42
Nine million people in this city, and not one I can trust.
I’m on a coach, hauling out of town along the same route I took a few days ago. I got out of the hospital all right. The police officer didn’t seem especially interested in giving chase, not that I knew it as I threw myself down two stairwells and crashed out of a side gate and onto a main road, where I managed to snag a passing bus going to Victoria, and then a coach heading south-west.
I blagged the coach fare, which is something. I know I never steal personal possessions, but on this occasion I think MegaCoachCorp can give me a break. I’m masked up, still sweating even though I sat for twenty minutes waiting for us to set off, and nobody’s paid me the slightest bit of attention.Unless there’s a discreet spy on board, I’m safe for the next couple of hours.
I go through my pockets again. I’m not exactly overburdened with useful tools. Two last lock-picks. Throwaway phone, passport in someone else’s name, light wallet. No keys – never any keys, of course. The wallet contains a few bank cards, all of which will get me traced and netted within ten seconds of using them. The bundle of notes I always carry around as insurance is a shadow of its former self. I have … sixty-five quid. Not much in this economy.Jack Reacher gets by with less, an accusing voice says. It sounds a bit like Em.
Jesus. I just killed someone. All right, I might as easily have been killed myself, but I’d forgotten about the guy until now, believe it or not. Subsequent events got in the way. I saw a glimpse of his face as we went over the railing together – nothing but surprise on it. But I’m not feeling guilty, not yet, at least. He’s the one who came into our home with a big knife. I wish he’d told us what he wanted. Why would a British spy want us dead?
The feeling keeps occurring to me that I’m stuck in a room, and every time I stop focusing on the walls, a giant hand pushes them in a bit. The room is getting smaller and smaller. I know there’s a door somewhere, but I can’t quite see it yet.
Keep looking for that door, Al. Keep on looking. I wonder if the girls have been arrested, and fall asleep.
I wake on the outskirts of the town I’m heading to, press the button almost too late, apologise to the driver, who had toslam on the brakes, stumble down and out. Over a decade avoiding this dump, and now I’m back for the second time in a few days.
The ten minutes I spend getting to the apartment block should be twenty, but I’m pacing fast, neither looking nor feeling my best. Even so, once I’m there, it’s a small matter to bluff through the main door – tailgating this time, some twenty-somethings back from the pub who hardly notice me as I slip in behind them.
I’ve decided to swallow my pride and seek help from the one person in the world who can’t refuse it.
Footsteps approach the door and stop just on the other side of it. I can see the light of the peephole eclipsed as he puts his eye to it.
A voice says: ‘Who is it?’
‘It’s me.’
The door opens, and my brother looks at me. He’s surprised, to put it mildly.
‘Hi, Fred. Long time no see.’
‘What are you doing here? Are you here because of the …’ And then he remembers he’s not speaking to me, hasn’t spoken to me for years, and clams up.
‘Can I come in?’
‘Why?’
‘I’m in trouble.’
‘That means nothing in this family. As you know.’
I try to take that in the spirit of constructive criticism I’msure was intended. ‘Yes, I know. But I mean, real trouble. Like, “someone wants me dead” trouble.’
‘Who wants you dead?’
‘I’m not sure. I may not have met them yet.’
‘If they want you dead they probably know you pretty well.’
‘Very funny.’
The next door along the corridor opens, and some busybody neighbour sticks their head out to see what the noise is. Fred gives them an appraising look – more trouble to have me outside the flat or in it? – and eventually stands back from the door. He’s still looking a little shocked.
I make the usual noises of appreciation as I enter, but Fred’s not buying it. He gestures to the armchair, puts a glass of water down in front of me, and takes the dining chair for himself. ‘You look like shit.’
‘Yeah, well, it’s been a long decade.’ He gives nothing away. ‘OK. Here’s what happened.’
You would definitely recognise the version of events I tell Fred over the next ten minutes. It’s as if I strained everything you’ve just read and boiled it for a bit, to kill off any suggestion of impropriety. I don’t give him the full account. But I do tell him about Davy’s house, and about Mr Bowling Ball, and about Nevis. I don’t mention whose passport I left the country on.
