Ardent Justice

by Research Professor Of Social Policy Peter Taylor-Gooby

  Ade felt she was at peace. She hadn’t felt like this for a long time. She lay back on a mattress against the wall in the corner of an empty room up a flight of wooden stairs. Light filtered in through an uncurtained window.

  Nadia tucked the quilt gently round her cheeks. ‘Close your eyes. Sleep.’

  Ade felt herself sinking down into the bed, into darkness. Somewhere she could hear singing. A memory welled up from far away, darkness, a warm bed and someone singing.

  She opened her eyes. Nadia was sitting there in the moonlight, singing gently to her, singing her to sleep. The words she didn’t recognise, sounds from a language spoken far away, but there was comfort in them, and understanding.

  ‘Nadia,’ she said. ‘I’ve done something, something dreadful.’

  Nadia placed a hand on her wrist.

  ‘Sleep now. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.’

  12

  Ade lay there, warm in her bed, staring at the window. The clouds had gone. Nadia was next to her, fast asleep. Paul lay curled up on a mattress on the far side of the room, snoring gently. There was no movement anywhere in the house. She was the only one left awake. She felt as if she was on guard.

  She stared as a silver moon rose up, floating up over the streets and towers of London, shining down on parks and gardens, on the river twisting below it, a glittering snake, the serpent that tied all London together.

  She raised herself on one elbow and looked across at Paul. He seemed so young, his skin smooth as chocolate, the hair lying back from his face. A tiny whorl of baby-hair twisted round just behind his ear. He stirred and murmured something. Should she wake him? There was something she had to explain to him. About how she’d wanted to kill Webster. Then she’d have to go. Not now. She’d let him sleep on. She lay there watching over him.

  Ade thought of how she’d lived in this city all her life, of the suburbs long ago, of her mother and how she would make up stories. She remembered a birthday with cake and a real theatre, the stage splendid and dazzling, with a boy who could fly, played by a girl, who saved them all and smiled down at everybody and once just at her. Everything had been so much more vivid, so much more real than the streets outside and she had cried when she had to go home.

  She thought of the school and the college and of her life with friends from so many different places; and of that interview, when Caroline, the sixth-form teacher, had explained how it all changed now and how it got serious and the choices you made might transform your whole life. She remembered how pressured things had been and how pointless, the routine spreadsheet work in the office all day, the bright point of Birkbeck in the evenings. Then she was a graduate, BA (Accounting) and there was the thick white envelope with her name on it. Everyone had been so pleased that the civil service had accepted her, her parents, her sister, Caroline, her tutor, and, most of all, her friends. She thought of that day when she’d put on her new clothes and travelled on the familiar unfamiliar underground train and arrived at the office on a bright wind-swept street half an hour before anyone else. That was when she first met Morwen.

  Morwen. She remembered how she felt standing there alone in the lobby. She took one deep breath, expelled it, and, before she could think, swung open the double doors. The office was right in front of her, the rows of desks, and the figure coming towards her with her hand outstretched. Later the other new staff had all told her how lucky she was to have Morwen as her mentor.

  She sighed. She’d done something she had to tell Paul about properly, and Nadia. She couldn’t see Morwen’s face any more. In a way, she’d done it for Morwen.

  She stared at the moon. Silver light all over the city. She could see, far away, the towers, black silhouettes with bright windows, yellow light streaming out, drawing her towards them. She peeped in. There they were on the trading floors, all men, all young, all active, someone shouting ‘Tokyo’s come up,’ someone else jabbing a finger at a screen, another dialling on a mobile with the landline receiver already at his ear, one of them eating pizza in his cubby-hole office. A crack ran all the way round the top of the block with the noise of thunder, only no-one seemed to notice. She found she could slip in her fingers and hinge the roof slowly back, like the top of a breakfast egg. The sour smell of too many people in one place, of sweat and cheap deodorant rose up round her.

