Reaching a junction immediately after the lights have changed, she waits patiently as people assemble around her. The last cars accelerate through, obliging those in their wake to brake hard for red. As she scurries over, she goes clear of the others but, yards along, ostensibly changes her mind and retraces her path. A few seconds of peering through the large windows of the corner pub seemingly has her satisfied that she spots no one, before resuming her original bearing.
Her pace is steady as she dog-legs through an area largely devoid of passers-by. Arriving at another major road she parallels it, awaiting a break in the early-evening traffic. Jaywalking obliquely in front of an indignant van driver she vaults the crash barrier on the other side; one more twenty-something treating the city as their personal playground. Moments later she is out of the chill, tucked just inside a small book store and undertaking some anonymous browsing.
Another time check. Reassured, she continues her stroll through even quieter streets where the one-way traffic previously at her back has switched to oncoming. Turning one last corner, the damp cloud she exhales clears to reveal a large building quite unlike its residential neighbours, its roof arched like a wartime Nissen hut. From earlier reconnaissance the ground floor hosts an unrelated factory, its name plate as obscured by grime as it is by rusting corrugated sheets propped diagonally.
An unmarked side entrance lets into a concrete stairwell. As it bangs shut behind, she clicks a switch on the far wall, too late remembering being told that the fluorescent tubes had not been replaced. The space should be partially lit by a skylight located some thirty feet up, however this is filthy. Shoving open the outside door to let in a couple of seconds of what passes in N16 for street illumination, it seems every surface has been coated in a sterile shade of green.
Although she hasn’t washed her hair for days and has worn something appropriate, clumping grittily upwards she is careful to brush against the metal banister and bare walls. By the time the soulless walk deposits her at a dusty landing, her footsteps have merged into a single reverberating echo. Heaving at the handle of the solid metal door, she prepares to rejoin the light.
Inside, a sense of vastness is funnelled towards huge cross-hatched windows at the far end. More surprising again is how effectively the door managed to block the swirling racket which now assails her ears. A quick scan of the open-plan reveals the decibels emanate from four women typing, three dozen more people for whom this buzzing hive seems home and two radios blasting out competing channels. Her conclusion is that if a partridge is cowering in a nearby pear tree, it’s call is drowned by the printing machine operating at a truly clamorous hammer.
Research a decade ago had confirmed Rage to be a loose alliance of anti-vivisectionists, steadfast Trotskyites and contrarian amateur philosophers posing no outward threat. Since then the movement has continued to be of no relevance beyond its own, loyal knot of supporters who absorb the modest circulation of The Rage Age despite a price she considers astonishingly high. Recently however her superiors’ attention has been grabbed by agent reporting and an unrelated wiretap suggesting some nihilists are planning to assume control of the network. As a result, it is this sub-group which has become the subject of official interest although, to an undiscerning eye, it could appear the entire co-operative is under investigation.
While today marks her first invitation to these offices, she can tell at a glance that she has timed her arrival well. Though the editorial meeting is underway, she detours via the kitchenette as fixing herself a brew will provide further cover in order to check the pulse of the place. Sauntering up to the counter however and finding half a dozen milk bottles at various stages of lumpiness, some doubling as ashtrays, she revises her intentions. Completing a circuit, she slips down onto a vacant section of the chocolate brown carpet, resolving to ignore its stale odour and overflowing jam jar lids. Without actually soliciting eye contact, whenever someone she has encountered elsewhere flicks her a greeting, she returns the acknowledgement with a half-smile and subtle lift of the chin. Spying some fragments of Rich Tea on a beige earthenware plate, she helps herself around the back of a person she doesn’t recognise. The biscuit isn’t exactly fresh but after that whiff of sour dairy she is expecting worse.
Forty minutes later, she deems it miraculous an edition of their thin newspaper is published even as rarely as it is. Tuning in and out of the tirades, she has been obliged to watch on as others get to drift in and out of the circle. Less tedious than counting struts in the high curve of the ceiling was hearing warnings for those present to act cautiously – “These walls have ears” forcing her to conclude that, with the general din in here, they’d need to be bloody sharp ones. Of greater significance still was the instruction to subject any suspected snitches to the third degree. It seems that infiltration by moles sits high on their organisation’s list of fears too, so she is extra glad to have taken the steps she has. In her experience, in places like this, nothing feeds a sense of paranoia more than the relative neatness associated with police officers.
Another twenty minutes of petty bickering slugs by before she is relieved to feel the tap to her collar bone. Twisting around, she sees the universal sign of two fingers flapping towards the mouth. She excuses herself from proceedings and they make for the farthest corner.
Comments (0)
See all