From the Novel Call It In the Air
King's Cross Station
By: Gregory Light - Nov 12, 2026
A week later George failed to show up for dinner. Joey was delighted but spent the rest of the evening wondering what to do with himself.
'Perhaps he's sick? Joanna asked. ‘Maybe you should call him?'
Joey resisted. 'He's never sick. He's likely out of town on business.'
That night they went to bed early and made love for the first time in sixteen days. (Joanna had counted.) Joey was still thinking about it the next morning, as he climbed the steps of the Charing Cross Tube exit on the south side of Trafalgar Square. As he emerged into the sunlight, all thoughts of Joanna evaporated. A group of Animal Rights activists had set up a demonstration (banners, buttons, leaflets, even the watchful eye of two police bobbies) outside the doors of Canada House: the baby seal was top of their agenda.
Oh no! Joey's mind whimpered. Not today. Today, he had scheduled four hours in the reference library. The deadline for The Guardian article was less than two weeks away and, except for The True North, about which he had pestered the library for weeks, his research was almost complete. He still couldn't believe the book hadn't arrived. Even the librarian confessed she had no idea why it was delayed. Joey was beginning to suspect government conspiracy. How damning could it be?
Joey gauged the strength and commitment of the Baby Seal demonstration across the street. The presence of the police meant he could enter the building, but that wasn't the problem. Conscience was. Joey had a spotless record when it came to crossing a picket line. It was a policy stemming from his days as a card-carrying member of the United Auto Workers: a summer job. Ten weeks as a Chrysler worker in a plant in Mississauga, Marx's call to the ‘Workers of the World’ nourishing him with the inspiration necessary to get through the long boredom of the night shift. Those had been exciting days: time clocks, conflicts with management, union dues. 'Eight bucks! That’s steep.' But surprise turned to pride when he found he had no choice. 'Yeah, the UAW has been good to me,' he would say. The day his card expired he felt a profound sense of loss. And regret he had never been called out on strike.
Standing in front of Canada House, its colourful array of provincial flags flapping quietly at Lord Nelson's lofty Trafalgar Square statue, this experience flushed Joey's cheeks. On the other hand, he asked himself, was the Baby Seal protest a real picket? It was hardly a labour dispute. If he had been European, it might have been easier; labour dispute or not, he would have opposed their slaughter. How could it be otherwise? The flood of photographs and films of the angelic-faced pups, lying flayed, shivering, and dying on the St. Lawrence ice floes had made the Baby Seal into the 1980's symbol of genocide.
But Joey wasn't European. He was a Canadian and quietly willing to give his country the benefit of the doubt. After all, he had read that the end of this kind of hunting meant the end of a way of life which had been lived for centuries: was it a cultural genocide? But to preserve a way of life that maintains bitterly cruel practices, what price are we prepared to pay to keep our cultural museums from being ransacked?
Essentially, he figured, the problem rested on the use of the word "baby" and on the sorrowful images of this cuddly puppy. As far as he knew, no parallel action was being taken on behalf of the French goose, callously tortured to death, his guts brutally pulverized in the production of foie gras; very much an item in their cultural museum. The unlucky goose's primary mistake was his appearance: honking and waddling in farmyard dirt inspires little emotion. And he is not a "baby". Aye, there's the rub. To slaughter a seal pup is to slaughter a "baby", and in Europe, the slaughtering of babies tends to be frowned upon. Not that "baby-killing" was tolerated in Canada. Untrue! Well, Joey thought, maybe a little bit true, through poverty and neglect and illness and racism and the systematic genocide of out-of-sight indigenous communities, but they didn’t count. No, Canada was just fine.
Joey walked towards the protesters cautiously. He was immediately handed a leaflet and had a button pinned to the collar of his shirt. 'You're Canadian, aren't you?' the young woman pinning the button on him said.
'How did you know.'
'A guess. You look it.' What did that mean? (A modern Troglodyte, half-crazed and club in hand, ready to do battle with the first infant, of whatever species, that came near him. Aaaarrgg! Fee, Fie, Fo, Fum! I smell the blood of an Englishman! Stop! Snap out of it!) 'Give these to your friends,' she said, smiling and handing him a thick stack of leaflets. 'Ask them to write letters to your government.'
