They look suntanned, or perhaps they're from one of the southern republics. The fading life-chances of a disappointing news story - no villains, no deaths, no suspended outcome - are revived by a dose of manufactured i_ontro\ ersy: an aviation expert, has been found who's prepared to say that it was reckless to bring a burning plane in over a densely populated area when there were other options. A representative of the airport authority says there was no threat to Londoners. The government is yet to comment.
He turns the TV off, pulls up a stool and sets himself up with his coffee and the phone. Before his Saturday can begin, there's a follow-up call to make to the hospital. He's put through to intensive care and asks to speak to the nurse in charge. While someone fetches her he listens to the familiar background murmur, a porter's voice he recognises, a book or folder slapped down on a table.
Then he hears the expressionless tone of a busy woman say, TCU.'
'Deirdre? I thought Charles was on this weekend.'
'He's away with the flu, Mr Perowne.'
'How's Andrea?'
'GCS is fifteen, good oxygenation, not confused.'
'EVD?'
'Still draining at around five centimetres. I'm thinking of sending her back to the ward.'
That's fine then,' Perowne said. 'Can you let the anaesthetist know that I'm happy for her to go.' He's about to hang up when he acids, Ts she giving you any trouble?'
70 Saturday
Too overwhelmed by it all, Mr Perowne. We love her like this.'
He takes his keys and phone and garage remote control from a silver dish by the recipe books. His wallet is in an overcoat hanging in a room behind the kitchen, outside the wine vaults. His squash racket is upstairs on the ground floor, in a cupboard in the laundry. He puts on an old hiking fleece, and is about to set the burglar alarm when he remembers Theo inside. As he steps outside and turns from closing the door, he hears the squeal of seagulls come inland for the city's good pickings. The sun is low and only one half of the square
-his half - is in full sunlight. He walks away from the square along blinding moist pavement, surprised by the freshness of the day. The air tastes almost clean. He has an impression of striding along a natural surface, along some coastal wilderness, on a smooth slab of basalt causeway he vaguely recalls from a childhood holiday. It must be the cry of the gulls bringing it back. He can remember the taste of spray off a turbulent blue-green sea, and as he reaches Warren Street he reminds himself that he mustn't forget the fishmonger's. Lifted by the coffee, and by movement at last, as well as the prospect of the game and the comfortable fit of the sheathed racket in his hand, he increases his pace.
The streets round here are usually empty at weekends, but up ahead, along the Huston Road, a big crowd is making its way east towards Gower Street, and in the road itself, crawling in the eastbound lanes, are the same nose-to-tail coaches he saw on the news. The passengers are pressed against the glass, longing to be out there with the rest. They've hung their banners from the windows, along with football scarves and the names of towns from the heart of England
-Stratford, Gloucester, Evesham. From the impatient pavement crowds, some dry runs with the noisemakers - a trombone, a squeeze-ball car horn, a lambeg drum. There are ragged practice chants which at first he can't make out. Tumty
71 hui McEwtin
tumty turn. Don't attack Iraq. Placards not yet on duty are held at a slope, at rakish angles over shoulders. Not in My Name goes past a dozen times. Its cloying self-regard suggests a bright new world of protest, with the fussy consumers of shampoos and soft drinks demanding to feel good, or nice. Henry prefers the languid, Down With this Sort of Thing. A placard of one of the organising groups goes by - the British Association of Muslims. Henry remembers that outfit well. It explained recently in its newspaper that apostasy from Islam was an
He turns the TV off, pulls up a stool and sets himself up with his coffee and the phone. Before his Saturday can begin, there's a follow-up call to make to the hospital. He's put through to intensive care and asks to speak to the nurse in charge. While someone fetches her he listens to the familiar background murmur, a porter's voice he recognises, a book or folder slapped down on a table.
Then he hears the expressionless tone of a busy woman say, TCU.'
'Deirdre? I thought Charles was on this weekend.'
'He's away with the flu, Mr Perowne.'
'How's Andrea?'
'GCS is fifteen, good oxygenation, not confused.'
'EVD?'
'Still draining at around five centimetres. I'm thinking of sending her back to the ward.'
That's fine then,' Perowne said. 'Can you let the anaesthetist know that I'm happy for her to go.' He's about to hang up when he acids, Ts she giving you any trouble?'
70 Saturday
Too overwhelmed by it all, Mr Perowne. We love her like this.'
He takes his keys and phone and garage remote control from a silver dish by the recipe books. His wallet is in an overcoat hanging in a room behind the kitchen, outside the wine vaults. His squash racket is upstairs on the ground floor, in a cupboard in the laundry. He puts on an old hiking fleece, and is about to set the burglar alarm when he remembers Theo inside. As he steps outside and turns from closing the door, he hears the squeal of seagulls come inland for the city's good pickings. The sun is low and only one half of the square
-his half - is in full sunlight. He walks away from the square along blinding moist pavement, surprised by the freshness of the day. The air tastes almost clean. He has an impression of striding along a natural surface, along some coastal wilderness, on a smooth slab of basalt causeway he vaguely recalls from a childhood holiday. It must be the cry of the gulls bringing it back. He can remember the taste of spray off a turbulent blue-green sea, and as he reaches Warren Street he reminds himself that he mustn't forget the fishmonger's. Lifted by the coffee, and by movement at last, as well as the prospect of the game and the comfortable fit of the sheathed racket in his hand, he increases his pace.
The streets round here are usually empty at weekends, but up ahead, along the Huston Road, a big crowd is making its way east towards Gower Street, and in the road itself, crawling in the eastbound lanes, are the same nose-to-tail coaches he saw on the news. The passengers are pressed against the glass, longing to be out there with the rest. They've hung their banners from the windows, along with football scarves and the names of towns from the heart of England
-Stratford, Gloucester, Evesham. From the impatient pavement crowds, some dry runs with the noisemakers - a trombone, a squeeze-ball car horn, a lambeg drum. There are ragged practice chants which at first he can't make out. Tumty
71 hui McEwtin
tumty turn. Don't attack Iraq. Placards not yet on duty are held at a slope, at rakish angles over shoulders. Not in My Name goes past a dozen times. Its cloying self-regard suggests a bright new world of protest, with the fussy consumers of shampoos and soft drinks demanding to feel good, or nice. Henry prefers the languid, Down With this Sort of Thing. A placard of one of the organising groups goes by - the British Association of Muslims. Henry remembers that outfit well. It explained recently in its newspaper that apostasy from Islam was an
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