Lauriesnatched a breath.He remembered long blank weeks alone in his flatat East Hill, waiting every night for a shy tap on the door thatnever came.Never, because Sasha had taken himself and his worldand all its dangers away, far away from Laurie, running like a foxrather than stop to talk to him for five bloody minutes about whatwas going on his life—his real life, not the sweet, censored,fiercely controlled part of it he chose to share.
Allright.Sasha wouldn't tell.Laurie could keep his secrets too.There were alternatives to telling.John Kucharski's office hadclearly thought so when they'd failed to inform Laurie the Petricacase had collapsed, failed to offer protection to the witness who'dbecome—what had Gunari said?—a bird awaiting Stefan's claws.“Gunari,” he said sharply.“How can I get a weapon?”
“A weapon?I thought you came here for darozha,friend.”
“Where can I buy one?”
“In sports shop.In Harrods.Get licence and go shooting withfriends, eh?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yes, yes.I know.”Gunari scraped the herbs into a neat pile.He bagged them and handed them to Laurie, who pocketed themblindly.“Come with me.”
***
How longshould the darozha cook?Laurie had no idea.For all he knew, MamaLuna had simmered it for days over her fire in the Birchwood camp.Or maybe Gunari had given it five minutes in the microwave.Deciding on traditional methods, Laurie put the leaves into asaucepan, one of the nice ones Mrs Gibson had given him when he'dmoved in here.Perhaps her kindly influence would help.If so muchdepended on the intent of the creator, he was at a bit of a loss.He couldn't focus.He tried to concentrate on Sasha, sleep andhealing: toyed with the idea of reciting the Macbeth witches' sceneover the brew.
No good.All he could think about was the lump of metal on the kitchentable.A Makarov, Gunari had told him it was when he'd sold it tohim.A good close-range pistol.It could have been a Flintlock, forall Laurie knew about its merits.It was a gun.
He'dbrought it out of the restaurant tucked down the back of his jeans.He'd driven through central London with it hidden in the Mercedes'glove compartment.He'd thought the car had survived her ordealuntil he'd got out at home and crossed the road.She'd been keyedall down her passenger side, one long mark of envy and contempt.Laurie had noticed it.The day's one item of post was a penaltycharge from the council for illegal use of a resident's permit.Laurie had left this unread on the hall table.He'd bought a gun.Stefan Petrica was loose on the streets, so Laurie had bought a gunand was ready for him.Stefan could strike at any minute.Until hedid, Laurie had to hide the fucking thing.
It wasso damn heavy.Laurie had thought guns were made of lightweightmaterials these days.Maybe he was just used to props, or perhapsthis was a relic from some Eastern European conflict of decadesbefore.It was awkward in his hands.Already he'd dropped it,thanking God that Gunari had removed the clip and sold him thebullets separately.He put the lid onto Mrs G's saucepan, picked upthe Makarov in both hands and carried it into thebedroom.
Itwasn't the type of flat where you could easily conceal things.Elaborate in its structure, it had been refitted with modern,simple equipment.Clean lines, no dusty hidey-holes...Swallowinghard, Laurie reflected how much he'd have liked a good deep closethimself today, somewhere to curl up and vanish.He put the gun onthe bed.Then he couldn't bear the sight of it there, not on thequilt where Sash had laid him down and loved him.He snatched itaway, set it on the window sill and looked up and down the streetto see if he needed it yet.
No.Theshadows of the plane trees lay quietly on the warm pavements.Laurie got hold of the dry-mouthed panic trying to overwhelm him.He had time.Sasha wouldn't be back for hours.Laurie could callhim later, arrange to meet him outside Pentonville and drive himhome.Yes, plenty of time...The darozha could cook, and Lauriecould work out a sensible, sane place to hide the gun.
He wasmeant to be at rehearsal.The realisation hit him like a brick,then promptly sank into the swamp of all the things he suddenlydidn't care about.Twenty four hours ago he'd have had a fit overit: missing second rehearsal on a play of this importance hadcareer-ending potential.The wardrobe looked promising.With onehand Laurie opened the door and began moving clothes around.Withthe other he picked Sir Ralf's admin number out of his phone'smemory, dialled, and tersely told the woman who answered that hewas ill and wouldn't be back until Monday.
Thewardrobe had a small set of drawers set into it.Laurie wasn't surehe'd ever noticed them.They weren't much use for shirts orjumpers—too cramped—but maybe socks and shoes were meant to go inthere.Opening the first couple, Laurie smiled in spite of hiscrawling anxiety.There, laundered and neatly folded, were twoyears' worth of his discarded socks, pairs he was sure he'd gottired of and dumped.A few of his T-shirts, too.Sash must haverescued them.God only knew why, but it was a sweet gesture, and hepatted the garments before closing up the drawers, touching theplaces those competent, loving hands must have touched.
