rather more grandiose and melodramatic term than we usually like to use at such meetings, but I fear it may fit the occasion perfectly. For those who require clarification on the matter, I refer you to the minutes of our last meeting. In the meantime, Mr Swift has come up with a rather unusual suggestion.”
He turned to me. So did everyone else. I shrugged and said, “Yeah, right. I think the traffic warden did it. I think she summoned him, the death of cities. He’s her tool for vengeance, destruction, retribution, whatever. She’s going to be the thing that pops. Anything else?”
Mr Earle gave me the kind of smile I imagined he reserved for that special category of employee who came to his office at 1 p.m. on a Friday afternoon to announce there was nothing else to do so could they, like, go home, yeah? It was the kind of smile that guaranteed you a plywood coffin.
He said, eyes on me and voice for the rest of the room, “If I may refer you to the files on your table. Three weeks ago, a traffic warden on duty in Dollis Hill walked into her local police station to report that a gang of youths on bikes had stolen her hat and cycled off, in her words, ‘laughing and calling me racist names’. The police report says she was extremely distressed, which may be understandable in light of the fact that this was her third visit to the police station in three months. Two weeks before she had been spat at in the street. A month before that, and the driver of a Corsa parked illegally on a double yellow line had beaten her so badly she had required stitches, and treatment for two days in the local hospital. It was the opinion of the writer of the police report that having her hat stolen by a boy who laughed at her as he cycled away was the last straw. An act of random, careless cruelty by a stranger to a stranger; the kind of thing that, to the right mind, in the right place, with the right . . . disposition . . . could push you to do unwise deeds.
“The day after her hat was stolen, she quit her job as a traffic warden.
“I should also add further that our credit-check service reported a bad rating on her financial situation. Her family were immigrants; she was granted leave to stay by grace of being born in the UK, but her parents quickly abandoned her and ran back off to wherever it was they came from, leaving the state to handle matters in their usual way.
“Gentlemen, may I be bold to say that this is the kind of extremely flawed and volatile individual who could well, if circumstances were right, be so reckless - perhaps without even knowing what she did - as to cause extreme harm to our city. If we were the Samaritans then I would suggest a nice cup of hot soup and a gentle talk with the counsellor; but this situation is far beyond that. The facts are in front of you to see. If this woman is indeed the reason why Mr Pinner has come to our city - as circumstance suggests she is - then I move immediately to vote on the course of action suggested by our Midnight Mayor. That this woman - this traffic warden whose hat was so unfortunately stolen - be considered a threat intolerable to the safety of the city, and be eliminated before the death that Mr Pinner is clearly seeking comes to London. If there is no objection, let us take this vote now.”
There was no objection.
They took the vote.
Not a hand went against it.
Mr Earle said, “Mr Swift? You haven’t voted for the motion.”
“I didn’t realise I was meant to.”
“You are a member of this board.”
“I am?”
“Yes. This was your idea, your deduction, your motion.”
“Oh. I see.”
“Well? How do you vote?”
“I . . . we . . . I mean, I . . .”
I lowered my head.
“What’s her name?” I said.
“Is it relevant?”
“Just curiosity.”
“Her name is Penny Ngwenya. How do you vote, Mr Swift?”
We studied our feet.
What would the Midnight Mayor do?
I raised my hand.
Penny Ngwenya.
Spat at, assaulted, her hat stolen.
Give me back my hat.
Dollis Hill.
Too much coincidence.
Mo had stolen a traffic warden’s hat in Dollis Hill and was punished for the crime.
GIVE ME BACK MY HAT
And Penny Ngwenya, refugee stuck in the system, no