Dark Clouds (33 page)

‘We have a rich and diverse population in the United Kingdom. We accommodate different cultures, races and religions. We thrive and go forward together, linking arms and supporting each other in everything we do. There are, however – and it’s most unfortunate – elements within our communities who seek only to mar and tarnish our vision for the future. There are disruptive factions out there, whose only agenda is to foster hatred and unrest amongst us ... ’

As the Prime Minister speaks, I can hear Nationalist chants again outside the Town Hall. They’re rude, racist and abusive, and they become louder as riot police struggle to contain them. The plainclothes officers in the hall are restless. One has a hand inside his jacket and as he moves towards the stage a bottle with a flaming rag in its neck crashes through a fine 1930s window.

The cop with a hand inside his jacket has pulled out a gun and knocked the Prime Minister to the floor of the stage. It is clearly a pre-emptive move, but the bottle which has landed amongst the free drinks explodes. There is glass everywhere with shrieks of dismay. Carmody and I feel that the soon-to-be weds are the most vulnerable, so we do our best to usher them safely to the entrance door.

‘Don’t worry,’ Carmody tells Beth. ‘It will all be fine.’ I’m giving similar assurances to Patsy, but Mairead is moving in to take over.

‘Come along, girls,’ she tells them. ‘Down to reception and then over to the back of the building.’

Outside, riot police are firing tear gas and rubber bullets into the Nationalist mob. They only seem to disperse however when the water cannon comes on again. The liquid jets have been mixed with a colour fast dye, so suspect troublemakers are easily identified.

I don’t have a formal invitation for Beth and Patsy’s wedding ceremony, which means I’m not allowed to go any further inside the Town Hall. ‘It’s probably best if you slip out by the side entrance into Reading Lane, a giant Afro-Caribbean commissionaire suggests. ‘That way, you should escape from all of the nonsense at the front of the building.’

There are scary looking crack users outside, but they’re getting on with their business. So I’m able to run around the back of the Town Hall, and when I get to the car park, my phone’s vibrating.

‘Are you all right?’ Ingrid asks.

‘Yes, I’m fine ... just a bit out of breath.’

‘I’m back – ’

‘Ah – ’

‘Would you like to come round?’

It’s the call I’ve been waiting for. I’ll be there directly. Although the way it’s going here in the heart of Hackney, I may have to walk to Ingrid’s studio in Dalston.

‘It’s not far,’ she assures me. ‘Just watch your eye-contact. There are a lot of very sensitive people in this part of the world, Rudi.’

She’s right of course, and it’s not just the crack addicts.

*  *  *  *  *

I think I’m going West. Most of the police traffic seems to be heading towards where I’ve just come from, which is in East London. After a while, I see a familiar street and then the nineteenth century warehouse building where Ingrid has her studio. It’s dark and industrial. I wouldn’t like to live here myself, but I’m excited about visiting.

‘Hi,’ I say when the intercom cackles.

‘Just look around before you come in,’ she warns.

I do this quickly. I’m not aware of any suspect characters, so I slide in and push the door shut behind me. I take the stairs two at a time and I can see rich blonde hair in a doorway when I get to the top floor.

‘How are you?’ she asks as we’ve given each other a proper squeeze.

Fantastic. Suddenly, my life is looking good again.

‘And you?’

‘OK ... but my parents are so – how do you say? Yes, crazy ... and especially my father with this woman priest. He should know better ... it’s like a bad fairy tale story!’

I used to put my family into Alice and Wonderland, and it made sense when they arrived for the Mad Hatters tea party at Christmas or thanksgiving.

‘Will you come to see my exhibition in Newcastle?’ she asks when we enter her vast studio. ‘Either tomorrow or the day after?’

Yes. I’m free now. I can do whatever I want to. We can go to Greece. I’m ready, although I have a small concern.

‘It’s cash, Ingrid. I don’t have a lot, and I want to pay my share if we’re together.’

She takes my hand and leads me to the large mattress that is supported by supermarket delivery pallets. When we sit on it, she is silent while she gets her suggestion together.

‘The Irish story you want to write. Have you done any of it?’

No, not really. Most of the ideas are in my head, and sometimes they overwhelm me.

‘OK ... I have talked to my friend, Annie. She is doing writing at East Anglia.’

‘Right – ’

‘She says first you must do a good outline and then three or four chapters.’

