Josh
Chapter Four
Coldness washes over me, a mix of fear and excitement. Instinctively, I check to see if anyone is watching. Satisfied no one is, I move on to decipher the next two groups of emojis, just in case this first one was a coincidence.
TRUST
NOBODY
The cypher with their warning was intentional. I move quickly onto the rest, and Albert’s final instructions are revealed.
IFIDON’T
RETURN
GOTOITALY
FIND
LURIABIO
INEAGLE
HOUSE
STAYOFFLINE.
When I am finished decoding, my mind is reeling. My heart beats faster, my breathing deepens and my senses sharpen. Survival kicks in. Incredibly, I find the sensation liberating, invigorating even. Within seconds, I have scanned every person on the upper deck for potential threats.
The only line of emoticons that doesn’t make sense is ‘Luriabio’. Perhaps it’s a person or a place. Eagle House makes perfect sense now. The derelict building site in Italy. But the words that keep echoing in my head are ‘trust nobody’.
What did Albert know?
When I look up and out of the window, the bus is pulling into Oxford Street.
I scan the road outside, curious to see the turning for Callico House, wondering if the secrets concern Albert’s family.
As the bus crawls along past the turn-off, I crane forward, pressing my forehead against the cold glass, only to spy three white squad cars in the distance, at the far end of the road leading into the heart of Mayfair, sitting outside the entrance to Callico House, their lights flashing.
I thrust myself back in my seat, even though nobody could possibly recognise me from the road, let alone the house.
An instinct to survive seems to crystallise inside me, even if I have no idea right now what the danger might be.
I’m tempted to call Alice, but whenever I think about the emojis for ‘trust nobody’, I hear Albert’s voice.
When he gave firm advice, I listened. Instead of getting off at my stop, I remain on the bus and continue toward Tufnell Park.
My mind keeps going over what he could have uncovered.
Albert specialised in all manner of viral disease prevention and cure.
Sylvie Leblanc’s specialism was respiratory infections.
She was heavily involved in developing effective vaccines against each variant of COVID, while Stephan Dytrovich spent many years studying genetic lung diseases such as cystic fibrosis and occupational lung diseases.
They all sounded similar to me, but Albert told me that in medical circles, they were considered as different as night and day.
If they had all been singled out to be killed, there had to be another reason, something that involved me. Why else send me the secret message?
By the time I reach my stop, I am exhausted trying to hypothesise a solution to make sense of the riddle.
Josh had suggested meeting up outside the Tube station at six.
I can’t go back to Callico House now. How can I, when a place I have always considered stuffy and tedious might prove to be dangerous, or even deadly?
Just after midday, and I now have an afternoon to kill. I need to hear a friendly voice.
“Angel Gabriel. How’s it hanging?” comes Josh’s cheerful voice down the phone line, by way of an old greeting.
“Are we still good for tonight?”
“You bet. Actually, I was going to message you. Instead of hanging around outside the Tube entrance—we’ve both done enough of that in our days—there’s a pub called the Frog and Fox on the high street.
Bit of a dump, but the beer’s decent enough.
I clock off at five, so I’ll meet you there for a quickie at six, and then we can head to my place.
Shan’s working from home, so he’s knocking up some food in your honour. How does that sound?”
“Josh, tell him not to go out of his way. We can order takeout—”
“Are you kidding. He loves showing off. And his food is amazing. Learnt from his Bengali grandmother, so he says. Not that I give a shit as long as he feeds me.”
“And Josh—”
“Of course you can stay over. But you’re on the sofa bed. We don’t do threesomes.”
“Still the funny guy.”
“We had a feeling you might want to get away right now. How long do you need? A week? Two? At least until after the funeral?”
“I’m not going to the funeral—”
“What the fuck!”
“It’s fine. The family don’t want me there, and I don’t want to be anywhere near them. It’s a win-win. Long story.”
“Are you okay, mate? You sound weird. Well, weirder than normal. Must have been a rough ride for you over—”
“It’s not that, Josh,” I say, but then hesitate. “I’ll tell you all about it tonight.”
“Sounds ominous.”
“You have no idea.”
“You in trouble?”
“Not with the law, if that’s what you’re asking. Just some strange things going down.”
