Ten Days (5 page)

The door was opened wider, and Ruben stepped in.

‘They'll talk him down,' Cathy said. ‘They'll keep him safe. I'm going to make some tea.'

9.10 p.m.

There was so much to catch up with and so much to put right that Joshua Yares would have stayed on if Downing Street hadn't called. It was for the best: if he'd kept going, others in the senior management team might have felt obliged to do the same. Probably wiser not to stretch their patience so early on.

The secretary who'd called had made it clear that this was a private visit, so Joshua circled round to Horse Guards Parade in order to go in through the back.

‘The Prime Minister's expecting you, sir.' A man led him up the narrow service stairs to the third-floor flat and rapped smartly on the door. Without waiting for a response, he opened the door, saying, ‘Please do go in. And help yourself to a drink. The PM will be with you in a jiffy,' before he went away.

Joshua hadn't been in the living room for a while, and now he admired afresh how successful Marianne had been in her project to stamp out all the tasteful traces of the previous occupants. The room was in fact such a riot of colour the tabloids had nicknamed it Dizzy Street.

None of this was much to Joshua's taste, but when Marianne was in residence there was a crazy logic that seemed to work. Now, however, everything looked to be out of place and clashing with everything else. Marianne must be in the country, leaving the room to the mercy of the whirlwind that was Teddy, who was bound to be the source of the loud rock music issuing from deeper in the flat.

Joshua was hot and thirsty from his walk. He poured himself a soda water.

‘That all you want?'

He turned. ‘Prime Minister.'

‘No need to stand on ceremony, Josh. Here we can still be friends. Fix me a malt, will you? No ice.' The Prime Minister had always been a vigorous man and, although he looked exhausted, he strode rather than walked across the room, and when he opened the door to shout, ‘Turn that racket down. And come and say hello to Joshua,' his voice was loud enough to penetrate the music, which was immediately cut off.

‘That God for that.' Taking the glass from Joshua, the PM went over to one of the sofas, plopped himself down into its bright-cushioned embrace and took such a big swig that he almost downed the lot.

‘Bad day?'

‘Not much fun. Bit of a pattern at the moment. I wake, see the blue sky, remember the latest guestimate of how much water there is in our reservoirs and decide, yet again, that somebody up there has it in for me.' He drank what remained of his glass before putting it down with a bang.

‘Another?'

‘Better not.' He stretched out his long legs and sighed. ‘It's frenetic at the moment. Marianne's right to have made good her escape. She sends her love by the way.'

‘And mine to her.' With Marianne away, Joshua couldn't help wondering why this sudden summons to the private residence. And on his first day as Commissioner.

‘You must have heard Whiteley using your appointment to attack me?'

Could this be the reason? But surely the Prime Minister knew that, now he was in post, there was no way that Joshua could get involved in a squabble between politicians, especially in the same party, even if it did seem to be about him. Joshua gave a noncommittal nod.

‘The ungrateful bastard is after my job. Didn't think he'd dare. Frances, his Lady Macbeth of a wife, sweats politics – if, that is, she ever sweats. I can't help admiring her even though she's dangerous. She was born to it. But he had to fight hard to get where he is, and he got there with my help. I thought he was genuinely interested in public service. And loyal.'

There was a time when Joshua could have pointed out that a series of disastrous polls might have something to do with Whiteley's new-found disloyalty, but he must now be more circumspect. He was saved anyway from replying because the door was flung open to reveal the Prime Minister's son, Teddy, who was dressed in a pair of frayed cut-off shorts and no top, so that his sharp ribs seemed to stick out through his pale-white skin.

‘Hello, Joshua,' he said, and immediately turned away.

‘Teddy!'

He turned back. ‘Sorry.' He put a hearty fakery into his voice as he repeated his greeting, ‘Hello, Joshua,' adding, ‘enjoying the new job, are we?'

