Ade was sure she recognised one shot from the Occupy St Paul’s campaign four years ago: a line of police holding their ground against waves of demonstrators with make-shift banners. She felt uneasy. The film finished with the empty street in the early evening, the camera panning up to the full moon. The commentator spoke rapidly: ‘Unprecedented scenes in the city earlier this week. New aggressive Revenue tactics combined with the City Vampire scare have led to a tax bonanza as many firms meet tax demands without challenging them: a field day for the bureaucrats. One respected MP refers to “a serious error of judgement by officialdom.”’
Marcus Robbins started speaking. ‘In the studio to discuss this we have Christian Mitchkin from the Treasury, Emily Stonepan from the City of London police and Adeline Corey, ex-Revenue. Mr Mitchkin, what’s the Treasury’s view of this?
Mitchkin smiled into the camera, his hands spread wide: ‘All this was quite unexpected and we’re as much in the dark as anyone else. Thank goodness the panic, for that’s what it was, is now over. The city is one of Britain’s greatest institutions. It thrives on stability. By next week all this will be forgotten. Of course, the Treasury is always pleased to receive more tax, but we do have a concern about business confidence.’
‘You’re pleased you say? Isn’t that a little heartless? Mr Webster was attacked by someone masquerading as a vampire. You might call it a terror attack. He spent the night in hospital.’
‘Naturally…’
‘You’re missing the point,’ Ade broke in. ‘Now we know how much tax these firms can really afford to pay. They’ll never be able to plead for lower settlements again.’
All three faces swung to confront her.
‘I don’t think that follows,’ said Mitchkin.
Robbins frowned. ‘I’ll come to the Revenue viewpoint in a moment. Now Ms Stonepan, the law and order aspect is central to this.’
‘Yes and thank you for asking me onto your programme. This all stems from an attack on a respected businessman. It’s good news that Mr Webster is fully recovered. We in the City of London police force take such things very seriously. We have tripled patrols in the city and are providing personal protection for some prominent figures. We wish to reassure the business community that London is now back to business as normal.’
‘I’m sure everyone is glad to hear that. Now, Ms Corey, you’ve made the point about exceptional tax yields, under considerable duress, it must be said.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Do you think the Revenue’s practice in retaining these payments is defensible?’
‘Of course. But what is all this about “respected business people”? We all know that the City of London arranges its affairs to cheat the rest of us: offshoring profits, inflating expenses, in some cases preparing one set of books for the Revenue and one for the shareholders – and a different one for the Cayman Islands. These people don’t pay their fair share so the rest of us have to pay more.’
‘That’s an assumption. City firms cannot afford to risk their reputation.’
‘Haven’t you seen the Financial Times? The lead on their website is about Webster’s companies and what they do to cheat the government – that’s us – out of tax.’ She addressed the camera directly. ‘Don’t you understand? It’s our pockets they’ve got their grubby fingers in – all of you out there watching.’
She thought she was doing rather well. Robbins made a sign with his left hand. The camera swung away from her. His face in close-up appeared in front of her on the monitor. He looked shocked.
‘This programme would wish to dissociate itself from any unproven innuendo of wrong-doing. The paper mentioned took down that page almost immediately it was produced and has published a full apology. I understand an urgent injunction was raised by a very distinguished city law firm and approved almost immediately. The Revenue appears to be in a very difficult position.’
The camera panned back to the group. Stonepan smiled at the others. ‘Let’s not prejudge the issues. We have to be careful about these allegations. I’m sure we’ve all heard newspaper stories like this before.’ She laid a hand on Ade’s sleeve. ‘Scare stories. We cannot take any of these allegations seriously until they are proven before the Commissioners. Surely you must be aware of that as a Revenue employee?’
Ade stared at her, dumbfounded. ‘I resigned from the Revenue three days ago.’
‘Ah,’ said Stonepan and turned back to Mitchkin.
Robbins was talking directly to the camera.
