Chapter Twenty Four
Laurie
and Elizabeth sat side by side on the stairs. He had persuaded her
off the doorstep, far enough into the hall to close the door behind
her. From Laurie’s experience of Interpol, they had perhaps ten
minutes before they had to run, and he needed at least five of
them: his heart was racing hard, and he couldn’t stop looking at
her. Her hand was still in his, thin and warm and dry.
“How does he think of me?”
Laurie
didn’t need to ask what she meant. He picked out Sasha’s few words
about her from his memory, glad he could tell her the truth. “As
his mother. He said... He said you ran away with the gypsies. But
Stefan treated you so badly that you couldn’t stand it any more,
and you came back home.”
“He must hate me for leaving him behind.” Her head was bowed,
lank dark hair hiding her face. “He was only a baby. I meant to go
back for him, but...”
“He doesn’t hate you. He told me how you and Stefan used to
teach people, give classes in your house in Bucharest. Then how
Stefan went to jail, and came back different. Cruel and
twisted.”
She shuddered. “He was insane. Christ, I left my
baby with
him!”
Laurie couldn’t take the guilt off her. He couldn’t catch the
billion mirror-glass birds he could still feel in the air around
him, flying the broadband cables, bouncing off satellites, flashing
his own treachery right across the world. “He doesn’t hate you,” he
repeated helplessly. “I don’t think he hates anyone—not even
Stefan.” Not even me.
“I meant to come back for him. But I knew too much for Stefan
to let me live. I had family in Ireland. I went and hid out with
them. And as the years went by and Alexandru got older, old enough
to know what I’d done... I didn’t dare.”
“You dared enough to try and help him when you knew Stefan was
free.” Laurie bit back a smile at the idea of Irish blood in
Sasha’s veins, potently mixed with all that Roma fire. “Why didn’t
you just come to us? I kept seeing you. At first I thought I was
going nuts, then I assumed you were one of Stefan’s
gang.”
“I was afraid. I didn’t want to lead them to you, and I was
scared for my own hide as well—he’d kill me as soon as look at me.
But more than any of that...” She curled over as if her stomach
hurt, tightly clutching Laurie’s hand. “Don’t you see? I left
Alexandru. I never went back. Never touched him, never helped him,
never put one thing into all the growing up he did without me. How
could I just turn up on your doorstep, as if I thought I had the
right to... harvest him somehow, pluck him like a ripe fruit or a
flower?”
“He wouldn’t have seen it like that. You want to come with me
now, though? Help me find him, and if we do—you’ll tell him what
you just told me? Let him see you?”
“I do want to come with you.” Before Laurie could ask about the
rest, she sat up and turned to him—broke into a bright, sad smile
that made Laurie ache with recognition. “I’ve missed so much,
haven’t I? Not only my boy but my... Oh, God. It feels like raiding
the orchard to call you my son-in-law.”
“I would have been. I will be.”
“Look at you. So handsome. But... you need to look different,
if you’re going to run the streets with me. Less...”
“Conspicuous?” Laurie wondered if her refugee life had brought
her into cinemas for shelter; if she’d kindly avoided saying
less like Devlin Steele.
“I can deal with that. Just wait a minute here.”
Laurie
ran silently back upstairs. Sirens were drifting in the distance,
speeding his progress into the bedroom, although Interpol would
scarcely announce their arrival like that. He pulled open the
wardrobe door. There was the drawer where Sasha kept his street
clothes. He glanced inside. Finding it empty scarcely touched him,
even as a nightmare made real: he’d found two empty houses now, and
supposed that part of his worst had already happened. He scanned
the rail for anything else that would do. Most of their gear had
gone to California with them but Sasha had left behind a jacket, a
black woollen one he’d worn for festivals and trips to the
beach.
Laurie put it on. It fit him perfectly. Underneath it his
clothes were just as travel-soiled and anonymous as they needed to
be. He remembered the first night he and Sasha had spent
together—how in the morning he had fantasised that he might put on
Sasha’s street clothes and creep out into the frosty dawn, leaving
Sasha behind, brilliant and beautiful, to enjoy the wealth and
education that had been doing Laurie so little good. He faced
himself in the mirror. Street
boy, he thought. Homeless. Vagabond.