  She could see down into the building, right into it, she could see it all so clearly, as if she was there in the room – except she could see other rooms spread out on all sides of her, office beyond office, trading floor beyond trading floor. They were like reflections in the mirrors of a lift, endless, all of them lit up with the glare of strip lights. Everywhere around her there was movement, traders striding between desks, slapping each other’s backs, whistling at a secretary as she carried a file through, grabbing at mobile phones, pushing past each other, stuffing burgers in their mouths. There were traders in their shirt-sleeves, traders sitting on the edge of their desks, traders leaning over each other, shouting threats, dropping pills in their coffee, snorting cocaine through fifty-pound notes, one of them handing out bottles of champagne, one of them dialling into a phone-sex line, one of them standing stock-still, staring at the screens, his tie undone, his mouth open – all of them traders, all of them men.

  She was somewhere right at the heart of it all, somewhere high up, on the helipad at the top of the Pinnacle, the tallest, newest block in the city, the building that increased the total trading area by ten per cent overnight. She stood there, legs braced, right on the parapet, smelling the wind. Beneath her an abyss stretched down, past countless windows, past seagulls like scraps of paper, past kites and eagles and aeroplanes, into blackness darker than the rivers of hell. She leaned forward into the tempest, her hair streaming out behind her, her arms spread wide, her cheeks icy, her eyes sharper than knife-blades. She stood there, against the sky, staring out over the city, her back straight as a sword, the costume tight on her legs. She felt the force in her body, the power in her shoulders. She sensed the light glinting against a blackness as slick as oil on her cape, on the muscles of her chest and, most of all, on the cowl and mask, dark as a midwinter night. The cowl was so black it seemed to absorb light, her eyes so bright they glowed, commanding, piercing, ruling the city.

  She could see all of it, every detail, each of the individual traders, each of the brokers, the back-office people, the programmers, all of them. She could see the assistants making the coffee, serving it out at boardrooms, typing away, welcoming men at reception desks, answering phones, making appointment, making excuses, writing agenda, drafting reports, all of them women, forever smiling, forever dipping their heads, forever patting at their hair, fumbling at their make-up, forever worrying: what did the men think of them? What would the men think of them?

  She saw into the computers, she could see the spreadsheets as they lay there: myriad figures jumbled, sorted, shaken, and neatly dropped out, layered, mounting up right to the topmost one, it was the spreadsheet Webster had shown her. She looked at it and through it and behind it, down, down, down, layer and layer to the truth, to the real figures that he kept locked away, for his eyes only, to the figures that were massaged and manipulated and laundered through tax-havens and offshore companies, through Liechtenstein and the Virgin Islands and Jersey and Denver and Hong Kong and Zurich and back again, the figures that no one else must ever see. The truth, the figures that Morwen had groped for through all that modelling and so nearly grasped, the real figures, now there, in front of her, clear as the sky above.

  She woke with a jolt. The room was empty. Sunshine streamed through the window. Someone knocked and opened the door. It was Paul, his hair combed down, in a crumpled suit with a tie round his neck and a mug of tea in each hand.

  ‘Good morning, it’s a beautiful day!’

  ‘Paul! I have to talk to you.’ She sat up, the sun in her eyes. ‘Where is everybody?’

 
‘They’ve gone out. Don’t work, don’t get paid.’

  She put down the mug and seized his hand, pulling him onto the bed beside her. His eyes looked up at her as if she was the only thing in the room and he leaned towards her. She placed a hand each side of his head and held him there with her eyes fixed on his.

  ‘It’s about Webster.’

  ‘Bastard.’

  ‘I told you, I stabbed him. I think I killed him.’

  ‘I don’t think you did.’ He looked at her, his eyes serious, his hands holding onto her wrists: ‘One, you ain’t a killer. I just know you ain’t. Two, I don’t see the blood. You stab someone, you’re covered in blood. Three, there’s nothing on the web. There’s stuff about an attack on a city magnate and the police are saying it was a mugging, but that’s all. If he was dead, they’d make more fuss.’

  ‘But he lay there making noises. I felt the pen quiver with his heartbeat.’

