Saturday, February 15, 2003. Henry Perowne is a contented man - a
successful neurosurgeon, the devoted husband of Rosalind, a
newspaper lawyer, and proud father of two grown-up children, one a
promising poet, the other a talented blues musician.
Unusually, he wakes before dawn, drawn to the window of his bedroom
and filled with a growing unease. What troubles him as he looks out
at the night sky is the state of the world - the impending war
against Iraq, a gathering pessimism since 9/11,
and a fear that his city, its openness and diversity, and his happy
family life are under threat.
Later, Perowne makes his way to his weekly squash game through
London streets filled with hundreds of thousands of anti-war
protestors. A minor car accident brings him into a confrontation
with Baxter, a fidgety, aggressive, young man, on the edge of
violence. To Perowne's professional eye, there appears to be
something profoundly wrong with him.
Towards the end of a day rich in incident and filled with Perowne's
celebrations of life's pleasures music, food, love, the
exhilarations of sport and the satisfactions of exacting work - his
family gathers for a reunion. But with the sudden appearance of
Baxter, Perowne's earlier fears seem about to be realised.


One
Some hours before dawn Henry Perowne, a neurosurgeon,
wakes to find himself already in motion, pushing back
the covers from a sitting position, and then rising to his feet.
It's not clear to him when exactly he became conscious, nor
does it seem relevant. He's never done such a thing before,
but he isn't alarmed or even faintly surprised, for the movement
is easy, and pleasurable in his limbs, and his back and
legs feel unusually strong. He stands there, naked by the bed
- he always sleeps naked - feeling his full height, aware of
his wife's patient breathing and of the wintry bedroom air
on his skin. That too is a pleasurable sensation. His bedside
clock shows three forty. He has no idea what he's doing out
of bed: he has no need to relieve himself, nor is he disturbed
by a dream or some element of the day before, or even by
the state of the world. It's as if, standing there in the darkness,
he's materialised out of nothing, fully formed, unencumbered.
He doesn't feel tired, despite the hour or his
recent labours, nor is his conscience troubled by any recent
case. In fact, he's alert and empty-headed and inexplicably
elated. With no decision made, no motivation at all, he begins
to move towards the nearest of the three bedroom windows
and experiences such ease and lightness in his tread that he
suspects at once he's dreaming or sleepwalking. If it is the
case, he'll be disappointed. Dreams don't interest him; that
this should be real is a richer possibility. And he's entirely
himself, he is certain of it, and he knows that sleep is behind
him: to know the difference between it and waking, to know
the boundaries, is the essence of sanity.
The bedroom is large and uncluttered. As he glides across it with
almost comic facility, the prospect of the experience
ending saddens him briefly, then the thought is gone. He is
by the centre window, pulling back the tall folding wooden shutters
with care so as not to wake Rosalind. In this he's
selfish as well as solicitous. He doesn't wish to be asked what
he's about - what answer could he give, and why relinquish
this moment in the attempt? He opens the second shutter,
letting it concertina into the casement, and quietly raises the
sash window. It is many feet taller than him, but it slides
easily upwards, hoisted by its concealed lead counterweight.
His skin tightens as the February air pours in around him,
but he isn't troubled by the cold. From the second floor he
faces the night, the city in its icy white light, the skeletal
trees in the square, and thirty feet below, the black arrowhead
railings like a row of spears. There's a degree or two of frost
and the air is clear. The street lamp glare hasn't quite
obliterated all the stars; above the Regency facade on the other
side of the square hang remnants of constellations in the
southern sky. That particular facade is a reconstruction, a
pastiche - wartime Fitzrovia took some hits from the Luftwaffe
- and right behind is the Post Office Tower, municipal and
seedy by day, but at night, half-concealed and decently
illuminated, a valiant memorial to more optimistic days.
And now, what days are these? Baffled and fearful, he