Thump...thump...thump. The sound of the fridge door closing. But that’s nothing to the bish-bash-bosh going on in his mind’s eye.
Pete’s all a-jumble. It is early evening, six hours or so after Dinky Dutta died by his own hand. Or at the hands of the police. Or else it was ‘suicide by cop’. You pays your money (or perhaps you don’t pay, if you get your news online), and you takes your choice. Meanwhile Pete has no choice but to go over it again and again. He’s alone in his study, pacing up and down the rug that runs between the door and his desk by the window. Carol’s in the kitchen, preparing their dinner. This he knows because he can hear it every time she closes the door of the fridge.
The noise - for Chrissake, how many ingredients were in the fridge to start with? - keeps bringing him back to the surface; but doesn’t stop him being swamped by the continuous rehearsal of recent events.
Rupa’s frozen face when she heard the explosion.
The last time I saw Dinky, at the reception for prize-winning students.
TONY THAT TIME HE CAME HERE, ASKING ME TO STAY AWAY
FROM THE POLICE ‘WHATEVER HAPPENS’; WARNING ME OF
DIRE CONSEqUENCES IF I BROKE WITH MY OWN TRADITION
OF NON-COOPERATION.
These are not memories. Being with Carol in their South London home, the children safely decamped to friends or drama group or whatever is tonight’s routine – that’s a distant memory. Dinky, Rupa and Tony are the people in the room with Pete right now.
The cleverest stupid boy in the world.
All dressed up and nowhere to go. Graceful movements, but never fitted right in; slightly awry, whatever the social setting. Too smart for your own good.
Christ, can I think of you without being trite? Or maybe that’s what you always were - trite arse, Heat magazine’s idea of what it means to be the Outsider.
You’ll have to forgive him. Pete, that is. Talking about magazines is what he gets paid for nowadays, so of course he can’t get the ‘critique’ out of his head, even at moments like these.
When we heard the sound across the water, I tried to keep Rupa at arm’s length, regulation distance between male staff and attractive female student. But she more or less fell on me.
Not a dead feint, though without me there to stop here I reckon she would have hit the floor.
There we were on the riverbank – sounds like bullrushes and Wind in the Willows, doesn’t it?
Some distance away, could not have been less than half a mile, but we saw the flash of light and heard it half a second later – crack, bang, whoosh!
Ceremonial cannon, maybe; some sort of salute. Not the queen’s birthday, however. Straightaway she knew. Her face froze, I held out my hand to her, and she gripped my wrist; so hard she pinched it. She wobbled and leaned into me more and more until the full weight of her body was resting on me. Her skin was grey, ashen, but even at that moment you knew the colour would come back. Near collapse, she was still beautiful, so smart, so alive. She couldn’t be anything else.
Then there’s Mr Toad. Tony and his madcap schemes and his willingness to implement them by any means necessary. You’d get off on the comparison, wouldn’t you, Tony? No, not the Mr Toad bit; but you’d like to think there is something of you in that famous picture of Malcolm X, standing to the side of a window, rifle in hand, out of firing range himself but looking through the glass at the source of incoming. Underneath, the caption reads: by any means necessary.
Freedom fighter, if only. Instead you entrapped Dinky and set him up, didn’t you? I don’t know what you did to groom him, but I don’t need to know. I just know that you persuaded him to act out the fantasy we had together, one drunken night. Aahh, but before you start, the difference is that I can tell the difference between fantasy and reality.
Whereas, you, my dear fellow, you have lost sight of the distinction. And along with it, you’ve lost all credibility with me. I don’t owe you anything, Tony, least of all, loyalty.
Pete’s taking his phone out of his pocket. Turns it on...and puts it back. You don’t even have the guts to betray him properly, do you, Pete? Instead he logs on to his computer and goes to a blogspot page entitled ‘Pete Bruce’s Philosophical Notebook’.
What an arse!
Pete begins to type:
Dinky Dutta died today and I know that Tony Skance, director of the Cultural Olympiad, had a lot to do with his death. I know because I’m the one who introduced them to each other.
I also know that Tony was desperately worried that London was about to squander the sales pitch of the century – the Olympic Games. He didn’t fear a Delhi-style screw-up, but he was scared that the Olympics would just...take place, without being the gigantic shared experience which London needs in order to renew its position in the wider world.
