Back in the hospital, Michael hadn’t felt confident about undergarments. He was still naked from the waist down, and fiddling with the buttons of his shirt, when the old Indian burst in with his razors and hot water, and a babble of what Michael guessed were ribald comments. Jennifer looked away to hide how red her face was going. It was a lucky moment for the Indian to come in. Things must appear to him as they should be. Probably he’d been asked to help in stranger bedroom antics than playing the barber.
Jennifer watched the Outsider as the last of his little beard was scraped away. Without it, he looked barely older than she was. There could be no reasonable doubt he was the one Hooper wanted. Perhaps she was getting herself into a right mess. But it was too late to worry about that. Once the Indian had finished simpering and muttering, and was out of the room, she threw a sweatshirt at him. “Get this on. It’s baggy enough to fit you.” She turned the lamp down again and went to the window. The street outside was crowded with pedestrians. So far as she could tell, there was no one in uniform. But that meant nothing. Did Radleigh know where she was staying? She looked again at her watch. It was five past midnight. Odd how time had slowed down—she’d been ready to believe it would soon be dawn. But, if she really was in his mind, Radleigh should still be waiting for her. It would be ten or even twenty minutes before he ran out of patience. How long after that they’d be safe was beyond guessing. She took out clean clothes for herself, and dug through one of her unemptied shopping bags for a pair of trousers that were a better fit than the ones the Outsider had been wearing, without looking too feminine. She found a pair of unisex jeans. They weren’t new, but had seemed a bargain too good to pass up.
Michael worked out the correct use of the zip for himself, and sat shirtless on the bed. He picked up the mirror and stared sadly at his face. He’d broken the habit of a lifetime and prayed for that beard. Now it was off, he looked no older than when the first hairs had sprouted. It almost made him want to cry. But he managed a feeble grin at the girl. “What’s your plan—supposing you have one?” he asked in Greek, forgetting himself.
Jennifer listened carefully to the words. As it had been at first with Latin, this was nothing like the pronunciation she’d learned from her father. “Can we keep to Latin for the moment?” she asked. He nodded and looked into the mirror again. Jennifer allowed herself a better look at him. He had nice muscles, she couldn’t resist admitting. But he wasn’t more than an oversized boy. His general freshness, and his good teeth, indicated that he might not even be older than her. She put this out of mind and had another look at her watch. “It’s a risk,” she explained, “but it’s better if we wait here another ten minutes before going back out together. We don’t want the old Indian to go to the police.” She went to another bag and took out a loaf of moderately good bread. She broke it in half and gave some to the Greek Outsider. Having no plan at all, she hoped he’d not insist on an answer to his question. If only she could sit quietly for a few minutes, she might be able to think out what to do next. But what would that be?…
Michael looked at the girl—and that was clearly all she was. Because he’d saved her life, he’d stick with her—and because she spoke Latin, and because she knew where she was and how to get about, and because it was already unthinkable, even if he’d had any other plan of action, that he could take off without her.
He shivered in the chilly room and ate some of the bread. “You do realise that we may have lost the advantage of going about as a couple?” The girl opened her mouth, then nodded. “So I’ll ask again—what next, and where?” The girl looked away. He gave up on questioning her. On the floor beside his old clothes, he saw the lead cosh he’d carried away from the dead men. He got up and balanced it in his right hand. He was lost in London without apparent hope. He really should have given himself in to Tarquin. For the moment, however, things were bordering on similarity with the time in Baghdad when the Grand Vizier had sent assassins into his room one night when he was supposed to be asleep. Luckily, the slave girl he was bedding had tipped him off at the last moment, and it was a matter of carving them up with a sword and making himself scarce till morning, when he and Simeon had their audience with the Caliph. There would be no meeting here with anyone in authority—not the following morning, nor perhaps ever—nor any bowstrings for Tarquin or that chief minister. But any similarity was worth pulling out and holding onto. He looked at the girl while she was fishing into her bags. Here was one similarity that probably wouldn’t be, he told himself. Was it a shame?
Jennifer opened a plastic water bottle and drank from it. She handed it to Michael and now did give way to laughter as he squeezed too hard and sent most of its fizzy contents onto the floor. He scowled and managed to hold it to his lips. “My name is Michael,” he said stiffly. I don’t recall hearing yours.”
“Jennifer,” she said. She watched his lips move as they repeated the unfamiliar syllables. Alone, she’d have been sobbing on her bed, unable to care about the men Radleigh might eventually send out to take her. But, setting aside how he’d saved her life, there was something about Michael that steadied her nerve. She put out her right hand. “I am very pleased to make your acquaintance,” she said calmly.
There was no point in commenting aloud or to himself on this decidedly unfeminine girl’s manner. He got up and took her hand in his. He picked up his overcoat from where he’d let it fall. This time, he was able to do the buttons up. They were a clever idea, he allowed. Of course, many things these people had were clever. The real question was how the degenerate brutes with whom he’d had to deal could have developed any of this for themselves. “Since I rather doubt you have any plan at all,” he said, “can I ask you to help me get to the Church of All the Saints?” What he’d do there was another matter. But, since she was likely to dither about all night in a place she’d already admitted was unsafe, someone had to take the lead.
“The what?” Jennifer asked. She tried to think what the boy could want with a church. Was it to confess himself for the killings?
“It’s a Greek church,” he said patiently. “My guess is that it’s somewhere in London, and that it’s the only church with that name.” He picked up Jennifer’s coat and waited for her to get into it. She put various things into her pockets, and gave him the torch he’d carried away from the bodies.
She thought. She looked once more at her watch. The time had jumped suddenly to half past. She felt a stab of panic. “Come on,” she said with a slight catch in her voice. “We’re getting horribly short of time.” The Outsider was already on his feet. With the coat buttoned up to his chin, he looked as if he’s just said goodbye to his mother for a school outing.
Chapter Twenty Two
Jennifer’s idea had been to keep to the side streets before turning into Tottenham Court Road. But she found that every one of the streets was blocked by metal barriers, and most had groups of policemen in front of them, all heavily armed and talking back and forth on their radios. After perhaps half an hour of getting nowhere, she gave up on that plan, and led Michael into Oxford Street. Though it was pushing two in the morning, the whole road, from Bond Street towards Centre Point, was crowded with chattering, joyous pilgrims. Every one of them carried a torch, and there was something in the air that reminded her of late night shopping at Christmas in the Olden Days.