I turn to face him. ‘What?’
‘They gave up after that, no?’
I sit down on his sofa, put my head in my hands. The rage has begun to recede. ‘I’ve beenworriedabout you. I thought you were dead.’
‘No, you didn’t.’ He straightens the collar of his polo shirt. ‘You knew I’d gone into hiding. Why the hell else would you pay a private investigator to track me down?’
I sigh guiltily. ‘How did you know?’
‘Because he was an amateur.’ Wilf rolls his eyes. ‘I’d save your money in future.’
‘He found you in about five minutes.’
‘Not very subtly. Was he a trainee?’
‘Why are you being an arsehole?’
Flush-cheeked, he spreads his hands. ‘Because. I had a good life, Josh. None of this had to happen. I was only trying to do you a favour.’
‘It’s not my fault if you failed to cover your tracks at work.’
‘I didn’t fail,’ he snaps. ‘I was considering pitching it, remember?’
My heart is still pumping hard, from relief, or anger, who knows. ‘Okay, then it’s not my fault you changed your mind.’
He flops heavily down on the sofa next to me, then – to my bemusement – pulls a pack of cigarettes and lighter from his pocket.
‘What the hell are you doing?’
He shrugs. ‘Tar’s transient now. They can’t kill me.’
I take him in for a couple of moments. And, perhaps for the first time, it occurs to me that his youthfulness does hint at a kind of invincibility. It’s over four years since I’ve seen him, and nearly eight since we took that pill. And he hasn’t aged a day. The thought is unsurprising and staggering, all at once.
I never doubted Wilf’s genius. Not in my gut. But, even now, I don’t think I’ve fully processed the enormity of what he invented. Of what we did.
Still. Guilt-free smoking seems dubious, as perks go.
‘Transient tar,’ I say. ‘Yeah, I can definitely see the appeal.’
Wilf lights up, exhales a plume of smoke, then offers the packet to me.
‘No, I was... Never mind.’ I shake my head. ‘Am I allowed to ask how you’re surviving, these days?’
‘I play poker.’
I almost laugh, but save it just in time. ‘Really? For money?’
He nods. ‘Turns out I’m quite good.’
I enjoy for a moment the idea of someone sitting down with Wilf for a game of poker, believing they have even the remotest chance of outmanoeuvring Mr Mensa.
‘Can you even speak Spanish?’
He looks at me witheringly. ‘Yes, fluently. I learnt when I was ten.’
Of course you did.
Through his open window I can see a raft of rooftops, the silver score of Mediterranean on the horizon. The weather’s in the low twenties, the air blue and breezeless. A world away from the slate skies and unbroken gloom of home.
