Mr Jane eyed him carefully. ‘No last name?’
‘O’Brien,’ lied Damien.
Now Mr Jane’s eyebrows furrowed. ‘You don’t sound Irish,’ he said.
‘Family name,’ Damien shrugged.
‘You don’t look Irish, neither.’
‘And you don’t look like a “Mr Jane”,’ said Damien. ‘What is that, an old navy nickname?’
‘No,’ said Mr Jane. ‘Though I was at sea for a while. That’s how I know you need to drink up.’ He nodded down to the cup. ‘Ginger’s good for a roiling belly. Peppermint is best, but it doesn’t survive as well as ginger.’
Damien studied the man from behind his cup. His face reminded Damien of the topographical maps his father used to keep in his study – all lines and indentations, from the deep furrow of his brow, to the sharp crow’s feet that flanked his deep brown eyes. ‘How long were you in the navy for?’
‘I’ll tell you if you drink,’ said Mr Jane, nodding towards the cup. ‘You’re paler than a tuna’s underside.’
Damien took a sip. The ginger was sharp, and it stung the back of his throat, but the warmth of it was soothing. ‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘Now then,’ said Mr Jane, sitting back a little, the chair creaking beneath him. ‘What brings you to Liverpool?’
‘What makes you think I’m not from here?’ Damien said.
‘Well, your accent, for one,’ said Mr Jane. ‘Your clothes, for another. But mainly because a Liverpudlian would’ve known that the poorest place to be sick is right on the doorstep of the police headquarters.’
Damien felt a bolt of fear sizzle through him. ‘What?’
‘Don’t worry, I don’t think they saw anything,’ said Mr Jane, taking a languorous sip of his tea. ‘But it was pretty gutsy of you, to pick their alleyway over all the courts in the city.’
Damien grimaced, and took another gulp of his tea. ‘It wasn’t on purpose. I just picked a direction and ran.’
Mr Jane nodded. ‘I tried that once. Didn’t get very far, but I gave it a good go.’
‘Running from … the navy?’ Damien guessed.
‘In a way,’ said Mr Jane, leaning his enormous arms upon the table and making the whole thing list gently to one side. ‘Though the navy caught up with me quickly enough. Dishonourably discharged quicker than you could say “It was an accident, sir.”’
‘What was an accident?’ asked Damien.
The man raised his eyebrows and took another sip of tea. ‘That’s a question for another day,’ he said, flashing two golden teeth. ‘Why don’t you tell me what’s chasingyou?’
Damien looked up at the man, frowning. ‘I think that’s a question for another day as well,’ he said, placing his cup back down upon the saucer.
‘I see,’ said Mr Jane, giving him the cracked beginnings of a smile. ‘Well, do you want my advice?’
Damien had a feeling that saying no wouldn’t stop him from offering it, so instead he merely shrugged.
‘Running doesn’t help,’ Mr Jane said, tapping the table. ‘The only thing that makes whatever’s chasing you stop is to turn and face it.’
Damien looked down at the table, tracing a small, carefully embroidered flower with his finger. ‘What if I can’t do that?’ he asked.
‘Can’t? Or won’t?’
Damien glanced up, but Mr Jane wasn’t looking at him. He was scratching a fingernail against his apron, trying to remove what looked like a hardened speck of dough.
‘What do you mean?’ Damien asked.
Mr Jane shook his head. ‘Sometimes, we can’t stop running because it’s the only thing we know. It’s a habit, and habits sink their hooks in deep. But that doesn’t mean we can’t swim free of it. Now … “won’t”?Won’tis a bit different.Won’tmeans you know what’s after you, and you’ve judged it worse than whatever’s before you.’