Thebottom drawer was larger.Sasha's housekeeping skills hadn'tstretched this far and it was full of the things you'd expect in anaveragely untidy home.Empty shoe boxes, unnecessary cans ofleather spray that shop assistants invariably convinced Laurie heshould buy.At the very back, some other clothes folded tightlyinto a plastic bag.This might do.Careful not to disturb anything,he lifted out the bag.The gun might fit behind or beneath it.Laurie slept on the side of the bed nearest the wardrobe, and itwouldn't be such a long reach.What he would do if Stefan made hismove on the streets, he had no idea.Was he planning to carryit?
Oh,Christ.The gun had been a stupid impulse, fuelled by terrors hecould barely understand.Just like the car, though the penaltiesfor owning an unlicensed weapon would be harder to bear than MrsMatusek's parking fine.The best he could do was conceal the thing,talk to Sasha tonight about what he'd learned from Gunari.They'dtackle the problem together.And even with Kucharski gone, the twoyounger officers under his command had been decent.If they werestill at Interpol, they'd help.
The baghad been carefully taped up, but a bit of fake fur was escaping.Idly Laurie touched it.He recognised this, didn't he?The furthestextreme of fake, a kind of scratchy nylon.It was used to line thehoods of cheap coats.
Lauriesat down on the bedroom floor.He leaned his back against theradiator, cold at this time of day, pressing steely bars into hisspine.Very gently, making sure nothing tore, he pulled the tapeoff the bag.
Insidewas Sasha's parka.He'd been wearing it when Laurie had first seenhim, that bitter night on the Strand.It had been among the pile ofclothes Sash had stripped off for him in a desperate bid to pay forthe food and shelter Laurie would have given him freely a thousandtimes over, and even when Laurie had persuaded him to take newerthings to wear underneath, he'd put the ragged coat on top of themall—his disguise, his shield.In the bag beneath it were a pair ofcamo-print trousers Laurie also recognised, and a cashmere sweaterof his own, his first gift to the half-starved, hypothermic boy.He'd sent him back into the world with a piece of himself next tohis skin, and no more tangible hope than that of ever seeing himagain.
Theclothes in the bag hadn't been shoved there and hidden.Theysmelled fresh.Sasha had laundered them, folded them, put themdeliberately aside in a place where he'd thought Laurie would neverlook, just as Laurie was about to hide his illegal gun.They'd bothhad contingency plans.
It waspretty funny that they'd both come up with the same place.Lauriestarted to laugh about that, and then a hot-bladed grief twisteddeep in his guts and he curled up, pressing his brow to one knee.Sash wouldn't chat to him sensibly if he found out about Stefan.The pair of them wouldn't go off hand in hand to Kucharski's oldoffice at Scotland Yard to seek protection.No.Sasha wouldrun.
Lauriesat up and wiped his eyes.This was stupid—he had no time to cry,and his past two years had been so happy that he'd almost forgottenhow.Sasha loved him.That meant he would do anything, includingdisappearing forever into the night, to draw danger away from him.And that meant in its turn that Laurie had to find a way to preventhim.
He pulled out his phone from his back pocket, glad he'dremembered to lock its screen.It often called Sasha when he sat onit, and Sash never minded even those calls: would diligently returnthem, and they would laugh at Laurie's carelessness and talk for aminute about the weather, their plans for the night, anything atall, just short sweet contact, a reminder that the other was there.A harsh sob shook Laurie to the bone.He tapped up the email fromIvory Gate Studios, examined the garishBlood Moonbanner adorning its headerline.He hit reply.The blank screen fazed him for a moment—all itspossibilities—and then he began to type.
A doorrattled downstairs.Laurie's message was finished, but his touch tothe send key was barely voluntary, a muscle twitch.Who the hellwas that?He scrambled to his feet, half blinded by the tears hehadn't known were still falling, his breath still fractured withsobs.He picked up the unloaded gun.
Chapter Nine
“Laurie?Are you home, love?”
Lauriegrabbed the bag.He shoved it into the back of the drawer andpushed the gun in behind it.He closed the wardrobe door and stoodup straight, seizing one moment to run his hands through his hairand wipe his eyes on the sleeve of his shirt.“Yes!”he called outbrightly, finding a smile to match his voice.“How come you're backat this hour?Did they let all the prisoners go?”
“Nope.They all learned English and didn't need me any more.And you?Did the theatre burn down from your talentalready?”
