Canary Wharf is one of those odd stations that are actually two stations, so we had to leave the DLR station and cut across Reuters Plaza. It was evening by that time, about 8.30pm, and it was Bonus Day. The city boys, obscenely well-paid even in the wake of the crash, were out to play, and there was a sense of danger in the air that you could almost smell — sharp and metallic, a little bit like blood.
As we walked past brightly-lit bars and restaurants lugging Trish’s box of knick-knacks, we could hear the sound of braying laughter and popping champagne corks. A lad in his late 20s ran whooping across our path, wielding a fizzing Jeroboam high over his head, its contents spilling out in an incredibly expensive trail behind him. Trish stopped in her tracks and looked down. “More than I earn in a week, just pissed across the street,” she chuckled. “These people are crazy. What’s the betting that he’ll blow more money tonight, just in one single night, than you and I will make this year — put together?”
We spent the rest of our journey home talking about the atmosphere in Canary Wharf, that near-palpable sense that anything could happen and that these people were just seconds away from spiraling out of control. When Trish got the news about her new column a few days later, she already knew what she wanted to write about — the incredibly rich City boys who are mad, bad and dangerous to know. She had taken her first step on the path that led her straight towards Charles Whitsun.
Sam set down his pen and pushed the notebook away. It wasn’t an easy story to tell, knowing how it ended. But he was determined to tell it. Trish was dead, Charles Whitsun was dead, Admiral Whitsun was dead — the only person who could still be hurt by these memories was Sam, and it was time to face that pain.
“Not that I know if I’ll ever be in a position to publish it,” Sam muttered to himself. Thinking about Trish no longer filled him with the old feelings of bleak anguish. He could now remember her without wanting to drink himself into oblivion — but while he no longer wished for oblivion, he still felt the familiar impulse telling him to drink. “Best not,” he mumbled. “I’ll never get this written if I start all that now.”
He headed into the tiny kitchen, filled the kettle and set it on the gas ring. He missed the electric kettle back home. In fact, there were many things he missed. The galley kitchen that had seemed so pokey back in Edinburgh but now seemed palatial in comparison to its Italian counterpart. The teabags. The soft Scottish water. The search for a clean mug, no longer an issue since Purdue would not tolerate disorder. Bruichladdich sitting in the sink, watching him judgmentally. Sam really missed Bruich. He wished that he could give Paddy a ring and check that the cat was doing well. And Paddy…
‘Probably thinks I’m dead,’ thought Sam, splashing milk into his mug. ‘My sister probably does too, though I doubt she’ll mind as much. I wonder if Bruich misses me. Probably not. Cats know which side their bread’s buttered and he’s definitely better off at Paddy’s.’
At last the water came to the boil. Sam poured, dumped in a few spoonful of sugar and left the bag in to stew. The tea was not good, but it was hot and vaguely comforting, and that was good enough. He pushed open the door to the sitting room. To his surprise he found Purdue there, by the table at the far end of the room, apparently just emerging from his bedroom.
“Sorry, man,” said Sam, setting his mug on the table. “I should have asked if you wanted one. Do you? It’s just boiled.”
“I think that’s exactly what I need,” Purdue nodded. “But sit down and enjoy your tea, Sam. I can make my own.”
Sam did not argue but allowed Purdue to squeeze past him into the little kitchen. It was only as he sat down to read over what he had written that he realized that he had left his work lying around in plain sight. ‘I wonder if Purdue read any of it?’ He thought. ‘Oh god, I hope not. There’s nothing worse than somebody seeing the crap I churn out in a first draft.
Chapter Six
“Why, oh why did I decide to learn German?” Nina whispered to herself. Perched precariously at the top of a ladder, searching the top row of one of the long shelves. So far she had succeeded in finding a handful of books that looked potentially useful and, crucially, were in either English or German. It was frustrating though, to see the shelves stacked with books that might very well contain useful, even life-saving information which was inaccessible due to her lack of command of the Italian language.
‘Even if I’d just taken French, that would probably help,’ she thought. ‘German doesn’t give me much of a chance of muddling through.’
A glance at the catalogue had shown her that there were other books in English available, but only if she submitted a request for them using her name and card number. She was tempted to take the risk, especially when she found a book entitled Black Sun: Occult Origins of Hitler’s Master Race.
‘But if I were them,’ she thought, ‘if I were part of some secret organization trying to track down three people on the run, and I had access to the kind of technology the Order seems to have, I would definitely be monitoring attempts to access that kind of information. Because if we’re really so valuable or so dangerous to them, we’d be worth accidentally taking out a few academics for.’ So she had left the tantalizing book alone, thinking that she might ask Purdue if there was any other way to get her hands on its contents. Assuming, of course, that at some point she would feel capable of speaking to him again without wanting to hurl the sparse furnishings of their hideout at him.
By the time the library closed Nina could hardly tell whether her head was spinning due to a lack of food or an overdose of information. Page after page of hastily-scribbled notes filled her notepad. Nevertheless, she still felt that she had done little more than refresh her existing knowledge and scratch the surface of what was going on. She returned her books to the shelves before the librarian could see that they were in a language she had claimed not to speak. Then she retrieved her belongings and went back to the apartment, hat pulled in her face and head down.
The heavy front door fell shut, but the lock failed to click. Nina turned to check on it, squinting as her eyes got accustomed to the darkness in the stairwell. She wriggled the handle, waiting for the lock to right itself. Just as it clicked, she heard a sound behind her. Footsteps! Light footsteps coming down the stairs. She spun around to face the wall and dug deep into her handbag, shoulders hunched, head angled to keep her face in darkness so that any passing neighbor would not get a clear look at her.
“Very convincing, Nina.” The amusement in Purdue’s voice was audible. “If I didn’t know you better I would be quite certain that you were searching for your keys.”
She straightened up, trying to keep the scowl off her face as Purdue moved along the short, dingy corridor towards her. He was wrapped in a long, charcoal grey coat with a thick black scarf pulled up to his ears. He was still immediately recognizable as himself, which infuriated Nina. If she and Sam were taking the trouble to look inconspicuous when they went out, why could he not do the same? Where was he going, anyway?
“I have an errand to run,” Purdue said, holding up a long, thin case in black leather. It looked like it might have contained a flute, but Nina guessed at once that it must have been the Renoir.
“And you’re going alone?” she asked.
He shrugged. “We are more likely to be spotted together. I shall be safe enough. I should be no more than an hour. If I am gone for more than two hours, go to Caffe Rivoire on the Piazza della Signoria. You will find Matteus there between eight and ten. He’ll know what to do.”