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getting at, Dian?’
    ‘I don’t know. I don’t know what I mean. But there’s something going on. If they’re lying to us, if they are adepts at Black Art, anything’s possible. I get a sense that Dilip may be in their hands. They may have called him up. Not alive, but—’
    Sage stopped her, shaking his head.
    ‘You have a lurid imagination, did anyone ever tell you that? Dian, you’re giving yourself nightmares. Lay off, think better thoughts. The Chinese are our liberators, we needed to be liberated, let’s live with it.’ He stood up. ‘Are you on your own? You know, you don’t have many fans at Ashdown.’
    ‘I’m with friends.’
    ‘I’ll walk you back to them.’
    The late bar was in one of the Reich’s prefab sleeping bag shelters. From the outside it looked like a sagging cowshed; with a front wall of layered marquee membrane that heaved like something alive in the dark. Inside it was warm and bright, full of bodies, and the draughts were welcome. Many of the defeated Utopians had been living without regular showers since September. The Few had scattered themselves through the throng; working the crowd. Fiorinda and Ax sat on stools at the counter, elbow to elbow, talking to anyone who accosted them; telling Reich-and-local mediafolk they were exhilarated to be starting from nothing again. They would not be meeting the mainstream press tomorrow. The situation was far too uncertain for that.
    Fiorinda got into a conversation with Areeka Aziz, rising star of the Reich’s second generation, that began with medium-term strategy (slightly premature) and degenerated to Ashdown catering. The concession stalls weren’t running out of food, but too many ravers had turned up penniless. Wristie numbers were past five thousand, spot estimates on the ground already well over that, got to boost the free meal provision. If we can do pease porridge and beer, they won’t starve—
    ‘I’m on to it!’ cried Areeka, ‘I’ll check the stores physically, it’s the only way, festinet is so fucked up—’
    Away she darted, burrowing between bodies, overjoyed to be back on board. Time was, they’d said that vivid London teenager was “the new Fiorinda”. Areeka, you are nothing like me. Brought up by loving parents, who taught you to believe in good things. You have A-Levels, or whatever they call them now. So caught up in the action, defending the poor, you couldn’t care less what you’re doing to your career, never mind that you’re risking your life: and how you shine—
    I want a daughter like that…
    (Her hand drifted to touch her belly, but she caught herself. Absit omen . Baby, what baby? Nah, silly idea, go away demons, no baby here.)
    Ax’s kitten, who’d been left behind the bar all day, crawled from Ax’s knee to Fiorinda’s and hustled to be allowed inside her hoodie. He was a good little homeless persons’ cat, unfazed by anything as long as Ax was near. Ax glanced around and they grinned at each other, snatching a break.
    ‘Still up for blowing the lovely Boudicca out of the water?’
    ‘Boo- dikki ,’ said Fiorinda. ‘Get it right. She’ll think we don’t care.’
    Ax and Sage would be lying very low tomorrow. Fiorinda had a solo set, publicised only by word of mouth, in one of the tents. Boo-dikki, a much-touted singer/songwriter, was the top female act on the official line-up. They’d discovered that the rumour mill (Ashdown had a rumour mill in London apparently; amazingly) was billing this ‘collision’ as a catfight between the senior Nation’s Sweetheart and a hot young contender. A bizarre concept to deal with when you’re testing very murky water, not sure whether or not you have a price on your head. And by the way, Boo-dikki’s older than I am—
    ‘I don’t mind blowing people away,’ said Fiorinda. ‘I used to do it all the time when I was a teenage superstar. The best fun is when you blow someone away without knowing they existed, that’s when they get