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driving into town tonight, do you know what he said to me? ‘Watch out for gangs.’”
    Benjamin frowned. “Gangs? What sort of gangs?”
    â€œI have no idea. He didn’t say. He was just convinced that if we went into the center of town on a Thursday night, we’d be set upon by gangs of some description. He’s losing his marbles.”
    â€œThey’re old, that’s all,” Benjamin said. “They’re old and they don’t get out much. You should give them a break.”
    Paul grunted, and then fell silent. Normally he was an impatient driver, prone to jumping across traffic lights and flashing his headlamps at anyone who wasn’t going fast enough, but tonight he didn’t seem to be concentrating. He drove with one hand on the steering wheel, and kept the other one close to his mouth, biting on it occasionally. Benjamin recognized the gesture from their childhood: it was a sign of nervousness, preoccupation.
    â€œIs everything OK, Paul?”
    â€œWhat? Oh yes, everything’s fine.”
    â€œSusan on good form?”
    â€œShe seemed to be.”
    â€œI only thought that . . . something seems to be bothering you.”
    Paul looked across at his brother. It was hard to tell whether he was grateful for Benjamin’s concern, or annoyed that his own unease should prove so visible.
    â€œIt’s just that I was cornered by a journalist in the members’ lobby this afternoon. He asked me a question about Railtrack and . . . well, I didn’t think hard enough before answering. I think I may have put my foot in it.”
    That afternoon, it had been announced to the press that responsibility for safety on the railways was going to be handed over to Railtrack—a privately run company—rather than to an independent and publicly accountable body as many critics had been demanding. Paul basically approved of this idea (all of his political instincts inclined him towards the private sector) and had been happy to say so on the record, believing that this would make him popular with the party leadership. However, it appeared that he may have overstepped the mark.
    â€œIt turns out,” he said, “that the people who are really up in arms are the ones who lost relatives in the Paddington rail crash. They say it’s not good enough.”
    â€œAs you’d expect.”
    â€œWell, of course they’re
grieving.
That’s entirely understandable. But that still doesn’t make it helpful to blame every little thing that goes wrong on the government. We’re starting to live in a culture of blame, don’t you think? It’s like the very worst side of America.”
    â€œWhat did you actually say?” Benjamin asked.
    â€œIt was a guy from the
Mirror,
” Paul explained. “He said to me, ‘What would you say to the families who were bereaved in the Paddington rail crash, who are describing this decision as an insult to their loved ones?’ So first of all I said that I respected their feelings, and so on, but of course that’s just the kind of thing he’ll cut out. I know exactly what he’s going to quote. It was the thing I said last of all. ‘Those who seek to make capital out of human lives should look to their consciences.’”
    â€œMeaning the relatives?”
    â€œNo, not at all. Meaning the people who are going to hijack the relatives’ emotions and use them to score political points.
That’s
what I meant.”
    Benjamin tutted. “Too subtle. People are just going to think you’re a heartless, uncaring bastard.”
    â€œI know. Fuck it,” said Paul, to himself, looking out of the window at what used to be the ABC cinema on the Bristol Road, but had now for many years been a large drive-thru McDonald’s. “Tell me about this woman we’re meeting, anyway. Is she going to cheer me up?”
    â€œHer name’s Malvina. She’s very