  ‘Ade,’ said Paul, ‘He’s a bastard, but he’s got a pulse. He shuddered or something. And he got what he deserved.’

  He was holding her hands in his. She felt better than she had for a long time.

  ‘You’re going to be OK,’ he said, ‘you had a bad time. You just rest here today. We’ll look after you.’

  She thought of the dream, of the wind in her face, wind that had come a thousand miles over the ocean, over the hills, wind that was pure. He had his head on one side. He looked very young all of a sudden. She leaned towards him.

  ‘I had a pen. I stuck it in his neck and twisted it and I ran and then you came and I had a dream.’

  ‘Tell me later.’

  ‘No, I want to tell you now. Listen.’

  She held him there, her mouth next to his ear, smelling the rich unfamiliar scent of the oil in his hair, her fingers on the softness of his skin. She told him everything, about Webster and how he treated Jessica and Sita and the restaurant and the lift and her teeth in his throat. She told him about the streetlights glinting on the tarmac and the alley and how the silk scarf had cut into the fat on Webster’s neck, and how she’d hated him and how she’d thought of Morwen. She told him of the pen, sliding effortlessly into the plump flesh, and the blood welling up and how she’d started running.

  Then she told him about the dream, how she’d stood there, the dark figure on the Pinnacle leaning on the wind, looking down on it all, watching over it, it had been her and she’d seen into everything, all of it, and grasped it, how it all worked, and it was hers.

  When she’d finished she sat back. He gazed at her with his large dark eyes, his mouth open. ‘You’re something. You need someone to look after you. Stay here. We’ll look after you.’

  He had such beautiful eyes, the iris amber, the pupil deepest black. She thought: I’m in control of this. She squeezed his hand and raised it to her lips, kissing it tenderly, taking her time, keeping her eyes on his.

  ‘You’d better go,’ she said. ‘I need to think a bit.’

  ‘I’ll see you again, won’t I?’

  ‘Yeah, see you later.’

  He made to kiss her on the lips, hesitated and ducked back. Then he was gone and she lay there thinking, I’ll see him again. Plus I stabbed Webster. I didn’t kill him. But he tried to do that to me, so I stabbed him. Bastard.

  13

  Ade ran down the escalator, skipped sideways and let three people onto the train in front of her (including two who obviously didn’t deserve it.) Paul Affarn, Paul Affarn ran the rhythm in her head. Paul Affarn. I’ll see you again. I’ll see you again. She stopped herself on the platform. This is crazy, she thought, you’re a tax inspector, you should not be like this, and it doesn’t even rhyme. Then: so what? I live in the city. I can be who I want.

  She found herself smiling at a tall woman with magnificent cheekbones and immaculate make-up who ignored her and then poked out a delicate pink tongue. Ade looked back at her, deadpan and, unable to stop herself, broke into a grin. Paul Affarn, I’ll see him again. The woman looked away. Point to me, thought Ade.

  She was late for work, there would be so much to do. Everything had gone wrong with Webster. Would they know it was her? Was he really OK? How could they know she’d been there in the alley? But maybe they’d know. They’d ask her when she last saw him, she’d better be ready. They made you tell the story backwards, to trip you up.

  A young man in denims carrying chisels and a large hammer and what looked like engraving tools in a dirty hold-all stood up and gave her his seat at Tower Hill.

  She stared at her reflection in the blackness. Robin Hood, Robyn Hood, Paul Affarn.

  A bright light streaked past. The train slowed and she stood staring at the headline on the free paper in front of her face:

  VAMPIRE IN THE CITY! BLOOD-SUCKER SUCKED!

  Below it was Webster’s face in close-up, heavily bandaged round the neck and cheek, his eyes gleaming in pain and anger.

  She jerked back, into the tall woman. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she began, ‘I…’

  ‘Pray think nothing of it,’ the woman replied with great attention to consonants, still ignoring her, and swept past.

  Ade stood on the escalator at Monument, the wind whipping round her. Webster’s OK, she thought. Then: if they’re talking about vampires, they don’t think it’s me. Paul Affarn, I’ll see him again. Where did they get the vampire stuff from?