Tony Skance wanted London 2012 to have the same sort of effect as the miners’ rescue in Chile.
To lift the spirits, galvanise and gird the loins of Londoners. And when he saw this wasn’t about to happen, he started thinking about how to manipulate things, how to get Londoners united around the idea of defending themselves, supporting each other against terrorists, creating a sense of togetherness just in time for the Olympiad.
I know this because, I confess, he and I talked about the idea. But I was not party to putting it into practice. In the conversation we had late one drunken night – the first time we had been out together for years, but that’s another story – there was no mention of setting up a fall guy, someone who had to go down in order for any of this to happen.
As far as I was concerned, none it was ever going to happen. But after I went home, Tony Skance took up these crazy ideas and ran with them. He ran into Dinky Dutta and groomed him to take the drop for this, the PR stunt to end all PR stunts. Now the life of Dinky Dutta, my former student, has already ended. And I am writing this in full knowledge that when the story gets out, Tony Skance will be finished, too.
Pete’s finger hesitated over the button, then he pressed it:
P U B L I S H .
(12) Tony in the limelight
It being a police matter, the press conference takes place in New Scotland Yard. In the biggest room they’ve got, on the ground floor.
Years ago, in a different century (twentieth, of course), Pete came late to a packed press conference in this very room. He stood for a couple of minutes in the dead space between two sets of double doors, waiting for a break in proceedings so that he could go in and find a seat without drawing attention to himself. At that time, as a reporter for a left-wing magazine, he did not relish the attentions of the Metropolitan Police. From where he was standing, waiting for the right moment to go in, he couldn,t see the stage but he could hear something of what was being said. Sounded like the assembled company was listening to a recording: the voice had a peculiarly metallic quality; and it was pitched high, as if the bass had got lost in the recording process. Not the Ripper tapes, obviously, but maybe a similar scenario...
But when Pete finally entered the room, he saw that the voice was 'live' - if that is quite the right word. The 'recording' was (then) Metropolitan Commissioner Sir Kenneth Newman, right there in the flesh (if that,s quite the right word); sitting bolt upright, heavily bespectacled, flatly voicing a series of angular, un-modulated sentences. Pete tried hard not to laugh at the prospect of Robocop crossed with the little creatures advertising Cadbury,s Smash (biggest thing on TV at the time); but the giggles got the better of him, and he was obliged to turn tail and walk out.
Even after all these years, the set-up in that room is still laughable; but the Met’s new mise en scène could not be more different. Instead of Robocop presiding, there are pastel colours plus press officers with unprecedented degrees of emotional literacy (and the certificates to prove it). If entering Kenneth Newman’s Scotland Yard was like coming on board a submarine, today Pete has to pinch himself to check he hasn’t been sent here for therapy.
You never know, he might be needing some before this is over.
Pete shows his Press card, writes his name on the list along with the other reporters – under
‘publication’ he gives the name of his university, and picks up a copy of the speech which the Mayor of London is due to give as and when he arrives.
London’s leading public official is currently conferring with the prime minister about recent developments and their impact on the Games. By way of warming up the room before he gets here (not that they put it like that), the press conference will be addressed by present-day Metropolitan Police Commissioner Alan Rudd and none other than Tony Skance, director of the Cultural Olympiad. And when we hear from Tony, depending on what we hear from him – how florid it is, how self-congratulatory, how much blame he sets at the feet of Dinky Dutta, we may also be hearing from a certain someone who just might get up and denounce him. You haven’t ruled it out, have you, Pete? On the other hand, Tony may say something that shows your suspicions are unfounded, fears unnecessary, and last night’s blog...a mistake, a creature of that terrible sadness in which even the brightest lights go dark.
They’re coming on to the platform now – the two of them, that is. Tony in his best suit, looking sombre
– but Pete detects the hint of a smile playing somewhere under there; and the Commissioner, a jovial looking chap – smooth face, pink complexion like an eighteenth century squire. Solemnity does not sit easily with him, either.
‘Ladies and gentlemen’, the Commissioner begins,
‘I understand that the Mayor has left Downing Street and will be joining us shortly. Also that he has invited us to begin proceedings without him, such is the urgency of the situation and the pressing need for clear and authoritative information.
