London's Falling

By David Byerlee

This is London if everything went awry and plunged into chaos as opposing, colliding forces explode to release a sleeping darkness.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Sep 24, 2012
• ISBN: 9780987394613

Book preview

Byerlee

Chapter 1

September

Sofia, Bulgaria

A maxi-stretch pulled up sharply outside the Stella Club and two back-up cars soon followed. The custom-made vehicle, its white exterior gleaming under the floodlights, was a fortress on wheels complete with composite bullet proof glass, able to withstand most heavy calibre gunfire. Battle- tested, self-sealing Kevlar fuel tanks and a blast proof titanium undercarriage offered further protection for its valuable cargo. All routine insurance at a premium price and worth every Euro.

Strolling pedestrians joined a waiting crowd which had stopped to watch and cheer, as though being honoured by a Royal visitation. As the car door was opened by a hurrying functionary in formal attire, the celebrity couple of the hour stepped out to a scattering of applause and cheers. Elegantly dressed and beaming at the recognition, they were soon joined on their flanks by security men in a kind of guard of honour. All moved with casual grace towards the newly opened Stella Night Club. As one of the financiers of this latest emblem of the new Bulgaria, Constantine Czerbek was the unofficial guest of honour at this premiere, as too, of course, was his partner Stella, the very special lady whose name graced the marquee on this wonderful, starry night. She blew an air kiss and mouthed the words, 'Thank you'.

Constantine stopped the procession for a moment in appreciation of the fawning crowd and twirling theatrical lights. Bathed in a spectrum of shifting colours he wanted to savour this arrival, this latest recognition, more completely. He pointed and winked at an especially enthusiastic fan. The woman screamed in response and shouted, 'I love you'.

An excited photographer in the crowd tried to take a picture, only to have his camera abruptly confiscated by a stiff-armed minder who wasn't about to negotiate. It was all over before anybody took much notice. Quickly, efficiently. The shouting paparazzo was hustled around the corner to be dealt with; his survival by no means certain. Tonight this uninvited nuisance was lucky. A quick beating with expert, telling blows left him semi-conscious but still breathing. The dispenser of this serrated justice had been honoured to be assigned to Mr Czerbek's Security Team and took his job seriously. His brief would not tolerate intrusion or unwanted attention of any kind on this most special of nights. Anton left a calling card to remind the worm drifting in and out consciousness of his responsibilities.

Yes, this opening tonight was to be yet another success for Constantine and his Nova Sofia, even if the Balkan capital, post-Communist, now catered more for the tourists or the wealthy and connected, than for the average citizen of more modest means. In that the new Bulgaria was not much different from the old, even if tangible progress could be seen in glittering office and apartment buildings like the one Constantine and his people were about to enter.

Once inside the gaping mouth entrance of the club, Constantine nodded to his bodyguards, Anton Djilas and Marco Zhivkov, to check the exits and secure the environs. It was a standard precaution. Routine. Establish situational awareness in as short a time frame as possible, act appropriately as and when needed. These men were good at what they did and were paid a wage commensurate with their unique talents. Military trained and more, it was what they did and they did it quickly, efficiently. The security drill was in constant motion. Exits, rooftops, all vantage points and blind spots checked, rechecked. All parked vehicles examined for explosive devices or anomalies of any kind. Such precautions were a priority considering the scale of risk as well as recent experience. Con's decapitation, or elimination by other means, didn't bear thinking about; the financial fallout alone could easily devastate an already fragile local economy. Stick to the routine but anticipate had become the mantra after constant drilling and a few uncomfortable reality checks. All personnel, listed and unlisted guests, checked and double checked on arrival and departure. As usual, Djilas stayed close by the rear door to secure an escape if needed. Sofia had been quiet of late and that in itself was cause for concern.

It was all going to plan, but already Con was beginning to feel restless. He saw Krystyana, his favourite dancer and occasional lover, wave and smile at him. He returned the gesture but didn't linger. This was Stella's night as much as his and he could not, would not, embarrass her.