No problem. I’ll sit under a tree on Ingrid’s Greek island and map out my great grandmother’s story from 1912 – 22. I’ll call it
Fenian Dreams
, and I’ll include a love story between Róisín and some virile guy like Michael Collins.

‘But the opening chapters are important,’ she says. ‘They must be really engaging.’

I’m getting worried as she speaks. The title and synopsis are fairly straightforward ... but the writing? I’ve only ever been a journalist and I’m not sure if I’m up to writing fiction.

‘I can crack it,’ I tell her, maybe a little rashly. The challenge is huge. I’m overwhelmed. It would only work if hope and enthusiasm triumph over experience.

‘This is brilliant, Rudi.’ She’s cradling my cheeks with her hands. ‘And it’s all you’ll need to get a publisher’s advance.’

‘You think?’

‘Yes – of course. You’ll do the outline with three incredible chapters, and you’ll then write a very confident letter.’

‘But to who?’

‘It doesn’t matter. You’ll find someone ... for now though, it’s me time ... I haven’t seen you for a while and I want us to be together.’

Oh yes, please ... right away.

Bombs, explosions, bad guys and Carla Hirsch. They’re all fading fast.

‘I need a dominant influence in my life, Rudy.’

‘Ah – ’

‘First though ... ’ We’re kissing and I’m floating up to the Nordic regions.

‘Do you find the English reserved?’ she asks.

I don’t think so. That was in the nineteenth century and maybe the first half of the twentieth. Now they’re way out in front and pushing forward all the time.

‘Let’s get undressed,’ she suggests.

I’m already naked in my head, and before long we’re lying on the bed in each other’s arms. There is a powerful physicality in our embrace. I want to just kiss and consume Ingrid Cesaro, but she catches my eyes and then goes into my head.

‘We could, I suppose, devour each other, Rudi ... this is good sometimes, I think.’

It’s essential, Ingrid, and males are a sexually impatient bunch. Especially when they’re as aroused as I am with you.

‘One day,’ she says, ‘I might want to have child.’

Of course. I like youngsters. I haven’t known many, but I am an uncle of sorts to my brother and sister’s kids, although I’ve only ever met them on rare trips to Los Angeles and San Francisco.

  ‘But for now ... we have more pressing needs ... yes?’

I want to lose myself completely with this to die for woman. She’s presently tweeking my ass cheeks and there’s a tease in her mouth. We’ve had it with serious talk. I’m being seduced by a stunning Valkyrie Princess and it’s the best place I’ve ever been to. I feel guilty thinking like this when I see a fleeting image of Faria Bailey. Only she’s waving and leaving. I’m on my own now. It’s time to start again.

‘You feel good,’ Ingrid tells me.

And you are the best, babe. I can even understand why my pro-active neighbour, Fiona Adler might want to hold and then nuzzle between your incredible breasts.

‘So this is special, Rudy?’

Oh yes. I’m going for the most coveted prize on offer. I think I’m in love with Ingrid Cesaro. The lust and the passion are driven relentlessly by my feelings for her. But in between we pause and she grinds her teeth with frustration.

‘You make me wait ... and you enjoy it!’

Just a little, because it takes us to another level. We’re on the high board now though, and it’s like a starting pistol’s been fired on a hundred metre race. We’re shooting ahead in perfect harmony. The journey demands every last thrust of our energy and we cry out in triumphant unison as we crash through the finishing tape. We’re there together, and Ingrid’s arms are tightening around my back and rib cage.

‘So – ’ she says eventually. ‘Hello again!’

Gradually, with a phrase here and there we probe around our families, one or two lovers and the state of the world.

‘You see painting over there,’ she says.

There are two people on an unframed canvas: A middle-aged man and a woman. They look unusually content just sitting on a bench surrounded by roses and rhododendrons.

‘It is a French mental hospital,’ Ingrid explains. ‘They were only ever allowed to meet together in garden. But they spent hours talking to each other, and they seemed so content.’

If that’s art, I can understand it, and I want more.

‘And maybe a drink,’ Ingrid suggests. ‘I have white wine with smoked salmon and soda bread.’

She embraces everything. She’s perfect, and when we’ve tried the wild Scottish salmon with the Irish soda bread, she refills my glass with Sancerre and asks what sort of music I’d like to listen to.

‘Have you any salsa?’