Accordingly, I will update you on the dramatic events which took place this afternoon on the River Thames, before handing over to Tony Skance who will offer an appraisal of the situation and its cultural significance for the Olympic Games, which, as of course you know, are about to open here in London.
‘Shortly after 2pm yesterday, Metropolitan Police firearms officers shot Mr Dinky Dutta, a British born university student of Asian extraction. Mr Dutta was understood to be in possession of explosive materials; and this understanding has since proved to be correct. Additionally, Mr Dutta had posted suicide notes on the Internet, and under an assumed name he issued a warning to the effect that Canary Wharf was his preferred target.
‘Mr Dutta was apprehended on board a Clipper commuter boat travelling westwards between Canary Wharf and the Tower of London. When Mr Dutta failed to obey instructions issued clearly and repeatedly by a Metropolitan Police officer, the order was given for him to be shot, and this order was carried out in accordance with Metropolitan Police guidelines stipulating that suspects thought to be in the process of committing an act of terrorism or about to initiate such an act, should not be afforded the opportunity to detonate a bomb or perpetrate any other crime likely to endanger the public.
Accordingly, in a controlled operation Mr Dutta was shot in the head and it is believed that he died instantly. I am unable to confirm this, however, since the shots fired by my officers had the effect of detonating the considerable quantity of explosive material in Mr Dutta’s possession. Unfortunately, the intensity of the ensuing explosion, which was, I hasten to add, closely confined to that part of the Clipper craft in which Mr Dutta had been sitting, means that determining the precise cause of Mr Dutta's death is now a matter for the most exacting forensic tests. And even after these tests have been carried out, we may find ourselves unable to bring this issue to a satisfactory conclusion.
‘What is not at issue, however, is that prompt and decisive action on the part of Metropolitan Police firearms officers, under the direction of the command and control centre here at New Scotland Yard, has averted a terrorist attack on one of London's iconic districts – an attack which, had it proved successful, might have blighted the London Olympiad in the same way that the suicide bombers of 7/7 succeeded in blighting London's elation at having been awarded the Games, just the day before. But once again, in July 2012 as in July 2005, London, its people and its police service, have not been found wanting.’
Not bad for the old script, thinks Tony.
Would have written it that way myself.
Until yesterday.
The Commissioner seems relieved to have said his piece. The colour in his face, which had been rising and reddening (scurrilous reporters have been known to rub their palms together and hold them out to be warmed by the Commissioner's fiery cheeks), is starting to fade. He knows he'll have to take some questions, though. So his face hasn't yet come all the way back through the colour swatch to its normal shade of ruddy pink.
We might expect London’s police chief to be a more natural communicator. Indeed, previous post holders have been appointed for just that reason. But don’t be taken in. This one’s apparent clumsiness is also part of the game: what’s being communicated here is that the Commissioner has higher priorities than the communication business. Operational priorities
– securing the city and your personal safety – trump the PR game, geddit?
Please let us know if this message isn’t clear enough for you.
Yet some journalists are unsettled by the discrepancy between claims that Dinky was about to blow up Canary Wharf and the admission that he was blown up while travelling away from his alleged target. A number of reporters invite the Commissioner to account for this. One of them makes an imaginative comparison to the General Belgrano, the Argentinian vessel steaming away from the Falklands islands when it was torpedoed and sunk (with enormous loss of life) by a British submarine.
The Commissioner fends off such criticism with relative ease. He merely points to the explosive material that Dinky was undoubtedly carrying.
Cynical reporters may doubt this, but we know he really was carrying it, don't we? That and his immature, suicidal tweets, and the bomb threat with more than a hint of student pranksterism in the email address it was sent from. The combination of part tragedy, part twisted comedy, and a young man’s desperate attempt to be something, anything; it all chimes in with his age and our times.
Accordingly, the Commissioner can tell the story with conviction because he knows not that it is true but that nearly everyone will believe that it could be.
When life’s a pitch, ladies and gentlemen, we must live by the balance of probabilities.
Tony’s about to take his turn. Pete thinks he is bound to set Dinky up as ‘son of 7/7’, the alien creature in our midst. And when he does, thinks Pete, I’m going to have to heckle, intervene, disrupt. Enough to cast shadows of doubt over Tony before I’m frogmarched out. Preferably without coming across as a complete nutter.
Going to be a difficult balance, thinks Pete. Hard to strike it right. Indeed it would have been hard to do it, if that’s what Tony had done. But of course, he doesn't.
