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bags up with one hand and slung them into the
back of the lorry. He nodded the other two men back to work, then came back to
where I was lying, rubbing my legs and feet back to life. He spoke from lips
that looked like two pink slugs.
    ‘If I
was Prime Minister, I’d pass a law that gave the Council the right to throw
you, an’ your sort, into the back of my lorry. You’re rubbish. I’d have
the dossers, the winos, the dope ‘eads, the whores, the glue sniffers, the pakis,
the chinks, the darkies, the whole bleedin’ lot of you pulled to bits. Bones
broke, heads off, mixed up by the mincer at the back of my motor. An’ you know
what? I’d work for nothin’, ‘cos I’d be doin’ it for my country. You’re
rubbish! Fuck off out of it!’
    I got
up and hobbled away from him into a street leading from the square. As I
regained the feeling in my feet and legs, I walked faster, until finally I was
running along the empty pavement. Passing somewhere called Charlotte Street,
where the restaurant and café windows were being cleaned by young men in denims,
I could smell coffee, real coffee, the sort that people make in little machines
after grinding beans. I have never tasted real coffee. When rare visitors came
to our house I didn’t say, like actors do in television plays, ‘It’s only
instant, I’m afraid.’ In our house it was never anything but Maxwell House.
    I
enjoyed running, so I carried on, flying into a big street called Tottenham
Court Road, past shops full of Japanese electrical goods. A golden sun rose on
my right. My reflection flashed from shop windows as I ran, effortlessly and
with increasing speed, dodging and weaving through people on the pavements. I
now had something to do in London; I was an early-morning runner. Carry on,
faster, faster, pony-tail bobbing, arms carving through the air, legs striding.
Stop. I have arrived at the end of Tottenham Court Road. I have been here
before. The street is called Euston Road. A shimmering angled building stands
opposite. I passed it last night. A magical mirrored building, reflecting life
and movement. I have come a full circle. St Pancras … Fitzroy Square …
Tottenham Court Road. I have a territory.
    The
pavement is suddenly crowded. I wonder if there has been an accident but the
crowd exists only for a moment and then disperses. People are coming out of an
Underground station. They have the numb, hurrying look of people going to work.
Chinese men with brief-cases, Arabs in flowing robes. An African woman, with
tribal markings on her face and a squash of chiffon on her head, is holding her
daughter’s hand. The girl is wearing a miniature school uniform. I am
captivated by the sight of so many different nationalities. Although I stand
and watch the Underground travellers emerge for at least five minutes, I am
disappointed not to see a single bowler hat. However, a policeman’s helmet is
visible through the crowd so, scared, I move on, running back in the direction
I’ve come from.
    A few
cafés are open now. I’m so hungry that I can smell them before I see them. It
would be very ill-mannered to stop and stare through the windows and watch
people eating and drinking, so I pass by at speed. The traffic fills four lanes
and moves in irritated fits and starts. It must be the famous London rush-hour.
A Japanese television in a shop window is showing TV AM. The correct
time is superimposed on Roy Hattersley’s feet: 7.35 a.m. John and Mary will be
getting up for school and college. No, they won’t be going anywhere this
morning. Today is the first full day of their new status. They are the children
of a murderer. Opposite them live a widow and her four children.
    I have
created chaos in the dull street where I lived meekly for twenty-one years. I
know I can never go back.

 
     
     
     
     
    6
Inspector Sly Investigates
     
    6.15 p.m. 13 Badger’s Copse Close, Grey Paths Estate. Wednesday
evening
     
    Detective Inspector Sly
was getting impatient.