darling!â Fiona threw her arms around him. âYouâve given me a plug! How marvellous!â She kissed him enthusiastically. On the screen his alter ego talked on, but soon he was being ignored by the two on the sofa. âWhat time are they coming?â she murmured.
âEight.â
âOh, good. That gives us time.â
âBut, Fiona . . . your gallery thing.â
âIt starts at eight. It wonât matter if Iâm a few minutes late.â
âBut youâre all dressed . . .â
âI can get all dressed again. Just shut up, Rhys, and kiss me some more.â
âIf you insist.â
âI insist.â
A few minutes later the announcer was forecasting â at long last â a break in the wintry weather for the Anglia region, but neither of them heard a word, nor did they care. They were quite warm enough already.
Gary Goldstein was the first to arrive, just after eight. He, like Rhys, wore a T-shirt emblazoned with âBARCâ, but in his case it spanned a potbelly that should have been more decently concealed. A veteran of the golden age of protest, the 1960s, Gary looked every inch the ageing American hippy that he was, with his long greying hair in a pony- tail and droopy grey moustache, with his T-shirt and faded, tattered jeans. Garyâs experience in causes ranging from anti-Vietnam protests to âSave the Whalesâ had been an invaluable help to Rhys in setting up the new organisation.
âHey, man. I caught you on the tube,â he greeted Rhys. âPretty groovy.â He flopped on the sofa. âGreat publicity. What strings did you pull to get that to happen?â
âAs it happens, Fiona knows someone at Anglia Television. One of her regular customers at the gallery. She was telling him about the Lucy Kingsley exhibition, and showed him the poster. He was interested, and followed it up.â
âSheâs a groovy lady, Fiona. Useful to have around, even if she didnât have all that bread!â Gary helped himself to a fistful of sunflower seeds. âWhere is she?â
âShe had to go out tonight. To some art thing.â Rhys indicated the television. âYou really thought the interview was all right?â
âYeah. Didnât you?â
âI hope it was.â Rhys sat down on the floor and began absentmindedly stroking the rough black fur of the dog, who hadnât moved for some time. The dog raised its head and licked his hand. âI thought it was very important to get across what weâre all about. You know what the current perception of animal rights activists is: that theyâre a bunch of crazy people with their priorities all screwed up. That they go round blowing up innocent human beings out of a misplaced concern for lower life forms. I wanted to tell people that our function is largely informative. Weâre here to let people know whatâs happening to animals, and to give constructive suggestions as to what they can do about it. Weâre not a terrorist organisation â weâre people who care about animals. Thatâs the message.â
Gary nodded, looking thoughtful. âThatâs cool with me. But what about Maggie?â
âMaggie.â He scratched the dogâs ears. âWeâll just have to keep Maggie under control, thatâs all.â
âAt Berkeley, no matter how committed we were to peaceful demonstrations, there was always one guy who wanted to put a bomb in the presidentâs office. Just donât underestimate Maggie, Rhys.â For him it was a long and articulate speech, but Rhysâs reply was terse.
âI can handle Maggie.â
âSheâs coming tonight?â
âYes.â It was said neutrally, but then he added with more animation, âSomeone else is coming along tonight as well. Someone new.â
âYeah? Who?â
âDoes the name Fielding mean anything to you?â Rhys replied