new bricks, yellow ones, brown ones.”
“And what do you do with these bricks, sir, once you’ve collected them?”
“We…build walls.”
“Do you indeed, sir? Might I see some identification, sir?”
Evan produced his driver’s license, which the police officer examined at length.
“Haven’t I seen you on television, sir?”
“It’s possible, yes.”
The PC returned his license and Evan put it away.
“Might I make a suggestion, gentlemen?”
Evan waited.
“This isn’t the best of areas at this time of night, especially down these dark little side passages. One never knows who or what one might encounter, itinerant brick collectors notwithstanding. Shall we quietly put the item back where we found it, and then be on our way?”
Evan handed the brick to his son, who replaced it without comment.
“Thank you, sir. I’ll just escort you out, now, shall I? Leave a car nearby, did you…?”
“We collect bricks?” Ian said, incredulously, starting the engine.
“I didn’t hear you offering up any feasible alternatives.”
“I don’t have the benefit of decades making a living as an actor.” He buckled up his seatbelt. “We collect bricks. Not, we’re Intelligence Officers quite legitimately investigating an old dead letter drop. Not, sorry about that, sir, here’s my warrant card, if you’d just like to contact Macdonald House they’ll look us up in their computer and have us cleared momentarily.”
“It worked, didn’t it?” his father countered. “Give me the package.”
Ian produced the mackintosh-wrapped object he’d hidden under his jacket while his father had been distracting the police officer with his much practised air of innocence, and, one by one, Evan peeled off the waterproof layers.
“Ah,” he said, with great satisfaction, shining the light of his torch on the two objects that were contained within.
Ian looked over with interest. “King Tut, indeed,” he said, impressed.
Chapter Eleven
Monday, 26 August 1991
Emma was on her way into London. She stood by the door, enjoying the jerky side-to-side rhythm, the muffled ka-flack, ka-flack of wheels against rail, their echo bouncing off the close black tunnel walls.
She hung on as the brakes were applied in anticipation of Camden Town, and as the train at last stopped and the doors rumbled apart, she observed the platform through the eyes of a writer of fiction, searching for the commonplace, absorbing the extraordinary.
Emma knew Camden Town well. It was familiar and old, conjoining four separate branches of the Underground. Its unrenovated platforms still bore their original livery of cream and ceramic blue; its antique clocks told antique time. The modern world encroached only by way of the huge ads pasted trackside, warning against fare dodging, exhorting waiting passengers to place their bets with Mecca Bookmakers, drink Jack Daniels Whisky and hire their temps from Manpower.
As a young woman in the war Emma had sought shelter in the labyrinth of these tunnels during air raids. She carried a map of the station in her mind: the small surface structure, sitting on its triangular promontory, with a WAY OUT on either side of a solitary pass booth. The bank of escalators leading down to a rectangular, windswept hall, at the end of which was a lit-up board giving next-train destinations for Platforms 2 and 4. Four narrow passageways, two to a side, leading to the trains—on the right, Platform 3, Barnet northbound, and beneath it, the southbound Platform 4. To the left, Platform 1, Edgeware northbound, and, down the steps, Platform 2, for alternate southbound stops.
Here, on Platform 4, the last of the stragglers had got aboard the train, and there was a momentary delay until the signals in the tunnel ahead switched to green. Emma’s eye was caught by a young woman in tight trousers, cowboy boots and sunglasses, sitting tentatively on a bench beside a Virgin Records poster.
In the distance, Emma could hear the
“And what do you do with these bricks, sir, once you’ve collected them?”
“We…build walls.”
“Do you indeed, sir? Might I see some identification, sir?”
Evan produced his driver’s license, which the police officer examined at length.
“Haven’t I seen you on television, sir?”
“It’s possible, yes.”
The PC returned his license and Evan put it away.
“Might I make a suggestion, gentlemen?”
Evan waited.
“This isn’t the best of areas at this time of night, especially down these dark little side passages. One never knows who or what one might encounter, itinerant brick collectors notwithstanding. Shall we quietly put the item back where we found it, and then be on our way?”
Evan handed the brick to his son, who replaced it without comment.
“Thank you, sir. I’ll just escort you out, now, shall I? Leave a car nearby, did you…?”
“We collect bricks?” Ian said, incredulously, starting the engine.
“I didn’t hear you offering up any feasible alternatives.”
“I don’t have the benefit of decades making a living as an actor.” He buckled up his seatbelt. “We collect bricks. Not, we’re Intelligence Officers quite legitimately investigating an old dead letter drop. Not, sorry about that, sir, here’s my warrant card, if you’d just like to contact Macdonald House they’ll look us up in their computer and have us cleared momentarily.”
“It worked, didn’t it?” his father countered. “Give me the package.”
Ian produced the mackintosh-wrapped object he’d hidden under his jacket while his father had been distracting the police officer with his much practised air of innocence, and, one by one, Evan peeled off the waterproof layers.
“Ah,” he said, with great satisfaction, shining the light of his torch on the two objects that were contained within.
Ian looked over with interest. “King Tut, indeed,” he said, impressed.
Chapter Eleven
Monday, 26 August 1991
Emma was on her way into London. She stood by the door, enjoying the jerky side-to-side rhythm, the muffled ka-flack, ka-flack of wheels against rail, their echo bouncing off the close black tunnel walls.
She hung on as the brakes were applied in anticipation of Camden Town, and as the train at last stopped and the doors rumbled apart, she observed the platform through the eyes of a writer of fiction, searching for the commonplace, absorbing the extraordinary.
Emma knew Camden Town well. It was familiar and old, conjoining four separate branches of the Underground. Its unrenovated platforms still bore their original livery of cream and ceramic blue; its antique clocks told antique time. The modern world encroached only by way of the huge ads pasted trackside, warning against fare dodging, exhorting waiting passengers to place their bets with Mecca Bookmakers, drink Jack Daniels Whisky and hire their temps from Manpower.
As a young woman in the war Emma had sought shelter in the labyrinth of these tunnels during air raids. She carried a map of the station in her mind: the small surface structure, sitting on its triangular promontory, with a WAY OUT on either side of a solitary pass booth. The bank of escalators leading down to a rectangular, windswept hall, at the end of which was a lit-up board giving next-train destinations for Platforms 2 and 4. Four narrow passageways, two to a side, leading to the trains—on the right, Platform 3, Barnet northbound, and beneath it, the southbound Platform 4. To the left, Platform 1, Edgeware northbound, and, down the steps, Platform 2, for alternate southbound stops.
Here, on Platform 4, the last of the stragglers had got aboard the train, and there was a momentary delay until the signals in the tunnel ahead switched to green. Emma’s eye was caught by a young woman in tight trousers, cowboy boots and sunglasses, sitting tentatively on a bench beside a Virgin Records poster.
In the distance, Emma could hear the
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