‘So there you have it. Is the Revenue out of control? Are some of our oldest-established businesses under attack? And that’s all we’ve got time for. Thank you to our panel. And now a report on the homeless crisis.’
The light on the camera blinked off. He swung round to confront Ade: ‘What on earth are you playing at? You want to go through the courts for slander, don’t drag this programme in with you. You saw what happened to the FT when they started attacking Webster. You know how much that will cost them?’
Mitchkin joined in, in his slow smooth voice: ‘You must know that we all depend on the City of London. It never helps to rock the boat. We must nurture the jewels in our crown. A few rotten apples in every barrel.’
Ade stood up. She felt stifled. ‘You just got the world record for clichés. And you ignore everything that’s happening all round us. And you call this justice?’
‘But nothing much is happening,’ said Stonepan. ‘People always want to pick at anyone who’s a success. That injunction shut the FT story down pretty sharpish. It’s business as usual, I’m afraid.’
She smiled. You spend a lot of time smiling, thought Ade. I guess you get paid for it. She turned and strode across the studio. In front of her a monitor was showing footage of helmeted police on horses charging an Occupy demonstration led by a burly young woman with a home-made placard reading ‘Homes not Profits’ in red and black felt-tip. The camera switched to a demonstrator, her arms wrapped round her head, trying to make herself as small as she could, as a policeman swung back his baton.
The film cut to a senior officer, silver braid on his cap and his shoulders, in close-up. He spoke in a gentle authoritative voice: ‘Homelessness in a city as rich as London is primarily a law and order problem. We must maintain firm control. My officers protect the rights of honest citizens. We have dealt with rioters and hooligans as they deserve. I’m delighted to say that the magistrates back us up …’
Ade felt the anger swelling up within her, filling her chest, her breath harsh in her throat. She looked back at Stonepan and Mitchkin chatting together now the camera was off them, his hand on her shoulder. Robbins crossed in front of her, followed by the assistant with the papers. She seized him by the shoulder and spun him round like a child.
‘What the hell’s going on? Your job is to tell people the truth.’
The assistant took a pace backwards. Ade jabbed a finger at Robbins. ‘Listen to me! Webster Consulting are running a major tax fraud involving dozens of top city firms. The evidence is all out there. We put Webster’s accounts on the internet, all of them, including the spreadsheets he keeps hidden. You’re supposed to be a journalist – check them out for yourself.’
Someone grabbed at her arm from behind and pulled her away. Robbins stood staring at her, his face unnaturally white, brushing at his sleeve with his free hand. ‘You’re not doing your own cause much good,’ he said and nodded to someone behind her. ‘Put her out.’
Ade felt herself taken firmly by the arm and half marched, half escorted through the studio exit and down a concrete corridor. She rounded another corner and came up against a steel door, labelled “fire exit”. The security guard pulled the door open and stood there blocking her way back into the building. He was grey haired and no taller than she was, but muscular, with a face as red as a boiled ham.
‘You want to pick on someone your own size? Thought not. No
w get lost.’
He slammed the door shut in her face. Her foot caught against something and she staggered across an alley and found herself leaning against dirty brick-work. The blank stone wall of the television building reached up in front of her. The alley stank of dog pee and car fumes and bad air. A yellow light filtered down from uncurtained metal windows somewhere above her. Webster’s right, she thought, money always wins. I let you down, Paul. And you, Morwen. And you, Denny. And I still hate Webster.
She stood there, her hand on the wall, feeling in her pocket for her phone. There didn’t seem to be much point in moving.
30
Ade stood in the kitchen of the squat, her arms round Paul, holding him tight against her. She kissed him. It didn’t go away, it was still there inside her, the hatred she felt for them all, and her failure.
‘I knew it was going to go wrong, soon as they played that film, but I couldn’t stop it.’
‘Bastards. They’re all in it together.’ His eyes glinted. ‘Listen, you did the very best you could, everyone thinks so, we all think so, all of us.’