Joey paused. 'Actually, I'd like to go into the building.' He explained his qualms about crossing picket lines. On the other hand, he did have some important work to do in the library. Was there some kind of deal he could make? When the woman told him that it was not their intention to stop anyone from visiting Canada House, Joey shook his head back and forth vigorously, 'No. No way I'm going in there without a deal. Let me leaflet the lounge and reading rooms,' he said, 'And pin more of your buttons on me.'
'Sure, why not?' the woman said, shrugging. Joey turned around. 'I don't get it,' she added, plastering two dozen "Save the Baby Seal" and "Boycott Canadian Fish" badges across the back of his jacket, 'You must really hate your country.'
Joey swung around sharply. 'Not at all! I love it, but not to the point of idiocy.'
The young woman smiled. ‘Thanks, I guess.’
But Joey had been thinking of something much broader than her "baby seal" protest; something which he had been trying to articulate for weeks in his article. An essay in The Economist had politely referred to it as 'bafflement'. But it was more. More sinister than bafflement. Joey had made repeated sallies against the problem with his penny, searching for an angle, but the Canadian shield, much more than rock, lakes and white pines, repelled his penny with its smiling randomness. In its naive and fatuous way, perhaps the button-covered jacket came closest to what he was trying to do: a street criticism, tugging at loose threads until the smug fabric was undone.
His mind plastered with thoughts, his jacket plastered with buttons, Joey passed through the large glass doors, into Canada House. In the foyer, he hesitated, curious what security might say. They simply smiled and directed him to the library on the first floor. No one took much notice. Except for one of the secretaries who went into the elevator with him.
'Would you mind if I had one of your badges?'
He gave her five. On the first floor, he got out and left her going up. He suddenly felt sad. He took off his jacket and laid it over his arm. He left the leaflets on a consignment of boxes stacked against the wall, taking just two for the library. When he introduced himself at the desk, the librarian smiled.
'We've got it,' she said, 'The True North. It came in this morning.'
McDougal finally surfaced on Thursday.
'Joey, it's George on the phone,' Joanna called.
Joey had just settled into a hot bath, a sheaf of photocopied pages from The True North in his hand.
'Shall I tell him to call back later?'
'Tell him I'm dead.'
'It's about lunch today.'
'No way!' Joey was beginning to suspect McDougal's motives. Revenge was in the air. He heard Joanna's muffled excuses and then the click of the telephone hanging up.
'He'll call back this evening.' Joanna appeared in the bathroom door.
'I won't be in. Ah, shit!' The sheaf of papers had dipped into the bathwater. 'See? He's out to sabotage me.’ He wondered what McDougal would say if he knew what his paper was about. Despite his tendency for irritating American traits, George was, in his own words, "a real Canuck". Last October, in a fit of nationalism, he had given Joey and Joanna expensive maple leaf pins, earnestly insisting it was permanent, everyday wear. The next time they met for lunch in Covent Garden, Joey had worn his upside down and on his fly. McDougal was appropriately indignant.
'That's sacrilegious,'
'You said I should wear it.'
'Not on your dick.'
'What difference does it make? Think of it as a fig leaf.'
'It's childish,' McDougal said. 'When are you going to grow up?'
Joey squirmed. The words could have been Joanna's. Except when Joanna told him to "grow up", she also meant "Let go of it?" Okay, sure, the maple leaf pin on his fly was childish, but it was how he fought the forgetfulness.
'What's wrong with the way things are?’ McDougal asked although Joey noticed he was tired of the subject.
And well he should be. For those who have, the answer is barely thinkable. Joey looked hard at McDougal, then shook his head. He unpinned his maple leaf and popped it into his pocket. George was a Cover it up "fig leaf" man.
'You like the way things are, George?' Joey asked, draining his second glass of wine. 'Even the way with Sally?'
George looked away on the pretence of getting the waitress' attention. He ordered another bottle of wine. So, Joey thought, it's to be one of those sorts of afternoons; we will forget with a drink. Well, okay. George was paying. He always paid when they went out to a restaurant, his way of repaying Monday evenings. Or buying them. And, if that was the deal, Joey wanted to get a good a price. Always the most expensive thing on the menu whether he liked it or not. Juvenile? Maybe? Probably. But George could afford it.
'Why don't you get yourself a girlfriend, George? One of these pretty English girls? There must be a secretary in your office that appeals to you.'
'Not interested,' he said, avoiding Joey's look.
'Hard to get in the sack?' If the lunch was going to degenerate, Joey supposed the least he could do was provide direction.
