He wasreal.The child he'd been in his father's house, the chameleon histalents had made of him—these things fell away.He was dreadfullyhung over.There had been no sign of Nicole or Wes on the set whenhe had run away, as if having done their worst they had evaporatedlike genies in a fairy tale.He was all alone, face to face withhimself in the dark, the remains of the chemicals in his systemrendering him lucid even as they put him to sleep.His final layerwas Sasha.Laurie slid a finger into the pocket of his jeans,pressing the paper of the note.If Stefan's world devoured Sasha,if Laurie had lost him the old-fashioned way through sheerstupidity and faithlessness, Laurie would be nothing but a flayedand empty remnant, a thing without a surface or a soul.“I'm soscared,” he said aloud, and the little old lady in the seat next tohim, who clearly had no access to the TV, internet or newspapers,patted his hand as if he'd been six years old.“There,” she said.“It's just a bit of turbulence.You're not afraid of that, areyou—a grown-up boy like you?”
Chapter Twenty Three
In London, summer was ending.The leaves were still heavy anddense on the Bloomsbury plane trees, and the traffic still kickedup a stifling dust.Laurie paid the cabbie, and read the messagewith his first breath of home air: a tang, indefinable, coming infrom distant fields through the medium of tired city soil.It's later than you think.
Laurie let his rucksack fall, being careful to keep thesatchel in place.He swayed a little, weariness catching up withhim.He and Sasha had gained time on their journey to the States.That had seemed appropriate to Laurie—magical, almost, getting tolive eight hours of a rainy afternoon over again, this time in WestCoast sun.A good start to a new life, as if the whole of the pastcould be transfigured in the same way.He looked at his watch,which he'd obediently adjusted on the plane when told to do so.He'd traded Californian evening for a fading afternoon: it was fouro’clock, the day devoured by his flight and the time zones.Later, so much later than you think...
He hadcome home.There was nowhere else to start.Perhaps he'd carriedsome frail hope that he would stand here on the pavement, look upto the second-floor flat and see a window cracked open, a shadowpassing behind the glass.The building's façade glared down on him,elegant and blank.If Sasha hadn't been here, the trail was cold.Laurie had nothing.He was poised on the brink of the abyss, theyawning darkness that could swallow a world.
Dry-mouthed, he let himself in.The hallway was quiet, makinghis ears flutter after the noise of the street.He jogged up thestairs, at the last second calling outSasha, as if the name could conjurehim.Everything in the kitchen was exactly as they had left it, thefridge silent, tea towels clean on their rack.Sasha's work, that,of course.A true Romani never left signs of his inhabitation.Ifhe could, he'd told Laurie, he'd have picked the building up andmoved it wholesale, sweeping the ground underneath.
Therewas only one thing slightly out of place.Laurie laid his rucksackand the satchel softly on the table and stood still.Grey lightfrom the overcast day was gleaming on the kitchen cabinets, pickingout their metal handles.Only one of them had a lock.The door toit was intact.The lock itself had scarcely a mark on it.You wouldhave to look closely to see that it had been forced.
Lauriepulled the door open.It didn't resist, its hinges unharmed,everything inside it orderly and untouched.They'd used it for anodd range of things—Sasha's confidential files, their passports andother important paperwork, but napkins and hand towels had alsoaccumulated there, along with the enormous white lawn tableclothMarielle had bestowed upon them as a housewarming gift, three timesbigger than any table they were ever likely to possess.Laurie puta hand beneath it, reached in deep.
Heclosed his eyes.The only thing missing was the Makarov pistol, thegun Sasha hadn't believed for one second was a prop.
What had he said in his note?Thereare some things I have to take care of.Laurie turned from the cupboard and rested his hands on thewindowsill, staring out unseeing into the street.Sasha had beenhere.That was good, he tried to tell himself, as a bone-deeptremor began in his limbs.It meant he was in London, or had been ashort time before.
He was somewhere loose in London with a gun.“Shit,” Lauriewhispered, banging his brow lightly off the window frame.Some things...He'd lefthis Bucharest greengrocer in Laurie's hands, which onlyleft...
Stefan.Stefan Petrica.Laurie had whisked Sasha halfway round the world,not just to keep him from harm but to shake off the harm's veryshadow, the knowledge of danger that would have surely crept intoSasha's nightmares and destroyed him.It hadn't worked.Sasha,hunted fox, had not been able to cast off his vigilance—had foundsomething out, or perhaps Laurie hadn't run far enough, and Petricahad reached a claw even into that sunny far-off world which nowseemed like a dream to Laurie, a bright useless toy.
On thefar side of the street, a figure in a grey hooded top was waiting.It didn't move when Laurie jerked his head up—this time made noeffort to dissolve in shadows or hide.It lifted onehand.
Lauriepushed off from the window sill and ran.The table was in his way:he vaulted it, blind to the grace and the size of the leap.It wasas if all his life had been spent for this moment, all the stuntsand the stagecraft—just this, the need to close the gap betweenhimself and the frail hooded figure in the road.Cold fury seizedhim.For weeks he'd been stalked by this veiled threat of Stefan's.It was time to grab it by the throat.He tore open the front door,got ready to make his wildcat's maze-jump through thetraffic.
“Laurie!”
He spunround.A thin, dark-haired woman was standing at the foot of thesteps.Her arms were folded over her chest, and she'd put back thegrey hood.Laurie stopped himself from grabbing her, though theeffort made him feel sick.“Who the hell are you?”
“He did come here.Alexandru...Sasha.”
“I know he did.”
She wasdesperately familiar to Laurie.Her mouth had a delicate, generouscurve that made him want to kiss it.He shuddered.“Why did youcall him that?Who...”
“I've been watching the house.I've watched both of you, asmuch as I could, ever since I heard Stefan was back in London.Youhave to listen to me.”
Laurielocked a hand round the wrought-iron rail and stared at her.Crowdsof school kids were milling on the pavement, on their way to theBritish Museum or Library: they were jostling her, and Lauriereached out his free hand and drew her out of the way.“Tellme.”
“He came here, and I thought I could stop him, so I waited.Buthe must have gone out the back.”
There is no back, Laurie wanted tosnarl at her.But he was beginning to understand that Sasha didn'tneed one.In San Marco there had been the gardens.Here there wasthe bathroom window and the wall to next door's yard.It woulddo.
“I waited, and then a girl came.She was about eleven ortwelve.She looked a lot like you.There was a woman with her, verystrict and watchful, almost like a guard.They rang the bell of theflat and they waited, but—”
“A girl who looked like me?My sister was here?”
“I don't know for certain.But I think so, yes.”
NowLaurie did take hold of her.His hands closed on her shouldersgently.“My sister and this woman.What became of them?”
“It's what I must tell you.A car came, big, with blacked-outwindows.It stopped by the kerb, and they got inside.”
“Did they want to?Could you see?”
“The woman got in willingly, I think.The little girl...Shewas terrified, or furious.She fought.”