He’d
thought that he couldn’t transform any more, that Devlin Steele had
killed the gift in him. But when he dashed back down the stairs to
meet Elizabeth, she scrambled fearfully to her feet, blinking in
the hallway’s dim light. “Laurie? God. I thought a tramp had broken
in and murdered you.”
“Thanks.”
“No, it’s good. It’s very good. We’d better go, hadn’t
we?”
She was
brave and sweet. Laurie was sure of this much about her by the time
the two of them had made it out of Bloomsbury and onto Euston Road,
following back alleys he’d never seen before, crossing streets
quickly, not looking back. He believed her when she said she’d
shared Stefan Petrica’s crimes as well as his virtues. He didn’t
delude himself about the life such a woman must have led. But he
was way past judging anyone who shared his love for Sasha, and he
would have valued her companionship—her alert, sharp-eyed presence
at his side.
It
wasn’t an option. He understood this as they rounded the last
corner before the Tube station. He stopped dead, instantly enraging
the dozen late commuters riding hard on his heels. This time it was
Elizabeth who drew him aside. “What is it?”
“I need to do something.” Laurie had grabbed Sasha’s satchel on
his way out of the flat. He hadn’t forgotten the envelope or his
obligations. Until now he’d been unsure when he’d have a chance to
discharge them, but now a new thought presented itself, unfolding
like a paper flower in water, so much bigger and more vivid than he
could have predicted. Yes, she was nice. Laurie wished to protect
her. He wanted to divert danger away from her, keep her far out of
harm’s reach, and these feelings were the product of just half an
hour’s acquaintance.
Sasha
had known and loved him for two years. Laurie had never forgiven
him for running away—not the first time, and this second
abandonment had put a knot of rage in his gut so tight it had
hampered his breathing. Understanding burned through him: the
simple knowledge that, in Sasha’s situation, he’d have done exactly
the same himself. Laurie had seen a bloody sparrow do as much,
feigning injury, dragging a wing along a London pavement to draw
off the attentions of a cat.
Why did it have to take bitter experience to bring about the
change? It was the same for most people, he supposed, or the
phrase learning the hard way
wouldn’t carry such a punch. That wasn’t much
consolation. Elizabeth was staring at him expectantly. “I promised
to hand this in for Sasha,” he said, tugging open the satchel. “At
the Immigration Guidance Council. Did you know he worked
there?”
“I’ve seen him coming and going. I didn’t know what he did. Is
it...” She paused, and Laurie saw the poignant glimmer of a pride
she didn’t think she had the right to feel. “Is it something good,
something he likes?”
“He loves it. He does advocacy and translation work for new
refugees. He’s a C-grade officer now—last month he got his advocacy
diploma.”
She
smiled. She took the envelope Laurie put into her hands as if all
her boy’s gifts and achievements had been packaged up inside.
“What’s this?”
“Evidence in a case he was working on, important papers. The
Council’s just round the corner—up here on Gordon Street. I can’t
go in there dressed like this. They know me. They’d know something
was up.”
“You want me to...” She paled. “God, Laurie, no. People like me
don’t go into places like that. I’d never get past the doorman, let
alone...”
“Put your hood back.” When she just stared at him, Laurie
gently did it for her. He was used to coaching scared young actors
into finding their first new skins. It was a matter of deportment
more than anything else, a few adjustments in clothing and an
inward attitude change. “Can you tuck your hair behind your ears?
And undo your hoodie so your nice T-shirt shows? That’s
it.”
“I still can’t. Please don’t ask me. Is it so
important?”
“When he first told me about it, I was so wrapped up in my own
stuff that I didn’t think it was. But tell me what you think.
There’s this guy called Yosiri Cuza. He was some kind of political
activist in Bucharest, and his life was in danger. When he came
here as a refugee, he didn’t speak any English. He got lost in the
system and he disappeared, him and his wife and their three
kids.”
“What happened to them?”
“Nothing exciting. He set himself up as a greengrocer. They had
a little shop, worked hard, learned enough English to get by. But
then...”
