Nicholas Royle
Regicide
Part One
‘There are few things impossible in themselves; it is the application required, rather than the means to make them succeed, that we lack.’
Chapter One
This is what happened before I found the map.
I went out with Annie Risk. I’d met her only two days earlier at Jaz’s party. We went out to a pub and for something to eat in the West End, and then afterwards I was leading the way back to her hotel because I thought I knew where I was going. I should have done, having worked as a cycle courier in a former life. Still, there would always be one or two areas where my sense of direction would fail me. Grey areas between districts, where the streets appeared indistinguishable from each other.
Annie Risk didn’t know this part of London at all, so she was relying on me. It was only sensible, although she clearly didn’t like giving up responsibility, especially to a man. But by the end of the evening I think she’d decided I was probably all right. She could trust me this far. In any case, now that I’d lost my way, we were equals again.
One street turned into another at a right angle. None of them appeared to be named and the Georgian terraces that lined them looked identical. The windows were dark, the doors locked tight. The air was warm. We turned right and right again, then went straight on and turned right once more.
I sensed Annie watching me as I pushed my nose forward into the sticky night haze of petrol fumes and fast food. She must have thought I was trying to sniff our way out. I was. My sense of smell is renowned. Or it should be. I wondered what she made of my appearance. I had long hair which had been dyed black so many times it was beginning to spoil. My face is big and stupid — open and kind, an old girlfriend had told me; I’d like to believe it — and by late evening it’s usually dark with stubble. My eyes are grey and they don’t always manage to hold your gaze. Although it depends who you are, I suppose. At the time I had this beaten old white leather jacket which I loved and wore always. With it that evening, if my memory is reliable, I was wearing a baggy white cotton shirt and tight black jeans. Jaz often told me the jeans made me look ridiculous; other people just said they were retro. In any case, they emphasised the thinness of my legs, which for one so tall — I’m over six foot — did make me look kind of odd. My cowboy boots — worn outside the jeans — were black with a white butterfly motif on the back. Because of the pack of Camels I kept down the left one I walked with a slight limp.
I don’t know, I liked the way I looked, or I’d grown used to it and felt pretty comfortable about it. It had been a long time since I’d had to worry about what someone else might think.
I kept looking around for landmarks. But there weren’t any and if the doors had numbers, I couldn’t bloody well see them.
‘It’s around here some place,’ I said, peering into the gloom for a way out of the seemingly endless maze. A pulse in my temple had begun to irritate me and I thought I might be getting a headache. The night air was close and thick. But the evening had filled me with hope and I was determined not to let things get to me. These streets couldn’t go on forever. We’d find Annie’s hotel. I hoped she wouldn’t think me foolish for leading her into this warren and not being able to find the way out.
‘It must be quite an expensive hotel,’ I said. The area we were in — south of Euston Road, east of Paddington, on the edge of Marylebone — was not exactly cheap.
‘Actually no,’ she said. ‘Not for me anyway. It’s run by a friend of a friend of mine’s dad and I get a special rate. It’s where I always stay now when I come to London.’
The distance from one streetlamp to the next remained constant. The windows on all sides were dark, many of them shuttered.
‘How often do you come down, then?’ I asked her as I glanced across the street.
‘The last time must have been two, three years ago.’
The pulse in my head throbbed. I wondered if I’d had too much to drink. ‘It’s not exactly a regular thing then?’ I said.
She lived in Manchester in her own flat and earned her living as a graphic designer. Already, from the sparse details she’d given me, I’d pieced together a picture of her flat. Tucked away in a row of terraces like the ones filing past us now, it was small and warm. She liked cushions and hanging things — rugs on the wall and curtains in doorways — and somewhere there would be a kitten drowsing. In contrast to all of this would be her computer, occupying pride of place on the small desk by the window. I imagined her sitting there early in the morning perhaps, still in her dressing gown, the cat purring in her lap, as she clicked and double-clicked, pulling the design on the screen one way and squeezing it then changing her mind and altering the whole thing.
At Jaz’s party I’d been struck by her right away. We’d chatted a bit and after several beers I was relaxed enough to ask if I could see her again. She’d said no. But it was in my nature not to give in, even if I sensed complete futility. Anything’s possible had always been my motto, though with women this was more an article of faith than the result of experience.
Annie had said it wasn’t a good idea because she would be going back to Manchester, and in any case she didn’t want to complicate her life.
She was about five foot five with black hair, dark eyes of indeterminate colour, a loose top, a baggy dark grey and green cotton skirt with tassels and lace-up leather boots. The more we talked, the less I allowed myself to be distracted and the more I felt my slightly drunken smile relaxing into a stupid grin.
She’d finally given in to my request in spite of her resolve. Perhaps she saw something in me she liked. We could have some fun before she went back, she might have been thinking.
‘Just go for a drink,’ she said.
‘Maybe something to eat as well,’ I pushed.
‘OK, but then I’m going back to my hotel and back to Manchester.’
I raised my hands in innocence.
We met in town, just off Cambridge Circus. I’d walked down from the Caledonian Road after locking up the shop. She was wearing a cut-off red denim jacket and the same tasselled skirt as at the party. Her dark hair was drawn back in a ponytail; a few strands escaped and fell in front of her ears.
I stopped staring and we stepped into the Cambridge for a drink. We stayed for over an hour and when we came out Annie’s hair was loose. She was no longer making a clear effort to remain beyond my reach, but I hung back nevertheless.
Usually, when I knew someone only from afar and then spent time with them in close company I saw through the daunting exterior to the younger, more vulnerable person underneath. Some men revealed themselves as boys and in my eyes would never grow up again. Annie showed signs of the girl she had been but that was all they were — signs and clues to the woman she had become. She laughed a lot after we’d had a couple of drinks and though her words of warning about going back to Manchester free of complications rang clearly in my head, I began to feel that more might be possible.
We had some pasta in a scruffy little Italian, the Centrale, and shared a bottle of wine. Annie’s eyes sparkled. Still I didn’t push it.
‘I’ll walk you to your hotel,’ I suggested as we hit the sultry pavement again.
She fluffed her hair with both hands. ‘I could get a cab.’
‘It’s a lovely night,’ I said, reaching into my left boot for my cigarettes. I cupped my hand around my lighter. She told me the address of the hotel and I said confidently, ‘I know where that is. No problem.’ We walked through Soho. I noticed people glancing at us. We looked good together. I said to her, ‘The world is full of all sorts of possibilities and you’ve got to make the most of them, or what’s the point?’