Even without his spreading influence, or notoriety, this power couple would not have failed to turn heads, their combinatorial attraction was so striking. Now local fame had spread exponentially with success and Constantine was on the cusp of becoming a truly national, even international, figure. In all this there was a certain irony. Bulgaria had grown too small for a man of his ambition and tonight's festivities would be something of a farewell, even if that fact had been kept secret from all but a few. Leaving this place he had called home for much of his life would not be easy, even if it was necessary. Con knew that this almost embarrassing adoration, to be found practically wherever he went, also inspired envy and resentment.

Tonight, as always, he was wary in the midst of it all and the fleeting sense of relaxation disappeared with that persistent thought.

Con kissed Stella fully on the lips and then let her go. As she slipped from his grasp he smiled his appreciation. There could be no one like Stella, this woman who understood him like no other. So he felt lucky, in a life filled with good fortune, to have found her.

'Enjoy,' he called after her in English as she walked, then sashayed playfully to the dance floor. He watched her with a voyeur's gimlet-eyed interest as she and an equally attractive lady companion did a slow dance. The strange attractor melded with his lover as two became one. Perhaps they thought it turned him on, and they were absolutely correct about that. Constantine didn't dance but liked to watch others do that and other things. He flared his nostrils and drew in the atmosphere. He began to clap, and then signalled for the other watchers to join in. This they did, following his quick, erratic beat as the pretty duo broke into lively Salsa, then a Tango. Laughing and clapping he moved to the catchy Latino beat, all instruments including flute and bongos expertly played by a band that had travelled from as far as Vienna.

The hot pair, twins of bodily perfection, abruptly broke into fast waltz and the music segued effortlessly up to sharper cadence. Stella placed her hand theatrically on her partner's hip then dipped her down then back up with practised skill, only just managing to avoid a collision with the hard parquet floor that shone so prettily under the thousand-candle chandelier. Someone threw Stella a single rose and she caught it and placed it in her mouth just as her split-skirted dance partner was pulled safely back into waiting arms. A circling crowd of vetted admirers broke into applause. Some timidly drifted onto the floor and then, with further encouragement from a beaming, clapping Con, others quickly joined until the dance floor was full. The astute band shifted the mood music yet again; this time to a thrilling orchestral piece by Mozart. Instantly the ambiance seemed less rakish, more regal and Baroque. The show Constantine had been watching with special interest was over.

The gorgeous stranger left as quickly as she had appeared and a blushing Stella went to embrace, then kiss the man who had made her happier, greater, more alive, than she ever imagined possible. She had told him this enough times to convince him it was true, and it was. They joined other tables and exchanged greetings with their many guests, including the mayor. As usual he had his party seated near the dance floor, a convenience for the dance-mad Stella, if not for security. Minders in sunglasses stood about with studied vacant looks, trying to be inconspicuous and fooling no one. They were the invisible ones, there and not there all at once. Like entangled photons that stayed the same even when separated by vast distance, these shadow-men men were inextricably bound with their boss, and each other, in that order.

'My darling, I took the liberty of ordering something I thought you would like,' he said, in a thick baritone.

'Oh yes, I love surprises,' she replied in Bulgarian to his English as she took her seat at the table. English was something he wanted her to work on, encouraged her to use, but she didn't feel confident enough to air it in public. Not yet, and not at this hour and in this place. That would all come later in a different reality and new world in London.

They were only now being served by a darting waiter and a bowing wine-server who handed him the wine list with a flourish that Stella found amusing, even if she took pains not to show it. Each bottle cost thousands of US dollars, yet that was only the beginning of his generosity tonight. Con had a surprise for her in the shape of a huge African diamond and he looked forward to her reaction. Her partner downed another liqueur. The more Con drank, the more garrulous, the more expansive he grew.

'You know, Sofia is not such a bad town when you look at it from the right viewpoint, yes?'

