Something strange happened, in the weeks after Revathi’s success. People took her seriously, a novel sensation. Such an important story, they told her, so grateful for the part she’d played in uncovering it. To start with, she’d given credit to Lars and his leap of faith in sending her—but they weren’t interested in that, and so she fell back on an enigmatic nod, a modest smile. This was exactly right, and gained her even more respect. So humble, they whispered, that’s how you know she’s the real thing.

It felt unearned, and she had to tell herself this was hers, she deserved it. The idea had been hers. Spender would have squandered the opportunity somehow, blundered in at the wrong angle. She felt a fraud for not having had to dig particularly hard. She’d simply turned up and listened—they’d been so eager for their stories to be heard. And yet, no one had done even that. No one had thought of going, till she’d pushed.

She allowed this to become her cause. Why not? It was an obvious injustice, and no one in Britain was doing anything about it. Her voice would be harder to ignore than the ones from that part of the world. Why not do what she could? To start with, she lay awake some nights worrying that she was doing this for self-gain, but finally decided that motivations are always murky, even to yourself, and as long as good is done then it doesn’t matter. You should always get on the horse that’s running, her father said. She was moving now. She wanted to keep moving.

There was nothing hollow about what she was doing. She marvelled that she could feel this, absolute rage and pity for the people she wanted to help, in whatever small ways she was able to, but also pleasure at ordinary things, the smoothness of an orderly life proceeding on its tracks. A promotion and a raise, grudging praise from Lars, a desk in a better part of the office. A bedsit in a slightly nicer part of Earl’s Court.

When the election came round, she wrote a series of columns predicting a Conservative victory, which were widely regarded as a stunt. It had seemed certain that Wilson was going to stay in Number Ten, and hers was the only prominent voice pulling the other way. Cassandra of the Herald. When asked how she’d known, she would only say it was a lucky guess, and then if pressed, that she’d listened to people. That was all. Enough of them were uncertain, and with every other paper assuring Labour voters they needn’t worry, who would bother to turn out?