‘Really, Gregory!’ A note of mild admonition, hardly meant, from his wife.
‘Oops, I’m being institutionally racist.’
‘And spot on,’ Hugh ventured from the far end of the table, spooning the ice-cream into his mouth.
‘Coffee anyone?’ Sophie asked.
‘Please,’ was the collective response.
She rose as Simon launched into a fresh tirade. ‘We’re scared of them. Everyone’s scared of them. That’s the trouble …’
‘Simon wants to find a place in Oxfordshire,’ Jennifer added.
‘Who doesn’t?’ Sophie reached the kitchen door.
‘Don’t you think we should give them a break?’ Edward the token, free-eating bachelor queried.
Gregory scowled. ‘How many do they need?’
‘I was just …’ He sensed that dissent was treasonable, might provoke an ugly exchange. Not worth losing a future invitation over. ‘Never mind.’
‘Two-and-a-half thousand people burgled every day in this country, three hundred people mugged in London alone. Even the Asians are at it – pulling every accident-insurance trick in the book, lying their tits off in court. And we’re supposed to find it acceptable.’
‘What can the police do? Stop-and-search is verboten.’
‘They’re too busy acting as social workers, fining us for speeding, and telling us we’re xenophobic.’
‘World’s gone mad.’
Simon was helping himself to the claret. ‘So where’s our country gone?’
‘To the dogs.’
‘And to minicab drivers who’ve been guerrilla fighters in every corner of the world. Last time they drove, it was Land Cruisers with automatic cannons on the back.’
‘That American professor, Patt … Pett … Pitt … Pitt … He may be controversial, but he has a point.’
‘Drugs and rhythm.’ Hugh laboured the point with a finger. ‘Drugs and rhythm. That’s the only contribution the blacks have made.’
‘My God, we’re paying for it.’
* * *
We’re scared of them. Everyone’s scared of them. Sophie had returned from the kitchen with a tray of Valrhona truffles. The coffee would take time to percolate. She stood, eyes engaged and widening, brain failing to process the nature of the scene. Something unusual was happening, something for which she was not trained or bred. Middle-class – centre of darkness – nightmare. She wanted to scream, but knew instinctively that it would be a waste, a futile act. Freddie was her first real thought, her chief concern, but she remained rooted, awkward with the presentation tray of Belgian chocolates. They shook slightly in her hand. So, terror could freeze, could immobilize those caught in its deoxygenating grip. Her husband and friends stayed inert, ice forms, holding their breath and emotions. Silence. A profound shock that weighed like sadness, slowed tempo; actions dragged down by unreality and carbon dioxide.
Three strangers had stepped through the French windows, the last turning to close and lock the doors, draw tight the curtains. Sealing off. They wore tracksuits, balaclavas and surgical gloves; they were armed. The leader approached Sophie, his eyes white and pronounced in the fabric holes. She felt the gun barrel in her belly, the chocolates being taken from her. A nod. She obeyed, went to sit down, her mind screeching for her to save Freddie, her memory throwing up the image of menace seated in the rear of a chauffeured Mercedes and spitting phlegm at her feet. He was back; it was back. The truffles were dropped, ground in the carpet.
‘Look, if you want money …’ Hugh’s voice cracked.
A pistol was pressed into his right ear, a mouth lowering to whisper into his left. ‘We want you to shut up.’
He persevered, eyes screwed tight. ‘I was just … take the jewellery, the silver, anything.’
‘Silence, man. Sshh.’ A finger was held up to the lips. ‘Or your lady gets her throat slit first.’
