He was Romeo.No, he corrected himself instantly.He'd been given the part ofRomeo.There was a difference, and the sooner he learned to exploitand live with it, the better.He'd gone back on stage to findClipboard Bill—or Neil, was it?—whispering to Sir Ralf, and he'dmet their eyes calmly.He hadn't waited for direction.Enough ofthe Capulet mob had been assembled: he'd nodded to Second Servant,and simply begun the scene.
Hehadn't transformed.But, as Sasha had pointed out, he didn't needfull moon and the mark of the beast in order to do a good job, andSir Ralf was entirely satisfied.The old man had shaken his hand atthe end of rehearsal, informed him that he was a gentleman and anacquisition.That his father would have been proud ofhim.
Laurie almost walked into a lamp post.His reflexes saved him,and he laughed at the kid who was laughing at his near miss and setoff at an easy lope down High Holborn.He was all right.Hebreathed deeply, allowing the glimpses of his reflection in theSainsbury shop windows to reassure him.Sir Ralf had said a coupleof things, and that had caused Laurie to remember a couple, butthey were insignificant.Show me Romeo,not the famous Fitzroy temper.Laurie hadlet that one pass by.Whatever he might have become famous for sofar, it certainly wasn't his temper: backstage staff fought overhim for the privilege of his easygoing ways.He had a fit maybeonce in every six months, and even then it was usually just anothertransformation, a stance.So the temper concerned wasn't Laurie's.It was Sir William's, and Sir Ralf knew about that because he andthe old beast had been friends.Not that Sir William had hobnobbedwith ragged theatrical folk, but Ralf was a peer of the realm, aclub which excluded the mere baronet and therefore fascinated him.And running a huge theatre company was different to acting in it.The two had shared board rooms from time to time.Sir Ralf had beena fit person for the monster of Mayfair to know.Laurie rememberednow.It would have slipped past him if not for Sir Ralf's partingblessing.
Proud...Laurie bit back laughter.His father wouldn't have known whether to shoot Laurie first orhimself, had he lived to see this stage of his offspring's career.Laurie caught sight of himself once again in the glass.It didn'tmatter.The old man was dead, and like an ugly dream had passedwithout leaving a trace of his being, not one visible DNA coil tocommemorate his time in the world.Put Laurie, Clara and Marielletogether in the same room, and you'd think that Marielle had simplybudded off two children without any aid at all from her husband—athought Laurie infinitely preferred to the reality.The old man wasgone.
Still,Laurie wished he could break into that lunatic run, less for joynow than a primitive desire to get away.From what, he wasn't sure.He took a side street from Holborn into the classier neighbourhoodof Goldsworthy Square, with its pavement cafés anddesigner-furniture stores.There were also some car showrooms, notforecourt places but the type with their wares behind glass,precious and unattainable.
All except one sunset-red Mercedes SL R-107, sitting alone ona ramp by the roadside.The delivery truck was just pulling away.Asalesman was emerging from the showroom's glossy interior,manoeuvring a sign that declared she was the Bell's classic deal ofthe week.Laurie, without even seeing the price tag, couldn't helpbut agree.He stopped short.She might as well have had a vanityplate that readChristine.
Thesalesman gave him an expert, not unkindly onceover.He balanced thesign on its end, as if aware it wasn't destined to get muchfurther.“Bit of a dream girl, then, sir?”
Laurieconsidered the question.He'd always admired the Roadsters, withtheir squared-off fenders and long, racy nose, but a dream?Hardly.He could have had ten for the asking while under his father's roof,and as Sasha had said, neither he nor King Lear really needed a carat all, as long as they were living in Bloomsbury and not on theblasted heath.“I'm not sure,” he said thoughtfully.“She isnice.”
“And sweet as a nut, too.Full service history and a year'sMOT.”The salesman gave Laurie another assessing glance.“Well.Wepride ourselves on no-pressure business here at Bell's.I'll leaveyou think about it, and I'm glad to say we offer extremelyfavourable terms to clients who want to spread costs.”
