party was the new power in London.
He tried to think through the risk in this summons. Donald must have struck up some kind of relationship with Sarah-Kelly—that in itself was extraordinary. Donald had been wholly cynical in his pursuit of women, often bragging to Father about his plans to marry into a sovereign clan. Notwithstanding that, there was no other way she could have known where to find her old lover.
It was not credible that Sarah-Kelly meant to hand him back to the ultras, of that at least he could be reasonably confident. That hardly reassured him, however. The truth was, his worst fears had happened, she had delved into the dirty work of the glories and obviously excelled at it. Now she was a big wheel in the Atrocity Commission. How might dreadful truths change a person? Perhaps she wanted to look in his eyes to tell him he was named for arrest and was going to hang.
Lawrence stared at his boots for a long time, frowning. Dread hung on his soles as he finally turned north towards Brent Cross. Why not go the other way—collect the bow and arrows and disappear into the chaos of the marginal lands? To live as what—top killer of rats? It was not the lowness of the life that repelled him, it was the skulking evasion of it. He was not going to flee his own past, least of all before the eyes of Sarah-Kelly. So, he trudged with a heavy gait over Duddon Hill to the frontier of Brent Cross, where the fanciful guards had been replaced by troopers with national armbands.
The frontier guards accepted the cover letter with barely more than a glance. Lawrence walked across the market place towards the neat two-storey building where a few days previously he had unloaded furniture and spotted his old friend Kalchelik. Might Kalchelik have something to do with this summons? Lawrence shrugged. Perhaps.
The market place was quiet compared to his previous visits. The great crowds of the weekend had gone. The seething traffic of man-hauled ultramarine wagons was also gone. Indeed, he could not see any black uniforms, despite making a thorough study of the area. All he could see were National Army troops at ease gathered around field kitchens or else being drilled in squares. He slowed approaching the National Party headquarters building. His instincts yelled at him to run, find a new life elsewhere, see the big, wide world. His intellect told him he admitted everything if he ran, and what was more, he admitted it to Sarah-Kelly.
He climbed the steps and entered.
At the Reception desk