“Where are you now?”
“On the bus. Heading into your neck of the woods. Going to find a coffee shop and get some lunch. I’m not going back to the house.”
“Hold on a moment, Gabe.”
There is a pause at the end of the phone, and I hear muffled voices as he converses with someone. Eventually, he comes back to me.
“I just sweet-talked my manager, who I now owe big time. I’m leaving earlier, so that I can meet you at four in the Frog. We’re not doing this over the phone. And I’ll tell Shan to get his arse in gear. Can you make yourself busy until then?”
A wave of gratitude fills me. I know I can rely on Josh. We have been in genuinely tricky situations together in the past and helped each other out. If there is anyone in the world I can actually trust with Albert gone, it’s Josh.
“Perfect. See you at four.”
Five past four, I look up just as he breezes into the pub and stands by the door, peering around. Since the last time I saw him, he has kept himself in good shape. I wave him over and grin when his face splits into a wide smile.
He looks really dope with his trim haircut, but entirely out of character in a corporate dark-grey suit, a deep mauve tie and a crisp white shirt.
“Okay,” he says, standing in front of me, his hands held out on either side. “Get it out of your system. I look like I’m due in court, don’t I?”
I smirk at him and shake my head before pushing a bottle of lager his way.
After remembering to post the solicitor’s envelope to Edward Callico at the local post office, I’d asked Josh to text me his drink order.
Once he has taken a seat opposite, he starts to enthuse about his job, how he was recently promoted to assistant manager for a big hotel chain.
Makes perfect sense. Even when we worked the bars, he was good with the punters and at keeping things running, including helping the manager organise rosters.
I was the one to sort out any trouble—which rarely happened in our bar—and far better in a fight when we were sleeping rough on the streets. We complemented each other well.
Before we get too settled, he tells me, we should save the meaty stuff for the privacy of his home.
I can tell by the excitement in his eyes that he’s keen to hear what I have to tell him, but says he wants to have his partner, Shan—Nishan—listening in as well.
We finish our beers, and he leads me out of the pub.
They live in a basement flat in one of the grids of roads set back from Tufnell Park High Street.
The three-storey terraced house is Victorian, probably built in the mid-to-late nineteenth century.
Like many parts of Greater London, Tufnell Park has undergone significant gentrification.
Albert would probably have known the architect who built this street of identical-but-stylish terraced houses.
Being the basement flat—Josh announces proudly as we enter and descend the few steps into the shaded front garden—they tend to get morning sun flooding the combined living area and kitchen at the rear of the property.
Thankfully, he tells me, their bedroom at the front remains undisturbed by sunlight year-round.
I smile to myself but don’t comment on hearing his enthusiasm about a place he can actually call home and live in legitimately without the police turning up unannounced to turf him out.
We shared a couple of squats and shop doorways in the past, and we were both used to being forcibly shaken awake in the middle of the night and thrown out to wander the streets.
“Shan’s dad bought this and a couple of other houses in the area at auction.
This would have been back in the late nineties,” says Josh, punching a code in and using his thumb to unlock their front door.
Josh has always been hopeless with keys.
“Investment properties. Converted into flats now. As well as his usual job, Shan acts as their landlord, which means we get to live here rent-free. Sweet deal, huh?”
Josh leads me straight through to the back.
Four or five soft-coloured lamps provide accent lighting throughout the cosy room.
I dump my rucksack between the small sofa and a leather beanbag before appraising the room.
Decorated in a distinctly South Asian style, the space features a framed vintage Bollywood movie poster in pride of place behind the couch.
In the corner, lit by a floor lamp, there’s a full-length painting of baked bean cans in the style of Warhol—no doubt Josh trying to put his stamp on the space.
Opposite the seating, most telling of all, they have one of the largest flat-screen televisions I have ever seen—taking up most of the wall—with an array of gadgets and remotes arranged on a long sideboard.
Nishan stands in the well-lit, open kitchen, craning over a pan, the scents of garam masala, turmeric, cinnamon and garlic heavy in the air.
I know I experienced living in the grandeur of a Mayfair mansion, more accustomed to odours of old dust and furniture polish, but standing here in their living space is the first time in as long as I can remember that I have had a sense of what a home could feel like.