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ou can start to feel ill just looking at them； from the tiny little rip…off specialist dealers in Cecil Court to the cut…price behemoths of Charing Cross Road。 I often drop into one of the latter； to see how my titles are displayed； and that was what I did that afternoon。 Once inside； it was only a short step across the scuffed red carpet of the “Biography & Memoir” department； and suddenly I had gone from “Celebrity” to “Politics。”
I was surprised by how much they had on the former prime minister—an entire shelf； everything from the early hagiography；Adam Lang： Statesman for Our Time ； to a recent hatchet job titledWould You Adam and Eve It？ The Collected Lies of Adam Lang ； both by the same author。 I took down the thickest biography and opened it at the photographs： Lang as a toddler； feeding a bottle of milk to a lamb beside a drystone wall； Lang as Lady Macbeth in a school play； Lang dressed as a chicken in a Cambridge University Footlights revue； Lang as a distinctly stoned…looking merchant banker in the nineteen seventies； Lang with his wife and young children on the doorstep of a new house； Lang wearing a rosette and waving from an open…topped bus on the day he was elected to parliament； Lang with his colleagues； Lang with world leaders； with pop stars； with soldiers in the Middle East。 A bald customer in a scuffed leather coat browsing the shelf next to me stared at the cover。 He held his nose with one hand and mimed flushing a toilet with the other。
I moved around the corner of the bookcase and looked up McAra； Michael in the index。 There were only five or six innocuous references—no reason； in other words； why anyone outside the party or the government need ever have heard of him； so to hell with you； Rick； I thought。 I flicked back to the photograph of the prime minister seated smiling at the cabinet table； with his Downing Street staff arrayed behind him。 The caption identified McAra as the burly figure in the back row。 He was slightly out of focus—a pale； unsmiling； dark…haired smudge。 I squinted more closely at him。 He looked exactly the sort of unappealing inadequate who is congenitally drawn to politics and makes people like me stick to the sports pages。 You’ll find a McAra in any country； in any system； standing behind any leader with a political machine to operate： a greasy engineer in the boiler room of power。 And this was the man who had been entrusted to ghost a ten…million…dollar memoir？ I felt professionally affronted。 I bought myself a small pile of research material and headed out of the bookshop with a growing conviction that maybe Rick was right： perhaps I was the man for the job。
It was obvious the moment I got outside that another bomb had gone off。 At Tottenham Court Road people were surging up above ground from all four exits of the tube station like storm water from a blocked drain。 A loudspeaker said something about “an incident at Oxford Circus。” It sounded like an edgy romantic comedy：Brief Encounter meets the war on terror。 I carried on up the road； unsure of how I would get home—taxis； like false friends； tending always to vanish at the first sign of trouble。 In the window of one of the big electrical shops； the crowd watched the same news bulletin relayed simultaneously on a dozen televisions： aerial shots of Oxford Circus； black smoke gushing out of the underground station； thrusts of orange flame。 An electronic ticker running across the bottom of the screen announced a suspected suicide bomber； many dead and injured； and gave an emergency number to call。 Above the rooftops a helicopter tilted and circled。 I could smell the smoke—an acrid； eye…reddening blend of diesel and burning plastic。
It took me two full hours to walk home； lugging my heavy bag of books—up to Marylebone Road and then westward toward Paddington。 As usual； the entire tube system had been shut down to check for further bombs； so had the main railway stations。 The traffic on either side of the wide street was stalled and； on past form； would remain so until evening。 （If only Hitler had known he didn’t need a whole air force to paralyze London； I thought； just a revved…up teenager with a bottle of bleach and a bag of weed killer。） Occasionally a police car or an ambulance would mount the curb； roar along the pavement； and attempt to make progress up a side street。
I trudged on toward the setting sun。
It must have been six when I reached my flat。 I had the top two floors of a high； stuccoed house in what the residents called Notting Hill and the post office stubbornly insisted was North Kensington。 Used syringes glittered in the gutter； at the halal butchers opposite they did the slaughtering on the premises。 It was grim。 But from the attic extension that served as my office I had a view across west London that would not have disgraced a skyscraper： rooftops； railway yards； motorway； and sky—a vast urban prairie sky； sprinkled with the lights of aircraft descending toward Heathrow。 It was this view that had sold me the apartment； not the estate agent’s gentrification patter—which was just as well； as the rich bourgeoisie have no more returned to this area than they have to downtown Baghdad。
Kate had already let herself in and was watching the news。 Kate： I had forgotten she was coming over for the evening。 She was my—？ I never knew what to call her。 To say she was my girlfriend was absurd； no one the wrong side of thirty has agirlfriend 。 Partner wasn’t right either； as we didn’t live under the same roof。 Lover？ How could one keep a straight face？ Mistress？ Do me a favor。 Fiancée？ Certainly not。 I suppose I ought to have realized it was ominous that forty thousand years of human language had failed to produce a word for our relationship。 （Kate wasn’t her real name； by the way； but I don’t see why she should be dragged into all this。 In any case； it suits her better than the name she does have： she looks like a Kate； if you know what I mean—sensible but sassy； girlish but always willing to be one of the boys。 She worked in television； but let’s not hold that against her。）
“Thanks for the concerned phone call；” I said。 “I’m dead； actually； but don’t worry about it。” I kissed the top of her head； dropped the books onto the sofa； and went into the kitchen to pour myself a whiskey。 “The entire tube is down。 I’ve had to walk all the way from Covent Garden。”
“Poor darling；” I heard her say。 “And you’ve been shopping。”
I topped up my glass with water from the tap； drank half； then topped it up again with whiskey。 I remembered I was supposed to have reserved a restaurant。 When I went back into the living room； she was removing one book after another from the carrier bag。 “What’s all this？” she said； looking up at me。 “You’re not interested inpolitics 。” And then she realized what was going on； because she was smart—smarter than I was。 She knew what I did for a living； she knew I was meeting an agent； and she knew all about McAra。 “Don’t tell me they wantyou to ghost his book？” She laughed。 “You cannot be serious。” She tried to make a joke of it—“Youcannot be serious” in an American accent； like that tennis playe