He felt so vulnerable in her arms. He was on her side, he always had been.
‘I hate them.’ She kissed him again. There were just the two of them. They had to make it work. ‘I guess we’ve got some money out of it all. They can’t stop us using that. And it’s over, and I lost my job. And I’ve got you.’
‘Yeah, and I’ve got you. And we don’t have to think about Webster ever again.’
He paused.
‘There’s something else, why Nadia needed me here. Someone I helped once when I was in Haringey. She’s in trouble, she needed me and she came here. Easiest if Nadia explains – they’re in the front room. Best I don’t go in just now.’
He pointed to a door leading off the hallway. Ade pushed it open, and found herself in a smaller room, uncarpeted and lit by an old standard lamp without a shade. A woman was seated on the sofa opposite. She had a beaten look about her, as if she was used to failure. Ade saw there was a child on her lap, a girl, perhaps seven years old, neatly dressed, her hair in plaits and a stud in her ear. The child had her head down and the woman was holding her tight against her. Nadia was next to them, bent over them with her arms round them. Ade noticed the clean new bandage wrapped round her hand.
The woman looked up over the child’s shoulder and Ade glimpsed slate-blue eyes. She knew she’d never seen her before but in that instant her heart went out to her. The woman looked down at the child.
‘I ain’t never going back,’ she said. ‘You can’t make me. I ain’t.’ There was a note of sullen triumph in her voice.
‘Ade! I’m so glad you’re here,’ said Nadia. ‘Close the door.’
‘But Paul…?’
‘He ain’t coming in?’
The woman on the sofa clasped the child to her more firmly, rocking her from side to side. The child whimpered. She looked up. Ade could see her she was terrified.
‘She don’t like men, she gets upset,’ said the woman.
‘He’s OK. He came back when I asked him to help us. But he can’t come in, not yet,’ said Nadia to the girl. ‘We won’t let him.’
Ade shut the door behind her. ‘What’s happening? Can I help?’
‘This is Ade,’ said Nadia to the woman. ‘She’s our friend.’ She motioned to Ade to come nearer. ‘Is it OK if she comes in? She wants to help us.’
‘She’s not going to let him in, is she?’
‘No, I promise,’ said Ade.
The woman looked up at her again. She seemed to relax.
‘This is Gemma,’ Nadia said, ‘and this is Amy, her daughter.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Gemma.’ I have to be very careful here. ‘Can I sit down?’
‘Alright. Say “Hello”, Amy.’
‘Hello,’ mumbled Amy. ‘You going to help us?’
‘Gemma lost her home,’ said Nadia. ‘She found out about us. She came here ‘cos of Paul. Then Amy got upset.’
Gemma leaned forward slightly as if challenging them. ‘Didn’t lose it. I left. I had to, ‘cos of her,’ she clasped Amy tighter. ‘Got nowhere else to go.’
‘What about the council?’ asked Ade. ‘They have to help you. You’ve got a little one.’
‘Bloody council, no use to anyone, they put the flat in his name, didn’t they?’
‘I don’t understand.’ Ade glanced at Nadia.
‘I can tell Ade, can’t I?’ Nadia was talking to Gemma.
‘Suppose. Just don’t say nothing to him.’ She nodded towards the door.
‘It’s like this. Gemma’s a single parent. Paul helped her get a flat from a housing association, back in Haringey, when he was working there. She met Maxie.’
‘He was alright ‘til he moved in, he used to make me laugh.’ Gemma sniffed. ‘He went to them. Said we were a family, he’d pay the rent. He had money, they like that, housing benefit never covers the rent. I was stupid, I said it was alright. Don’t tell Paul.’
‘Yes,’ said Nadia. ‘The flat was transferred to his name. They had a row. That’s when he started to hit her.’
‘He was always sorry after. He said it was because he loved me. I put up with it for her sake.’