‘Dinky Dutta was a friend of mine,’ Tony begins.
In response, a fleeting moment when no one in the conference room is fiddling with a phone. A moment of stillness, then the fidgeting redoubles.
‘I think I can say that.’ Flash of downcast eyes: Tony staging humility, which, as you should know by now, is not to say he doesn’t mean it. ‘We only met a couple of times, but I knew immediately that we were on the same wavelength.
‘Dinky Dutta was a lost boy. As I have been, as you are, perhaps. As your sons and daughters will be or will have been, now or at some point in their lives.
And in something like the same way, fellow citizens, our city has lost its....’
Tony’s hesitating, trying to find a way of not repeating the word ‘way’, wishing he hadn’t used it in the previous clause when he didn't really need to; but he can’t think of a synonym so he’s going to have to repeat it.
‘....way.’
Even as he he
ars himself saying it, he wonders whether he should have tried ‘soul’. Better not, he reassures himself. Would have been too much, too soon.
But have they come after him this far? No, I don’t mean, chasing him. The question is, are the people with him, are they following him up to now?
Will they recognize themselves in Tony’s rhetoric?
Can they fit their feet into his logical steps?
You can usually tell by the mood of the Press conference.
But don't make ,em stretch too far, Tony, or they'll turn and bite ya.
He's going to go for it now, though. No safety net, remember. Tony Skance draws breath, smiles, not ear-to-ear but enough to show some lovely teeth; finds the television camera in the centre of the room and looks right into it. My God, his eyes are the brightest blue.
The camera operator, seeing them through the viewfinder, feels obliged to check the contrast.
Has he ever, in all his life, been more alive than this?
‘Londoners, fellow citizens, we had a son who lost his way. He lost it, because we did not give him enough to find. Not enough leadership, not enough purpose, not enough spirit. No wonder he was dispirited. Now Dinky Dutta is lost to all of us.
A loss to us all. He was what we have lost, and we cannot bring him back.
‘Londoners, there will be no return for this prodigal of ours. We do not live in such a story.
‘But I say to you, people of London’ – Jeez, can he get away with this Biblical style? Yes, he can –
‘that the death of Dinky Dutta is a lesson for us all. A parable of all our lives. From his mixed up, lost boy, rebel without a cause, stupid, misguided, young man's death, we must learn to find each other once more, to live together again, to re-kindle the spirit of London. The death of my friend Dinky tells us that there is life afterwards, if only we make it so. And the Olympics......’
The room and its occupants may yet prove him right.
Among the hard-bitten hacks listening to his speech, there is a clear pulse of energy, attention, focus.
And now there’s a bit of a commotion on stage. But it’s not Pete. Wrong-footed by Tony, he’s been sitting on his hands (yes, a mixed metaphor!), feeling out of place, wondering (again) whether he’s read Tony wrong all along. Pete’s not moving a muscle, so the disturbance is nothing whatsoever to do with him.
What’s happening on stage is that four police officers, not actually in uniform but they can’t be anything other than police officers, have encircled Tony, and, with one at each elbow, one in front, one behind, they are edging him out to the wings.
Practised technique. Nicely done. With no scuffling or shouting on Tony’s part, hardly any protest at all, strangely; it’s not even that disruptive.
He’s gone in an instant.
Meanwhile, there has been a word in the Commissioner’s ear. Now he comes to the fore. Not blushing, this time. He seems to gain confidence at precisely the moment when others would be unnerved. And he explains that his officers have obtained evidence of Tony’s close involvement with Dinky Dutta, up to and including the intention to commit acts of terrorism.
Hence the extraordinary turn of events here today. In accordance with which, the Commissioner concludes,
‘Mr Skance has now been placed under arrest.’
Uproar in the media circus. The lions are untamed.
Editors, speaking to them through earpieces, direct camera operators to stop recording and turn off their machines. Newsgathering must remain within the boundaries of what is conducive to public safety: it says so in the guidelines; and unfrocking a member of London’s ruling elite, live on TV, is anything but. Here in the conference room at New Scotland Yard, the mayhem seems all the more intense compared to Tony’s finely woven rhetoric, which went out on live feed only a few moments ago.
Still top of the Bill, eh, Tony?
(13) Parasitical Professor Some months later] ]