Someone whimpered. Pippa was rocking, tears leaking soundlessly on her cheeks. Colour had drained from their faces, from the room. There was a kind of monochrome, a hush, a stillness in time and glacial temperature. It was a collision of value systems as remote as solar systems. One sphere had been penetrated by another; familiarity and normality had fled. Planet alien. Guests were captive, husbands impotent, wives stupefied. Everyone transported. They waited. Sophie focused on her wine glass, its contents half drunk, alcohol residue sour in her mouth with fear. A few seconds had come between the dinner party and this, a few sips between happiness and desolation. It made no real sense. Things were out of control, beyond her control. She glanced at Hugh, Gregory, then to Jennifer, trying to reach through, to hook up for inspiration or solace. They gave nothing, reflected back, their sweat unhealthy and pork-pallid, they had retreated into confused inner misery.
‘Put your hands behind your backs. Over the chairs. Now.’
Eight men and women obeyed, offering no resistance. It was a robbery, they reasoned to themselves. Cooperate, and they would escape unharmed; struggle, and the situation could escalate into tragedy. Best to wish it away, sit it out, to present a united and tactful front. Survival depended upon it. The intruders may be black, but at least they were too professional, too methodical, to be stoned. Small mercies. The gang leader remained silent, looking on with the detached calm of a commander whose decision was final and already taken. There would be no change to the chain of events, no interruption. He could see traces of hope flicker deep behind their corneas, near-hidden by the nervous tension and surface strain. Easy to read, easier than the written word; easy to sustain or crush. Humans were optimists by nature, would grasp at whatever was offered, whatever mirage they invoked. These were hardly an exception. They were virgins to violence, innocent beginners in comprehending the possibilities, the parameters. A steep learning curve. He would open a whole new world to them. Their hands were tied tight with nylon flex.
A pager bleated softly, was extracted from a jacket pocket and passed to the Tiger. He scanned the message, an ETA request from a bored baby-sitter to her employers seated and bound at the table. He typed in Delayed and thumbed the send key. ‘Please don’t hurt us, please don’t, please don’t,’ a woman’s voice repeated, insistent as a mantra. It was joined by a man’s, louder, protesting. ‘No … no …’ A head was grasped, the rasping noise of adhesive cutting through while the duct tape was unrolled, wrenched round and round.
Sophie had twisted towards the Tiger, myriad questions framed in her eyes, only one vocalized by her mouth. Why? He grinned encouragement, would not bother to explain. It went beyond bad table manners, poor social taste. Their fevered minds could hardly appreciate the beauty and the logic, the angle from which he came, the scale of the strategy. Torture these select, out-Manson Charlie-weird himself, and their torment would tear through smug Middle England, brutalize the establishment. A truly holistic approach, a chain-reaction that addressed the entire body politic. Class act – beat Class As every time.
Another head was wrapped, disappeared, its owner making small squealing sounds. The completed example lolled alongside, a deformed sphere plasticated and insect-shiny, two straws protruding from hidden nostrils, the contours of a face pressing death-mask tight against its binding. Two down. The rest would follow. Faith was evaporating from them, pumped out with every hyperactive heartbeat, with every laboured inhalation-exhalation of the packaged duo. At the bottom was a dark pit. He would herd them over. A third member went under, was locked away. Pity not to take a photograph. This was creative, interactive, this was installation art. It was a pleasure to do work for the Reverend. All done; all about to be done.
‘What yah think, boss?’
The Tiger boxed his fingers into the shape of a camera frame. ‘I think it’s time to fuck wid dah minds and bodies.’
He pointed. An incision was made at mouth level, the mummy head swaying, air sucked greedily through to the blind prisoner inside. Bronchial panting, bubbles of saliva bursting around the lipless cavity. It was as indicative of dread as the ammonia-dampness spreading on the seat covers. He enjoyed such moments, found them life-enhancing. Few could say they made a difference, were there, had participated in genuine change. He would. Welcome to the revolution, a big hello to the special bakery. His team prepared for the chemistry lesson. A glass pipe was inserted, the crack added, heat applied. Retching, coughing, then a tautening of the spine. The gloved hands secured the chin, held the device in place. Struggle died.
The assistant patted the bobbing cranium. ‘Wild dreams, baby. Wild dreams.’
Upstairs, Freddie had woken.
CHAPTER 7
