Chapter Seven
Sid
Sid fetched himself a coffee, then dove deeper into the mystery of Minxu Peng and found more interesting results online.
He discovered that she’d published some papers that had some crossover with his concept for Lucis. Unfortunately, they were
in Mandarin, so he couldn’t read them, but it deepened his feeling that she was someone of interest specifically to him.
He remembered a Chinese colleague at Oxford complaining about how hard it was to get Westerners to write his name consistently,
and Sid wondered if Minxu Peng had the same problem. He tried searching again, using variations of her name, and stumbled
on a headshot attached to the name Peng Minzhu. Her eyes danced with intelligence beneath a thick fringe of hair. If the photo
was recent, she couldn’t be much older than him and Anya now.
The caption read: “New Appointment to the FX Trading Team.” He read the article. She’d got a job at a foreign exchange trading
desk within a major investment bank, where she was working as a security analyst in the in-house red team. It made sense,
given her background. She’d likely be testing the exchange’s security controls.
His doorbell rang. He jogged downstairs to answer it, but froze when he saw it was his neighbor again. She was peering through the front window, trying to see in. He cursed and wondered if he could make himself invisible if he stood very still, but it was too late. She waved at him.
He opened the door, thinking that he must order a doorbell camera.
“Sorry to bother you again,” she said.
“It’s fine,” Sid lied.
She handed him a package. “This came while you were out this morning.”
“Thanks,” he said. “Appreciate it.” It was a book he’d ordered. He felt guilty for thinking that she was interrupting him
for no reason.
As he was about to shut the door, something from their previous conversation snagged, a possible but not probable coincidence.
Worth asking about, though.
“The woman who lived in our cottage, the one you said disappeared? Did you say she was from abroad?”
“Yes, from China.”
“What was her name?”
“Minnie. Min for short. Why do you ask?”
“Can I show you a photograph?”
He ran upstairs and grabbed his laptop, brought it down, and showed her the headshot of Minxu Peng that he’d found.
“Yes,” she said. “That’s her.”
Anya
I was furious as I paced the basement of the bookshop in Cecil Court. Diana seemed so smug, sitting there in front of me,
telling me things that I didn’t know about my father, trying to get me to do what she and he wanted. Clearly, neither of them
understood me at all.
“I won’t work with him,” I told Diana. “Not for any manuscript. I won’t betray my mum like that. Period. I quit.”
“You can’t,” she said.
“No, I can. I quit.”
“Really, you can’t.”
“I just did.”
I walked out, slamming the door behind me. I was so angry that the pain in my foot almost felt good. I walked in a random
direction, hardly noticing or caring where I was going, just wanting to get away. The streets were swarming with tourists.
I ducked into a side alley that ran behind a row of shops.
Partway down it I heard a car crawling behind me. I sped up to reach a recessed doorway where I could get out of its way and
heard the car speed up, too. I glanced behind me, nervous. It was gaining ground and speed. The wing mirror clipped a garbage
bin and knocked it over.
My gaze met the driver’s, but the car didn’t slow. My body understood what my mind was slow to process: it wasn’t going to
stop. I turned and ran, slipping into the doorway just in time to feel a buffet of air as the car shot past, inches away.
My heart had never thumped so hard.
I peered out. The car was still in the alley, parked about fifty yards up. The reverse lights came on and it began to move
back, gathering speed again. It felt wet, sticky, and warm inside my shoe. My foot was actively bleeding again. I couldn’t
possibly outrun the car. I tried to open the door I was hiding beside, but couldn’t. I slammed myself hard against it and
fell through.
I found myself in a storeroom. Boxes of pasta, flour, canned tomatoes, and huge cans of olive oil lined the shelves, alongside
wine and biscuits. A huge refrigerator hummed in one corner. I looked for a way out. Chunky plastic strips hung over an open
doorway. I pushed through them and found myself in a fancy delicatessen.
“Hey!” a man called out. He and I were behind a counter where prosciutto and salami hung and fresh pasta was stacked onto wooden trays. He was operating an industrial-scale meat slicer. I slipped around the counter to the door, and he shouted again. “Hey! What are you doing?”
I was too afraid to stop. I emerged onto a small street lined with genteel shops. It was free of crowds and I felt very visible,
a moving target. Every step I took left bloody marks on the pavement. I scraped my foot against the curb, trying to wipe the
sole of my shoe clean, and limped on.
