Lorenzo Di Brino

We, Them

Novel extract

LIKE A GLASS WOUND, the wall slashes through London. Along its west side bulges a keloid of watchposts, broken streets and pockmarked buildings. West England calls it the End Strip. Living in the Strip is a mark of poverty.

From the North Circular, the wall follows the Northern line south past East Finchley. Then down Archway Road, Holloway Road, Upper Street, through Islington and Angel. It veers hard into Clerkenwell Road, conceding Farringdon and Chancery Lane to East England before swallowing Holborn and Temple. The Thames is an open vein and a natural border. Yet the concrete and wire trench marches on along its bank, past Embankment to Fulham. Wandsworth Bridge is the West’s easternmost crossing still in use. Its lights are out, the span caged with arched fencing. And the wall drives on from the southern bank, tearing Tooting, Streatham, Croydon in half.

The Strip’s inhabitants have lived under an 11 p.m. to 5 a.m. curfew for the last five years. Six hours of silence deep enough for any suspect sound to reverberate in it. Something smashes, then nothing. A groan of effort. A thud. Crackles and whistles followed by held breaths. Trainers scuff on gritty concrete. Faceless travellers, foxes, and rats – crossing, jumping, hiding – compose the sparse music of the night. The community of silhouettes is bound by one rule: everyone minds their business, or becomes a threat. He is a proud member of this community.

From Somers Town, he must venture north of King’s Cross, along the canal, to reach Clerkenwell. When all goes smoothly, it takes him under forty minutes. Darkness gathers as he nears the Strip. Street lamps, private lights, torches and candles must all be off or covered during the curfew, according to the law. And so blinds, blackout curtains, duvets, cardboard, bin bags, foil or tape cover every window. No one inside wants to know, or attract, whatever moves outside. The only lights drifting across the streets are from convoys of three to six SandCat armoured vehicles. And by 1:15 a.m., he knows they’ve already passed and won’t return for at least thirty minutes. They follow their routes almost religiously.

He is on his knees, crouched behind a cement block. Night work takes both patience and recklessness. He jumps to his feet and sprints across the street. By a tall building, he finds a good corner from which to rest and observe. His heart pounds in his ears. There’s a camera above him – at night, it’s custom to smash any left exposed. He pulls a rope from his backpack and loops it over the bracket. Pulling with all of his weight, it gives, wires snap, the camera drops into his hands. He’ll throw it into the canal on his way home.

He jumps a brick wall and threads between estates, stopping momentarily behind a bin. Someone crosses the street a hundred metres away. He waits. Nothing moves. He breaks into a run again, nearly tripping on a hole in the pavement. Too loud, too messy. He reaches the corner of a building and folds himself into the shade. He’s close. The convoy’s lights are far off. He tiptoes through a narrow passage where a few scrappy trees claw at the concrete. His timing is perfect, although his ankle throbs with each step. There it is: Mount Pleasant. Once a prison, then the beating heart of Royal Mail, now a huge print house. Half of the building is under construction – soon to become a prison again. A print-and-prison house. Here is where most of West England’s fine literature comes to life, he thinks. Julian Baron’s award-winning works included.

Normally, the guards stay inside. It’s safe enough – no one else is around. He runs to the target wall: the windowless side of the building, clad in powder-coated dark-grey steel panels. His fingertips rasp pleasantly at the touch. He’s going to use his precious white marker for the first time. Cap off. One deep breath. Twenty-two words. No commas. Pure fury. Smooth, it glides. His heart pounds loud again; he pauses to check both sides. All clear. He presses harder for the second and final stanza. Tendons aching, mind spelling each syllable, mouth cursing any caution – and done. London’s feeble skyglow picks out his words. He takes two steps back, and pictures passersby reading them aloud and nodding in approval. He has just that one moment to savour. He doesn’t need a vapid book or a blood-soaked prize to be right.  But that’s how you get heard.

***

THE POEM GOES UNNOTICED FOR THE REST OF THE NIGHT. At 5:17 a.m., the local cleaning team, which monitors the area, reports disruptions, and cleans, reaches Mount Pleasant. There’s usually little to report, mostly broken cameras, so they don’t bother doing their work well, stepping in only when a nuisance grows bad enough to spark complaints.

