Norm was surprised. He couldn’t remember that last time that he’d be ‘in’ anywhere. Perhaps things were picking up after all.
……………………………………………………………………………….
Catherine was looking at the map view of her data.
Well, she thought, that’s interesting. Two of her “person of interest” dots were in the same spot in central London. It wasn’t Victoria or Mudchute as she had expected. This was a new location, not far from the British Museum. Somewhere called Phil’s Place on Woburn Walk, according to her maps. It could be worth exploring further she said to herself, making a note to discuss it with Aileen the next day.
She closed her laptop and looked at her watch.
It was time for the small island of peace that she gave herself everyday by taking tea late in the afternoon, It wasn’t quite the ritual event that her mother and grandmother had known but she always took time, and care, and thought over it. It was something completely unrelated to the rest of her life. It gave her escape.
She took down the small teapot that had been passed down to her from her great grandmother as she knelt on the floor as her mother and countless generations before her had done. Great grandmother had used the teapot in Hong Kong but it had been old when she had acquired it, a fine piece made for a grand Imperial family. It was precious. It had been passed on to each daughter in turn, cherished and used by each.
Great grandmother had stolen it, according to family tradition in recompense, from the house of the Englishman that she had worked for as a servant in the 1930’s. He had raped her, the story went. It hadn’t been violent; rather it had been done almost casually in the way that those who feel entitled to something cannot see why it should not be theirs – but rape nonetheless. The teapot, great grandmother had said, had been more than compensation for such an insignificant event. The Englishman had noticed the theft and reported it but could not identify the woman that he thought had stolen it. That had amused great grandmother still further.
Catherine looked at the teapot. It was too fine a thing to have been owned by a guaillou anyway, she thought. He would never have appreciated the fineness of the dull brown clay it was made from or the way its squat form was designed to encourage the best from the leaves that would be steeped within. She poured the steaming, almost clear, liquid into the fine porcelain bowl she always used. The act of pouring was relaxing of itself. The fragrance of the tea added to her sense of well being.
The foolish Englishman would probably have imagined the bowl to be more valuable than the pot but he would have been very wrong. The bowl might be fine and elegant and the pot might be dull and squat but the pot’s age, its material and the skill of its manufacture meant it would command a high price from those that cared about such things. The teapot was a good reminder of the stupidity of men and the selfishness they could sink to if they were allowed. It made her feel that her work was all the more worthwhile.
………………………………………………………………………………
Gerry was meeting with Jack Toven, Ashran and Spencer Hames in Phil’s Place.
“I was pretty pissed that you legged it from the house in Mudchute,” Jack didn’t feel inclined to shrink away from his feelings about Gerry’s response to the failure of the ExCel raid. If that Irish bloke, O’Neill, hadn’t been there, I’d have been stuffed.”
“Yeah, well, what can I say. I thought you’d be OK. As it turned out I was right. I still don’t know what went wrong. At least we gave the Home Secretary a bit of embarrassment. And we did get a dozen out of the detention centre and plenty of debate on the papers about what those bloody detention centres are for.”
“Yeah and you’ll have some experts on what goes on in them when Terry and Greg finish their sentences,” Jack sounded bitter.
Spencer tried to build some bridges.”Look at least we’re still in a position to try to do something about the way men have been knuckling under.”
“And unlike that Safewords lot, we’re still able to function. And we’ve still got most of those ident cards that O’Neill brought over, thanks to you Jack.”
Jack downed his drink. “Yeah, well, there is that I suppose,” he said, continuing to sound begrudging. It really didn’t sound like they had the first idea of how to really resist, reject and reverse. It didn’t encourage him to stick his neck out any further than he had done already. “All I know is that whatever you plan next, you’d better keep it a whole lot quieter or else everybody involved is going to end up getting a work over from the MCF.”
“I’m still worried about how they reacted so quickly. It can’t just have been that they were nearby for the press event, can it? I’m worried it might have been someone in the group.”
“Seems unlikely,” Spencer said. “Could it be someone around Mudchute?”
“Could even have been O’Neill, I suppose. He didn’t sound that Irish to me.”
Jack nodded. “That’s true enough. And he knew his way around after we split from Mudchute.”
“On the other hand, he did get you out of there. It’s a puzzle. I don’t know. Perhaps someone at Victoria? Maybe Jinx has been mouthing off.”
Jack shook his head, puzzled, and then picked up his bag. “It was odd, certainly but I’ve got to be off,” he announced. “I’ve got a lecture.”
“Not a date with Daisy?”
“We’re getting together a bit later.”
“A bit of politically incorrect interaction?” Ashran smirked
“With any luck. See you around.”
As he walked out he was feeling depressed about trying to turn back what was going on in New Order Britain. The more he thought about Spencer’s approach and Gerry’s behaviour the more he felt that they didn’t so much stand for resist — reject — reverse as for relax — roll-over and respect. He either needed to find someone that was a whole lot more motivated than Spence or Gerry or he was going to have to get some ideas for himself, he thought.
The difficulty was coming up with a plan of action. He wondered if the Safewords organisation had actually existed and if it had whether it was still operational. Not that he agreed with that sort of violence in the pursuit of political ends but, well, you never knew.
Oh well, he thought, at least I can talk things over with Daisy later.
………………………………………………………………………………
In London’s University College, Professor Inge Kerring’s lecture had almost concluded. She finished her presentation. There were a few questions. The students began packing up and leaving. Soon, only one remained.