‘Yes ... you can dance?’

A few steps. Maybe I should have gone for something else: Amy Winehouse perhaps or Lilly Allen. But Ingrid’s got Cuban Classics on her I-pod and when she’s plugged it into a speaker we’re moving together with all the right steps. Only I’m getting distracted. I’m thinking of Sulima Sharif and Pele Kalim, and in between the salsa moves, I’ve got explosions with bodies and faces withered with radiation.

‘Would you like to watch movie?’

‘Great ... what have you got?’

She tells me, but it floats over my head until I see Scarlett Johansson and an American guy who seems lost and confused somewhere in Europe. They’re an unlikely couple, but they get along all right until I fall asleep. I feel embarrassed when Ingrid pinches me playfully. I should be there for my goddess. But she says she understands and leads me to the bed.

‘I will wake you up later, Rudi.’

No – you don’t need to, honey ... honestly.

‘But I will ... I want us together again.’

Give me just an hour, my love, and I’ll be there for you. She joins me soon afterwards. I can feel her hands resting on my head and stomach and her hair is caressing my neck. I’ve got Khalad with trains and explosions during the night, and then he has a heart attack. He’s lying on a mortuary slab alongside Rashid Kumar, and Allah is pointing at me. ‘
This man is a murderer
,’ the supreme one says. ‘
Maybe not directly, but he colludes with those who do the wicked deed ... off with his head, brothers!
’ Sulima is also in there. She’s trying but failing to dissuade Pele Kalim from irradiating a large chunk of London. I’m tossing and turning with the dawn when a train rumbles past. It sounds very heavy and it seems to go on forever.

Suddenly, I’m awake and shouting, ‘no, no – you can’t do this!’

‘What is it?’ Ingrid asks drowsily. ‘Rudi ... ?’

‘I’m sorry ... it was the train ... it just kept rumbling away in my head.’

‘Would you like hot milk?’

What for?

‘It might help you relax and go back to sleep.’

‘I’m sorry, honey ... it was a nightmare. I didn’t mean to wake you.’

She’s holding my hand and easing me back into soft, duck down pillows.

‘They are nuisance sometimes,’ she concedes. ‘Although I have got used to them.’

‘Doesn’t anyone complain?’ I ask.

‘Oh we do,’ Ingrid assures me with a comforting kiss. ‘We even make petition and send it to railway company, but nothing happens.’

‘Ah – ’

‘It’s tricky, you see.’

‘Why?’

‘Because of what they carry.’

I’m sitting up again and asking Ingrid what’s in the trains.

‘It’s nuclear waste, Rudi ... they take it from power station at Dungeness in Kent to a re-processing place at Sellafield in Cumbria. They do it in night, because if in the day more people would identify the trains and make protests.

‘
Nuclear Out! Nuclear Out!
’ I can see the placards now. The North London line is surrounded by rampant Greens. They’re stopping the trains and daubing rude cartoons all over the trefoil marked nuclear waste containers.

‘I have to go, babe.’ I’m reluctant and Ingrid’s puzzled.

‘Why?’

I can’t tell her, but I say it’s urgent.

‘Will you trust me on this?

There’s a pause. Is my new and very special relationship about to flounder?

‘OK – ’ she says finally. ‘But you call me later?’

It will be the first thing I’ll do, as soon as it’s possible, I promise. I will also order a decent bunch of flowers and have them sent over with a card that says I am in love with an enchanting Signorina Cesaro.

Chapter 26

Outside, in a dank alleyway, I call Carla Hirsch. It’s six thirty in the morning and she’s not answering, so I switch off and try again. The number just keeps ringing and I’m about to hang up when it stops.

‘Yeah ... wha’ is it?’

‘Could I speak to Carla, please?’

‘Do you know wha’ fuckin’ time it is, you wanker?’

‘Look – it’s important.’

‘Fuck off!’

The phone’s dead. I’ve got the right number, I’m sure. I brought it up from my phone directory and I’ve contacted her on it several times. The person who answered wasn’t Carla though. Tough and abrasive, yes – but her accent was English; Cockney London. I had the impression she wasn’t used to taking crap from anyone – and especially not from guys who called early in the morning.

There is a black cab on the Kingsland Road.

‘The Hilton on Park Lane, please,’ I tell the driver.

‘It’ll cost you.’

‘Why?’