One of the cleaners notices white marks on the grey wall of the partially converted building. He edges closer, slow, not wanting to appear as though he’s heading for anything in particular. He clocks the marks are words, and a jolt runs through him. Extra cash. Glancing back to see if any of the others are watching, he tugs down the zip of his hi-vis jacket, reaches into his pocket, and fishes out a scratched phone. One deep breath. He aims, steadying his gloved hands, snaps the picture, and slips the phone away. Then he rolls over it with white paint. He’ll say he was covering some nonsense slur, because they’ll spot the patch on a wall that clean. It never occurs to him to read it, yet a split second before it’s gone, his eyes snatch the word “choke”.

***

FATHER FEDELE’S CHURCH IS MODEST, its nave a narrow lane of stone, with pine boards worn and uneven along the sides. Panes of scarlet, emerald and amber glass sit high in the walls, dulled by the city’s grime. Whatever light filters through comes coughing. Years ago, the air was thick with incense; now a faint tang of wax and damp inhabits the space. The altar stands massive on a shallow step, draped in creased linen. Oddly tall brass candlesticks rise like horns at its flanks. An organ crouches in the corner, its pipes stubby and overgrown above a meagre clutch of keys. Even the echo fails to suit the arches’ scale; sounds die muffled, as if hiding behind the altar, where once, perhaps, a choir might have known how to turn it to their advantage. Now, plastic flowers conceal the cracked, empty leather pews. The priest finds the place ridiculous by day, and downright spooky by night.

‘We need to talk.’

Father Fedele jolts, banging his elbow on the armrest. The voice filters through the confessional grille, hushed but sharp. The wooden lattice reveals nothing but shadowy shapes, and every whisper sounds the same, yet he knows it’s Akuoma. Hers is never about guilt, only gossip or schemes. He pulls aside the red velvet curtain: no one but the usual two grandmas patiently waiting on a bench.

‘Ciao Akuoma. What do you wish to confess today?’

‘Did you watch it last night?’

He doesn’t know what she means, and trying to remember only worsens his headache. ‘Yes,’ he lies. All day he’s felt edgy, and now, of all people, her.

‘We had the best seats, and a camera kept passing right by us. Did I look good? Such a distinguished crowd, too. Baron was the best of the lot. Taller than I imagined. Have you read his book?’

Ah. The Booker Prize gala. He’d promised to watch her, like a fan. He almost wishes he had. ‘The one set on the Isle of Wight?’

‘England – England.’

‘Yes. No, I haven’t… yet.’ He’d rather die.

‘You should! It refuses extremes – that’s its brilliance.’

‘I’m sure he’s most eloquent, no?’

She picks up no irony and rattles on with excruciating detail, her voice pouring through the grille, unstoppable, spilling out the entirety of the night. A gala, a show of talent, a ceremony all in one. The Oscars of literature. She tells him how they adorned the Royal Albert Hall for the occasion. Chandeliers hung in a vault of light under the dome, their glass drops brushing the air with trembling gold. Plush velvet seats stretched in perfect geometry, gilt balconies gleaming on three sides. It was everything: the heady tangle of oud and ambergris; waiters gliding with trays of oysters on ice; cameras sliding in every direction. Silk, crystals, statement jewellery – gowns built to photograph, prime material for the week’s fashion columns. She reminds him of the dress he saw her in on the broadcast – and insists she restrained herself, mindful of what she represents for the nation.

Father Fedele presses his clasped hands to his lips.

‘Rupert Morgan, the best-known presenter,’ she resumes, ‘was only a few seats away.’ And – the priest won’t believe this – Julian Baron introduced himself to her. She even joked about being his “future colleague”, and they laughed together. ‘His speech was the apex.’ Akuoma asks if he remembers Baron’s final words, then deepens her voice to repeat them: “As someone who cares deeply about our country, and someone who wants this place to be a home, I can’t allow myself the luxury of despairing that change won’t come.” Akuoma pauses, and just as the priest is about to speak, she continues: ‘The sheer weight of intellect. All those illustrious writers and artists in one room.’ She felt she belonged there – invigorated, ready to dedicate her whole heart to her memoir.

Only after describing the fairytale light display in the courtyard and the fireworks closing the night, does Akuoma mention her family. ‘William in his crisp uniform – he looked like a general. And I even convinced my Keke into a dress, had her hair properly done for once. A princess, I’m telling you. If I just spent more time with her, she might be over this whole phase of wanting to be like her father.’

‘They have cancelled the Booker International, eh?’ The priest asks, for lack of anything better to say.

‘Oh, there’s more than enough talent in England, believe me.’