‘Too early to say.' Although Teddy's tone had made it clear that he was only doing what his father expected of him, and with ill grace, Joshua couldn't help smiling. Not easy to live under the spotlight in Downing Street when you were seventeen, especially when you were pitching for edgy eccentricity, as Teddy obviously was. And despite the pimples, and the louche posture, and the drawled disinterest, Joshua could still see remnants of the enthusiastic young boy he had always warmed to. ‘How are things with you?'

‘Fucking awful, actually. Nothing but revision, and in this heat. Which, speaking of. Must get back to it.'

He made to leave but stopped when his father said, ‘You remember I'm off tomorrow?'

‘Sure do.' It was said breezily enough and yet, Joshua thought, there was also something sad in Teddy's tone. What was Marianne doing in the country when Teddy was about to sit exams, he wondered, a thought reinforced by the PM's next statement.

‘If you want Mum back while I'm gone, you only have to say.'

‘Kind of you,' another effete drawl, ‘but you'll soon be,' he made speech marks with his hand,
‘home
. What more could I possibly need? You go and have a good time, why don't you? I hope the glad-handing of a president does the trick with your disastrous polls.'

The Prime Minister seemed to flinch, and yet when he said, ‘Try and get a bit of air when I'm away,' he sounded calm.

‘Will do.'

‘But for pity's sake dress properly when you go out.'

‘What's the matter, pater?' Teddy smiled. ‘Do you think my ugly mug will impact your popularity?' He winked at Joshua and exited, closing the door firmly behind him.

‘He's impossible.' The Prime Minister sighed. ‘I'm sorry.'

‘Not to worry.'

Should he say something or should he keep his mouth shut?

Of course he should say something: he was after all the boy's godfather. ‘He has got very thin,' he said.

‘Has he?' The PM's frown displayed more uncertainty than disagreement – an odd thing to see in a man who was usually so bullishly confident. He swallowed. He leant forward and swallowed again. But if he had been about to say something, a loud knock on the door stopped him. He leant back. ‘Come.'

A man poked his head around the door. ‘Sorry to disturb, Prime Minister, but you wanted to know when they arrived?'

‘Thank you. I'll be down in a moment.' The door closed, and when the Prime Minister looked at Joshua, Joshua thought he must have imagined that earlier uncertainty. ‘Duty calls. I'm truly grateful for your coming at such short notice. Before you go, there is something I need to ask you.'

10 p.m.

The cake had tipped the kitchen from messy into a disaster zone, and she was trying to clear it when she heard Lyndall calling, ‘Mum.'

If she'd told Lyndall once, she'd told her a thousand times: come into the same room as me if you want to speak to me.

‘Mum.'

She ran a pan under the tap, seeing how thick was the crust of congealed food on it.

‘Mum.'

‘I'm in the kitchen.'

‘Mum, hurry.' There was now no mistaking the urgency in Lyndall's voice. It got Cathy to the balcony in seconds.

She saw Lyndall at the balcony edge. Not just her but a whole line-up of neighbours were also looking down as the dark sky flashed blue.

‘What's going on?' When she went to join them, she saw that the flashing lights were coming from a bevy of police cars. She counted four outside the community centre and one on its way to join them.

‘They drove up,' Lyndall said. ‘All of them at once. And then all the police rushed in.'

The sound of more sirens rent the air. ‘I better get down.'

‘I'll come with you.'

‘No, don't.' Her voice was firm enough to show that there would be no gainsaying her. ‘Stay here.'

As she got to the bottom of the last gangway, four more police cars screeched to a halt and eight more police officers rushed into the centre.

Something really serious. She ran the last few yards only to find her path blocked by a policewoman. ‘You can't go in.'

‘I'm a member of the police liaison committee. You will let me,' she said with an authority that came as a complete surprise to her, and to her greater surprise it worked.

She pushed the door open and stepped in.

She could hear the sounds of raised voices and of banging, but there was no one in the darkened entrance hall. She felt along the wall until she had located the light switch, which she flicked on. Nothing. The bulb must have blown.

More shouting: was that Banji's voice rising above the others?

She knew the centre well enough to feel her way through the dark towards the assembly room that was at the back. More shouting. Something happening which, despite the massive police presence, had not been resolved.

