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336 pages, Hardcover
First published March 6, 2014
‘. . . absolutely crucial,’ Da Silva was saying. ‘But let us not forget that today is for both sets of fans to enjoy themselves and the surroundings our fair city has to offer. We have the resilience and capacity to—’
‘House!’
Vincent turned when he heard the strangled shout.
It was David. Half standing, notebook in his hand. A look of pain slowly emerging on his face as he realised what he’d done, and where he’d done it.
‘You fascist fucking pig!’ the woman screamed at him, the abuse made all the more absurd and troubling by her clipped and refined accent, because if somebody as well heeled as this had turned on them with such venom just for keeping people separated, then he dreaded anybody a little more hardcore showing up. Martin looked her up and down through smeared plastic: forties, neatly dressed in quilted jacket, herringbone trousers, cashmere scarf and light brown bobble hat, a delicate touch of make-up. She reminded him of his old deputy head teacher, except his old dep head never once spat in his face for wearing a uniform.