Dark Clouds (21 page)

Certainly not. Violence is abhorrent wherever it happens. I can’t add much more to our conversation though and I’m saved from having to when the nice BBC woman moves on to a football match between Arsenal and Tottenham. ‘
The police are preparing for a confrontation this evening between fans at the Emirates stadium,
’ she tells us.

‘We is gonna thrash those Tottenam fuckers!’ my driver yells. ‘An’ I can tell you, we’ll give their supporters a good seein’ to an’ all!’

I’m nodding blankly while moving my arms and hands into a discreet Tai Chi position. I’m temporarily oblivious to the cab driver and his obscenities, but I make sure to add a few pounds to the fare when we get to Crowndale Square. It doesn’t appear to be enough, so I shrug helplessly as my cabbie gives me a crude middle finger before accelerating away.

London’s changing. It’s not quite so laid back as it used to be, and I’m thinking Greek islands with Fenian rebels when my mobile rings.

‘Rudi?’

‘Ingrid!’ Her voice is like balm from paradise.

‘I have to go to Paris … it is the Russian … I think he want another of my painting.’

Could be he wants the artist, babe. Putin’s new oligarchs are a pretty crude bunch. A few thousand roubles across the table and they think they can have anything they want.

 ‘Great … so you’ll call me when you get back.’

‘Of course … and I’ll tell you another story.’

I’m getting excited as we speak. My Valkyrie princess is the best thing that’s happened in my life for almost ten years. ‘Take care,’ I tell her. ‘And make sure the Russian gives you a good deal.’

She chuckles at this, and as we cut off I’m aware of Therese, the shy au pair from one of the houses across the square. She’s playing with two adorable children in our communal gardens. One of the kids waves at me, and as I’m standing by the entrance gate, I wander over to join them.

‘You play with us, Rudi?’ the one who waved asks. His younger sister is passing me a small beach bat and Therese is smiling with shy approval.

What the hell! I take off my jacket, grip the handle on the bat and wait for the squash ball that the six-year-old serves. We manage a couple of decent little rallies until his sister says she wants to have a go with ‘Rupy.’ Therese has to intervene briefly to get an orderly transfer of bats between her charges. The little girl’s shots are not quite as accurate as her brother’s and I find I’m chasing every other ball off the grass and into a clump of rose bushes.

‘All right – ca va … I think now that Rudi needs a break, n’est pas,’ Therese suggests when I’m limping around with earth all over my shoes and the bottoms of my trousers. Reluctantly, the children agree to bat the ball between themselves while I sit on a bench  beside Therese.

‘I am returning soon to Bordeaux,’ she tells me.

‘Ah – ’

‘Yes … I have an opportunity to study Chinese at the University.’

It’s a smart move. China’s definitely the next big economic phenomenon, along with India. Intelligent Chinese, French and English speakers will be much in demand everywhere.

‘You were disturbed recently in the early morning,’ Therese says unexpectedly when I’ve commended her decision to study Chinese.

‘Oh, it was nothing,’ I tell her with a lying grin. ‘The authorities mixed me up with someone else.’

‘There are many problems here now,’ she suggests.

I agree. But I’m wondering if I can shift our discussion over to China or Bordeaux, or the joys of the Dordogne, when my mobile rings.

‘Rudy – it’s Grant Stevenson here from the
Courier
in New York. Can we talk?’

‘Sure … give me a few minutes and I’ll come straight back to you.’

He wants more on Jeremy Wagstaff and Islamic activists at the King’s Cross Academy. I can’t talk about any of this in Crowndale Square with Therese and her charges. We smile at each other and I tell the children that I’m looking forward to our next game.

‘Au revoir, Rudi,’ the boy shouts with a ‘bye, Ruby’ from the girl and a sweet wave from Therese.

I feel better for having spent a little time with them. Would Ingrid like kids, I’m wondering, or would they interfere with her art? I’m quite taken with the idea of smiling faces over breakfast, although I do appreciate that there are 24/7 aspects that could have me falling asleep over my supper in the evenings.

I’m thinking of boys and girls names when I see a car approaching. It’s a beige Lexus. Is this a coincidence or what? Am I looking at the same vehicle I last saw in Harley Street and before that in Manchester Square? The front passenger window is going down and an Asian guy is grinning at me.

