London Calling - James Craig [85]
Yes, Carlyle thought, I do indeed.
Dom was off again on one of those monologues he’s perfected over the years: ‘Back to the days of power cuts, the rise of the National Front – or, rather, the bloody BNP,’ Dom continued. ‘Back to the days of mortgage rationing, holidays in Southend rather than Jamaica.’
Carlyle, who hadn’t been on holiday anywhere more exotic than Brighton since before Alice was born, said nothing. Dom probably spent more on his holidays than an inspector’s annual salary afforded.
‘We’re running out of power, too,’ Dom continued, really on a roll now. ‘Our ageing power stations are closing and we haven’t bothered to build new ones. Power cuts, shutting down the tube service, reducing hospital services, three-day working weeks, Alice doing her homework by candlelight … it’s all on the cards.’
‘Maybe.’
‘No maybes about it, mate. Civilisation requires electricity. Without it, it’s chaos and anarchy, here we damn well come. I wouldn’t want to be stuck at the top of your block of flats when the power fails.’
‘Thank you for that happy thought.’
‘Have you got a gun?’
‘Are you kidding?’
‘I wouldn’t rule it out,’ Dom smiled. ‘We are in serious, serious shit here. History is repeating itself in ever shorter cycles. Scumbag capitalism has been running out of control. The Russians are invading other countries again. They’ve even remade Brideshead Revisited. Even worse, that bunch of idiot public schoolboys will be running the country soon, or trying to.’
‘Helen wants me to take her to some film about the Baader-Meinhof,’ said Carlyle glumly. He couldn’t understand why his wife would want to spend two hours watching a film about German terrorists. Maybe it offered a gossamer thread to her lefty past.
‘Great date movie,’ Dominic sniggered. He flashed one of his trademark, old-style smiles. They were rarer these days, and usually of the sixty-watt rather than the hundred-watt variety, but this one was a decent approximation of the days gone by. ‘At least all this shit makes it interesting, eh? Just as long as they don’t bring back Spandau fucking Ballet.’
On her knees in a bathroom at Party HQ, Yulexis Monagas slipped Xavier Carlton’s penis out of her mouth and began gently flicking its tip with her thumbnail.
Xavier grunted with a mixture of surprise and pleasure. His member twitched on the brink of orgasm.
Yulexis released her grip and carefully moved her face out of the line of fire. She looked up at her boss. ‘Xavier?’ she said quietly.
‘Yes?’ he gasped.
‘Xavier … I’m pregnant.’
His eyes widened in surprise but he was incapable of speech as a stream of ejaculate flew past her left ear.
Yulexis quickly moved backwards and handed him a small towel. ‘I’m pregnant.’
He frowned, not wanting to believe it.
‘Almost twenty weeks,’ she added.
‘Twenty weeks?’ Xavier sniffed. That sounded quite a lot. He looked her up and down and felt himself begin to harden again. Shouldn’t he be able to notice that sort of thing? She didn’t look any different. Giving himself a quick wipe, he resisted the urge for seconds and zipped up his trousers. ‘Are you sure it’s mine?’
Buttoning up her blouse, she fought back a sob. ‘Of course it’s yours. Who else’s could it be?’
‘Don’t worry,’ he said airily, ‘we can get it sorted. I know a good man in Harley Street.’
‘What do you mean?’ Yulexis asked, taking a step backwards.
Xavier frowned. He was beginning to think this girl was a bit dumb. ‘Well, you can’t keep it, obviously.’
‘Xavier! It’s too late for an abortion! Anyway, I want to keep it.’
The look that passed across his face made her shiver. But then he managed a smile. Not much of a smile, but a smile nonetheless. Taking hold of her shoulders, he reached over and kissed her on the top of the head.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I’ll get an appointment arranged.’
TWENTY-FOUR
Harry Allen stepped through the non-existent Customs check and into the arrivals hall, scanning the assorted taxi boards until he found the one with his name on it. Nodding curtly to the driver, he handed