There was a tube station down the street, at an intersection, and I headed toward it. About fifty yards away, I saw a black
sedan car turn in, identical to the one that had menaced me.
A van pulled between us, blocking the view. I wasn’t sure if the driver had seen me or not. I crossed the street as quickly
as I could and crashed into a shop whose window display of bolts of fabric and ribbons was as brash and colorful as fireworks.
A woman stood behind a cutting table covered in deep red silk, pattern pieces pinned to it. A tape measure hung around her
neck; half-moon glasses sat halfway down her nose. She held an oversized pair of scissors. “Can I help you?”
“There’s a man.”
It was all I needed to say; she understood.
“In the back,” she said. “The changing area in the corner.”
I did as I was told, finding myself in a room full of haberdashery supplies. In the corner a tiny changing area was enclosed
by a curtain. I pulled it around me, trying to make sure it didn’t gape. I sat on the chair that just fit into the space,
hugged my arms around my chest, and tried not to shake.
Minutes ticked by. I heard nothing from the front of the shop apart from the scratch and snip of fabric being cut, and I began
to doubt myself.
Had I run from the car for no reason? Imagined it was pursuing me? Who had sent it? Diana? How?
She’d told me I couldn’t quit, and the way she’d said it was calm, resigned almost; she had no doubt about it. Was this what she meant? That they’d find me and bring me back?
What the hell was this Institute if you couldn’t leave it?
I jumped at the sound of jangling bells. Someone had come into the shop.
“Can I help you?” the shopkeeper asked. I held my breath.
A woman’s voice answered, “I’m looking for my friend. She’s in a bit of a state. Has she come in, or have you seen her go
past?” She proceeded to give a full description of me. How tall I was, my hair color, exactly what I was wearing. My mouth
dried out. I tried not to make any noise. I was hardly breathing. “We’re really worried about her,” the woman said. “She hasn’t
been taking her meds. She may be showing signs of paranoia.”
My chest started to heave, a panic attack coming on. I clapped my hand over my mouth, smelled fear on my breath. I shut my
eyes.
“I’m afraid I haven’t seen her,” the shopkeeper said. “I’m so sorry. That sounds very worrying. Would you like to leave your
number in case she comes in? I can give you a call if she does.”
“Thank you, that would be great,” the woman said. She sounded so calm, so rational. I might have believed her if I were the
shopkeeper.
“What’s her name?”
“Anya Brown.”
“Good luck finding her.”
It felt like an impossibly long time before the shop door opened and shut again. I heard it being locked. I didn’t dare move
until the shopkeeper pulled back the curtain.
“Did I do the right thing?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
“I knew she was a wrong ’un,” the shopkeeper said.
“How?”
“She didn’t mention your name. And when she did, she told me your full name. Women don’t do that. The names of our female friends roll off our tongues easily.”
“I can’t thank you enough.”
“Should I call the police for you?”
What would I say? That someone tried to run me over? Had they? My gut said yes, I’d certainly thought so at the time, but
could I prove it? I didn’t have the car’s number plate, and I didn’t know if the alleyway had CCTV. I imagined myself telling
an officer that I’d thought I was in danger but had no proof. It didn’t go well. I shook my head. “I’d rather go home.”
“Okay, but you’re hurt.” She was looking at my bloody shoe. “Let’s deal with that first.” I winced as she removed the dressing
and redid it, unwrapping my father’s work, wadding clean cotton over it, binding it with a strip of linen. I eased my sneaker
back on.
“Are you sure you don’t want to stay here a bit longer?” she asked.
I shook my head. I wanted to be somewhere they couldn’t find me. I wanted to call Sid. I felt too vulnerable here.
“You can leave through the back. There’s a footpath. The tube station is just two hundred yards away.”
“I can’t thank you enough.”
“Be safe.”
The footpath behind the shop was narrow, bordered by tall brick walls. At the end, I watched the street for a while before
stepping out. There were no black sedan cars in sight, just taxis, a bus, regular cars.
The tube station wasn’t far, as she’d said, but I’d have to cross the street to reach it. I had to work up the courage to
go for it. I took a deep breath, stepped out, and walked up along the street as fast as I could. I was hoping to dart across,
but traffic was too dense and fast moving. I would have to use the crossing. I jabbed at the pedestrian button and waited
impatiently for the vehicles to stop.
Before the light turned green, a man in dark glasses linked his arm through mine and pulled me against him.
“Hello, Anya,” he said. “Stay calm. Let’s go this way.”