Free The Ambassador by Edwina Currie Page A

New York of the 1980s. Of course, it was fiction; he doubted that such an exaggerated picture could ever have been true.
    He could have believed it of London, a century earlier, but not today. Buckingham Palace might be shabby, but money was obviously being spent to keep the public environment in a most attractive condition. Since voters’ moods were influenced by their daily observations, the aim must be to keep them satisfied. As Strether moved with his young companion through the busy hum of the modern city, he saw that misery and filth, or hopelessness, were virtually impossible to imagine. The citizenry had a lot to be thankful for, and probably knew it.
    As they turned a corner, a camera swivelled to follow them. Strether paused and pointed at it.
    ‘Matt, what in the devil’s name is that for?’
    Matt looked around. ‘What, sir?’
    ‘The camera. They’re everywhere. Who’s watching us, and why?’
    The lens was black and remote, hunched on its high lamp-post like a hungry crow. It stared straight down at them and had ceased moving when they halted.
    ‘Oh, those. You stop noticing after a while. Security. To keep the streets free from crime.’ Matt Brewer began to walk on, with the Ambassador trailing slightly and glancing back over his shoulder.
    ‘That sounds like a slogan, Matt,’ Strether admonished. ‘If it’s just for crime, why are they everywhere? Even inside Buckingham Palace? Dammit, they were gawping while we had lunch. Even there.’
    ‘I don’t know, sir.’ Matt sounded unhappy. ‘I’ve never been inside the Palace so I can’t comment. Been meaning to go on the tour but haven’t had time.’
    ‘It must take an army, to keep an eye on everyone,’ Strether mused, falling into step again. ‘One helluva job, that. A whole industry of watchers. Then what do they do with the information?’
    Matt shrugged. ‘It doesn’t seem to bother the locals, sir. They don’t even notice and they never object. And it does seem effective – there is almost no street crime. The answer to any questions we’ve raised is, that those who have nothing to hide have nothing to fear.’
    Strether grunted. ‘Sounds like another slogan. But the guys behind the cameras: they’re hidden, aren’t they? What are they up to? What have they got to fear? It’s so darned sinister. Why aren’t there any identifications on the equipment, or explanations, or apologies? The only place which seems to be free of them is the public toilets.’
    ‘And that’s because of a specific Act of Parliament. To protect gays.’
    ‘Really?’ Strether raised an eyebrow.
    ‘Non-discrimination codes of the Union. It used to be common practice to entrap men when they were … cottaging, I think it’s called. But that was made illegal years ago. I guess if we wanted an entirely private conversation, sir, that’s where we’d have to go.’ Matt stared straight ahead, but Strether could see that the young man was discomforted and as baffled as himself.
    The two walked on in pensive silence to the entrance to the tube.
     
    The travelator slid them down into a noisier world: the low curved ceilings bounced back scraps of conversation, the click of entry machines, the clump of footwear even on the sound-absorbing floor, along with the hiss and whine of trains arriving and doors opening. Both men used their swipe cards to gain access to the passenger hall and entered their destination on a request board. In an instant a mild female voice told them to go to platform four where their unit would be arriving shortly.
    Even at mid-morning the station was crowded. By far the largest group of travellers was elderly, some on sticks but most hale and hearty and talking loudly to each other. Later, at rush-hour, the station would be packed, even with a speedy service that cleared platforms every half-minute. Outdated work habits still survived. Despite the freedom to network from home, many employees preferred to travel to central units.