‘Rudi!’ he shouts. ‘I’m going to kill you!’

Another car has come around the Square from the left and is partially blocking the beige Lexus. I start running and I’m about to dive between two parked cars when a shot shatters the windscreen of the one on my right. I’m still dodging between the residents’ vehicles when another car window is smashed. I can see a gun pointing at me and I’m ducking when the next shot is fired. There’s a sharp impact on my right arm. I’ve been hit, and as I fall, my head is crashing towards the pavement.                 

Chapter 17

It’s horrendous, but I’m not really there. I’m slipping away.

‘Rudi!’ Therese is crying. Then it’s ‘Rupy!’ from her youngest charge. ‘Are you all right?’

Not really. But she’s calling an ambulance and the police. She may be shy, but she’s very together.

‘You will be fine,’ she promises and the tiny hand of a child is resting on my forehead.

This light touch is reassuring. It then goes and I’m vaguely aware of sirens, blue flashing lights and large people in yellow jackets. Later, there’s a smell. I think it’s soap or cleaning fluid and someone has switched on a TV set. I’m falling off the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco. My mother and father are with different partners. My mother has a small gift shop in Sausalito, while my father defends hopeless cases in a Los Angeles courtroom.

‘Mr Flynn?’ a female voice asks when I open my eyes. She’s smiling and I think she’s a nurse. There’s a game show on the television, which is mounted on a wall in a corner of the room. ‘
And the prize this evening is for the team who builds the most attractive beach hut at our unique location in the Southern Indian state of Kerala.
’

‘Where am I?’ I ask. ‘And my arm?’

It’s covered with a bandage and my head is sore.

‘You’re OK,’ Nurse Reilly tells me.

That’s the name printed on her uniform badge and I’m now aware of a cop standing in the doorway of my hospital room. He’s got an AK 47 slung over his shoulder and he’s speaking into a radio handset. ‘
The patient has just come round, ma’am. He seems confused, but appears to be responding normally
.’

‘We were worried about your head injury,’ Nurse Reilly says. ‘I’d say it’s just a bit of a knock and there was nothing on the X-ray.’

Great. But who was the bastard who grinned before he shot me? And what sort of state is my arm in?

‘Can you lift it up for me?’ the nurse asks.

Just about. But are there any other bullet wounds, and will it affect my typing?

‘Listen,’ she says, sitting beside me on the bed. ‘You’re grand. There’s nothing the matter with you. It’s just a shock, which you’ll get over in a day or so. Now do you want a cup of tea?’

Yes, please – and could I have a look in that mirror that’s on the top of my bedside locker? She passes it over before leaving and I hold it up cautiously. I need a shave and there’s a nasty bruise on the right side of my forehead. There are also two grey threads in what I had previously thought of as a decent enough mop of dark hair. I’m sure they weren’t there yesterday, and I’m also aware of dark circles under my eyes. I don’t feel like I’m thirty-two any more, and a man in a white coat has just come through the door.

‘Mr Flynn?’

I’m nodding and taking in a badge that says
Dr Ahmed Zakir
.

‘You are very fortunate,’ he tells me. ‘Do you mind if I switch over to the news?’

Anything would be better than the reality TV show from the beach at Kerala. The contestants are struggling with shaky looking huts that I think would collapse with even a moderate wind.

‘There has been an arson attack on a mosque,’ Dr Zakir says, and I’m tensing up under my hospital sheet when a serious BBC woman appears, followed by film clips of a smouldering building with the remains of a fine minaret.

‘
The Regent’s Park mosque was attacked an hour ago
,’ she says. ‘
The people responsible appear to have used firearms to gain entry and hand grenades to blow up and destroy the building …the police have not released any further details. But the Muslim Council of Britain are claiming that Nationalist elements are responsible for the attack, and we’re going over now to Sir Hammad Biswas, who’s at the mosque site …Sir Hammad …
’

Dr Zakir has his back to me and I’m trying to raise myself up in the bed when a frail, intelligent looking man in flowing white robes and a delicately embroidered kufi hat appears on the screen.
‘This is all so unnecessary
,’ he says, pointing up at the smouldering ruins of London’s most prestigious mosque. ‘
We have been trying for some time to improve relations between ourselves and other people in Britain …in spite of what has happened, we will continue to strive for friendship and co-operation …
’

‘
Thank you, Dr Biswas
,’ the BBC woman says courteously. ‘
We’ll have more on this incident later in the programme, but we’re going over now to another incident in Karachi, where our correspondent Robert Holt is waiting …Robert …
’

The picture changes to a square in Karachi, where there’s a huge pile of television sets with a British flag sticking from a broken screen at the top of the heap.

