“He’s still your father.”That should be sacred.Laurie closed his eyes.He didn’t know Sasha.He had no idea at allof what it was like to be someone like that.To have inside himthat undying fire of love and duty that did not alter according toits object’s worth.To be someone who would love you no matter whatyou did.“I betrayed him,” he said suddenly, harshly, voicecracking over the words.“Please, can I see him?”
“They won’t let you near him.And…he asked me to tell you notto try.He has to go.Laurie, seeing you will only make it harderfor him.”
* **
Kucharski was right.The Dover immigration facility was asheer steel wall, impervious to Laurie’s attempts to get past it.And he didn’t give up easily.He phoned and e-mailed, then got onthe coach from Victoria and went down to see for himself.He didnot want to meet with Sasha.He had taken him and Kucharski attheir word and would not inflict further harm on him.But he neededto impress on someone in authority his own conviction that, ifSasha were shipped back to Romania, his life would be worth no morethan the time it took Stefan Petrica or one of his hit men to findhim.
On abitter day between Christmas and New Year, he stood at a counter inthe Dover removals department and argued until his throat was sorewith the official behind the shielding glass barricade.He wouldhire a lawyer for Sasha, he told her.Money no object—the best.Inpromising this, he didn’t anticipate breaking his not-another-pennyrule.Lady Fitzroy had told him, tears in her eyes, that she wouldspare no expense to help the boy she had come so close todestroying.But the official shook her head and told him AlexandruPetrica had been offered excellent legal counsel already, courtesyof the Interpol agent who’d brought him in, and had refused it.Further, there was little chance of intervention now.Hisdeportation order had gone through.A flight to Bucharest wasleaving in the morning.
SoLaurie went home.Not to Mayfair, where his mother was being tendedby Gibson and the private nursing staff Laurie had asked her tobring in when Lady Fitzroy’s wild mood swings—from elation toweeping despair—seemed to threaten her sanity, and where his fatherstill lay tucked away in the hospital morgue until someone foundthe time to arrange his funeral.He went back to East Hill, to thecold little flat, smiled at the meter where Sasha’s magical coinwas still bringing him light and warmth, and locked the door.Hefelt very calm.
First he called Clara, who was still safe in her aunt’schâteau, only now given the freedom of the grounds as well.Shestill thought she was on her Christmas holidays and chattered awayto Laurie in the patchwork mix of English and French she alwaysacquired among her cousins, about the snow andPere Noëland St.Sylvestre’s night.Laurie responded in kind.There would be plenty of time to tell herabout the demolition ball that had swung through her family sinceher departure—either that or no time at all, and either way therewas no point in disturbing her now.Elise, although bewildered andnot a little angry at the charade her sister had forced herthrough, had promised to keep silence.
Then Laurie packed.It took him hardly any time at all, hefound, when he owned next to nothing.Everything he needed for atrip of unknown duration to Eastern Europe fitted nicely into onerucksack.With regard to tickets—well, those could fall under theheading of theanythingLady Fitzroy was prepared to pay to help Sasha,couldn’t they?If Laurie could not protect him by law on Englishsoil, all that was left for him to do was fly to Bucharest andintercept him there.He had no clear ideas about what he would doif this mission succeeded.No helpful ones, anyway—just a singlethought of placing his own flesh and bone between Sasha and whoevermight come to hunt him down.Just that.That would beenough.
He wasscanning through the battered Yellow Pages the last tenant had leftbehind—having no Internet connection had knocked him back a coupleof decades when it came to travel arrangements—when his mobilerang.He picked it up impatiently.John Kucharski was one of thehandful of people he would have picked up for at all at thismoment.“Yes?”
“All right, Laurence.Is he with you?”
Lauriegave the question thought.Kucharski’s voice was an Interpol bark,not the humane tone of their last conversation.Then theimplications hit him.Laurie leaned his back against the livingroom wall and did not fight the desire to slide down it in relief.“He got away.”
“Yes.He slipped his bloody leash between Dover and Gatwick.Now, once more, son—and you should know that I amnotpissing about—is hewith you?”
“If he was, would you expect me to answer that honestly?”Laurie felt himself smiling, heard the sound of it alter his voice,and shut up.He liked Kucharski and had no desire to piss him offeither.He waited, holding his hand over the mouthpiece until theagent stopped swearing and his own face was straight.“For therecord, he’s not.Send someone around to check if youwant.”