Stella smiled and replied in her Romanian accented Bulgarian, 'It's home. This is your place and these are your people. You belong here, Constantine. We all love you; you can see that, can't you?'

She took a sip of wine and looked at him with wide, unblinking hazel eyes.

It was what he wanted to hear and he instantly rewarded her with a kiss on the forehead. She knew what to say to please him and knew when to shut it. Tonight she would be no different. Perfection.

'You are good for me, Stella,' he said as he kissed her hand. 'Very, very good. You are my treasure, this you know, yes? I...' As he spoke he saw a figure dart through his peripheral vision and he stopped in mid-sentence. Something instinctive kicked in and he pulled Stella towards him, then he did a half roll and dived for the floor. The cause of this potentially embarrassing yet protective action ceased his blur of motion and stopped. The man obviously didn't have dancing in mind. Con reached for a tiny electronic hand gun concealed in a calf holster and tried to get a better visual fix on what was happening. The tall, white-suited man carrying what could be a covered pool stick, dropped to his knees and pulled out what Con recognised as a sawn-off shotgun. There was a sense of suspended animation, a slowing of time, then came shooting. The heavy calibre bullets tore through the newly decorated nightclub like a metal storm, ripping up masonry, furniture, and sending glass projectiles from mirrored walls and windows faster than the sound that followed. The once happy crowd had scattered amid screams and a scrum of stumbling, shoving panic. Peering from underneath the heavy table that had already sustained hits and had only just managed to save them, Con fired off two rounds. They got nowhere. More fire. A young silk-clad woman was struck in the upper body and then collapsed in a shower of cordite. A geyser of scarlet blood gushed from her neck and he quickly turned away so as not to be diverted. She was gone. It was tragic. Move on. Lives depended on it.

Stella was crouching, sobbing, with her hands over her face. Perhaps the mortal danger would go away, perhaps not. She wouldn't look until it was over. She whispered, 'I love you,' in a fallen, stricken tone, as though those would be her last words. He touched her reassuringly on her bare shoulder then swung back to the fire-fight. He could not help her in her distress, not at this precise moment. Hands, eyes were needed for other tasks.

Then came more bullets, some from another direction. More imploded, shattered bodies fell, one looking obscenely like a gutted jellyfish. Con made silent hand signals to his people and an operation of practised regrouping and tactical response swung into action. Yes, his people at least knew what they were doing. Anton, his Chief Security Officer, took a modified Glock from his shoulder holster and started to exchange fire with two, four, then six shots. Hollow point bullets found their target at once. The would-be assassin and cause of so much mayhem, took one bullet in the lower abdomen. He fell to his knees without dropping his gun. Finding refuge behind a now cracked and holed marble pilaster adjacent the dance floor, he fired more shots as internal organs began shutting down systematically one by one. Blood and faecal matter from his small intestine flooded kidneys, death only minutes away.

One down, two to go. Numbers, triangulation, the matrix of survival shoved aside all other thoughts. Constantine threw down one weapon and picked up another as he snatched his custom Lugar handgun from his right leg holster and quickly fired off three more rounds. A shot connected with one of the suited gunmen still standing, a grinning man, strange and portly in his elegant suit. The make? Italian? Some kind of mind mischief made Con wonder about this. Find out. There was one way to do that. Keep firing. Kill the bastard.

It was over. Already aware of his fate in the most real sense, the man's expression changed instantly to one of puzzlement over a fate that hadn't been scripted. His face, now a question mark, would stay with Con the rest of his life. Doomed, the man managed to fire off one more round before falling face forward down a set of marble steps, his head and chin banging against each tread trailing blood and dead weight body.

Yet another gunman, taller, thinner (a better shooter?) assumed a firing position by a corner bulkhead. Anton hadn't noticed him until now, but surmised he must have been firing from the start. How many assassins, two, four, more? Simple arithmetic was the key. Anton concentrated hard to avoid his mental calculus tripping into racing- mode and the paralysis of confusion. All their lives depended on it.

