So Robin began to run.
He hated it as he did so, he felt like such a coward, but it was the only act he could imagine that didn’t end in catastrophe. For he knew that Ramy, shocked, would follow. Indeed – seconds later he heard Ramy’s footsteps behind him, his hard breathing, the curses he muttered under his breath as they sprinted down Holywell.
The laughter – for there was laughter again, though it was no longer born of mirth – seemed to amplify behind them. The Balliol boys hooted like monkeys; their cackles stretched alongside their shadows against the brick walls. For a moment Robin was terrified they were being chased, that the boys were hot on their heels, footsteps hammering all around them. But it was only the blood thundering in his ears. The boys had not followed them; they were too drunk, too easily amused, and certainly, by now, distracted in pursuit of their next entertainment.
Even so, Robin didn’t stop until they reached High Street. The way was clear. They were alone, panting in the dark.
‘Damn it,’ Ramy muttered. ‘Damn it—’
‘I’m sorry,’ Robin said.
‘Don’t be,’ Ramy said, though he wouldn’t meet Robin’s eye. ‘You did the right thing.’
Robin wasn’t sure either of them believed that.
They were much further from home now, but they were at least back under the streetlamps, where they could see trouble coming from further off.
They walked awhile in silence. Robin could think of nothing appropriate to say; any words that came to mind died immediately on his tongue.
‘Damn it,’ Ramy said again. He stopped abruptly, one hand on his satchel. ‘I think – hold on.’ He dug through his books, then cursed again. ‘I left my notebook behind.’
Robin’s gut twisted. ‘On Holywell?’
‘In the Bod.’ Ramy pressed his fingertips against the bridge of his nose and groaned. ‘I know where – right on the corner of the desk; I was going to place it on top because I didn’t want the pages crumpled, only I got so tired I must have forgotten.’
‘Can’t you leave it until tomorrow? I don’t think the clerks will move it, and if they do we could just ask—’
‘No, it’s got my revision notes, and I’m nervous they’ll make us do a recitation tomorrow. I’ll just head back—’
‘I’ll get it,’ Robin said quickly. This felt like the right thing to do; it felt like making amends.
Ramy frowned. ‘Are you sure?’
There was no fight in his voice. They both knew what Robin would not say out loud – that Robin, at least, could pass for white in the dark, and that if Robin came across the Balliol boys alone, they wouldn’t give him a second glance.
‘I won’t be twenty minutes,’ Robin vowed. ‘I’ll drop it outside your door when I’m back.’
Oxford took on a sinister air now that he was alone; the lights were no longer warm but eerie, stretching and warping his shadow against the cobblestones. The Bodleian was locked, but a night clerk noticed him waving at the window and let him in. He was, thankfully, one of the staff from before, and he let Robin into the west wing without question. The Reading Room was pitch-black and freezing. All the lamps were off; Robin could only just see by the moonlight streaming in at the far end of the room. Shivering, he snatched Ramy’s notebook, shoved it into his satchel, and hurried out the door.
He’d just made it past the quadrangle when he heard whispers.
He should have quickened his pace, but something – the tones, the shape of the words – compelled him to stop. Only after he’d paused to strain his ears did he realize he was listening to Chinese. One Chinese phrase, uttered over and over again with increasing urgency.
‘Wúxíng.’
Robin crept cautiously around the walled corner.
There were three people in the middle of Holywell Street, all slim youths dressed entirely in black, two men and a woman. They were struggling with a trunk. The bottom must have dropped out, because what were unmistakably silver bars were strewn across the cobblestones.
All three glanced up as Robin approached. The man whispering furiously in Chinese had his back to Robin; he turned around last, only after his associates had gone stock-still. He met Robin’s eyes. Robin’s heart caught in his throat.
He could have been looking in a mirror.
Those were his brown eyes. His own straight nose, his own chestnut hair that even fell over his eyes the same way, swooping messily from left to right.
The man held a silver bar in his hand.
Robin realized instantly what he was trying to do. Wúxíng – in Chinese, ‘formless, shapeless, incorporeal’.[18] The closest English translation was ‘invisible’. These people, whoever they were, were trying to hide. But something had gone wrong, for the silver bar was only barely working; the three youths’ images flickered under the streetlamp, and occasionally they seemed translucent, but they were decidedly not hidden.
Robin’s doppelgänger cast him a plaintive look.
‘Help me,’ he begged. Then in Chinese, ‘Bāngmáng.’[19]
Robin didn’t know what it was that compelled him to act – the recent terror of the Balliol boys, the utter absurdity of this scene, or the disorienting sight of his doppelgänger’s face – but he stepped forward and put his hand on the bar. His doppelgänger relinquished it without a word.
‘Wúxíng,’ Robin said, thinking of the myths his mother had told him, of spirits and ghosts hiding in the dark. Of shapelessness, of nonbeing. ‘Invisible.’
The bar vibrated in his hand. He heard a sound from nowhere, a breathy sigh.
All four of them disappeared.
No, disappeared was not quite the word for it. Robin didn’t have the words for it; it was lost in translation, a concept that neither the Chinese nor the English could fully describe. They existed, but in no human form. They were not merely beings that couldn’t be seen. They weren’t beings at all. They were shapeless. They drifted, expanded; they were the air, the brick walls, the cobblestones. Robin had no awareness of his body, where he ended and the bar began – he was the silver, the stones, the night.
Cold fear shot through his mind. What if I can’t go back?
Seconds later a constable rushed up to the end of the street. Robin caught his breath, squeezing the bar so hard that pangs of pain shot up his arm.
The constable stared right at him, squinting, seeing nothing but darkness.
‘They’re not down here,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘Try chasing them up Parks . . .’
His voice faded as he sprinted away.
Robin dropped the bar. He couldn’t maintain his hold on it; he was barely aware of its presence anymore. He didn’t so much as use his hand and open his fingers as he did violently thrust the bar away to try to separate his essence from the silver.
It worked. The thieves rematerialized in the night.
‘Hurry,’ urged the other man, a youth with pale blond hair. ‘Shove it in your shirts and let’s leave the trunk behind.’
‘We can’t just leave it,’ said the woman. ‘They’ll trace it.’
‘Pick up the pieces then, come on.’
All three began scooping the silver bars off the ground. Robin hesitated for a moment, arms hanging awkwardly at his sides. Then he bent down to help them.
The absurdity of this had not yet sunk in. Dimly he realized that whatever was happening had to be very illegal. These youths could not be associated with Oxford, the Bodleian, or the Translation Institute, or else they wouldn’t be skulking about at midnight, clad in black and hiding from the police.
18
無 (