Chapter 42
Nine million people in this city, and not one I can trust.
I’m on a coach, hauling out of town along the same route I took a few days ago.
I got out of the hospital all right. The police officer didn’t seem especially interested in giving chase, not that I knew it as I threw myself down two stairwells and crashed out of a side gate and onto a main road, where I managed to snag a passing bus going to Victoria, and then a coach heading south-west.
I blagged the coach fare, which is something.
I know I never steal personal possessions, but on this occasion I think MegaCoachCorp can give me a break.
I’m masked up, still sweating even though I sat for twenty minutes waiting for us to set off, and nobody’s paid me the slightest bit of attention.
Unless there’s a discreet spy on board, I’m safe for the next couple of hours.
I go through my pockets again. I’m not exactly overburdened with useful tools.
Two last lock-picks. Throwaway phone, passport in someone else’s name, light wallet.
No keys – never any keys, of course. The wallet contains a few bank cards, all of which will get me traced and netted within ten seconds of using them.
The bundle of notes I always carry around as insurance is a shadow of its former self.
I have … sixty-five quid. Not much in this economy.
Jack Reacher gets by with less, an accusing voice says. It sounds a bit like Em.
Jesus. I just killed someone. All right, I might as easily have been killed myself, but I’d forgotten about the guy until now, believe it or not.
Subsequent events got in the way. I saw a glimpse of his face as we went over the railing together – nothing but surprise on it.
But I’m not feeling guilty, not yet, at least. He’s the one who came into our home with a big knife.
I wish he’d told us what he wanted. Why would a British spy want us dead?
The feeling keeps occurring to me that I’m stuck in a room, and every time I stop focusing on the walls, a giant hand pushes them in a bit. The room is getting smaller and smaller. I know there’s a door somewhere, but I can’t quite see it yet.
Keep looking for that door, Al. Keep on looking. I wonder if the girls have been arrested, and fall asleep.
I wake on the outskirts of the town I’m heading to, press the button almost too late, apologise to the driver, who had to slam on the brakes, stumble down and out. Over a decade avoiding this dump, and now I’m back for the second time in a few days.
The ten minutes I spend getting to the apartment block should be twenty, but I’m pacing fast, neither looking nor feeling my best. Even so, once I’m there, it’s a small matter to bluff through the main door – tailgating this time, some twenty-somethings back from the pub who hardly notice me as I slip in behind them.
I’ve decided to swallow my pride and seek help from the one person in the world who can’t refuse it.
Footsteps approach the door and stop just on the other side of it. I can see the light of the peephole eclipsed as he puts his eye to it.
A voice says: ‘Who is it?’
‘It’s me.’
The door opens, and my brother looks at me. He’s surprised, to put it mildly.
‘Hi, Fred. Long time no see.’
‘What are you doing here? Are you here because of the …’ And then he remembers he’s not speaking to me, hasn’t spoken to me for years, and clams up.
‘Can I come in?’
‘Why?’
‘I’m in trouble.’
‘That means nothing in this family. As you know.’
I try to take that in the spirit of constructive criticism I’m sure was intended. ‘Yes, I know. But I mean, real trouble. Like, “someone wants me dead” trouble.’
‘Who wants you dead?’
‘I’m not sure. I may not have met them yet.’
‘If they want you dead they probably know you pretty well.’
‘Very funny.’
The next door along the corridor opens, and some busybody neighbour sticks their head out to see what the noise is. Fred gives them an appraising look – more trouble to have me outside the flat or in it? – and eventually stands back from the door. He’s still looking a little shocked.
I make the usual noises of appreciation as I enter, but Fred’s not buying it. He gestures to the armchair, puts a glass of water down in front of me, and takes the dining chair for himself. ‘You look like shit.’
‘Yeah, well, it’s been a long decade.’ He gives nothing away. ‘OK. Here’s what happened.’
You would definitely recognise the version of events I tell Fred over the next ten minutes.
It’s as if I strained everything you’ve just read and boiled it for a bit, to kill off any suggestion of impropriety.
I don’t give him the full account. But I do tell him about Davy’s house, and about Mr Bowling Ball, and about Nevis.
I don’t mention whose passport I left the country on.
As I talk, he seems not to be listening.
I use everything at my disposal: I give him pity, humour, inspiration …
None of it works. It’s like I’m speaking to a jury of one, a jury who’s already received clear instructions from the bench.
The confidence drains from me, and I feel myself shrinking even further in his sight. Eventually, I finish, and sit back.
‘So you’re not here for any other reason.’
‘Fred, do I need another reason? People are trying to kill me. Will you help?’
He tells me straight out, at least. ‘No.’
‘What? Why not?’
‘Because the police got here before you.’ For a horrible moment I think he’s about to say, ‘… and they’re here tonight!