‘I understand,’ said Ade.
‘Yeah. You ain’t been there. Everyone understands, they always say that. But they don’t and they don’t do nothing and he’ll find me. I know he will.’
‘It’s OK,’ said Nadia. ‘We will help you. Tell Ade what happened next.’
‘Then he started looking at her.’
Amy looked from Ade to her mother, her eyes big with tears.
‘Then he started giving her things like he never did before.’
‘Ice cream,’ said Amy. ‘He give me ice-cream. Then he tried to hurt me. I ran off.’
‘After that I wouldn’t let her out of my sight. Then he said he’d pick her up from school. He kept on. That was last night. He kept saying, “Go on, I’m her daddy now, it’s your fault she don’t like me,” and I said no, I’d pick her up like usual and he started hitting me.’
She sat there without speaking for a while, just holding the child.
‘And later he hit me again and Amy was screaming and the neighbours were banging on the wall. Then he put his hand on Amy and he did it on purpose, in front of me so I could see, and I knew we had to go. So I grabbed her and we came here. And Amy don’t like men, even Paul. You mustn’t let him in.’
Ade realised that Amy had been crying soundlessly for some time, her body hunched down against her mother. ‘He’ll find me, I know he will, he said he would. You gotta take me somewhere, you gotta hide me.’
Nadia was stroking at Gemma’s hair. ‘It’s OK,’ she said. ‘He’s not going to come here. We won’t let him.’
She looked up at Ade.
‘That’s why we don’t let Paul in. When Amy saw him, she started screaming. We’re keeping the others out of the way, Johnno’s keeping an eye outside.’
Gemma crouched down. She seemed even smaller. ‘You keep saying you won’t let him, but he’ll find us, he said he’ll find me, he always finds me.’
Ade reached out and touched her arm. The two of them, Gemma and Amy looked up at her and she felt the lurch in her heart again.
‘We’ll take you to the council tomorrow and sort things out. Paul’ll help us, I know he will. Now I’m going to get you and Amy something to eat. Nadia’ll stay with you.’
It was later, when she’d brought in the sausage sandwiches and the brown sauce, that Ade learnt what it was that made her heart jolt in her breast. She watched as Gemma carefully lifted the sandwich, letting the fat soak into the bread and tilting it so the sauce didn’t drip, before offering it to Amy. The child glanced up and took it, without any hesitation and started
to eat, licking carefully at her lips between bites, keeping her eyes on her mother. Ade understood what it was. The child trusts you. She just trusts you.
I thought it was that you were like me, Gemma. If I hadn’t been lucky, if it hadn’t been for the college and Caroline I could have been you and that could have been my life. Now I know it’s not that: seeing you there with Amy, I want to be you. I want to have someone love me like Amy loves you. She ached to put her arms round them. I’m going to do something for you, Gemma, and for you, Amy, she thought. Paul’d help you if he could, but he can’t, he can just help me and I’m going to do it.
They sat on a wooden bench in the Housing Section Waiting Room, their eyes on the indicator above the counters. Gemma and Amy were in the middle, Nadia and Ade at the ends. Nadia was trying to interest Amy in a story book she’d found about a girl who could fly.
Ade felt Gemma leaning against her. Paul had told her everything, how it all worked, and she’d checked on the web. She took Gemma’s hand, squeezed it and released it. Gemma looked up at her, her mouth set.
‘Don’t tell them where we’re staying, he’ll find out,’ she said.
‘I’ll do the talking. It’ll be OK.’
What else can I say? She looked round.
Lucky we were on the steps before they opened. The queue stretched beyond the benches with single people and families leaning against the wall at the back, some of them outside the door. All of them were poorly dressed, all of had the same hunched, beaten look about them, as if they didn’t really expect anything. Even the children were silent. The air was dank on her skin as if the room was never properly ventilated.
The indicator buzzed and all the faces, black, brown, white, looked up.
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