‘
Yes …hello, Victoria
,’ a middle-aged reporter says. He’s surrounded by a small crowd of mischievous looking Muslims. They’re all grinning and one of them is holding a pole with a flaming rag on the end of it. ‘
We’re assured that this is little more than a symbolic gesture t protest about the destruction of the Regent’s Park mosque and another yesterday in Bradford. The idea symbolised by the old television sets and the British flag is that we’re all rather decadent …and as you can see this gentleman is about to set fire to them …
’

With that, there’s a loud shriek from the crowd, and the guy with the flaming torch throws it into the old TV sets, which have already been doused with cans of petrol. Suddenly, the bonfire’s alight, and we cut away as the Union Jack disintegrates.

‘It is most unfortunate,’ Dr Zakir says while he turns down the volume and switches over to a ‘Carry On’ film. ‘And I really did have the feeling we were all getting along quite well together … what do you think, Mr Flynn?’

Absolutely. I agree completely. But where am I, please?’

‘This is Homerton Hospital,’ he says. ‘And we have been asked to sign Official Secrets Act not to talk about you or how you received your injuries.’

‘I’ve been shot.’ And the bastard laughed as he pulled the trigger.

‘I know. But you are almost all right. Just a little shock – so maybe you stay overnight … only there are police persons outside.’

Are they there to protect me or to stop me from doing a runner?

‘You must, I think, try to rest. Make your mind at ease. Have you any knowledge of meditation or yoga?’

Yes. I have a special, rather spiritual relationship with a giggling Maharishi who has now passed on. I am also familiar with various postures, which have been suggested by an Indian Yogi called Iyenger.

‘This is what you need to cope with what has happened to you,’ Dr Zakir says. ‘In fact, at this moment, I believe that we all need to meditate and do yoga postures whenever possible.’

I like this guy, and when he’s checked my blood pressure and waved a pen in front of my eyes, I sit up. I’m crossing my legs and trying to think the sound of a mantra that I paid fifty dollars for as a not too flush student at Berkeley in California at the end of the nineties.

I feel it’s working. I think the sound until it fades and I drop down to somewhere I’m not even aware of. Then I start having thoughts again, so I think the sound of my mantra until my head’s floating in a glorious oblivion. It’s going good. There are, I’m sure, mental and other beneficial effects. After twenty minutes, I hear footsteps outside in the corridor. I’m blinking when the door opens and Nurse Reilly comes in with a mug of tea.   

‘I couldn’t get you any biscuits.’

‘Don’t worry … I do appreciate the tea.’

A glass of red wine is what I’d really like, or maybe two or three fingers or a decent malt with a few cubes of ice in the tumbler.

‘Can I ask you a question?’

‘Sure – ’

There’s a twinkle in her eyes again and she’s sitting on the edge of my bed.

‘You’re not a gangster, are you?’

As in: ‘
Hey, Mr Soprano …I know this may seem a little impertinent … but …well there are all of these armed police outside and they seem to have sealed off this whole floor …it’s never happened before
.’

Maybe I should just keep stum or shrug my shoulders like I can’t say.

‘No – I’m not a gangster,’ I tell her. ‘But could I ask you a special favour?’

‘What’s that?’

‘I’d really like a bottle of wine or whisky … and of course, one for yourself.’

She’s looking at me and shaking her head with amazement.

‘There’s no way I could do that,’ she says. ‘There’s no telling what effect the drink might have on you ... it would be wholly irresponsible.’

‘Right – ’

‘There is however someone downstairs who wants to see you.’

‘A visitor?’

‘Maybe … only she’s making a great fuss with the police and one of the hospital administrators. They don’t want to let her see you, but when I was coming up here, a receptionist said she was speaking to a Government Minister on her mobile.’

The tea’s great and I’m enjoying Nurse Reilly’s company. I don’t know many people who can make a noise with Government Ministers, but as I sip at me tea, I hear a familiar voice outside in the corridor.