‘I didn’t know you were here,’ she said quietly.
‘It was so late when we arrived back from the protest that I crashed in the spare room. Went well last night, didn’t it, Con? Should make the front pages today.’
‘You should, anyway,’ quipped Con. ‘“Well-known actress attacks policeman at rally.” Do you know how lucky you were to avoid being arrested?’
‘I wish I had been. The only reason I wasn’t was because the little shit was kicking the crap out of a poor defenceless student at the same time as I was jumping on his back to stop him. That would go down really well on the front page of theExpress. Got any cigarettes?’
‘Try my pocket.’ Con pointed to the heap of clothes on the floor by the window.
Lulu jumped off the bed, rifled through Con’s pockets and pulled out a packet of Embassy. She lit one up and climbed back on the bed.
‘Does Todd know you’re here?’ asked Sorcha.
‘No. And I have no intention of telling him. We had a bit of a barney before I left for the protest. He doesn’t think it’s good for his image to have his wife portrayed as a militant.’
‘Even if you are,’ smiled Con.
‘It’s not my fault that I care what happens to this stinky old world. Read the papers this morning, Sorcha?’
‘Yes.’
‘Anything in there about last night?’
‘Not that I saw. I think the fact Neil Armstrong made it to the moon took precedence.’
‘Damn! Why did it have to be last night? The papers’ll be full of nothing else for days now. We might as well have not bothered.’
Sorcha climbed off the bed. ‘Well, I’m interested in it if no one else is. I’m going down to the see the pictures on television. Are you coming, Con?’
‘Let me wake up a while, Sorcha, will you?’
‘Okay. Shall I go and see if I could book somewhere for tonight?’
‘Tonight? You’re not thinking of going away, are you?’ said Lulu.
‘We were, yes.’ Anger burned in Sorcha’s eyes.
‘But, Con, they’re holding a candlelight vigil outside the American embassy. It would really help if you turned up and—’
Sorcha walked out of the room and slammed the door shut behind her.
32
‘Con, what exactly is this shit?’
Con looked up from his sheet music to see Todd glaring at him from the piano stool.
‘That “shit”, as you put it, is a song I wrote last week in support of the American vets.’
Todd stared at him. ‘And you seriously want The Fishermen to record it and put it on our new album?’
‘Yes. Why not? It has meaning, a message. I’d say it might make people stop and take notice of just exactly what is going on in this world.’
‘Jesus fucking Christ!’ Todd swept a hand through his hair. ‘Between you and Lulu, I’m getting no respite!’ Todd played the opening bars of the song, before crashing his hands down on the piano to release a cacophony of discordant sounds. ‘I give up. Apart from the fact that the lyrics include four swear words, which means the song will be banned by every radio station and mainstream record shop the world over, there’s no frigging melody line, mate. We’re a pop group, Con!’ Todd stood up. ‘We release records that kids like to dance to. I hardly think the line “the young ones die in their thousands, their red blood turning the fields to rust, the insects swarming in the dust” is going to light up a disco.’
Con reached for his packet of Embassy and lit a cigarette.
‘Todd, how many times have we had this conversation? What’s the point of our music and fame if we’re not using it to do some good? These soppy, meaningless love songs feather our own nest. But they don’t give anything back. We have the power to change the world for the better.’
