The crowd roared with laughter. They were laughing at both bidders. At them being so wide of the mark. She turned to see who else had bid so guilelessly, and realized, with a shock, that she recognized who she was looking at. He must have come in late and stayed at the back, and the truth was that they’d been concentrating on fitting in rather than examining the crowd. White, late thirties, five nine, large build, no visible identifying marks, balding, dark hair, off-the-peg suit, and, yes, she had previously been looking at him on grainy CCTV footage.
It was the man who’d been talking to the woman in the Soviet bar, who’d left before the murder of Rupert Rudlin. He was meeting her gaze now, unsurprised by it. They were competitors — that was all. Or perhaps they could both win this, if they reached the reserve price. There was nothing to stop him looking at it for fifteen minutes too. He wasn’t pleased she’d led him into being laughed at. She glanced back to Costain, and saw that he’d recognized the man too.
So this was going to be difficult. Their duty was clearly to apprehend this person of interest.
‘That’s nowhere near what’s required,’ said Haversham, bringing Ross’ attention quickly back to the stage. ‘Are you wasting our time?’
She thought quickly. ‘A year of depression and paranoia.’ She could face that. Of course she could. There would be an end to it. Unlike Dad’s time in Hell.
‘Two years of that!’ The man from the bar again. He was actually trying to keep up with her. He didn’t care what the rest of the room thought. He would wait until she found the right level, if she ever did, and then make sure he matched her. Damn it!
More laughter, but it was dying now; the crowd saw both of them as merely hopeless, no longer even funny. Haversham didn’t answer.
‘Me,’ said Ross. ‘I mean, you know, a night with me.’ This was surely much bigger than anything else she’d offered.
At least it made them laugh louder again. Among the laughter, Ross was actually pained to hear the man making the same offer, his voice breaking as he did so. She looked back to him again, and saw how desperate his expression had become. What was driving him, that he’d prostitute himself like she just had? In his case it looked more as if he was motivated by fear than by need.
‘You can’t offer yourself to London,’ said Haversham, now starting to get annoyed at Ross’ naivety and the way the man was parroting her. ‘We’ve seen what happens. It’s not allowed, which normally goes without saying.’
‘You know who you might really be giving it up to,’ whispered Costain in her ear, furious. ‘That smiling bastard. Would you just think before you-?’
‘No.’ She stepped forward out of his ability to stop her and did what she had to do. ‘I offer my future happiness. All of it. For a lifetime.’
There were actually gasps. Various members of the audience turned to look at her, some with new respect, some with a sort of vertiginous horror at what might be about to happen to her. They were shaking their heads, appalled by the harm she was doing to herself. This from people missing fingers and teeth. She was scared now to see those looks; she’d thought she’d be past that. It was too late now.
She and the whole room turned to look at the man from the bar. Ross could see now that he was shaking. That he was on the edge of tears. ‘Sixty million pounds,’ he said.
The room went silent. The audience had been startled by his sudden shift from one faction to the other. Ross looked back to Haversham, who was considering, using whatever hidden power worked out conversion rates for her. Her decision here might well affect the future of this community. ‘I do not think,’ she said finally, ‘that a lifetime of happiness can be equated with such a small sum of money.’
The crowd exploded in anger and applause.
Ross looked to see what the man was going to do. He was looking right at her, imploringly, and now she saw that expression fade into fury and defeat. Abruptly, he shook his head. He walked quickly towards the door. She couldn’t follow him — that would be against the rules at any auction, this lot would surely prevent her from leaving. She looked to Costain, because he had to get after him, but Costain was just staring at her, an agonized, empty expression on his face.
‘Don’t you care that he’s leaving?’ she whispered.
‘I care about you,’ he said.
Ross looked round, but the man had gone. She turned back to the stage. Haversham was looking horribly sad for her. She felt terror in her throat and stomach but she stood firm. She had done this. She would not retract it. Even if she could.
Haversham waited for a very long moment. As if she was hoping for an interruption. ‘Any other bids?’
There was absolute, careful, silence.
‘Going once,’ said Haversham.
‘Withdraw the bid!’ hissed Costain.
‘Going twice.’
‘We withdraw the bid!’ yelled Costain.
Haversham ignored him. ‘Going three times.’
The moment stretched. Ross wanted to yell for her to get on with it.
‘Gone,’ said Haversham.
Silence.
Ross numbly stepped forward. She didn’t want to look at Costain. She headed for where Bernie was looking sympathetically at her, beckoning her towards the back room. He led her through the door.
* * *
She was in an absolutely black space that felt roomy, with air blowing in from many directions. She suspected that this was like Losley’s tunnels between houses. Bernie closed the door behind them, but somehow Ross could still see. He reached into his waistcoat and produced a tiny brass item, something like a curled-up trumpet. He held it up to her. ‘I’m sorry it has to be like this,’ he said. ‘It’ll be easier if you don’t struggle, but I appreciate that you won’t be able to avoid it.’
She watched as he approached and lifted the object towards her face. It wasn’t obvious what she was supposed to do. This felt like a dream, as if what she’d done couldn’t possibly be as bad as it seemed to be. She wanted to protest, to say she hadn’t meant it, but the whole difference between being an adult and a child was that she could do this, she could make this sacrifice-
The device suddenly sucked at her face.
She cried out. Bernie slammed a hand onto her shoulder as she tried to twist out of the way. He was strong, he was infinitely strong! That was good, because she couldn’t help trying to pull herself away, and she couldn’t stop what was happening. It was pouring out of her nose. It was forcing its way up out of her throat, and forcing her mouth open, and … here it came! It was like throwing up and drowning at the same time. It started squirming out of the corner of her eyes a moment later. It was being sucked into the metal shape. And now she could almost see it! It was-
It was happiness.
She couldn’t quite see what it looked like, but she knew what it was. In this space it was mentally labelled for her, in the same way that something in a dream is instantly recognizable. He was pumping joy out of her. She had been full of happiness and she hadn’t known it. She had been full of joy.
Losing it now, she suddenly realized, was much worse than the physical feeling of it being wrenched out of her. It took her back to a sudden, pure moment of horror from her childhood, when she’d let go of a balloon that her dad had got her at a fair. She’d grabbed for it and missed and it had floated higher and higher and she’d started to scream, because it was going and she’d never get it back! Never! Never!
Bernie held her there as the terror of loss became too much to bear.
Then it passed and was gone, into memory. The last bit of joy was taken from her.
He put the device back in his pocket, and took out a big crimson handkerchief of absolute cleanliness, and wiped her face with the care of a father as she staggered, leaning against him. Then he put the cloth away in the same pocket, and she realized that it would be taken to the same place as the device. Her scraps were to be taken to the table too. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘but you asked for it.’