‘I believe you, my dear.’ He leans back, headache stirring again. The cassock is hanging too stiffly on him, the collar too tight, the wool blend holding the day’s stale heat. Father Fedele can’t help thinking that, along with the usual two ladies, a state agent might be waiting on the benches. That his own confession could be next. He wipes his palms on his handkerchief and peeks out once more. All clear.

‘But I am very disappointed in Ugo,’ Akuoma says all of a sudden, snapping the priest’s attention back to her.

‘Ah? And why is that?’

‘Didn’t you notice?’

Another direct question he cannot answer. He holds his tongue, waiting for her to reply in his place.

‘We fought and he refused to come!’

‘Of course, I wondered why he wasn’t there with you.’

‘He’s never enthusiastic about anything I do. And I do understand – we’ve all been teenagers. But this time I begged him, oh Lord, I truly begged. And he made it a matter of principle.’

‘That is Ugo.’

‘And that’s hardly reassuring, Father.’

The rhythmic thud of her knee against the wooden wall hammers in his temples. She makes him “Father” only when she plays the impatient, needy daughter – and he cannot afford not to reassure her. ‘I will talk to him, sì,’ he says.

‘That would be wonderful – thank you, Father. He listens to you, and that alone gives me hope.’

‘As you said, it is normal for teenagers to push back, especially with successful parents. For a young man still searching for his path, it can feel… suffocating.’

He can just about make out her nodding at his words. The priest feels no guilt in turning her vanity back on her. She looms too large in her own head. And the truth: Ugo hates her. Still, he should have gone with his mother and swallowed it. The first rule – always play your part.

‘I just wish you’d been there with us last night. Ugo would have wanted to come too,’ she says. ‘I’ll make it my personal crusade – your career, I mean. I want to help.’ Her voice is flat, and the priest can make out the glow of her phone screen against her face.‘Speaking of,’ she goes, ‘I’ll see if I can put in a good word tomorrow night, at the Freedom Brigade’s Commemoration. I’m giving a speech, and I’m sure there’ll be high-ranking members of our Church there.’

‘You’ve got a full week, Akuoma. I’m not sure I can keep up,’ he says. Dangerously close to the fire, he thinks.

Her silence tells him she’s displeased. Something else is bothering her. Ironically, he knows this brief respite from her words is truly a sign he should worry.

A loud throat-clearing from the benches cuts across them.

Akuoma excuses herself to the priest – as though she were in charge – and pokes her head out past the curtain to reassure the two ladies she needs just one more minute, if the Lord is merciful. A shaft of light slips into Akuoma’s side of the booth, and the priest is quietly pleased that God has chosen to shine it on her neckline. She’s wearing white; straight hair, tied back. He wished he could see more.

As she pulls back the curtain, he leans his head out. ‘I’m sorry, ladies. We’re really almost done.’ They nod without a word, planted in their pew, bundled into coats though it’s June, lips moving quietly. They do pester him, those two – confessing every day without a sin from this decade to admit. Yet he has grown used to them. They remind him of his hometown. There was a whole swarm of them, le vecchine, spending their days cooking, praying, and chatting at the cemetery, where most of their friends were already at peace.

‘What do they even have to talk about at that age?’ She says.

The priest sinks back into his seat.

‘I was wondering if you could give me an update on Ugo’s studies?’

‘What about them?’ He knows perfectly well what she means.

‘I just want to be sure that, if following our Lord truly is his vocation, he’ll do well in it. I would have obviously preferred him to follow in his father’s footsteps, but, you know, I strongly believe one must follow one’s heart. Ugo probably got his devotion from me anyway.’

‘He’s a bright student. I’ve never taught anyone with his talent.’ Her silhouette draws closer at his praise. ‘But priesthood is not a competition.’

‘Of course not.’ She leans back, as if stung.

Father Fedele is more than ready to bring this penance to a close. ‘Honestly,’ he says, ‘Ugo is exactly what our Holy Church of England needs now. Your son has only one duty – and we both know what that is, eh?’

‘To study hard,’ they say together, almost like a prayer.

‘The study of theory is the surest way to shape a leader in practice,’ he continues. ‘It sets him ahead, builds his confidence, makes him someone people listen to.’

‘My boy. I’ll see he never misses a single session.’

‘And I’ll be the first to tell you if he does. We have him under control, mia cara.’

‘I must go now, Father. Bless me before I leave.’