A lot had happened in the space of that week. From the perspective of six months later, Duncan and Gavin felt as though this had taken place in a strange alternative universe, unexpectedly gone supernova. During this period of hyper intense activity, the blancmange like face and physique of the Controller of Rectitude - McAlister, had become quite unpleasant and far too familiar. He pushed so hard, and unrelentingly Driving everyone right to the edge, then over of what they felt they were capable of. Working them overtime, day and night to make Retinal Hemorrhage invisible to future investigation. Unlike paper trails, digital footprints are never completely erased. So expert techheads arrived, who expended a seemingly disproportionate amounts of time and ingenuity simply making them, at least, significantly fainter traces. Covered over by so many contrived trips, glitches and fences, to be very difficult to get at, let alone to unpick or decipher.
All this effort was successful. For when the police finally arrived at the Seven Dials premises, there was only the barren shell left. Plus some casually, but carefully placed bits of misdirecting information scrunched up on the floor. McAlister hoped any detectives, police or forensic, would eventually draw a line under their pursuit at some point. When further digging would become just not worth doing. Fortunately, they also had insurance in the form of a female police officer,a former devotee, on the inside. Giving them the heads up on how things were. No major alarm bells had yet been rung. The trail the police were pursuing appeared to be running cold. Because it was the false one, laid to effectively divert their focus away whilst 'believers' went to ground, and institutions of the Material Arts Community made themselves 'no longer there.'
Duncan and Gavin's understanding of what had provoked the need for this sort of action, slowly pieced together fragments of information. Retinal Hemorrhage had launched a bold new wallpaper and fabric range in the early autumn. One of their 'employees', so they were told, had sabotaged the print run of a fabric design called Malevolent Punch. They'd introduced a strange fungal based poisonous compound into the surface finish. A substance activated by human sweat and prolonged handling. A few months later lengths of this fabric were sold to a Haberdashers in the Home Counties. These were made into curtains for one of their customers. That customer and their own delivery driver were now both dead. There was one unexpectedly tricky phone call, that they'd bluffed their way out of, by affecting to be clueless and camp. How McAlister had known about all of this over a complete week before it became common knowledge, was what baffled them. Gavin suspected they were not being told the whole truth.
By the time the national newspapers got hold of the story, Gavin and Duncan had already gone to ground. Retreating to the familiar 1980's municipal housing of the Mulberry Estate. The choice of Duncan's flat was 'hiding in plain sight', so they joked. Since the rapid diaspora of Gavin's community it was the obvious place to go, at least in the short term. Duncan had had to relax his attachment to minimalist interiors. Asceticism through poverty, Gavin called it. Because Gavin, by contrast, was a man big on having lots of stuff, not just books,music and paintings, but furniture. Big bulky bits of furniture too. The bookshelves alone filled all the available wall space of the small lounge, which now felt intimately cosy rather than its previous anorexic starkness. Duncan teasing him about' never being knowingly renunciate'
The increased amount of furniture was only the first confronting issue. The other was living cheek by jowl 24/7. Much as they enjoyed each others company, they'd grown accustomed to plenty of time apart. The flat afforded neither of them sufficient personal space. So there were days when a testiness previously unknown in their relationship surfaced. It maybe that this was somewhat deflective in origin. Neither of them having fully grasped why the movement they'd belonged to needed to guard its anonymity so fiercely. Enough to erase itself completely from view in the UK. What was it they had to hide? Gavin, as the more experienced practitioner, had an inkling the explanation would be somewhere in the past, way before his involvement. But knew nothing more than some scurrilous hearsay, which he'd so far been unable to verify.
Duncan had easily found another job, one he instantly took a dislike to, in a local hardware store. Gavin called upon old work colleagues for a favour, who recommended him for a well paid managerial position in a design company in Barnet. This was a long daily journey by tube. Travelling diagonally across London was always the pits. Every day heading towards or away from the interminably long rattle track, that is the Northern Line. On the plus side it did give him chill out time. Away from Duncan's freaking out every time he heard a distant police siren. Neither of them were able to be completely at ease. Abandoned to sink or swim by the movement, the final contact they'd had was shaking McAllister's sweaty palm at the end of the last days work in Seven Dials.
Living a self isolating life together, did gradually bring them closer. Once they'd talked through the areas of irritation, and formed intentions on how thing could be improved. Each became more reliant upon the other. Expert at reading the signs for when one of them was 'not doing too well'. Because 'not doing too well' outside of maintaining the necessary practicalities of life, was now a constant personal battle. Forming a sort of background noise to their current lifestyle. At one remove from both the movement and the society they lived in. In constant fear of the authorities tracing them. Apart from going to work they rarely went out together in the evening.
So several months on after the event, they had begun talking, in a tentative exploratory way, about what they were going to do next. Yes, they would stick together. What was it they both wanted to do with that togetherness? If they had a choice, what would they prefer to do? It clearly would not do either of them any good, longer term, staying in Duncan's pokey council flat. Besides he was not supposed to have lodgers, boyfriend or not. So at some point they'd have to get out of it, and preferably leave London altogether. To do this they'd need to assiduously save money.
One autumn evening, Gavin sat quietly reading in his beloved high back armchair. Duncan, cooking an overly elaborate Ottolengi recipe for dinner,was surrounded by ingredients, steam, sauce pans and perilously balanced plates. Then there was a polite and gentle sounding knock on the front door. Duncan's ears pricked up instantly in recognition. He knew exactly who he'd find on the other side of that door should he chose to open it.
End of Part One of Donkey's Almanac.
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