“Immigration caught up with them.”
“Yes. Which mightn’t have mattered, because Sash was working on
their case, and he knows all about helping immigrants get refugee
status. But I dragged him off to America in the middle of his work,
and the other side allowed a witness to give evidence—a racist
bastard who should never have got through the courtroom door. And
Cuza and his family were deported.” She was listening to him
attentively. She moved to his touch, barely noticing, when he
straightened her shoulders, put a finger underneath her chin to
make her lift her head. She looked like a courier now, a little
worn out from a long day’s work, but ordinary, trustworthy.
“Sasha’s dug up all the background on this guy. It’s all here in
this envelope—everything to show the trial wasn’t fair, that Cuza
and his family deserve a recall.”
“My son did all that?”
“So you do think it’s important?”
“Yes!” Her brow creased, and Laurie had a glimpse of the
mother-in-law he might have encountered in a different
world—loving, not a bit concerned about his gender, but ready to
rip a strip off him from head to foot if he messed around with her
boy. “Of course it is. He’s helping people, giving them what he
should have had when he first came here. How could you ever have
thought otherwise?”
“I was stupid. And now I’ve screwed up again—I meant to hand
this in on my way from the airport. Elizabeth, I know you’re
scared, but will you do it for me? The office is just—”
“I know where it is.” She shook her head, tucking the envelope
under her arm. “You seem a sweet boy, and I don’t have the right to
say this, but I hope you appreciate Alexandru as you should. Who do
I have to give this to?”
“The IGC chief himself, or his immediate assistant. Not a man
called Alan Briggs, who might try to get it from you. Be careful.
You might have some trouble.”
“Good. I almost hope I do.” Her colour had risen. “Little
paper-pushing men—they have no idea who they’re dealing with. You
will wait for me here.”
That was
a command, not a question. Laurie nodded. He didn’t want any more
spoken promises broken. This charade at best would buy him some
time. He had no doubt that she would come following once her task
was done, but with her blood roused like this she might cause
enough trouble to get tangled in bureaucracy, and that would hold
her up. “Thank you.”
“Don’t stand here like this. Go and huddle in that doorway over
there. Hold your hand out as if you need something—money or food. I
guarantee no-one will notice you then.”
***
Laurie waited. The steps to the Council offices were visible
from where he sat. Elizabeth ran smartly up them. Her head was held
high, her whole demeanour transformed. She disappeared into the
building, and Laurie waited half a minute more: he had to be sure
she was safe, and that Sasha’s parcel had made it at least that far
on its journey. Two worlds were coexisting inside Laurie’s head.
The first one held phrases like the
package doesn’t matter now and
you can see to Mr Cuza for yourself now, can’t
you—things Laurie could say with Sasha safe
and well at his side. He liked that world. In it, he and Sash were
striding through the Bloomsbury streets on their way to work, a
mundane, blessed London morning unfolding all around them, pigeons
flashing upward through the rain.
In the
second world, the empty one, the parcel was Laurie’s last duty. He
scrambled upright, mouth dry, fear as bright as copper rising in
his chest. Again he waited—ten more heartbeats, long enough to be
sure that Elizabeth and her package weren’t about to be thrown back
out wholesale onto the street.
He
slipped out of his doorway. Instead of making for the Tube, he
turned and headed back the way he’d come. As long as he was in full
view on Euston Road, he continued in his role of downcast hobo,
shoulders hunched, hands in his pockets. He threaded the crowds the
way Elizabeth had done—the way of the urban fox, crossing exposed
ground unseen.
That was
Elizabeth’s way. It once had been Sasha’s too, and Laurie had
learned it in their early days together. He could do it if he had
to. It meant buses, Tubes, long hikes between them on foot. It took
time. Laurie ducked into an alley and stood gasping, the
restrictions squeezing his lungs and his heart.
There
was another way. He had begun to mistrust his impulses, and this
one wouldn’t bear examination. All he could say for it was that it
was fast, and his own. Laurie’s way, the thing he was left with
when all other help was gone. When he had to stand alone and
decide. He pushed back the jacket’s hood and ran.