“An’ who’s gonna wake ’em up?”

“Activists,” he said, slapping his own thin chest, “who aren’t in it for money or power, who want empowerment of the people, not control. See, even unions—no offense,” he said, because he knew that Bobbi Cunliffe’s father had been a trade union man, “same power structures, the leaders start aping management—”

“Y’all right, Bobbi?” asked Flick, pushing to her side through the crowd. “We’ll head off in a minute, that was last orders. What’re you telling her, Alf?” she added, with a trace of anxiety.

After a long Saturday in the jewelry shop, and the exchange of many (in Robin’s case, wholly imaginary) confidences about their love lives, Flick had become enamored of Bobbi Cunliffe to the point that her own speech had become slightly tinged with a Yorkshire accent. Towards the end of the afternoon she had extended a two-fold invitation, firstly to that night’s party, and secondly, pending her friend Hayley’s approval, a rented half-share in the bedroom recently vacated by their ex-flatmate, Laura. Robin had accepted both offers, placed her phone call to Strike, and agreed to Flick’s suggestion that, in the absence of the Wiccan, they lock up the shop early.

“’E’s just telling me ’ow me dad was no better’n a capitalist,” said Robin.

“Fuck’s sake, Alf,” said Flick, as the anarchist laughingly protested.

Their group straggled out along the pavement as they headed off through the night towards Flick’s flat. In spite of his obvious desire to continue instructing Robin in the rudiments of a leaderless world, the anarchist was ousted from Robin’s side by Flick herself, who wanted to talk about Jimmy. Ten yards ahead of them, a plump, bearded and pigeon-toed Marxist, who had been introduced to Robin as Digby, walked alone, leading the way to the party.

“Doubt Jimmy’ll come,” she told Robin, and the latter thought she was arming herself against disappointment. “He’s in a bad mood. Worried about his brother.”

“What’s wrong wi’ him?”

“It’s schizophrenic affection something,” said Flick. Robin was sure that Flick knew the correct term, but that she thought it appropriate, faced with a genuine member of the working classes, to feign a lack of education. She had let slip the fact that she had started a university course during the afternoon, seemed to regret it, and ever since had dropped her “h”s a little more consistently. “I dunno. ’E ’as delusions.”

“Like what?”

“Thinks there’s government conspiracies against him and that,” said Flick, with a little laugh.

“Bloody ’ell,” said Bobbi.

“Yeah, he’s in ’ospital. He’s caused Jimmy a lot of trouble,” said Flick. She stuck a thin roll-up in her mouth and lit it. “You ever heard of Cormoran Strike?”

She said the name as though it were another medical condition.

“Who?”

“Private detective,” said Flick. “He’s been in the papers a lot. Remember that model who fell out of a window, Lula Landry?”

“Vaguely,” said Robin.

Flick glanced over her shoulder to check that Alf the anarchist was out of earshot.

“Well, Billy went to see ’im.”

“The fook for?”

“Because Billy’s mental, keep up,” said Flick, with another little laugh. “He thinks he saw something years ago—”

“What?” said Robin, quicker than she meant to.

“A murder,” said Flick.

“Christ.”

“He didn’t, obviously,” said Flick. “It’s all bollocks. I mean, he saw something, but nobody bloody died. Jimmy was there, he knows. Anyway, Billy goes to this detective prick and now we can’t get rid of him.”

“What d’you mean?”

“’E beat Jimmy up.”

“The detective did?”

“Yeah. Followed Jimmy on a protest we were doing, beat him up, got Jimmy fooking arrested.”

“Bloody ’ell,” said Bobbi Cunliffe again.

“Deep state, innit?” said Flick. “Ex-army. Queen and the flag and all that fucking shit. See, Jimmy and me had something on a Conservative minister—”

“Did you?”

“Yeah,” said Flick. “I can’t tell you what, but it was big, and then Billy fucked everything up. Sent Strike sniffing around, and we reckon he got in touch with the gov—”

She broke off suddenly, her eyes following a small car that had just passed them.

“Thought that was Jimmy’s for a moment. It isn’t. I forgot, it’s off the road.”

Her mood sagged again. During the slack periods in the shop that day, Flick had told Robin the history of her and Jimmy’s relationship, which in its endless fights and truces and renegotiations might have been the story of some disputed territory. They seemed never to have reached an agreement on the relationship’s status and every treaty had fallen apart in rows and betrayals.

“You’re well shot of him, if you ask me,” said Robin, who all day had pursued a cautious policy of trying to prize Flick free of the loyalty she clearly felt she owed the faithless Jimmy, in the hope of extracting confidences.

“Wish it were that easy,” said Flick, lapsing into the cod-Yorkshire she had adopted towards the end of the day. “It’s not like I wanna be married or anything—” she laughed at the very idea, “—he can sleep with who he likes and so can I. That’s the deal and I’m fine with it.”

She had already explained to Robin at the shop that she identified as both genderqueer and pansexual, while monogamy, properly looked at, was a tool of patriarchal oppression, a line that Robin suspected had been originally Jimmy’s. They walked in silence for a while. In the denser darkness they entered an underpass, when Flick said with a flicker of spirit:

“I mean, I’ve had my own fun.”

“Glad to hear it,” said Robin.

“Jimmy wouldn’t like it if he knew all of them, either.”

The pigeon-toed Marxist walking ahead of them turned his head at that and Robin saw, by the light of a streetlamp, his little smirk as he glanced back at Flick, whose words he had clearly caught. The latter, being engaged in trying to dig her door keys out of the bottom of her cluttered messenger bag, seemed not to notice.

“We’re up there,” Flick said, pointing at three lit windows above a small sports shop. “Hayley’s back already. Shit, I hope she remembered to hide my laptop.”

The flat was reached from a back entrance, up a cold, narrow stairwell. Even from the bottom of the stairs, they could hear the persistent bass of “Niggas in Paris,” and on reaching the landing, they found the flimsy door standing open and a number of people leaning up against the walls outside, sharing an enormous joint.

“What’s fifty grand to a muh-fucka like me,” rapped Kanye West, from the dimly lit interior.

The dozen or so newcomers met a substantial number of people already inside. It was astonishing how many people could fit into such a small flat, which evidently comprised only two bedrooms, a minuscule shower room and a cupboard-sized kitchenette.