away towards Netherton Street.
12
ALIX HAD BEEN sent a limousine by the organizers of the rally – one of the armoured BMW 7 Series that had become the transport of choice for those wishing to reach their destinations unscathed, and rich enough to pay the price for such security. As she arrived a woman was waiting to greet her. She was holding a clipboard. She had to shout to make herself heard over the chaos on either side of the police line: ‘And you are?’
‘Alexandra Vermulen, of Vermulen Associates. I’m expected.’
The greeter gave a warm, professional smile. ‘Good evening, Mrs Vermulen. We’re so glad you could make it. Mr Adams will see you when he’s freshened up after his speech. Follow me, please.’
Alix was given a laminated all-areas pass and led up escalators, across a concourse and past a series of security guards to the VIP suite. There was a bar to one side behind which two hostesses were providing drinks and snacks to the dozen or so people gathered in the room. Most of them were men, hardcore careerists who were barking fiercely into their phones or having the sorts of conversations that are less about sharing any ideas or information and far more about a competitive battle to establish the superior status of one speaker over the other. As she waited to be served a glass of chilled champagne Alix caught snatches of speech: demands to, ‘Well, just get it done NOW!’; and insistences that, ‘I don’t care what’s happened in Iran. We have to lead the
Ten O’Clock News
!’
The only person who paid Alix the slightest bit of attention was another woman, standing by the rail that separated the interior of the suite from its dedicated seats in the auditorium itself. She was a few years older than Alix, pretty in a natural, unaffected kind of way, and dressed in smart, high-street clothes. ‘Hello,’ she said, holding out a hand. ‘You must be Mrs Vermulen. I’ve been so looking forward to meeting you. I’m Nicki Adams, Mark’s wife.’ She looked at her watch and then back at Alix. ‘Uh-oh, it all starts in five minutes. Why don’t you sit next to me? I’d much rather have you for company than any of this lot.’
Outside the arena a
Sky News
reporter called Bob Hunter was standing in front of the police line at the point where the skinheads, whose numbers had swelled to well over fifty, were still engaged in a running battle of chants, insults and the occasional thrown bottle with the anti-fascist protesters on the other side. Hunter was holding a hand to one ear, as if to help him hear questions amidst the pandemonium.
He set his voice to ‘battlefield reporter’ mode. ‘The atmosphere here is as bad as ever. In fact, it may be getting worse. I’ve just heard from police sources that a number of officers have been hit by missiles thrown from both sides. There are now very real fears that the situation is close to spiralling out of control. Meanwhile—’
His words were interrupted by the sound of smashing glass, followed by an explosion and a brief burst of flame just a couple of metres behind him as an amateurish, homemade attempt at a Molotov cocktail went off. ‘Whoa!’ Hunter exclaimed, throwing up a hand to shield his face. ‘We’re going to have to move. Things are really heating up. Back to the studio . . .’
‘Who do you think put those yobbos there?’ asked Cameron Young, the Prime Minister’s Chief of Staff. He was watching the broadcast from his office in Downing Street. Young was the sort of man who looked as though he’d been born wearing a suit and tie. His appearance was an exact definition of ‘blandness’: mousey hair, nondescript eyes hidden behind unexceptional glasses. Yet many Westminster insiders said he was the second most important man in the country. Those that disagreed only did so because they were certain that he was actually the first.
Young frowned pensively. ‘It must be good for Adams to have a certain amount of disorder
12
ALIX HAD BEEN sent a limousine by the organizers of the rally – one of the armoured BMW 7 Series that had become the transport of choice for those wishing to reach their destinations unscathed, and rich enough to pay the price for such security. As she arrived a woman was waiting to greet her. She was holding a clipboard. She had to shout to make herself heard over the chaos on either side of the police line: ‘And you are?’
‘Alexandra Vermulen, of Vermulen Associates. I’m expected.’
The greeter gave a warm, professional smile. ‘Good evening, Mrs Vermulen. We’re so glad you could make it. Mr Adams will see you when he’s freshened up after his speech. Follow me, please.’
Alix was given a laminated all-areas pass and led up escalators, across a concourse and past a series of security guards to the VIP suite. There was a bar to one side behind which two hostesses were providing drinks and snacks to the dozen or so people gathered in the room. Most of them were men, hardcore careerists who were barking fiercely into their phones or having the sorts of conversations that are less about sharing any ideas or information and far more about a competitive battle to establish the superior status of one speaker over the other. As she waited to be served a glass of chilled champagne Alix caught snatches of speech: demands to, ‘Well, just get it done NOW!’; and insistences that, ‘I don’t care what’s happened in Iran. We have to lead the
Ten O’Clock News
!’
The only person who paid Alix the slightest bit of attention was another woman, standing by the rail that separated the interior of the suite from its dedicated seats in the auditorium itself. She was a few years older than Alix, pretty in a natural, unaffected kind of way, and dressed in smart, high-street clothes. ‘Hello,’ she said, holding out a hand. ‘You must be Mrs Vermulen. I’ve been so looking forward to meeting you. I’m Nicki Adams, Mark’s wife.’ She looked at her watch and then back at Alix. ‘Uh-oh, it all starts in five minutes. Why don’t you sit next to me? I’d much rather have you for company than any of this lot.’
Outside the arena a
Sky News
reporter called Bob Hunter was standing in front of the police line at the point where the skinheads, whose numbers had swelled to well over fifty, were still engaged in a running battle of chants, insults and the occasional thrown bottle with the anti-fascist protesters on the other side. Hunter was holding a hand to one ear, as if to help him hear questions amidst the pandemonium.
He set his voice to ‘battlefield reporter’ mode. ‘The atmosphere here is as bad as ever. In fact, it may be getting worse. I’ve just heard from police sources that a number of officers have been hit by missiles thrown from both sides. There are now very real fears that the situation is close to spiralling out of control. Meanwhile—’
His words were interrupted by the sound of smashing glass, followed by an explosion and a brief burst of flame just a couple of metres behind him as an amateurish, homemade attempt at a Molotov cocktail went off. ‘Whoa!’ Hunter exclaimed, throwing up a hand to shield his face. ‘We’re going to have to move. Things are really heating up. Back to the studio . . .’
‘Who do you think put those yobbos there?’ asked Cameron Young, the Prime Minister’s Chief of Staff. He was watching the broadcast from his office in Downing Street. Young was the sort of man who looked as though he’d been born wearing a suit and tie. His appearance was an exact definition of ‘blandness’: mousey hair, nondescript eyes hidden behind unexceptional glasses. Yet many Westminster insiders said he was the second most important man in the country. Those that disagreed only did so because they were certain that he was actually the first.
Young frowned pensively. ‘It must be good for Adams to have a certain amount of disorder