“Really?How very kind.His name is Anthony Ward, and I’msurprised he’s not already there.Cooperate, Laurence, and he won’tbreak your furniture.”
“I will.But you have to know, sir, if Sasha comes to me, Iwon’t inform you.I’ll hide him if I can, or do any other thing hewants me to do.”
“That’s great, Laurence.That’s really beautiful.Interpol isgrateful for your entire family’s cooperation, believe me.Ward isthere now.Don’t open up until you’re sure it’s him.One knock andthen three, for future reference.I’m bloody certain you’re goingto need it.”
* **
Lauriestood aside and watched in silence while Agent Ward, who was builtlike a brick shed but astoundingly quiet and subtle in hismovements, went patiently over his flat.It didn’t take long.Laurie, arms folded, fought to maintain a solemn mask while Wardlooked in the few places a fugitive immigrant might hide, and then,diligently, in the places where he could not—under the sofa, in thekitchen cupboards.He checked the floorboards, glanced upward foraccess to the building’s loft.Looked at the meter and said, withapparent approval, “Ah, a magical coin, eh?”Then he picked up hisraincoat and left, assuring Laurie he was sorry for theinconvenience.
Alone,Laurie stood for a while, resting his palms on the stainless steeldraining board of his kitchen sink.It dawned on him that it waspretty dirty.There were things he had not yet got around to doingin this flat which he could see now needed to be done.He was veryspoiled, he knew.He’d tried not to be a messy kid growing up—awarethat, the more he chucked about, the more Gibson and her housemaidswould have to pick up after him—but nevertheless, the staff hadalways been there.Basically he had no idea of what it took to keepeven the simplest living quarters clean.Letting them get into thisstate was probably the best first lesson he could have.
It waslate.The shops were closed, even Sasha’s hardworking Indianfriend’s general store.Pulling open the kitchen cupboards, Lauriesaw that either the landlord or some departed tenant had left abottle of disinfectant and some steel-wool scrubbing pads in there.A duster too.Under the building’s communal staircase, he found avacuum he assumed might be communal too, and dragged its monstrouseighties bulk up the stairs, trying not to bump it off every riserand wake the house.
Heworked until one in the morning.Not very efficiently, he thought,but the place did look and smell a lot better when he was done.Hewatered the plant.The electric fire was on, spreading such heat asit could manage.For want of a change of bed linen, he strippedwhat there was, shook it hard out of the window in the freezingsmall hours air, and put it back, turning the duvet cover insideout.Then, feeling that most of the flat’s dirt was now transferredonto him, he padded down the corridor to the shared bathroom, wherethe unsocial time of the morning ensured that, for once, he couldhave a long bath uninterrupted.
Clean,hollowed out, he put himself to bed.
No hopes or expectations, Sash.But I’m here.I’mready.
Chapter Twelve
Last dayof January on the empty heath, it was hard to tell where thecaravans had been.Turning up the collar of his coat against theknifing wind, Laurie tried to get his bearings.The track from themain road, which led to this clearing.On the horizon, that line oftrees, in whose shelter he and Sasha had lain.
When theRomani left, they left completely.Sasha had told him this.It wasnot like a travel folks’ camp, where a hundred traces of humanhabitation might remain—abandoned hubcaps and tarpaulins, oldtether pegs for horses.They were too used to being hunted andmoved on.Leaving a place came more naturally thanstaying.
And thiscamp had been wiped out.Eradicated.Laurie had crept back on thatapocalyptic night.Shaken Sir William off when the old man hadcaught up with him and tried to get him back into the Daimler to gohome.He had knelt in the tree line, watching men and women gatheraround the corpse of Mama Luna.Gunari had knelt over her, sobbinglike a child.Laurie had wanted to help them, but he knew he hadbrought death on them and had no right to ever intrude on themagain.
A circleof stones on the ground.Shivering, Laurie went to stand besidethem.Inside them was the faintest trace of burning, a bronzing ofthe frosted earth.
“Laurie?”
Helooked up.Clara had stopped her silent carousel circling of anivy-covered oak and was watching him, eyes wide.He put out a handto her, and she ran to his side.She leaned against him, pushingone mittened hand into the pocket of his coat.
