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Dedication

For Neil, with love and thanks

Prologue

PROLOGUE

London in the summer.

One fine day and don’t the English go mad? Every square of grass suddenly acquires a PA with a sandwich and a book about bondage. Sound seems to carry further. Music and news catch you unawares.

‘Police marching in Trafalgar Square, in advance of the forthcoming vote, chanting they want the right to strike…’

White-legged men in ridiculous shorts. Socks under sandals.

‘In the shadow of that fucking ridiculous—… You know what we need down here? Not an “Olympic Velodrome”! What’s it for now?’

Pimm’s with the sun shining off the pitcher. Furrowed brows are now white lines on pink.

‘Cuts in front-line policing, never mind the specialist units. If the riots continue, if the Summer of Blood arrives, there will be areas where there are riots, where the police will not be able to go!’

In the evenings, crowds spill out of the pubs onto the warm pavement. At six in the evening, you can hear the number drone of cricket scores on the radio.

‘They are expecting us to work for free, when they’ve sold this country…’

Wimbledon and Glastonbury and the Proms …

‘Sieg heil! Sieg heil! Sieg heil!’

There’s something about the blank summer sky – when the endless dog day, global-warming, tufty storm clouds part and unseasonal shivers give way to proper hay fever – that demands fire. Sparks in the blue black. But sparks sink back to the ground. Where the sparks land, there is fire.

There’s a car going past the ends of streets. The car is polished so the sun reflects off it. There are pools of shadow at the end of every street. In every corner that stays dark there’s a beggar now, an addict or a whore.

This is my car. I’m in it. It’s polished like this because of me. It’s a big rich car because of me.

What? Is that me? Is this me now, in this big car?! How did that happen? Who does this summer belong to? Who’s coming?

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