'Are you kidding?' McDougal said. 'English girls are a snap,’ He raised his hand to snap his thumb, but it slid noiselessly down his finger. 'They don't interest me.'
'George, you're a liar!’ Joey retorted. ‘If these women are so easy, then what's with the forays into Soho and King's Cross?'
For months McDougal had begged Joey to come out with him to one of the sleazy strip clubs that dotted Soho. It had been an obsession. Joey had always politely declined, hiding behind the cover of Joanna. Finally, in desperation, McDougal obliterated Joey's excuse by bringing the subject up in front of Joanna. To Joey's dismay, she quickly withdrew from the discussion, claiming it had nothing to do with her. It was entirely up to Joey.
'And I don't want to.'
'Of course, you do!' McDougal pushed his advantage. 'It's crazy not to. It's like not going to the Tower of London.'
'I haven't gone to the Tower of London.'
'You know what I mean. It’s part of the culture. Come on, one night, a few hours. What can it hurt? You must see everything at least once.'
'A gay guy once told me the same thing.'
'Gay? What do you take me for, Edwards? It's a straight club. Women strippers. Normal entertainment.'
'Normal? And the action at King's Cross? What do you call that?'
'That's different,' McDougal said, glowering at Joey. He glanced nervously at Joanna. There was an ugly pause. Joanna cut in.
'Why don't you go?' she said to Joey. Joey looked at her, stunned. The topless, page three girl in The Sun offended her. But a strip club is okay? 'I mean, don't let me stop you,' she added.
'Ahhhh!' Joey muttered and left the room. Ten minutes later he returned. He had left the decision to his penny. The penny concurred with Joanna and McDougal.
'I'll pay for everything,' George insisted. You bet you will, Joey thought.
The club was as Joey expected. Gaudy and splashy and pornographic. The atmosphere was dense with nicotine and alcohol. The clientele was the same. Only the women appeared to verge on the real; until they began "taking it off", which, of course, was the whole idea. Music, lights, indecency. 'There's no difference between this and the Royal Shakespeare Company,' he overheard a man say. Joey flinched. Was this guy serious? He slid past, praying he wasn't contagious. He caught up with McDougal at their table. McDougal was patting the waitress on the bum. Joey wondered if the gesture was obligatory.
'Did you know they claim this is theatre?' Joey said as he sat down.
'What'll you have to drink?' McDougal asked.
'Theatre, for Chrissake!'
'Two scotch on the rocks,' McDougal said to the waitress.
'I can't believe it!'
'Tits and ass, man. That's all you have to know.'
He had a point. It didn't demand anything. That was the difference. He hated to sound superior, but there were limits. He could look at just so many breasts streaked with sweat, just so many hips grinding into the music; just so many thighs; just so many navels, bums, and crotches; just so many tongues, fingers and earlobes, before fading out completely. Then the music stopped, and McDougal tapped him on the hand. He was itching to "hit" another spot he knew. It was close by.
'You go on without me, George. I'm done.'
'One more. That's all. I promise the girls at this next place are much more beautiful. You'll see. It's a totally different experience.'
Joey looked at McDougal's eyes, sensed his giddy enthusiasm and wondered what he got out of it all? Was it a vicious jab at Sally? Was it a deliberate attempt at self-detonation? Or was it an art form? So advanced, it takes years of subtle cultivation to appreciate? How else to understand the statement that one gruesome strip club was a "totally different experience" to another. What did McDougal's eyes see? Did he pick out different shades of lip gloss and nail polish? Could he make critically astute observations on their body dancing, tongue technique, pas de deux and personal presence in a flood of harsh lighting? What did he see? Joey wouldn't say that Hamlet was a "totally different experience" from The Mouse Trap. 'No, Forget it, George.'
'Okay, no more shows. But at least let me take you to King's Cross.'
'Jesus, George! I'm married!'
'You don't have to go with one of them. Just slow down for a look.'
'Okay, but no chat,' Joey said. 'This is my last concession. On the way home, before you drop me off, we drive by once. No stopping.'
