Chapter 72
Ludo
My father, upon seeing footage of me on a news bulletin, one hundred miles from where I should have been and hectoring a secretary of state, called and demanded I file the full story, with backgrounders and information for graphics, in time for the first edition.
“It’s not my story,” I said. “It’s Sunny’s.”
“Where’s he going to publish it?”
“I think he was talking about the Beano, but we weren’t sure if that was even still in publication. Perhaps MAD Magazine?”
“Look. Jesus. Ludo. Just put him on, will you?”
Two minutes later, Sunny had agreed to a handsome freelance fee, consented to send over all his research for legal checks, and knuckled down to write in Leaf and Karma’s office.
Five minutes after that, Sunny’s phone rang.
He looked at the caller ID but didn’t pick it up.
He stopped typing, closed his eyes, and took a series of slow, deep breaths.
“Do you want me to answer it?” I said, hoping to be helpful.
“It’s JT Thorpe.” He smiled. “He can go to voicemail.”
“Don’t you want to hear him beg?”
“No. I wouldn’t mind hearing the explosion when he gets so angry he overheats and boils in his own piss. But knowing he lowered himself enough to call is all the satisfaction I’ll ever need, in this life and the next.”
I thought Summer probably still had a bit of work left to do sorting out Sunny’s chakras.
While Sunny wrote, I put in a few calls to various MPs to get reactions to go in the story. I had just hung up the phone to a particularly vociferous Bimpe Lasisi when a familiar voice called my name.
“Boche!” Torsten Beaumont-Flattery was standing in the doorway. He was wearing Lycra leggings and a vest, and I damned near passed out. “What are you doing here?”
I’m staring at your crotch like a hypnotised pervert, I thought but did not say.
“Apparently, this is where all the reprobates hang out these days,” I said. “You know, disappointing sons, anarchists, people on the run from careers in politics. Congratulations on your retirement, by the way.”
“Thanks. Just drove up from London this afternoon, actually. Bit of a relief, really.”
“It’s the talk of Westminster. Everyone thinks it’s so romantic.”
“I imagine they’re all talking about Carstairs instead now.” Torsten looked nervous, standing in the office doorway. “Have you got enough to sink her?”
“Safely, I’d say. And VladPop. And about eight junior ministers and backbenchers. It might well bring down the government.”
Torsten scratched his calf muscle with his foot. His junk shifted around like a hare stuffed into very tight sack.
“What are you going to do?” I asked. “Here, I mean.”
“My degree was in physiotherapy, so it sort of works quite well for the retreat. And Summer’s been teaching me about restoring the soul through shamanic healing, and I think that’s a path I’d like to follow, you know? See where it takes me.”
“You two really hit it off, huh?”
Torsten smiled.
“It’s like Summer says. Our souls just recognised each other. Like, immediately. You know?”
I glanced over at Sunny, face buried in the crustiest laptop I’ve ever seen, one hand down his joggers, scratching his nuts. I felt my face flush.
“Yeah. I do know,” I said. “Although sometimes the souls take a little while to get their act together.”
“I should really thank you both,” Torsten said, finger pointing between Sunny and me. “Without you two, I wouldn’t be here.”
Sunny looked up from his screen.
“Winning the door prize had nothing to do with us,” he said, feigning innocence.
“I know you asked for Leaf and Karma’s help to get information out of me.”
Well, this was awkward. Sunny and I looked at each other, then back to Torsten’s junk, then up to Torsten’s face.
“What you couldn’t have known was that I had been carrying, like, this incredible burden that I needed to share.
I knew what Carstairs was asking me to do was wrong, using me as a mule to ferry secret documents around half of London.
I knew she was up to no good. And the way they brought down Bob Wynn-Jones was just ruthless.
But between the Official Secrets Act and Vladimir Popov’s dirt file, I couldn’t just come out and tell any journalists what I knew. ”
“Wait, what’s VladPop got on you?” I asked.
“Summer could see the weight I was carrying.” We can all see the weight you’re carrying, I thought.
Your crotch is at face height, and that thing must weigh at least a kilogram.
“When she invited me to unburden myself, it all just started to flow out of me. I let it all go. I’m not weighed down by it anymore.
And now, with Summer’s guidance, I can begin to heal and find myself. ”
I’ve always been cynical about all this spiritual mumbo jumbo, but Torsten looked so sincere, and so happy, I wondered if perhaps it was yet another thing I’d jumped to conclusions about.
“So, thank you,” Torsten said. He opened his arms and stepped forward to hug me, and as his bulge dug into my stomach, I passed out.