More explosions brought the pungent smell of cordite. A bluish haze mingled with the white mist of pulverised plaster and stonework. This man sent to kill this night had a semi- automatic, but he was outflanked and such fire-power could not save him now. Doomed, he was shot cleanly through the neck, the bullet severing the jugular, and his own line of fire pitched wildly. Stray, unfocused bullets stitched and peppered a trail of fire up the wall and across the ceiling. In his death rattle he was like a lurching drunk let loose with an assault rifle. It was over for the uninvited guest.

Marco, Constantine's other, more experienced Security Chief, got into the action finishing him off with a clean shot to the forehead. The man pitched forward with a fixed stare and a ragged gushing third eye only to be blown backwards with another, redundant volley of fire. When the failed gunman came to rest, his fixed fish eyes looked upwards to a patchwork ceiling of destroyed tiles and exposed wiring. The building itself seemed to have been murdered, along with a sizable portion of the clientele and several uninvited guests. Something would have to be done about that. Later.

Con finally had time to breathe, to think. True, the failed assassins were all apparently dead, but no one could be absolutely sure of this. The assault had been close, but could get closer. Much closer. There could be a follow up explosion, even aerial attack from a helicopter gunship as had happened in Tbilisi. Perhaps they were in a tiny window of opportunity comprising only seconds, maybe even milliseconds.

Con nodded. A signal. Do what you have to do, but do it fast was its meaning. Marco was now locked into damage mitigation mode, knowing just what to do when others might be at a loss. It was what he did, his gift. Instinct and training kicked in and time was shaved into packets of thirty seconds or less. Six seconds to reload. Twenty seconds to reach the exit. More cryptic hand signals, adversaries either nearly dead or lying in wait were not to know their movements. His men, all of whom had somehow survived without serious injury, closed in under Marco's direction and hustled Con and a catatonic Stella out the unhinged exit door and down the stairs to the shadows and relative safety of the underground car park. The air there was cool and dank, but Marco's face was lathered in sweat as though his autonomic nervous system was in turbo overdrive. Moving in a protective crouch, he pulled the couple closer to the ground and moved them into the armoured Mercedes SUV. The limousine was left behind. Too obvious. Now a vehicle with minimal exposure risk was needed.

Marco got in the driver's seat and they moved quickly from this temporary safety zone. Emerging from the bunker of the car park into the night, they were closely followed by two back up vehicles, including the newly purchased Hummer which swerved and drove ahead to scout incoming traffic. Tyres made sharp, chirping sounds as they sped out of the concrete bunker. A twin black Mercedes took up the rear. Con was safe. For now. Travel plans for London were moved forward overnight and they would be out of the country within the week.

Chapter 2

London, September

Michael Prescott rubbed his eye, still inwardly smarting from a fight with a stranger two nights before. At least he thought it was two nights ago. The rubbing, a form of self-induced emotional memory, helped give him his bearings. There had been more than minor cuts and bruises to deal with in the aftermath. A night in the Camden lock-up in fact, not exactly something an Australian schoolteacher likes to have on his 'resumé . Somehow Michael and a helpful duty solicitor managed to keep the arrest off his record and even if that notion was delusional, he had kept his job. That long, lost night had not been without its diversions. A local drunk he knew named Hamish, had kept up a lively racket in the Watch House well into the wee hours. The bastard who'd hit him had also been a guest of Her Majesty's that ugly night, although Michael never did get the chance to ask him why he had done it. Deconstruction of half-remembered events could be as painful as the physical wounds. Perhaps the muppet had objected to the fact Michael had had an extremely fit, sensationally beautiful lady on his arm and he vaguely recalled harsh and utterly daft words along those lines. The lady had wisely disappeared to leave him with the Metropolitan Police and a braying crowd that wanted more than just torn clothing and bloodied faces. Their fickle attention was soon taken up by two punching, scratching ladettes.