King's Cross. Joey knew it as a railway terminus serving the north. He had boarded a train there when he took Joanna and Amy on a short holiday to Scotland. By day, it was innocuous, notable for not being an easy point to transfer between the various Underground lines that intersected there. At night, however, with its hourly, all-night trains, its taxi queues, its kiosks selling midnight editions of next day's morning editions, its surrounding Kebab shops and video game parlours, King's Cross continued to tick over. It wasn't inundated with neon hoardings. There were no "Live Sex" and "Massage" signs, no nude photographs; just a steady, tacky grouping of prostitutes working the streets bordering the station, waiting for business to cruise by. It had always looked to Joey like the bread-and-butter end of the trade. Sad and desperate.
Ignoring Joey's protests, McDougal steered his car into St. Pancras Road for a second time. 'I'm sure it's the same girl,' he said. 'That fucking bitch. I'd remember her anywhere.'
'We are not stopping the car.'
'Are you kidding? I wouldn't give her the time of day.' He slowed down and peered through the windshield. 'You see that one there?'
'Which one? There's five of them.'
'Near the bus stop, in the jeans. Short brown hair. That's her. I'm positive.’ McDougal was rolling down his window. They approached her slowly. Other prostitutes were signalling for them to pull over. 'BITCH!! YOU FUCKING AMATEUR COMMUNIST WHORE!!' Without warning, McDougal had thrust his head out his side window and let loose a short, obscene barrage. The startled woman looked up, her face stunned, her eyes trying to focus on the two figures in the car. There was something familiar about her face, Joey thought. A moment later he was jolted back against his seat as McDougal shoved his foot down on the accelerator and squealed away.
'Are you crazy, George? What was that all about?'
'That was her.' George was laughing. 'The same girl. I picked her up here a couple of months ago. I was driving by, and I saw her and I figured, hell, why not? She was cute, young, and said she was eighteen if you can believe what they say. What did you think? Pretty, eh?'
'That's how you let her know? By screaming at her like a psychotic zealot?'
'She's used to it. Anyway, she ripped me off. I'm just getting her back.'
'Yeah, sure??'
'I'm serious. That's the third time I've spotted her. Whenever I'm in the area, I check to see if she's around. If she is, I blast a few words her way. Don't get me wrong, Edwards, I don't fool around with the whores around here. They're a dirty bunch. But this girl looked different. She didn't dress up sexy or anything. Jeans and a jacket, a kid, like I could have picked her up at a movie. She was damn fast collecting the money though. Twenty-five pounds the moment we got into her room. I should have guessed when I saw it, except that ...' he grinned at Joey, 'I was too busy.'
'Get to the point, George,' Joey snapped. The image of McDougal's disfigured fingers on this girl's body, the same filthy trio that had fumbled at Joanna's bra, repelled him.
McDougal continued. 'The key was when she said I could stay the night if I gave her another twenty. What right-minded whore would say that? Still, I gave her the money, figuring if I banged her a few more times, I'd be getting a deal per bang. The next morning, she doesn't want to know and, to make matters worse, when I go to the bathroom for a pee, I have to wait in line with this young kid who's dyed his hair green. I mean, now I'm beginning to wonder about the place. We stand outside the door, my bladder screaming at me, for a full ten minutes. Finally, I can't wait any longer, so I go downstairs and pee in the kitchen sink. There's graffiti everywhere. "Fuck Thatcher!", "Anarchy Rules!", that kind of thing. And that's when I finally tune in. It's a squat!!' He turned and looked at Joey, his voice rising with the pain of a man cheated. 'The place is crawling with unemployed lefties and punks, and I'm standing there in the kitchen in my underwear, a Communist Worker's rag staring me in the balls, peeing in the sink! Can you believe it?? I'd spent the whole fucking night in a squat with a goddamned amateur who was probably coughing up a percentage of my money to fund the goddamned revolution. Yeah, I was angry! I woke the bitch up and demanded my money back. At this point, she screams. Luckily, the money was in her bag by the bed, so I grabbed it and my clothes and beat it before the rest of the household figured it out.'
Joey was stunned. 'George, you total fucking asshole,' he finally said quietly.
'It's the gospel, man. I swear it.'
'I know.' He looked up at George. 'You didn't leave her anything?'
'One Italian Lira would have been too much. Hell, I had to sleep with a Baby Seal poster staring down at me from the ceiling. It's a good thing I told her I was American.'
'I'm sure it made all the difference,' Joey said, abruptly retreating from George's foul story, his eyes staring out the window and into the night. Blurred brushstrokes of light and black slid over him with a harrowing numbness. George mumbled a few words, but Joey wasn't listening. He was thinking about Amy.