The Assassination of Margaret Thatcher

The Assassination of Margaret Thatcher
Hilary Mantel

Nothing is as it seems. Childhood cruelty is played out behind bushes. Both the living and the dead commute to Waterloo station. Staying in for the plumber turns into a potentially fatal waiting game. And in ‘The School of English’, panic grips a household behind the stucco facade of a Notting Hill mansion. All that is clear and constant in these bracingly subversive stories is Hilary Mantel’s distinctive style and wit.

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Copyright (#udd4d6bd3-a757-5aee-9504-c119fc2759d3)

Fourth Estate

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street,

London SE1 9GF, UK

4thestate.co.uk (http://4thestate.co.uk)

First published in Great Britain by Fourth Estate 2014

Copyright © Tertius Enterprises 2014, 2015

Hilary Mantel asserts her moral right to

be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record of this book is

available from the British Library

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Source ISBN: 9780007580972

Ebook Edition © September 2014 ISBN: 9780007580989

Version: 2016-01-29

Dedication (#udd4d6bd3-a757-5aee-9504-c119fc2759d3)

To Bill Hamilton, the man in William IV Street: thirty years on, with gratitude

Contents

Cover (#u5bbec66a-5101-58e4-ac4a-365919bfaff7)

Title Page (#u4a509210-262f-5bf8-9e6b-c23dd68e2605)

Copyright (#ulink_38f0c5b3-d0c2-5a88-a5c7-d179604eacca)

Dedication (#ulink_871962c2-c848-5fda-84fb-7c4598ea82e5)

Sorry to Disturb (#ulink_fef35dd5-ab0c-5e34-8834-27032cd041d7)

Comma (#ulink_97cd063f-163f-5084-91e6-f24ca81f6229)

The Long QT (#ulink_6a94ae33-07cc-5742-8c26-46059bacf64f)

Winter Break (#litres_trial_promo)

Harley Street (#litres_trial_promo)

Offences Against the Person (#litres_trial_promo)

How Shall I Know You? (#litres_trial_promo)

The Heart Fails Without Warning (#litres_trial_promo)

Terminus (#litres_trial_promo)

The School of English (#litres_trial_promo)

The Assassination of Margaret Thatcher: August 6th 1983 (#litres_trial_promo)

Credits (#litres_trial_promo)

A Note on the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

Also by Hilary Mantel (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

Sorry to Disturb (#udd4d6bd3-a757-5aee-9504-c119fc2759d3)

In those days, the doorbell didn’t ring often, and if it did I would draw back into the body of the house. Only at a persistent ring would I creep over the carpets, and make my way to the front door with its spy-hole. We were big on bolts and shutters, deadlocks and mortises, safety-chains and windows that were high and barred. Through the spy-hole I saw a distraught man in a crumpled, silver-grey suit: thirties, Asian. He had dropped back from the door, and was looking about him, at the closed and locked door opposite, and up the dusty marble stairs. He patted his pockets, took out a balled-up handkerchief, and rubbed it across his face. He looked so fraught that his sweat could have been tears. I opened the door.

At once he raised his hands as if to show he was unarmed, his handkerchief dropping like a white flag. ‘Madam!’ Ghastly pale I must have looked, under the light that dappled the tiled walls with swinging shadows. But then he took a breath, tugged at his creased jacket, ran a hand through his hair and conjured up his business card. ‘Muhammad Ijaz. Import-Export. I am so sorry to disturb your afternoon. I am totally lost. Would you permit use of your telephone?’

I stood aside to let him in. No doubt I smiled. Given what would ensue, I must suppose I did. ‘Of course. If it’s working today.’

I walked ahead and he followed, talking; an important deal, he had almost closed it, visit to client in person necessary, time – he worked up his sleeve and consulted a fake Rolex – time running out; he had the address – again he patted his pockets – but the office is not where it should be. He spoke into the telephone in rapid Arabic, fluent, aggressive, his eyebrows shooting up, finally shaking his head; he put down the receiver, looked at it in regret; then up at me, with a sour smile. Weak mouth, I thought. Almost a handsome man, but not: slim, sallow, easily thrown. ‘I am in your debt, madam,’ he said. ‘Now I must dash.’

I wanted to offer him a what – bathroom break? Comfort stop? I had no idea how to phrase it. The absurd words ‘wash and brush-up’ came into my mind. But he was already heading for the door – though from the way the call had concluded I thought they might not be so keen to see him, at his destination, as he was to see them. ‘This crazy city,’ he said. ‘They are always digging up the streets and moving them. I am so sorry to break in on your privacy.’ In the hall, he darted another glance around and up the stairs. ‘Only the British will ever help you.’ He skidded across the hall and prised open the outer door with its heavy iron-work screen; admitting, for a moment, the dull roar of traffic from Medina Road. The door swung back, he was gone. I closed the hall door discreetly, and melted into the oppressive hush. The air conditioner rattled away, like an old relative with a loose cough. The air was heavy with insecticide; sometimes I sprayed it as I walked, and it fell about me like bright mists, veils. I resumed my phrasebook and tape, Fifth Lesson: I’m living in Jeddah. I’m busy today. God give you strength!

When my husband came home in the afternoon I told him: ‘A lost man was here. Pakistani. Businessman. I let him in to phone.’

My husband was silent. The air conditioner hacked away. He walked into the shower, having evicted the cockroaches. Walked out again, dripping, naked, lay on the bed, stared at the ceiling. Next day I swept the business card into a bin.

In the afternoon the doorbell rang again. Ijaz had come back, to apologise, to explain, to thank me for rescuing him. I made him some instant coffee and he sat down and told me about himself.