Aside from the unwanted stay in a cell, the Old Bill and teaching colleagues had been surprisingly accommodating. There were no repercussions beyond a few knowing comments from some students about his black eye. He quickly gave a lame excuse and it was forgotten about, or so he had thought.

Another summer had faded out with the September westerly and here he was back in school. 'Late September and he really had to be back in school,' as the song goes, yeah? His job of work had now resumed its mildly crushing hold on life. The place he happened to work in at the minute was a cheap and nasty Comprehensive Secondary school, one a former, sacked education minister would have described as 'bog standard'. He thought it might be tolerable, that he could cope. A nice thought, really, but somewhat off-planet in terms of the reality. That morning had begun badly and became worse.

'So why don't you put down that window opener?' Michael said, with all of the patience he could dredge up while nursing a punishing Tuesday morning hangover and still suffering the aftershocks of hand to hand combat. He gently rubbed his gums through his cheek; clearly two aspirin would not make this go away. At the minute there were more pressing concerns than the strictly dental. Year nine English. Low set. Marvellous. Not always a calm experience but interesting, as the lady boss liked to say.

A tall African-Caribbean boy named 'Dare' was circling the room with the hooked pole as though on a whaling ship tasked with taking on the big one. Smiling to reveal rows of perfect white teeth, Dare seemed to be enjoying himself as Mike felt an anxiety sweat-bead on his forehead. No doubt it would be a long day. Serious injury to one of his learners on his watch was not an option for someone on his budget. Day- jobbing again and struggling was not a good place to be, especially not at his stage of life. It had its benefits of course, despite generally lousy work conditions, the prime one being a lack of responsibility.

Repeated wet warnings of detention from this supply teacher had produced over-the-top howls of laughter and smarmy derision. He had been trying mightily to establish control with students who had their own agenda and seemed all but un-teachable and uncontrollable. Whatever, it was still all somehow his fault. How did it go again? There were no excuses, only reasons. From another viewpoint, of management, say, it was a failure to communicate, a serious infraction in this 'Brave New World of Globalisation' and all that bollocks.

'That a good question Mr ... ah, hey, what's his name again?' The thirteen-year-old boy mugged in the direction of leering classmates. It was yet another move in the shifting calculus of disrespect. He was losing the struggle but hadn't given up. Yet.

'Prescott. The name is Mr Prescott,' he said, before sighing audibly. This sound of defeat only seemed to embolden the naturally bold Dare.

'And I know it's a good question, that's why I asked it,' the boy parried for his mates. It worked. Uproar, and anyone not a mate, had to be too intimidated to intervene. It was always easier to play along with bullies, yeah? What was that about kids being experts on school by the time they're in High School? Had to be something in that, Prescott concluded. The kid was a master wind-up and enjoyed it. No doubt he was Gifted, if not quite Book Smart.

'Good. Now you've got your answer I hope you remember it.' As Michael spoke he moved closer to the year nine student named Archibald Kwhimbe. Dare was taller and stronger than Archibald, but this lad loved fighting. It was only his second day at the Hounslow Comprehensive and already it felt much longer than that. Much longer. Years, in fact. A drip feed of time that slowed or accelerated depending on its proximity to a break, or the end of the day. Minutes slowly trickled into hours that seemed like years or large, monolithic blocks of immovable relativistic time. The school campus was oddly new and familiar all at once. The brick buildings and surroundings of pebble-dashed flats and maisonettes were as familiar to him as places he had known for long periods of time, that's for sure. Michael knew, which was not the same as believing. It was the insight that comes easily to demented supply teachers in sink estate schools or inner city shooting galleries. All part of the job description really. Coping strategies included afternoon pints of lager that succeeded or failed in getting you blind along with the bonus of a good dose of partial amnesia. The blind part was getting easier by the day but the secret had to be in not trying to teach and not caring about it all that much.