’ like Michael Aspel in This Is Your Life, and the detective and his colleague Kate are about to climb out of the kitchen cupboard, arm in arm.
But Fred keeps talking: ‘They came here a few days ago. They know who you are. They know you killed this man Harcourt. And I’m not going to help you get away with it. ’
‘Fred. Please. I haven’t killed anyone.’ (Yes, I know this is a lie, as of about four hours ago. What I mean is, I haven’t killed the specific guy the police think we have.) ‘You know me, I hardly even shoo pigeons. You think I shot someone in cold blood? What the hell is my motivation?’
He just picks up his phone and addresses it: ‘Timer: ten minutes.’ It squawks confirmation back at him. ‘When that alarm goes off, I’m ringing the police and telling them you’re here.’
‘Fred. This is crazy. I’m your brother.’
He looks at me. ‘Do you know what Mum and Dad did, after you left?’
‘This isn’t about—’
‘They hoped. For years, they tried getting in touch, until you changed your number, and after that they just hoped you’d come back.’
‘There were things going on, things that—’
‘Oh, yeah, things in your life. You were nineteen, you silly twat. Everyone’s messed up at nineteen. You haven’t asked after either of them, I note.’
‘Someone tried to kill me tonight, and you—’
‘Dad’s in a home, just so you know.’
That gives me a knock.
‘What?’
‘He went in three years ago. In case you’d ever wondered.’
‘He’s not old.’
‘Ten years older than when you last saw him. Mum couldn’t cope.’
I look my parents up occasionally, just to see if they’re in the same place – I don’t contact them, you understand, just observe from a distance.
The last time I checked, they were both fine.
Has it really been more than three years since then?
In the pit of my stomach, I know it’s been more like five.
You know how it is. It’s like going to the dentist. You keep thinking you’ll make the appointment. You never do.
I’ve been sitting in silence for about thirty seconds before I think of the obvious question. ‘What about Mum?’
‘Don’t contact her. She thinks you’re dead. Easier if you are.’
I don’t have much to say to any of this. After a while, he glances at his phone. ‘Six minutes to go.’
‘Why are you doing this, Freddy?’
‘I’m not doing anything. I’m just having a normal life.’
‘Enjoying it?’
‘Not really. I work in a shop. My dad’s in a home.
My only brother left a decade ago and my mum thinks he’s dead.
But I’m in a choir. I read a lot. There are worse ways of living.
’ He’s practically shouting the subtext: like breaking into other people’s houses.
After a long pause, he speaks again. ‘Did you even get my messages?’
‘What messages?’
‘You should have had some texts.’
I get my phone out and open the messages, the Time is running short and the I know who you really are, all that menacing crap. ‘This was you? Jesus, you nearly gave me an aneurysm.’ He shrugs. ‘Why?’
‘I hired an investigator to track you down. He got both your phone numbers, but couldn’t trace you. He even set up a honey trap of a job with your firm, although you didn’t go for it.’
Bloody hell. Jasmine wasn’t trying to set me up, she was actually passing on a message. I owe her an apology once this is over. And Fred still hasn’t answered my question.
‘But why track me in the first place? If your life was so much better without me in it?’
He looks around, not meeting my eye. ‘Curiosity, I guess. When I saw you at the door, I thought you’d worked it out and you were coming back to …’ He tails off, and shrugs. After a silence, he checks his phone. ‘Four minutes.’
I waste another two minutes sitting in silence, thinking about Dad, and wondering what Mum is doing right now. Eventually I remember I’ve got quite a lot else on.
‘Fred. People are trying to kill me. And a lot of other people want me arrested for something I didn’t do. I’m asking you one more time to just … help.’
‘Absolutely not. But if you like, I’ll give you a snack for wherever you’re going. You look done in. I don’t think that counts as aiding and abetting.’
‘What have you got?’
‘Should have a Kit Kat somewhere.’ I laugh, then realise he’s serious. He goes to the kitchen, opens a tin, and hands one over as he returns. Orange flavour. I pocket it.
I get up and move to the door. ‘I’m really sorry, Fred.
But I didn’t do it. Not this particular thing, I mean.
I know I screwed the rest up.’ He shrugs, and I don’t blame him.
He leans past me and holds the door open.
I stand in the corridor, looking back, trying to work out what to say to him for the last time.
At that moment, his phone alarm sounds. He props the door open with his foot, takes a business card from his wallet, enters a number, and dials.
With the phone to his ear, he says, ‘See you.’
‘See you, Fred. Oh, one more thing. Almost forgot.’ I dig in a pocket and hand over his passport. ‘I could have used this to flee the country, just so you know.’
At the other end of the line, someone has clearly just answered, because he’s caught for a moment between staring at me and listening to his phone. Then he says, ‘Hello?’ and looks to the side, and I turn and head down to the dark street.