‘Get the fuck off him,' she heard.

Was that Banji's voice?

‘Can't you see you're hurting him?'

It was Banji.

She pushed through the double doors.

Afterwards she was sorry that she had, because the memory of what she saw would never leave her.

At first she couldn't make sense of it, because the images she absorbed were so fractured. She saw the room – big and square and windowless. It wasn't just hot, it was so steaming hot and it stank of mould and damp and sweat that seemed to be coming off the walls. Pushed up against one of these walls were two armchairs whose floral cushioning had been yellowed by age and overuse. Above the chairs, a series of posters, stuck up more to hide the damp stains on the wall than to tell the community how to combat STDs, when the local MP had his surgery and why breastfeeding was best. And near these sofas . . .

‘Let me go to him,' she heard.

She saw Banji face down on the floor, his hands cuffed behind his back. He was still struggling to free himself. He was shouting so loudly that she could hear what he was saying above the din that issued from the corner where a group of people, also all shouting, were penned in by policemen with batons extended. ‘You're supposed to be the good guys,' he was shouting. ‘You're the police. The representatives of the law. You're meant to help. Can't you see how you're hurting him?'

Her gaze moved off Banji and to the middle of the room.

And there was the sight she must have been avoiding, because it was the sight she should immediately have taken in.

A mass of uniforms. Police in a scrum. And the ball that they were struggling for was Ruben.

He was on his stomach, also handcuffed, but in his case two policemen were holding down each arm, while three others had laid themselves across his legs, as a sixth, who had strapped Ruben's legs below the knee, was tightening a further strap around his calves.

Ruben's leg twitched, as if he were trying to kick out or to stop the strap biting in. His head shifted a fraction to the side, only to be wrenched back by one of the policemen.

‘Don't move,' all the officers seemed to be yelling at once. ‘Don't move.'

He had stopped moving. Couldn't. Not with so many of them on him.

But their blood was up. ‘Don't move,' one of them yelled, as he pressed down on Ruben's head.

Poor Ruben, he must be terrified. She had to do something.

‘One more step.' Where had he come from, this policeman whose face reared so close to hers? ‘And you'll also be downed.' He pushed her back, and when she half fell, he held her up and pushed her again until she found herself backed against the wall, with his hand holding her there. ‘Calm down,' he said, while turning to his officers and gesturing with the other hand at Banji: ‘Get that man out of here.'

As the din in the room continued unabated, two of the officers linked an arm under each of Banji's arms and hauled him up. ‘Come on, son.'

With huge effort, Banji wrenched himself forward, breaking their lock. She thought he was going to run. He didn't. He stood stock-still and yelled, ‘Look what you've done.'

His shouting ricocheted around the room, silencing all the others.

And again: ‘Look what you've done!'

Only one sound now: a guttural exhalation from the centre of the room.

And then, when everybody seemed to hold their breath, there was no longer anything to hear.

‘You've killed him. You were called to help and you've killed him.'

The officer who'd been pinning Cathy back let go of her. He strode over to Ruben's prone body, kneeling down, lowering his head until his ear was adjacent to Ruben's mouth. ‘Quiet.'

No need for that command. The dreadful silence that had descended was never going to lift.

The policeman raised his head to say, calmly, ‘Call an ambulance.' And calmly again, ‘Get off,' to the officers who were pressing down on Ruben. ‘Turn him over.' They pushed the prone body. His head lolled back; they all heard it crack. ‘Careful, for fuck's sake. And take off those restraints.'

They managed to roll Ruben over.

As much as she wanted to, Cathy could not bring herself to avert her gaze. She saw Ruben. His skin was grey. His mouth open. Slack. Blood. From where? She couldn't see, and now she couldn't see anything much else except the sergeant who, having straddled Ruben, was breathing rhythmically into his mouth between compressions on his chest.

She watched, but even though she willed him on and told herself that they would soon hear Ruben coughing, something in her already knew it wasn't going to happen.