shouts when I appear at the top of the stairs. There are others in the hallway and they’re ready to shoot if I do anything I shouldn’t. I’ve already got my arms stretched out, and I’m thinking of Mel Gibson playing the part of Christ before he gets crucified. Only I’m not on a movie set, and I nod co-operatively when a cop beckons me down the stairs.
I’ve ripped the sleeve of my bathrobe. I feel exposed with my arms in the air. I’m still trying to give out the impression that I’m cool and together. It’s difficult, but when I reach the hallway, I ask the armed, steel-helmeted cops what they want.
‘Face the wall – now!’ one of them commands.
The hands that frisk me are cold and rough, and when I’m allowed to turn around I see a serious looking Afro-Caribbean guy in the living room doorway. He’s wearing a decent suit, shirt and tie. He seems OK. I’m convinced that when he was a younger man, he went to church with a sound Christian woman, most probably his mother.
‘Rudi Flynn?’
‘Yes, sir – ’
‘I’m Earl Connors,’ the black police guy says. ‘I need to speak with you … maybe downstairs.’
There are already several uniformed and plainclothes cops in the living room. One of them has switched on my laptop and another is going through the files on my desk. I want to protest, but my visitors won’t be deflected, so I stay quiet and move towards the steps that lead down to the kitchen. A cop with a machine pistol follows. He’s got a glazed expression and retreats to a space by the fridge when Earl, who looks like he’s in charge, sits down at the kitchen table.
‘Do you know why we’re here,’ he asks.
I haven’t a clue. But I don’t think Harry, the science fiction writer who owns the house, is going to be too pleased when he discovers what the police have done to his original Georgian front door.
‘You have Islamic contacts,’ Earl says. His tone is polite, matter-of-fact. It’s a normal question from an educated officer who’s just doing his job; routine stuff that shouldn’t give an innocent person any cause for concern. Only I can feel the goose pimples on my arms and I know that sensitive, stress-related glands will soon start swelling up around my neck.
‘Yes, of course,’ I answer like it’s all perfectly normal. ‘I work as a journalist, so I meet many different people. Just now, with everything that’s happening, I have to speak with a lot of Muslims … well – you know how it is, I’m sure.’
The ripped bathrobe is making me feel uncomfortable, but I’m trying to give the impression that I’m in control. I haven’t done anything wrong. OK – there are still some parking and congestion charge tickets for Harry the house-owner’s car on the hall table. I hadn’t been completely sober on the few occasions I used the clapped out VW Passat, but my priority is to airbrush Khalad and Rashid right out of the picture, as in: ‘ I don’t know any activists, officer, and that’s the god’s honest truth. Sure – I’ve spoken with a few Islamic persons, but it’s always been about the situation generally around the world …and I can assure you, Mister Policeman, sir, that the word nuclear has never been mentioned in any conversation I’ve ever had with potential aggressors. ’
‘We’re working closely with the Americans at the moment, Mr Flynn,’ Earl says and I nod seriously like I think this is a really good idea. I mean, we’re allies and there’s always been a strong bond between Washington and London. Many Brits aren’t too happy about it, but UK Prime Ministers have usually been welcome in the States. The present one’s a bit distant, but there are photographs of his predecessor riding out on a horse with my President.
Earl’s OK. I’m sure of that. He’s a solid guy and I’m starting to relax with him when a cop appears in the kitchen entrance.
‘Sir – ’
‘Yes, Robson.’
We found some e-mails on the
I’ve ripped the sleeve of my bathrobe. I feel exposed with my arms in the air. I’m still trying to give out the impression that I’m cool and together. It’s difficult, but when I reach the hallway, I ask the armed, steel-helmeted cops what they want.
‘Face the wall – now!’ one of them commands.
The hands that frisk me are cold and rough, and when I’m allowed to turn around I see a serious looking Afro-Caribbean guy in the living room doorway. He’s wearing a decent suit, shirt and tie. He seems OK. I’m convinced that when he was a younger man, he went to church with a sound Christian woman, most probably his mother.
‘Rudi Flynn?’
‘Yes, sir – ’
‘I’m Earl Connors,’ the black police guy says. ‘I need to speak with you … maybe downstairs.’
There are already several uniformed and plainclothes cops in the living room. One of them has switched on my laptop and another is going through the files on my desk. I want to protest, but my visitors won’t be deflected, so I stay quiet and move towards the steps that lead down to the kitchen. A cop with a machine pistol follows. He’s got a glazed expression and retreats to a space by the fridge when Earl, who looks like he’s in charge, sits down at the kitchen table.
‘Do you know why we’re here,’ he asks.
I haven’t a clue. But I don’t think Harry, the science fiction writer who owns the house, is going to be too pleased when he discovers what the police have done to his original Georgian front door.
‘You have Islamic contacts,’ Earl says. His tone is polite, matter-of-fact. It’s a normal question from an educated officer who’s just doing his job; routine stuff that shouldn’t give an innocent person any cause for concern. Only I can feel the goose pimples on my arms and I know that sensitive, stress-related glands will soon start swelling up around my neck.
‘Yes, of course,’ I answer like it’s all perfectly normal. ‘I work as a journalist, so I meet many different people. Just now, with everything that’s happening, I have to speak with a lot of Muslims … well – you know how it is, I’m sure.’
The ripped bathrobe is making me feel uncomfortable, but I’m trying to give the impression that I’m in control. I haven’t done anything wrong. OK – there are still some parking and congestion charge tickets for Harry the house-owner’s car on the hall table. I hadn’t been completely sober on the few occasions I used the clapped out VW Passat, but my priority is to airbrush Khalad and Rashid right out of the picture, as in: ‘ I don’t know any activists, officer, and that’s the god’s honest truth. Sure – I’ve spoken with a few Islamic persons, but it’s always been about the situation generally around the world …and I can assure you, Mister Policeman, sir, that the word nuclear has never been mentioned in any conversation I’ve ever had with potential aggressors. ’
‘We’re working closely with the Americans at the moment, Mr Flynn,’ Earl says and I nod seriously like I think this is a really good idea. I mean, we’re allies and there’s always been a strong bond between Washington and London. Many Brits aren’t too happy about it, but UK Prime Ministers have usually been welcome in the States. The present one’s a bit distant, but there are photographs of his predecessor riding out on a horse with my President.
Earl’s OK. I’m sure of that. He’s a solid guy and I’m starting to relax with him when a cop appears in the kitchen entrance.
‘Sir – ’
‘Yes, Robson.’
We found some e-mails on the
Similar Books
It's All About Him
Denise Jackson
Letters of Love (Green Division Series Book #3)
Ashley Monahan
Love and Gravity
Olivia Connery
Alchymist
Ian Irvine
Witch’s Concubine
Cara Carnes
Her Dark Lord
Mel Teshco
I Need You
Jane Lark
Down from the Cross
Joyce Livingston
Girls Who Travel
Nicole Trilivas