Beneath the title, bullet-point summaries preceded the separate clauses, all clickable for the full legalese, to any depth required, with sideways links to any part of British law or beyond.
"Just tell me what it says about ownership of goods and shit."
"That's a separate addendum, which can be filled in now or later." Little pointed to the link. "If you don't fill it in, ownership defaults to a fifty-fifty split on pretty much everything. For a fast-track, er, culmination-"
"You mean divorce."
"-it's best to keep to a simple formula."
"Uh-huh. Interesting that we're meeting here instead of your office, Mr Little."
"I asked him," said Maria, "and it is evening."
"Actually, I don't really have an office." Little smiled. "We're a twenty-first century firm. Online anywhere, that's where we work."
The City banks would have disagreed, but they had tens or hundreds of thousands of employees, plus the need for physical security on their tens of thousands of servers. A small law firm with maybe a dozen people might entrust their entire business to cloud computing in the Web; Josh's clients could not.
His fingers flicked fast across the touchboard. There were input fields allowing complex specifications, or simple radio buttons for easy options. Tabbing rapidly through the document, he speed-read bullet points, clicked into two of the detailed pages, then shut down the auxiliary panes, returning to the beginning.
DECLARATION OF FORMAL SEPARATION.
After a long exhalation, he looked at Maria.
"No doubts? That's what you want?"
Curves of tightening muscle around her mouth.
"Yes."
Josh looked straight into her eyes and pressed his thumb down on the reader. He kept his gaze there as Little turned the screen back, sucked in a breath, then said: "You both need to authorise it."
Maria stared back, pushing her own thumb down. Then she broke, looking away, sniffing, not wanting to cry.
"Duly witnessed." Little pressed down. "Thank you. Your generosity is-"
Josh stood up.
So it's over.
He had seen too much to fantasise about might-havebeen. Too many dead soldiers who should have lived. Perhaps his eyes revealed his thoughts, because the lawyer's voice croaked into silence, and he pulled back, looking frightened.
Over.
Pulsing with the need for violence, Josh stalked out of the pub, praying that someone would get in his way, knowing it would be disastrous. Then he was by his car, shaking, the sky a deepening turquoise touched with sunset gold, pure beauty, while down here a rat rustled beneath the bushes, on dark soil containing a seething biomass of warring beetles and desperate worms, insects eating the babies of other insects, billions of organisms dying every second, some beneath the fangs and mandibles of predators, others killed and then sucked dry by their own kind.
It was a long time before he could get into the car and drive.
[EIGHTEEN]
Josh pulled in to the car park of the Red Stiletto, found the last slot, and parked. The pub's sign had once been a scarlet shoe – in the days when strippers worked here – but now was a glistening, stained blade. Inside, its main attractions were massive wallscreens tuned to sports channels. But there was no need to go in; Suzanne was outside, standing with folded arms.
"Hi," he said, failing to sound relaxed.
Her voice was nearly as tight as his. "What did she do?"
"Her and her fucking lawyer waiting for me, how about that? With a fast-track divorce, online and legal."
"What did you do?"
"Signed the agreement because… When it's over, it's over."
Saying it, he relaxed a little, though he was still sweating as if after a workout.
"My friend Miriam," murmured Suzanne, "went through something like that with her partner, and when it was over she said to herself: 'Now it's time to let it go, remember what was good and accept the rest.' And she also said: 'You kept hold of someone who lasted for years successfully, so you can do it again, and maybe next time do it better.'"
Josh rubbed his face, and breathed out tension.
"Well, good for her."
Suzanne touched his arm.
"Yes, she knew how to accept what you can't change, as the old saying goes."
"Right." Josh gestured towards the pub. "You want another drink, or something to eat?"
"Maybe at the motorway services."
It was quite a drive to the Reading service area, but he assumed she knew that.
"You want to start heading back?"
"Let's do that. You're OK to drive, clearly."
He held open the passenger door for her, then got in behind the steering wheel, inserted the key, slid his phone into its console slot, reached for the ignition button – then stopped.
"I was pissed off," he said, "when I entered the car park. Now I'm not."
"You look more relaxed."
"Yeah… You're quite the witch, aren't you?"
Suzanne's smile was enchanting. "Possibly my ancestors practiced voodoo."
"Mine painted themselves with blue dye and mud, but you don't see me doing it."
"Hmm… You know I can make you laugh, right?"
Josh looked at her.
"I'm feeling better, but not that m-"
She touched his arm and he tipped his head back, laughter bubbling up inside him.
"Jesus," he was able to say finally. "How did you do that?"
"Like this."
Another touch, and a paroxysm took hold, matched by Suzanne's laughter. Soon he was laughing so hard that the tears were coming. At last, she settled back in her seat, giving a final giggle.
"That," said Josh, "was the weirdest thing I've ever experienced."
"Voodoo."
"With the greatest respect, bullshit. How did you do it?"
"That spot I touched on your arm. That exact spot?"
"I don't see-"
But she merely stared at the spot, and he laughed. Her gaze went back to his face, releasing him.
"Hypnotism?" he asked.
"Simpler than that. In Petra and Yukiko's flat, I created an association between pressure on your arm exactly there and laughter, between the gesture and the mood. All I did was press that point when you were laughing at their jokes. You never noticed."
"You're kidding me."
"Maybe I'm joshing you."
"Oh, please…"
"Honestly, it's that easy." Her chestnut eyes seemed to deepen to chocolate. "But the timing has to be perfect, at the height of the mood. It's one-shot learning, and it's a physical skill to create the associative link."
It seemed impossible; but his own reaction was compelling proof.
"This stuff happens unconsciously?"
"Very much so. Most of what happens inside our heads is below conscious awareness. There are sixty muscles in your arm, and you're not aware of orchestrating their movements when you put the car key in the slot."
"Yes, but-"
"What's three times three?" she asked.
"Nine."
"How do you know?"
"Er…"
Suzanne smiled. "Right then, you could have gone into trance – with a little encouragement – during that search for internal meaning we call a duh moment."
"Bloody hell."
"You can know an answer without knowing how you retrieve it. Every conscious decision you think you make, your brain started to create that thought three hundred milliseconds earlier. At least. End of lecture."
"Jesus Christ."
He went quiet, contemplating this. Then he sniffed in a breath.
"Will you teach me how you do it?"
"Maybe." Her smile looked surprised. "Maybe I will."
At the roundabout where he should have exited to join the motorway, he continued turning, into a second rotation.
"I need to do something," he said.
"Visiting hours must be over."
It was scary how she understood what he intended.