Lauriefrowned.He recoiled a little, then drew himself up.“That won't benecessary,” he said, his vowels clipping reverb off the glass.“Canyou expedite the paperwork?I'm in rather a rush.”
Thesalesman said nothing, but spread his hands in a manner thatsuggested the paperwork could be managed at any speed Lauriedesired.
“Good.Get her down off the ramp.I’ll take her rightnow.”
***
In aforest outside Cluj-Napoca, Sasha waited.He knew the scene well bynow.It was always cold, always raining.The same veils of mistalways hung among the pines.Five or six battered jeeps were parkedon the far side of the clearing, well out of view of the road.They'd brought a dozen men out to this lonely place—enough for ajury, though no real justice would be meted out here.The numberwas a formality.It concealed the purpose of the kangaroo courtsthat sprang up in the forest whenever an errant member of theghetto mafia needed to be dealt with.The Roma policed themselves,as their leaders would point out whenever government or state triedto move them on, take from them even their miserable cityencampment in the mahala.Their rules were strict.Those who brokethem met the forest jury.
Ahanging party, no more and no less.Sasha leaned against the tree.He didn't try to run, having learned by now that his bones wouldturn to lead weights before he could get anywhere.He had his role,his function, and he had to stay.
Thejurors pulled a thirteenth man out of the back of one jeep.He wastall and thin, his ragged clothes marked with blood from thebeating he'd sustained.His face and head were covered by a thickblack hood, but that couldn't save Sasha from knowing who he was.Sasha watched while the jurors marched him to the centre of thecircle, then dragged the hood off to reveal the rope already loopedaround his neck.
Browneyes, hollow with suffering, met Sasha's.“Alexandru,” he saidbrokenly.“My boy.”And Sasha, helpless, in the grip of nightmare'scold coercion, began to recite the evidence against him.
“Sasha.Sasha!”
Sashasucked a breath.He held on to a pine branch at shoulder level andlooked around for the source of that voice.Things were bad enoughwithout Laurie on the scene.Laurie would put on a one-man show totry and distract the jury, transform the trees to the Forest ofArden and chase himself round it as Orlando and Rosalind in turn.Failing that, he wouldn't think twice about jumping in the way of abullet.“Laurie, get out of here!Go!”
“Not a chance.Come on, Sash.Just a little bit further.Wakeup.”
Oh, God,they would kill him.Once they'd finished with Stefan, taken hispoetry and freedom-fighter spirit and lynched the whole lot, theywould find Laurie and do the same to him.Sasha clutched the branchin panic, wondering why it gave beneath his fingers, why it waswarm and had a strong pulse beating hard down the core of it.“Laurie, run!”
“Even if I wanted to, love...”The voice was very close now.Right up against Sasha's ear, and for some reason rough withdiscomfort and amusement.“Even if I wanted to, you've kind of gotme.”
Sashawoke up.He snatched his hand off Laurie's upper arm and watched inhorror while the fingerprints he'd left turned white, then scarlet,then began to darken with bruising.“Oh, fuck.”
“It's all right.You can always hang on to me.”
Fallingback against the pillows, Sasha lay gasping.His heart waspounding, his stomach knotted tight.His armpits, belly and spinewere soaked with sweat, and underneath it all was a draining,absolute exhaustion.“Our programme of waking me up from my dreamsis...really working well, isn't it?”
Laurieleaned over him.He squeezed out a flannel in a bowl of iced andpressed it to Sasha's brow.“It's okay.We'll getthere.”
“This is the third night in a row.”
“That doesn't matter.”
“And this is...the fourth time tonight.Isn't it?”
“As often as it takes.And now you talk to me.”Laurie foldedback the duvet.He took the flannel gently down Sasha's midriff,then undid his pyjama cord and plied the cloth over his stomach.“That was the deal, handsome.I wake you up from the screamingheebie-jeebies five times a night, and as a reward, I get to hearwhat they're about.”