'Just put it down, you don't want to hurt anybody,' he said, though not in any way expecting agreement on this important Health and Safety issue. It would be Mike's arse if the horseplay came to tears and all the young Brave Hearts knew it.

Dare put down his spear-like projectile, and the class finally got back to conjugations. Then more interruptions, more heckling. It was that kind of day. It could have been worse of course. Still tolerable though, if barely so.

'Why we have to learn this stuff, yeah? It's all shite,' an overweight and usually morose boy named Hassan challenged. This blazing defiance was almost incandescent. Yeah, the pack mentality was taking hold again alright. The learner looked to be waiting for a reply, something Michael was not about to do. Containment seemed the best he could hope for without calling in reinforcements. That particular cure could be worse than the disease. Michael shook a throbbing head beginning to feel mildly concussed and ploughed on. Yeah, it was that kind of day. Perhaps a topic for staff room discussion, or a water cooler whine. Later.

Still, he was almost used to it. Mr M. Prescott knew all about dud initiatives, closing windows of opportunity, constructive dismissal, and rapidly diminishing returns. Feeling a professional failure had become something of a lifestyle choice. It was all part of a job now spanning decades and continents. Even the onset of career cancer couldn't stop him. It was getting old. In two year nine English lessons over two days he had learnt that, one, Archie could be violent, and two, he was prone to lifting things. Kleptomania was only one of many psychopathologies. Kicking, punching, scratching. Lying, cheating, stealing. The repertoire, the full house of anarchy, was there like some tool kit for this creative bunch. Whatever, he still had to be cautious, his livelihood was at stake. Accusing was a tricky business and Michael had learnt to be careful. Too quick, too clever, to be caught pinching, was our Archie, or our Dare. Anything from pound coins left on the table, his mobile phone, to the mark book could vanish, but Archie had more flair when it came to acts of sheer physical violence. In fact he, Archibald, had punched a boy from Ghana in an incident that had gone as far as an administrative report to the Regional Board. Pity. It seemed to have gone straight to the shredder, the incident report, that is. Now here he was again on the front chalk face, if you like. Back in class, blooming and buzzing, stirring up the merriest of hells, and having a tremendously fat time of it too. Granted the boy had obvious talents in the area of anarchy, not unlike some of his adult acquaintances. Hamish, his Camden cell mate, came immediately to mind. Yet after the firestorm of angst, Mike still wondered if he could coax some learning from this genius in avoidance strategy despite all this. He struggled to recall sound bite theories. Reach him in a teachable moment and he might be able to turn it all around and all that.

'I'm not here to play games, Archibald, but if you want, you are very welcome to come up to the board and show us where the apostrophe goes in this sentence.'

'Why not play games, sir? I've learned plenty of games in school,' a usually quiet if not altogether trustworthy white kid said, stringing the dissing along further.

Michael did what he usually did and also played along. When beaten, join in. A hard luck life this, no question about it. Time passed too slowly for students like Archibald and Dare, so they made their own fun. It wasn't a question of black or white. Most of his classes were like this or worse in the inner city. It wasn't something you ever really got used to, even if there was no choice but to tolerate it and endure. There wasn't much the administration could do and whining about it could well scupper the prospect of any future work. It was grim alright.

Never mind. Nothing a few pints couldn't fix, yeah? He had a home of sorts. Handy for transport, as the ads say, and just around the corner from a gigantic billboard boasting of the achievements of its attention-seeking mayor, Baroness Katherine Violet Witherspoon.

The bed-sit was the cheapest he had been able to find, but the recent fine for affray would keep him indoors for a while yet. From his upper storey window at night he was able to watch her surprisingly attractive, if no longer young, face grinning fetchingly under floodlights. Michael realised he was developing something of a crush on this superannuated superstar. At times he felt she was somehow communicating with him and this made less unendurable his prison-like gaff. Otherwise the place, the menacing streets, made for a kind of extension of on-going self-imposed detention. Confined to a cell room, he was, minus windows, for the duration or until further notice. It could have been worse, it could have been much worse. Going home, wherever that was now, wasn't an option. Dying at sea or being shot out of cannon would be better than that.

