The caller’s holding, this is almost entertaining, Conroy walks back across the room, dragging the phone unit that dangles from the end of the handset cable like a wounded animal, lifts the remote from the chair arm and kills the volume, lets his attention fall fully on the absence at his ear, the black hole of non-being. A tease he won’t give in to, the crackle of static is a symphony, a constellation of diamonds on a velvet cushion of silence, he rests his head against the softness of endless stars. The line goes dead.
They’ve got his number. He needs to move on, find another safe house, though he’s so tired he wonders if it might be better to surrender. Slumped in the armchair once more he gazes at the television, prefers it without sound. Closes his eyes and when he opens them can’t tell if he’s seeing the programme or an advertisement, whatever it is he won’t buy it. Closes again then suddenly it’s morning, the sky white as bird-shit, mouth like sandpaper, limbs stiff and his head aching.
Later he’s in the park, sitting on a bench spilling milk from a carton on his chin and overcoat while cold sunshine burns his eyes. He’s thinking about Paige, whether to send the score like she asked.
“Hello, David.”
Startled, Conroy turns to see beside him a haircut and zippered jacket he recognises. It’s the police inspector.
“What do you want? Put another bug on me?”
“Those students, the ones your neighbour saw.”
“I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“Give me their names.”
He has to protect Paige. “I never saw them.”
“They were at your house. And you’ve been making abusive phone calls.”
“I don’t live there any more.”
“Wishing our soldiers dead. Inciting violence. We have to think of public safety, national security.”
“I’ll give you any help you want as long as you tell me where Laura is.”
“This was never about her.”
Conroy drains the last of the milk and wipes his lip. “I’ve been trying to remember the assignment she was on.”
“Let’s stick to the point.”
“Some big corporation.”
“How many others were involved?”
“New technology. Does something to your brain.”
“They posted those messages from your computer. You do realise you could go to prison for this, David? Unless you decide to co-operate.”
The reality is startling; Conroy looks at the inspector’s profile beside him and sees a man confident of his own power, a man like a particle accelerator. “What messages?”
“Don’t pretend you don’t know. I’ll give you time to think about it, but not long.”
“Why not arrest me now?”
“Give us what we want and I’ll make sure you get the help you need.” The inspector stands. “Do the right thing.” He walks away.
Conroy places the empty milk carton on the bench beside him, reaches into his pocket and searches until his fingertips find what he expects, the device that he pulls out, gleaming in the sunshine. He hurls it away across the grass and it makes his head feel clearer, there’d been a buzzing before but no longer, he can hear birdsong. In the distance, near some trees, a man stands watching him.
He doesn’t know anything about those messages but needs to find out, he leaves the park swiftly, trying to lose the guy who’s tailing him, though as he nears the library he sees him again, a figure on the opposite street corner facing the other way in a poor attempt at concealment. Inside the library Conroy finds a row of unused computers, he’s never been before and expects to be able to log on freely but when he sits down at one of the screens he finds it prompting him to enter a number. Types a few random sequences but nothing works, then a woman with a false name badge interferes, says he can have temporary access if he shows proof of identity. He leaves immediately.
Outside there are closed-circuit cameras disguised as lighting fixtures. If our every movement is monitored and recorded then how can there possibly be time for anyone to watch it all? The accumulated information is greater than life itself, a paradox that follows him to the high street and an electronics store where he jabs at the keyboard of a display laptop and is again required to enter a password which a looming gangly assistant quickly supplies, leaning past Conroy to type, his nylon shirt exuding cheap deodorant. The assistant wants to know what sort of machine Conroy is looking for, whether it’s for gaming or general surfing, for individual or family use, wants to know everything except who Conroy is, so Conroy says he’d like to try the internet for a few minutes and is left alone to play.
Only way the policeman could have connected those seditious messages with Conroy was if his name was on them. So he searches for himself, just like he did with Laura, and the result is the same. He isn’t there. A thousand near-matches, namesakes from all around the world: dentists, lawyers, accountants advertising their existence and expertise, but the pianist is gone, wiped like his lover. Conroy hurriedly extinguishes the page as the assistant returns, tells him he’ll think about it, but what he’s really considering is his own non-being, the impossibility of proving innocence when all evidence of supposed guilt has been removed.
He returns to his flat, only a matter of time before they come for him there. Climbing the bare common staircase that smells of piss and cider he reaches his front door, dented by pursuers of a former resident. The lock feels loose when he turns the key, as though someone might have tampered with it. Stepping inside he immediately senses another presence, and in the living room he finds it. On the battered sofa sits an elderly lady.
“Hello, dear,” she says.
“Who the fuck are you?”
“My Pixie can’t keep herself out of mischief, always roaming about.”
“Your cat?” Conroy drops onto the armchair and looks at the genial silver-haired woman in her pale blue cardigan and large-beaded necklace. “How did you get in?”
She smiles. “You left the door wide open, I suppose Pixie came to inspect.”
What’s he supposed to do, offer her tea? “Where’s Pixie now?”
“Gone back upstairs, I expect,” the lady says unconcernedly, then from the pocket of her cardigan she takes a pack of playing cards, larger than normal so that at first he doesn’t recognise what they are. She fans and holds them out in her tremorous hand. “Take one.”
“What the hell is this?”
“Go on.”
He does as she says, slides out a card and looks at it. The picture is like an old woodcut, hand-coloured, with the word Pyramide printed elegantly beneath a picture of an Egyptian monument.
“Show me what you picked.”
He turns it towards her. “Are you going to tell my fortune?”
“It signifies wisdom.”
“Who are you? This is about those students, isn’t it?”
“Ancient knowledge, a great secret.” She holds out the pack again so that he can choose another card. It shows a naked man and woman, Adam and Eve, with the inscription Jardin.
“A couple, a meeting,” the lady explains. “Perhaps a fall.”
Next he must take two cards, he consents with increasing bemusement but that changes instantly when he sees what they are. A pair of figures in mediaeval costume; one a stonemason, the other a glass-blower. The titles are Pierre and Verrier.
“Who put you up to this?”
“Stone denotes strength and fortitude, glass stands for great prospects or an auspicious discovery.”
“Where did you get these cards?”
“I suppose I should go and see what Pixie’s up to now…”
“How do you know about the secret knowledge?”
“Oh, I don’t know any more about it than you do, dear.”
She passes him the rest of the pack and Conroy begins to look through the cards. From their condition they seem recently made though the style of illustration is archaic; he supposes them to be a sort of tarot deck. One card shows a simple leather shoe and is called Oeillet, another that attracts Conroy’s attention has a rose bush in full bloom; he gazes at the blood-coloured flowers and a memory stirs in his mind.