loved it, but the dean of studies wasn’t impressed. I’m on suspension until they work out how to handle me.’
‘Quite a challenge.’
‘I thought so too. So, with all this time on my hands, I decided to start a revolution.’
‘A revolution?’ I tried to seem impressed. She appeared edgy and frustrated, staring at the frayed carpet like an actress deprived of her audience. The revolution, when it arrived, would at least provide a good script and some valuable parts.
‘You put on a great show this morning,’ I told her. ‘In fact, I’m surprised they found you guilty. Fining someone in holy orders…’
‘Stephen Dexter? Chelsea Marina’s resident vicar. I’m not sure if that qualifies as a holy office.’
‘So the Shepherd’s Bush protest was religious?’
‘Not for Stephen. Poor boy, he’s one of those priests who feels obliged to doubt his God. Still, it makes him useful to have around, especially on a demo.’
‘Twenty-seven pounds worth of damage? What did you do – upset a litter bin?’
‘We tore down some posters.’ She shuddered with genuine revulsion. ‘Corrupting stuff.’
‘Ungodly?’
‘In a way. Deeply seductive.’
‘At a shopping mall? What was this? A pro-vivisection reading room?’
‘A travel agency.’ She turned to face me, chin raised. ‘As it happens, we’re against the whole concept of travel.’
‘Why?’
‘Tourism is the great soporific. It’s a huge confidence trick, and gives people the dangerous idea that there’s something interesting in their lives. It’s musical chairs in reverse. Every time the muzak stops people stand up and dance around the world, and more chairs are added to the circle, more marinas and Marriott hotels, so everyone thinks they’re winning.’
‘But it’s another con?’
‘Complete. Today’s tourist goes nowhere.’ She spoke confidently, with the self-assurance of a lecturer never interrupted by her audience, holding forth in this shabby living room in her passionate way. ‘All the upgrades in existence lead to the same airports and resort hotels, the same pina colada bullshit. The tourists smile at their tans and their shiny teeth and think they’re happy. But the suntans hide who they really are – salary slaves, with heads full of American rubbish. Travel is the last fantasy the 20th Century left us, the delusion that going somewhere helps you reinvent yourself.’
‘And that can’t be done?’
‘There’s nowhere to go. The planet is full. You might as well stay at home and spend the money on chocolate fudge.’
‘The Third World gains something…’
‘The Third World!’ Her voice rose to a derisive hoot. ‘Gangs of coolies who mix the cement and lay the runways. A select few get to mix the cocktails and lay the tourists.’
‘Hard grind, but a living.’
‘They’re the real victims. God, I’d like to let off a bomb in every travel agency in the country.’
I held my ribs, no longer thinking of whether I could walk as far as the King’s Road. Kay Churchill was launched into a well-rehearsed rant, counting off the chipped beads in her catechism of obsessions. According to Henry Kendall, the tape found in the Heathrow air vent had contained a similar tirade. I remembered the amateur video of Laura lying among the glass and suitcases, and listened to Kay addressing her real audience, the weary magistrates who would finally consign her to a cell in Holloway. It was hard to believe that this intriguing but erratic woman had the self-control to plant a bomb. But had she heard on the protest grapevine of the carousel attack, and fed the Heathrow tragedy into her inflamed world-view?
‘David?’ She sat beside me, a motherly hand on my forehead. ‘I enjoyed our chat. I’m sure we see things the same way. We need more recruits, especially someone at the Adler. When you’re better we’ll talk about it. We’re moving into a more serious phase.’
‘Violence isn’t for me, Kay.’
‘Please, I don’t want violence.’ From her lips a soft scent breathed over me. ‘Not yet. But the time may come sooner than people think.’
I looked up at her wary but determined face, at her uneven teeth and steady eyes. I guessed that for years she had been detaching herself from the real world, and in her mind rode a ghost train through a fairground she had built herself.
‘There was a bomb at Heathrow,’ I reminded her. ‘Two months ago. People were killed.’
‘That was dreadful.’ She gripped my hands in sympathy. ‘Meaningless, though. People who use violence have to be responsible. It’s such a special key. Everyone dreams about violence, and when so many people dream the same dream it means something terrible is on the way…’
A motorcycle’s throat-clearing rumble disturbed the road, drumming against the windows. After a coda of obligatory throttle work, a Harley-Davidson approached the kerb and stopped beside Kay’s Polo. The rider, in full biker’s gear, switched off the engine and sat back to savour the last tang of the exhaust. Behind him on the pillion was a small Chinese woman in a Puffa jacket, helmet hiding her face. I had seen them both at the magistrates’ court, but now they seemed less demure.
They sat together, black astronauts of the road, in no hurry to dismount, preparing themselves for re-entry into the non-biker world. Kay waved to them from the window, but neither acknowledged her, immersed in the arcane formalities of unbuckling the clips and press studs that held their costumes together.
‘I need to get home.’ With a huge effort I managed to stand, propped upright by the ballast of alcohol. ‘The local vicar? He was at Hammersmith Grove this morning. I need a doctor, not the last rites.’
‘I’m not sure Stephen would pronounce them. He’s grounded himself.’
‘Grounded? He’s a pilot?’
‘As it happens, he was. Though that isn’t what I meant. He was a flying vicar in the Philippines, island-hopping with the word of God. Then he crash-landed on the wrong island.’
‘He can’t fly?’
‘Spiritually. Like you, he’s unsure about everything.’
‘And the Chinese girl?’
‘Joan Chang. She’s his navigator, steering him through the dark wood of the world.’
I listened to the sound of heavy boots on the stone path. My head was clearing, as the anaesthetic effects of the whisky rapidly faded. Somewhere inside my chest a Rottweiler had woken from its sleep and was eyeing the world.
‘David, try to rest. Doctor’s coming…’
Smiling at me in the kindest way, Kay took my hands and steered me towards the settee. Behind the living-room door was a poster of The Third Man, a still showing Alida Valli, a haunted European beauty who expressed all the melancholy of post-war Europe. But the poster reminded me of another Carol Reed film, about a wounded gunman on the run, manipulated and betrayed by the strangers with whom he sought refuge.
Trying to steady myself as Kay went to the door, I realized that I was a prisoner in this modest house, trapped among the dreams of melodramas I had seen years earlier with Laura at the National Film Theatre. I could hear leather jackets unzipped in the hall, velcro strips torn back, and voices that talked of police heavy-handedness, an unnamed doctor and then, very distinctly, Heathrow. The doorbell rang again as I tried to calm the Rottweiler inside my chest and slumped to my knees on the dusty carpet.