At Heathrow a private jet landed in darkness then slowly taxied to an empty hangar. Stella reached upwards in the overhead bin for her mobile phone. She looked forward to shopping in Oxford Street and dialled for an appointment with her London hair stylist.

Chapter 3

Stepping into the new Lamborghini, Nikolas Van Nierkirk sank into the leather upholstered seat and stretched his legs forward. At six feet four, wriggle space was a must and he was not to be disappointed.

'Can you get it in black, Clive?' He spoke evenly but in a thick baritone. Nik was a patient man. No need to lose your temper this early in the piece now, is there?

'I'll check with our Italian dealership, it's not one of the more popular colours for this model,' the salesman said, afraid this would jinx the deal. Mr Nikolas Van Nierkirk was one of his best customers, often ordering two or three high end cars a year. This customer was always right.

'I didn't ask what was popular; I asked if you could get it. I want the interior all black as well.'

'I'm sure we can arrange it, let me make some phone calls. An hour, can you give me an hour, Mr Van Nierkirk?' he asked, desperation leaking into his voice. Clive motioned energetically with his finger for his secretary Zina to get onto it. The tall woman with tremendous legs scrambled, knowing the price, if they blew it, would be heavy. Clive was taking her out tonight; a tidy bonus was a real possibility if they closed the deal. He wheeled back to the focus of attention.

'Sure Clive, I can give you an hour. Happy with that? I have some business to attend to, so how does one, one thirty, sound?'

They shook hands on it, both looking forward to closure. A frantic series of calls would make it happen; the customer would not be disappointed. Nik made the short walk to the Southampton docks on his own. A frequent visitor to this great UK port of entry, he wanted to make sure the latest consignment to faraway friends got off safely. Container goods went out, which helped pay for the luxury goods coming in, such as the much desired Lamborghini that was soon to arrive. After quickly checking out the business side of things, he was satisfied. It was a wrap, and exactly how he liked to do business. In, out, then done. Speaking of which, he had a meeting scheduled with Constantine and his people at five pm. in town. Before that there were a few other things that needed tidying up. Flipping open his mobile, he speed dialled and waited for a response. The ringing ground on.

Back in London, Michael had more mundane financial concerns on the table. Food, shelter, clothing. Another day, another dollar, and all that. Quid, actually. It was hard not to feel depressed by money worries as tracts of grimy industrial landscape flashed by the train window. He got off at Hounslow station and threw his Metro paper in a rubbish bin. Far too much work to do, places to go, to pore over current events posted in the Rail Rag. As he pulled himself up the stairs along with an army of fellow wage slave counterparts, one side of the handle of his leather briefcase detached, forcing him to carry it in his arms. Then came a grace note. Madonna, his London Underground Madonna, was there. There to ease the ache of diminishing returns, he hoped. It was amazing how this stranger could lift his spirits. She played a flute and sang beautifully, blonde hair trailing with the tube updraft. As he ascended the stairs yet another poster of the alluring Mayor came into view. He stopped to admire this secret, unobtainable love interest for a long moment.

On the opposite side of town from Hounslow, in Redbridge, a friend and former colleague of Michael's, Hina Patel, was deep into second period at Nightingale Comprehensive. The slim twenty-six year old with hair pulled up under a modest Tudung, enjoyed this top set year eleven English class. Like Hina herself, the student body was predominantly Asian (in the English sense), as was the entire class, with only two exceptions. Conferencing this morning on course work with half a dozen high achieving students had been encouraging. She had reason to be pleased; her best performers were outdoing each other to reach new heights of academic excellence.

As Hina moved around the circles of desks, formed for group work like metal filings around a magnet, fifteen year old Shivana Ratnani got up and walked to her teacher, holding a piece of literature course work.