“What is it?I can sort it out, I promise.”
“No, you can't.I have a job too.”
Lauriebarely stopped himself short of an impatient laugh.John Kucharskihad helped Sash find work, but it had been voluntary, more a typeof therapy for the traumatised new immigrant than seriousemployment.Things had changed since then, Laurie knew,but...
“Do you want to hear about it?Because you sure as hell neverask me these days.”
“What?”
“I'm a C-grade officer in Romanian Immigration Services.I gotmy advocacy diploma last month.And last week I found a tiny legalloophole in a deportation case.Do you want to hear aboutthat?”
“Uh...Yes.Christ, why didn't you tell me about thediploma?”
“You were being Bertram.The guy's name is Yosiri Cuza, apolitical refugee from Bucharest.He runs a grocer's shop in SouthNorwood.Nice wife, three kids, works all the hours God sends.Ifound out that one of the witnesses against him has a history ofpersecuting immigrants.In fact he was one of the mob that raidedBirchwood camp two years ago, with—”
“With my father.”
“Yes, although I didn't mean to say that.Laurie, what's gonewrong with us tonight?”
Lauriedidn't answer.He was looking at his own hollow ghost.There was areflective cabinet against the far wall.They'd done pretty well intwo years, he and Sash, to get from paper cups to Jasper Westonglassware.Laurie's image drifted uneasily among the bright coloursand long elegant stems, but this mirror told him, just like theshop windows in High Holborn, that he was flesh of Marielle'sflesh, nothing more.Still, he really wanted a drink, and not thesparkling froth he and Sasha poured into their Weston flutes.No, ameaty scotch, anaesthetising, big enough to satisfy even thebestial drunk who had cast this shadow across his life.“I don'tknow what's wrong.Go on about Yosiri Cuza.”
“Are you even listening?”
“Yes.”
“The point is that I can help him.He's willing to talk, butonly to me.I have to stay here and see the case through.And evenif I didn't—it's my job, Laurie.I like it.I value it as much asyou do yours.”
You can take mine and shove it off Beachy Head.The one goodthing about it was that I could use it to save you.Laurie pushed off the kitchen counter in a spasmof despair.“For fuck's sake.Can't you take some leave—asabbatical?Comeon, Sash.There's a whole new world waiting for us out there.They're rushing my visa through.They'll do the same with yours ifI ask them.We can fly out straight away.”
“Youcan.”Sasha got up.He shoved thechair neatly back under the table and turned to face Laurie fullon, eyes flashing.“On second thoughts, no you can't.It's Charlieand Mrs G's wedding next week.Don't you dare missthat.”
“Okay.I won't, if you'll just agree to—”
“No.You haven't listened to a bloody word I'vesaid.”
Hewalked away.His spine was straight—a beautiful, alien sight toLaurie, who had never seen it turned on him in anger before.Theshadows of the hallway closed around him, and he very softly shutthe bedroom door.
Lauriepulled the chair out again.He sat down, and the lingering heatfrom that stubborn arse felt like the only warmth left to him inthe world.“Fuck,” he whispered, covering his face with his hands.They had done everything together in the course of the past coupleof years, he and Sash.Rented this flat, looked after Clara on hervisits, paid bills and talked for hours about nothing, made lovefor hours more, sat staring mindlessly at the TV when they wereweary, just like anyone else.The one thing they hadn't done in allthat time was have a serious fight.
Laurie'sheart felt like a stone in his chest.His flesh and his ribs achedaround it.He got up at length, struggling against the draggingweight, and carefully took the bullets out of the gun.What thehell had he been doing, keeping an unlicensed Russian pistol in awardrobe drawer with his old socks and Sasha's secret running-awaykit?
One ofthe kitchen cupboards had a lock.Stiffly Laurie knelt in front ofit.Another good reason for not keeping a weapon in the house—theimpulse factor.How many out of Sasha's statistical sample had donethe job for themselves, in an access of misery or guilt, justbecause the means were there to hand?
Shot byyour own gun indeed.His movements slow and clumsy, Laurie lockedthe Makarov away.
Chapter Twelve
Thechurch of St Bartholomew Riverside was quiet in the morning sun.Asmall Victorian masterpiece, it glowed with colours from itspre-Raph stained windows.The scent of beeswax arose from itsstiff, formal pews.After making one last tour of the porch andaisles, Sasha sat down in the back row.
He wasalone.The day was hot, London breaking on the anvil of July.Faintsounds of water filtered up from the Thames, cooling Sasha'sthoughts, and he took a deep breath and then another.The headachepounding at the base of his skull did not recede.Impatiently hedry-swallowed a pill from the last of Olivia's prescription.Hedidn't have time for pain today.
Theflowers smelled wonderful.Sasha had volunteered to get here earlyand supervise their delivery and arrangement, not only Mrs G'smodest carnations but the huge consignment of lilies and rosesLaurie had added to the order.Sasha was no expert, but theluxuriant spring of blossoms from stonework and vases in everycorner of the church looked good to him.Out in the porch, a singlerose was ready for each guest as they arrived, stems taped forbuttonholes and a supply of child-friendly safety pins at theready.Once reminded of the event, Laurie had thrown himself intoit with feverish enthusiasm, consulting secretly with Charlie for alist of things he and Sasha could do to help set the cherry on MrsG's cake.Between them they'd magicked the reception at the localpub into a marquee on Bartholomew's Green, hired a Victorian landaucomplete with driver and glossy chestnut horse to trot thenewlyweds there in style, and arranged for the bride's favouriteboy-band, rejects from a recent talent-show TV series, to come andplay live in the evening.
He andLaurie had carried out most of their tasks separately.The week hadbeen one of the worst of Sasha's life, including his time on thestreets.It was one thing to be alone among strangers, but theaching shell of isolation that had formed around him in his ownflat, with Laurie in the next room or even on the sofa at his side,was new to him.He hadn't thought the universe could hold such acruel pain.
Theyhadn't fought, not after that first explosion.If they had, theshell might have shattered.But Sasha, who had never picked anargument in his life, hadn't known how to start one, and Laurie wasfive miles out, blue eyes fixed on some horizon Sasha couldn'treach or share.Their lives afforded plenty of opportunities forthem to escape one another if they so desired.Until now they'dstuck like glue.But Sasha could work late every night and stillhave caseload left over to occupy him the next day, and Laurie hadbeen spending long hours over in Ealing, where he'd said the IvoryGate studios were.Their mealtimes didn't have to coincide.Theflat had only one bedroom but they could stagger their routine sothat one of them could always be asleep, or doing a creditablefake, by the time the other came to bed.
Theywere civil to one another, of course.They each had their personalcredo about that and could probably have murdered one anotherwithout too much in the way of raised voices or discourtesy.ForSasha each quiet, forced conversation about the weather or theirdaily business had been an exquisite torture.He'd rather havestuck knives into himself.But he hadn't known what else todo.
