There was a door in the cupboard, and it led to a room full of office supplies. She felt dizzy with fatalism. Even the hand of the architect had not been his own.
She took a pen, an envelope, a plastic folder, and printed the word ‘Munin’ on the reverse of her ID card, which was useless in the year 2003. The word would be read in twenty years’ time. She tried to write something else—as an artistic flourish, a token rebellion—but could think of nothing to add. She sealed the envelope, addressed it, and returned to the corridor.
David had gone. Helen remained. Saskia put the envelope inside the plastic folder. She put the folder underneath the rock that had killed Helen. On the wall, she wrote, in German: By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes. Then she drew an arrow pointing to the rock.
She dropped the can and ran away from Helen. Her breath stuttered with sobs. She made it to the stairwell and, from there, to the surface. The exit was at the rear of the hotel. Saskia emerged into weak daylight. A temporary field hospital had been erected on the lawn. Army ambulance crews stood by. Shocked personnel walked slowly and silently nowhere. Some cried. She saw McWhirter on a stretcher. He wore an oxygen mask. Inspired, Saskia feigned a breathing problem. An ambulance took her to a nearby hospital. Within the hour, she had escaped.
Night came to the woodland. The moon was large. Saskia built a fire. She remembered the life of Ute as though it were a huge, cherished novel from her youth. One of Ute’s many foster parents, Hans, had been a Wandersmann. He had taught her how to make fire using a wooden bow drill. Instead, Saskia selected the fire-starter in the small survival kit in her flight suit. Nothing else in the suit worked. It was smashed and torn. She collected moss, dry kindling, and some logs. The fire-starter was a ferrocerium rod, down which she scraped the striking blade. The fire caught and she tended it.
The stars were closer in 2003 than they would be in 2023. The sphere of humanity—the reach of its radio and television signals—was smaller. She looked now at the trees around her. Conifer, oak, sycamore, beech and horse chestnut. She remembered them all from the life of Ute.
She noticed the pink sheet protruding from the map pocket on her thigh. The crayon drawing reminded her of David and Jennifer; a crude home; a memento. On the reverse, David had written a list headed ‘Financial Times for the Lady What Bets’. It contained a list of British prime ministers and American presidents since 2001, some British Grand National winners, and all of the football world cup winners, prefixed with ‘bloody’.
On the final page were these words:
So good luck and bon voyage!
PS If you could stick a flask of soup in the shed for when it gets chilly, I’d be much obliged! And one of those ‘space blankets’ like they have in marathons.
PPS Nothing vegetarian, mind—I’ll be weak enough as it is.
Epilogue
Westminster, London: November 6th, 2023
From his bench next to the Thames, David saw a pigeon flutter to a stop near his feet. The special committee was due to reconvene at 2:00 p.m. He had fifteen minutes to finish his lunch. He watched the pigeon fly away. The MPs had been unimpressed by his ethical choices, even with the motivation afforded by the loss of his house to fire. It would take more than Ego’s pictures and crackly audio to exonerate David from the crime of detonating that second bomb in the West Lothian Centre. David’s best intents were of little import.
‘Hello,’ she said.
David laughed. She was there, finally. ‘You look—’
‘I know.’ She kissed him and sat on the bench. She wore a black greatcoat with the collar turned up. Her hair was short. She smiled as he stared, and he noticed the lines at the corners of her eyes and dimples in her cheeks. She was older but her face was leaner and more striking. ‘It’s been a while.’
‘I thought it was best,’ she said.
‘Walk me back?’
He broke up the remainder of his sandwich and scattered the pieces. He and Saskia then made their way towards Westminster Bridge.
‘You lost your accent,’ he said.
‘It’s still there. Today, I’m playing British.’
‘And what could be more British than a stroll along the river?’
‘Where are you going?’
‘Westminster,’ David said. Unconsciously, his hand rubbed his chest, where pre-cancerous growths had been found a month before: a vestige of the radioactive dust in the West Lothian Centre. His nano-treatment was scheduled for January. ‘I’m still trying to explain myself.’
‘To whom?’
‘A closed parliamentary inquiry. Closed to the public, that is. Ostensibly, they want to find out what happened at the West Lothian Centre. The Chairman is Lord Gilbert. A Lib-Dem guy. He’s OK.’
Saskia looked at the Palace of Westminster. ‘What are you telling them?’
‘I’m singing like a bird.’
She nodded. ‘That’s good. Don’t worry about me. I have a new life.’
‘So what do I call you?’
‘I’m afraid you don’t.’ She linked her arm in his. ‘I suspect that we are under surveillance. Now, what would be the best outcome?’
David sucked air through his teeth. ‘They’d advise the state prosecutors not to proceed with a criminal trial. Unofficially, that is. Even better, they might clear my name. Then I could get my job back at the university. I’ve got another ten years before I retire. Or I could retire now. Why not?’
They walked in silence for a while.
‘Tell me about Jennifer.’
‘She’s back in America. I’ll see her again at Christmas—and her new boyfriend, worst luck. Do you have any plans for Christmas?’
‘Some. I’ll be visiting a friend in Berlin. Then another in Moscow.’
They continued towards parliament. The Westminster Bridge was quiet. Cold air had come down from the North Sea. They turned against it. After ten minutes, they came to an elderly building near the Ministry of Defence. ‘I’ll see you very soon, David.’
‘Where?’
In reply, she placed a finger to her lips. Then she touched his with the gloved tip.
‘You know,’ David said, ‘I could do with some help in there. Another witness.’
‘I’m sorry, David. Take care.’
He waved. ‘I understand. You take care too. And thanks.’
He showed his ID to the duty officer and passed through into the main courtyard. He found the committee chamber. It was a small room with an oval table. Conversation ceased as he entered.
‘Ah,’ said Lord Gilbert. He looked at David over the top of his glasses in the way that David would look at a late student. ‘The star of the show.’ Gilbert chuckled. The men on the panel chuckled back. The two women pursed their lips.
Tony Barclay, the MSP for West Lothian, took a nod from Gilbert. ‘Perhaps we could go back to the man who you met on the Internet, Professor Proctor. The man who supplied the explosives.’
The stenographer watched his computer screen.
David sighed, and began again.
David’s hosts were confident that he would not try to leave the country, so he was not held in custody. His hotel was a small one north of the river. It was dingy but, he guessed, not cheap. He entered his room and locked the door. He decided to cheer up. He was making progress with the committee, after all. He threw off his coat and walked into the bathroom. ‘Lights,’ he said.
He took the measure of himself. He was a rumpled, tired version of the man who had arrived at the West Lothian Centre two months before. But he felt no different. He washed up and returned to the main room.