Page 38 of Mean Machine

“Oi, I’m a better driver than that wanker who made her go squish,” Eric shouted from the front.

“Any red-haired riding teachers on the agenda?” Nathaniel murmured close to Brooklyn’s ear.

Brooklyn grinned. “Guess I could find some time in my social calendar.”

They didn’t manage to shake off the wolves. Eric eventually drove the car into the garage of the Diamond Royal, and the hotel staff cut off the pursuers with uncanny skill. Nathaniel groaned and rubbed his face. “They are mad for you.”

Eric turned in his seat. “What now, sir?”

“I was originally planning to go home,” Nathaniel said. “But I don’t want them in Guildford. And the flat in Knightsbridge is too small. The nanny is going to use that.” He frowned. “Check if the Princess suite is available. Get rooms for Rosario and Emilio too.”

A little later, they went up in the elevator, Nathaniel again with the sunglasses, but Brooklyn knew he himself had no chance to hide. With his size and build, he’d stand out anywhere. And the two Cubans weren’t fooling anyone. Maybe next time they could attempt to look like part of a rugby team. All they’d need would be matching jerseys.

“I’ll keep an eye on things,” Eric said, and stayed outside the suite.

Alone again, where it all had started. A hotel suite shouldn’t feel like that, but the place was familiar, good. Brooklyn opened the door to the bedroom, began unpacking. All the laundry had been washed and ironed back on the island, so he busied himself with just hanging up Nathaniel’s and his own clothes.

“Do you want to eat anything?” Nathaniel called from the lounge.

“Something with protein and some complex carbs.”

“Brown rice and a small steak? With a big salad?”

“That’d do me, yeah.”

Nathaniel called reception and put their order through.

A VOICEwoke him. Realising he was alone, Brooklyn rolled out of bed and padded towards the bathroom.

“Yes, I am going through with it, Rupert.”

Shit. Rupert Edwards, the front-bench MP? Jessica’s father. Kicking legs. Brooklyn froze.

“I don’t believe for a moment that Brooklyn Marshall is a murderer. The images I’ve seen are not conclusive. We don’t know how much of that was a push and how much of that was Jessica just stumbling back. She went straight at a policemancarrying a riot shield, Rupert. And it’s not like Marshall set out that day thinking, ‘Great, I’m going to kill a young student today to ruin my life.’ I can feel the guilt eating at him. This incident did ruin his life. Yes, it ruined yours too, and everybody who knew Jessica will agree. But I think he’s paid enough.”

Nausea. He’d barely felt her when she’d jumped against his shield, shouting obscenities against a state that had been slashing benefits in a new round of austerity cuts. Even the police had felt it. Hell, everybody had felt it, and expected worse to come. And worse had come.

But the riots in Central London, the smashed bank windows, the paint bags thrown at high street stores like Vodafone and Topshop, the chants of “Pay your tax!” and “No cuts!” and “Bring down the government!” had set them all on edge. Unpredictable rioting and looting, burning houses, the firefighters too stretched to respond quickly. Cancelled leave and long shifts, worries about anarchists out for trouble among eight hundred thousand otherwise civil protesters, and then the more virulent protest from a few hundred people a few yards off Moorgate in front of the headquarters of an investment bank.

They’d been ordered to kettle them in, and at that point, the protesters freaked out.

A skinny, loud girl with a mop of curly black hair jumped against his shield, calling him “filth.” Fell back, hit her head on the edge of a big block of dark stone positioned there—like some artwork, or just a random opportunity to bash your skull in.

Legs went into the dog dance. Some rioters went crazy. The ambulance took forever. Too much demand on what the press ended up calling the Day of Wrath.

She died two days later in hospital.

Jessica Edwards, nineteen, student of international conflict resolution, youngest daughter of MP Rupert Edwards, who’d become Her Majesty’s Principal Secretary of State for Education a few months earlier, and as yet another renegade Tory and now Proud British with a flawless voting track record against immigrants, the poor, and social security.

Problem was, while Brooklyn sat in the hospital, mute and shocked to the marrow, he couldn’t remember whether hehadpushed her. There were moments, cold, sweaty moments when he thought, no, no, he couldn’t possibly have done that. She was no threat, only loud and full of anger. She was way too small and light to hurt him. But other moments, when his stomach sank down to his knees and heat gathered behind the ice on his face, he thought, yes, he had. In a reflex, maybe, but right there, she’d surprised him. He might have shoved her, not to hurt her but to keep her under control. Inside the kettle. He must have underestimated his own strength, overestimated her ability to withstand him.

But in the end, he’d killed her. Whether on purpose or not, did it matter? She was dead.

“Yes, I’ll fight you over this,” Nathaniel said as if he were commenting on the weather. “You may want to think about whether tormenting this man brings Jessica back.”

A long pause, and then movement. Brooklyn unfroze, shook his head, and headed off into the bathroom, where he splashed water into his face and then opted for a full shower. To relax. As if.

Nathaniel awaited him with breakfast—fresh fruit, porridge, eggs, bacon—and calmly read his newspaper,The Times. “Ah, Brooklyn.” He closed the paper and folded it, then placed it to the side. Perfectly pleasant, like he hadn’t just declared war on a powerful politician.

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