  She was just turning onto the street, when it hit her. She leant against the wall, almost choking with laughter. I bit the bastard in the neck! Bites in the neck – they think it’s a vampire! The bastard hasn’t got the guts to tell them what happened in the lift.

  She took a deep breath, then another.

  I bit the bastard, she thought, and he ain’t going to tell them it was when he tried to rape me. This isn’t me. I’m a civil servant. I work with spreadsheets. I have to start taking things seriously.

  She pushed through the main entrance on Gracechurch Street and ran up the stairs to the main office. There were people everywhere, mostly men, in suits, holding cups of coffee, making for the other offices in the building. She ducked past and tapped on the keypad for the side door.

  ‘Look out!’ someone said in a firm, assertive voice.

  She looked back to see a young man with regular features, a cleft chin, his hair brushed back from his forehead, glaring at her and flicking spilled coffee from his fingers.

  ‘Butterfingers!’ She slipped through the door and pulled it shut.

  Jimmy the Kid, slightly built, a triangular freckled face, vivid blue eyes and red hair, waved the free-sheet at her as she crossed the lobby: ‘Seen this! Your Mr Webster’s got himself bitten!’

  He giggled.

  ‘Thanks. He should check his shadow in the mirror.’

  His shadow in the mirror in the lift, the face coming at her, the gross infolding flesh of his neck endlessly reflected away from her. She pushed through the dark wood double doors into the main office.

  Most of them were out of their desks, all gathered round Nebay’s computer. Nebay who always said she was from Eritrea, full-bodied, tough and loud, who treated the tax office as her family. She was pointing at something on the screen. There was a babble of noise.

  Ade let the doors slam. Everyone fell silent, their eyes on her.

  ‘Good morning,’ she said. ‘Tube was late.’

  No-one spoke. No-one said that the Tube wasn’t late for anyone else. She started towards her desk on the far side of the room, next to Denny’s office.

  ‘Good morning, Ade,’ said Nebay, grinning like she’d won the lottery. ‘Terrible news about Mr Webster. He’s one of yours, isn’t he?’

  Ade stopped and looked at her. ‘I saw something in the paper. He had an accident. I’m sorry to hear it. Now, we must get on. Lots of public out there.’

  ‘Good job, I say.’ Th
is was Joe, sitting on a stool with his mug of tea in his hand. Grade eighteen, no ambitions and a year to his pension. He was always either drinking tea or sucking peppermints. ‘Deserved it.’

  He looked up at them. ‘Only saying what you’re all thinking, aren’t I?’

  ‘Joe, we treat the public with respect.’

  ‘OK,’ said Aidan, stepping away from the doors. ‘Let’s get organised.’ He was in his early thirties and from a large family in Dublin. He was never there a minute after five thirty, but you could rely on him.

  Ade took off her coat. They stood there watching her, as she sat down, logged into the computer and started on the morning’s emails.

  ‘Ade.’

  Denny’s voice on the phone. She sounded unhappy. ‘Could you come to my office, please?’

  There were two people behind the desk this time. The woman was dressed in a dark blue trouser suit, round face, short black hair, dark eyes, and a mouth that seemed to smile even when it wasn’t appropriate. Ade felt an immediate sympathy with her. She didn’t pay much attention to the man, average height, grey suit, brown hair cut high over his ears and a moustache. Denny was in her usual position for shared interviews, on the hard chair by the window, her face troubled.

  Ade put her hands together and found she was clasping her right wrist in her left hand. She smiled at Denny. ‘Could you get another chair, Ade?’

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ said the man. ‘There’s no need for you to attend this interview.’

  Denny frowned.

  ‘I’m here for the Revenue.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary.’ He didn’t look at her. ‘We will conduct the interview.’

  ‘I think I should stay.’

  ‘You’ve seen our authority.’

  Denny got to her feet.

  ‘All right. Ade, may I introduce Inspector Mayland,’ she indicated the woman, ‘and Sergeant Jones, City of London police force.’