Wow. How did she know that? Summer wasgood. This was probably how she got her claws into Torsten.
“Ah, yeah,” I admitted. “You know what they say about redheads.”
“How we react is a choice. I’ll teach you some breathing exercises you can use to pause, to slow down your reactions, so you can make better choices in difficult moments.”
“That sounds… great, actually.”
“Are you a very spiritual person, Sunshine?”
She full-named me, like I was in trouble. My tummy rumbled.
“I like theRingfilms,” I said. “AndParanormal Activity.”
“You know what I mean. Do you believe in something bigger than yourself? A guiding force? A great universal energy?”
I did. I was guiding the great force of a Dorito fart as far back up my bum as I could muster without visibly clenching. This torture went on for several hours and would probably have cost a fortune if I was paying for it.
Once she’d taught me her breathing exercises and I was finally free, Summer suggested I take a walk in the forest to spend time in nature. I took her up on her offer and, at a safe distance, fired out a cannonball of wind that not only nearly blew the arse out of my joggers but knocked out a family of rabbits.
* * *
That evening, after dinner, I found myself in the wood-lined office that I had seen so often on Zoom. The late-evening sun streamed in through the big window, filtered by the forest outside. I was sitting in front of my antique laptop, Karma by my side, getting a tutorial on how to use the dark web.
“Now click in here,” Karma said, pointing. I clicked. “Right, now you’re in the forum. Go down to the categories section.”
“You can buy people’s internet history? That could ruin a few marriages. Whoa! Weapons? Medical records? Are people really selling all this stuff? Is it even safe for me to be here?”
“You’re in the Tor Browser, it’s completely anonymous.”
“Need any Kalashnikovs while I’m here?”
After a few hours messing about and learning the ropes, I was gaining confidence. I began searching for information about Prometheus Power, Highveld Industries, and the Newton Bardon nuclear power plant deal. I made some progress. I now owned some sort of crypto coin and had drained just over £600 from my bank account—most of what was left of my payout from theBulletin—to pay for sketchily acquired information. I had pieced together a long paper trail to cut through the layering Stav had warned me about.
By four in the morning I was finally so battered that I took myself off to bed. Karma and Leaf had put me up in one of their empty chalets. It was pleasantly rustic. There was plenty of incense but, away from the main house, absolutely no Wi-Fi or 5G.
Out of habit, I flicked through my phone as I lay in bed, waiting to drift off to sleep. Pointlessly, I opened a few different apps, before finally opening my messages. Whether it was the influence of my freshly aligned chakras, the unblocked negative energy, or boredom, I do not know, but when I saw a message from Ludo that I had somehow failed to delete, I decided to open it and read it.
Ludo:Sunny, I’ve been trying for weeks to explain what happened and to let you know what I’ve been going through, to no avail. It has been the hardest few weeks of my life. Harder than my first term at Petersham College, which is saying something, because I got thrown from a pony, landed face first in horseshit, and broke both my arms. I couldn’t wipe my own bum for six weeks. I don’t know who was less pleased, me or the school nurse. I never could quite bring myself to look her in the eye after that.
I just wanted to say, this is the last time I will try to contact you. I have got the message, loud and clear. Whatever we had, whatever I thought we had, it obviously isn’t enough to overcome what you think I’ve done to you. I wish you would talk to me, let me explain properly about Father going behind my back, and how sorry I am for it, and for everything that followed. But I understand you’re angry. I suspect, or perhaps hope, that, like me, you’re heartbroken. Because I have never been so heartbroken in all my life. I have felt empty these past weeks. Devoid of purpose, of meaning, of happiness. But I’ve had enough of wallowing. I’m putting all that behind me now. It’s time to move on. Stiff upper lip, and all that.
I just wanted to say thank you. Thank you for seeing something in me, at least for a little while, that made me feel special, worthwhile, valid, and whole. Only two people have ever truly made me feel that way. You and Uncle Ben. It is a terrible misfortune, a tragedy of Shakespearean proportions, that I should lose you both on the same day. What we had meant the world to me. I hope it meant something to you, too.
Ludo. x
I was crying. You’d have to be completely heartless to read a message like that and not feel something. I felt sadness for what had happened. I felt regret, too, for what we had lost. I didn’t like thinking of Ludo all alone, helpless, grieving, probably tripping over his own feet. But for all that, there was one line that kept drawing my eye, that I kept rereading.Let me explain properly about Father going behind my back.What was that about? Was this some excuse he’d tried on earlier? But then, if so, what was to be gained by repeating it in his farewell message?
For the first time, I wished I’d read some of Ludo’s earlier messages—if only for the context. I’d deleted them in anger, and now I had questions because I hadn’t read them. I wiped my tears on the duvet cover and began to type a reply. Then I deleted it. I was too tired to write, unsure what to say, and had no way of sending it anyway. But as I put my phone down to charge on the bedside table, I made a promise to the great universal energy that Iwouldreply. I owed Ludo that much.
Chapter66
Ludo
In a box in the back of a wardrobe in the spare bedroom in Connaught Square, I found a stack of Uncle Ben’s old diaries. They ran, fairly consistently, from 1953, the year he turned eighteen, until 1966. Then there was a gap of a few years, picking up again in 1971 and continuing until 1999, a year after I was born. When I discovered them, 1974 was on the top of the pile. I opened it, expecting to find a calendar of appointments, shows, and birthdays to be remembered. What I discovered was a detailed journal of Uncle Ben’s thoughts, experiences, and day-to-day life. Thoughts on the latest production of this or that production, gossip about this or that actor, information about what was going on in the world and his views, and, most alarmingly, particulars about his love life. I slammed the journal shut. As the day progressed, however, I found myself going back to the box to peer into the journals again and again. They were irresistible. A treasure trove of history and witticism.
25 March 1954
They got Peter Wildeblood. The “honourable” beak gave him a year and Montagu and Pitt-Rivers eighteen months each for buggery. This arcane legislation must be wiped from the statute books. I’ve written to Peter saying he should campaign, upon release, for the decriminalisation of homosexuality, and offering to give him every support I can. I’ve no idea which prison to post it to, but I shall send it first class so that at least whoever reads the mail before they give it to the convicts knows the calibre of the pansies they’re up against.
