He’s gone almost before István is sure that it’s him. But he is sure, and he sits there for quite a long time after he has disappeared into the building.
He sits there, in fact, until he emerges again, after about half an hour, stepping out through the automatic door and signaling to his driver to wait a bit longer.
He wants to smoke a cigarette first, that’s why.
István hasn’t seen him since that evening at the Gagosian, nearly three years ago.
He was thinking about that evening all the time that Thomas was inside the hospital, and he’s still thinking about it now as he watches him smoke his cigarette.
When he has finished it, Thomas waves to the BMW, which leaves its parking space and pulls up in front of him.
It drives away, and for a few moments after that István doesn’t move.
Then, as if suddenly arriving at a decision, he starts the engine of his own vehicle and drives after it, keeping his distance as he follows it along the tree-lined street of Victorian villas at the end of which the hospital is located.
For a while they pass through other, similar streets.
They seem to be heading for the highway and when they arrive at it he follows the BMW onto the on ramp. He keeps it in view as it does a steady seventy toward London, which he assumes is where they’re going.
The land, very flat around Cambridge, starts to pick up slightly into modest hills. Mostly it’s plowed fields. The odd stand of trees.
Almost imperceptibly at first, London starts to solidify around them.
István isn’t very familiar with this approach to it and for quite a long time he’s not sure where they are.
Then he suddenly understands that they’re on the North Circular near Ilford, where he used to live. They even pass under the pedestrian bridge that he often used in those days on his way home from running on Wanstead Flats.
He doesn’t have much time to think about that though—the traffic is heavy and he needs to focus on staying in touch with the BMW.
On the highway that was quite easy.
Now it’s much harder.
At every traffic light there’s the possibility of losing it.
The trouble is he has no idea where it’s going.
He follows it through Wanstead.
In Hackney a bus, pulling out, separates him from it, and for a few minutes he loses sight of it altogether.
It’s still there though, not far ahead of him.
It finally stops somewhere in Islington.
He has to pass it and pull over farther up, where there’s a space.
They’re in a quiet square of terraced houses with gardens in the middle, surrounded by railings.
He watches in the mirror as Thomas emerges from the BMW and pushes the doorbell of one of the houses.
A few seconds later he goes in.
The BMW is still there, presumably having been told to wait.
István waits as well.
It’s nearly dark now. The sky above the square is a vivid blue.
He lights a cigarette.
It might be hours, of course.
In fact it’s only four or five minutes before Thomas reappears.
They head farther into central London, along Euston Road and down Regent Street. They spend some time in traffic on Piccadilly, and when they arrive at Hyde Park Corner they use the underpass. For half a minute they’re in its orange light and onrushing noise, and then they’re under the dark sky again, and the BMW positions itself for an immediate left turn.
István takes the turn deliberately slowly himself, trying to increase the distance between them. The BMW is about fifty meters ahead of him now.
It turns left again, and he follows it a few seconds later, almost too late to see it make yet another left turn into a mews-like street that’s marked as a dead end.
Thinking that this must be it, he pulls over a short way into the mews and switches off.
From there he is able to see the BMW, still about fifty meters ahead of him, and also stationary now.
The mews is very quiet. Almost all of its houses are unlit. Even the pub about halfway up, although fully illuminated, seems strangely inactive, as if it might not even be open this Friday night.
Thomas is letting himself into one of the houses while the BMW starts to perform a three-point turn.
A few seconds later it passes István on its way out of the mews.
For quite a long time after that he just sits there.
A light has come on in the house that Thomas went into.
István wonders if he lives there alone—if he’s alone in there or if anyone else is there with him.
He leaves the Bentley and stands in front of the two-story house, the brick façade of which is painted dark gray. There are small trees in planters on either side of the front door.
He is about to press the doorbell, when he stops himself.
He really does want to know if Thomas is alone.
The curtains of the ground-floor windows are not quite fully drawn and, stepping across the cobbles, he brings his face to the gap. The room he sees looks somehow underfurnished. It’s like a rental house that only has the bare bones—a sofa, a few chairs, not much more than that. There’s nothing on the walls except some weird lighting fixtures involving metal leaves.
He’s just taking that in when Thomas appears, in a dressing gown now, and sits down on the sofa.
There’s no sign of anyone else.
István steps back and peers up at the higher windows—all dark.
He looks up and down the mews—no one.
Before ringing the doorbell he again brings his face to the gap in the curtains, which is about the width of his hand.
Thomas is still sitting on the sofa.
He’s doing something.
It’s not clear what.
He seems to be heating something with the flame of a lighter, a spoonful of something.
A few moments later István understands.
The first time he saw this was in Iraq, where it was a habit that some of the men developed. The stuff was quite easily available there, and not very expensive.
He never tried it himself. Some of the others smoked a bit of it. Only a very few of them, though, went on to do what Thomas is doing now. He has put the spoon down on the low glass table in front of him, which is one of the few other pieces of furniture in the room. Then he draws the liquid that’s in the bowl of the spoon into a syringe he must have had in the pocket of his dressing gown.
He uses the belt of the dressing gown for the next part, tying it around his upper arm and then holding the end of it in his teeth to pull it tight. With the belt still in his mouth, and his head at an odd angle to keep it tight, he physically stimulates the inner elbow of his left arm. When he has done that he takes the syringe. He holds it up and applies a small amount of pressure to the plunger until some liquid drips out. Then, focusing intently, he turns his attention to his arm.
His teeth finally release the belt.
He lies back on the sofa and the syringe slides out of his hand.
For a long time, half sitting on the sofa and half lying on it, he doesn’t move at all. He seems to be staring at something on the ceiling.
From his position at the window István is able to see his expressionless face.
He has been looking at it with amazement for a minute or two when he notices that there’s something slightly strange about it. Something more than mere expressionlessness—an emptiness behind the eyes.
And there’s something else as well.
A sort of darkness of the lips.
At first István isn’t sure if he’s actually seeing that, or if he’s just imagining it.
After another minute, there’s no doubt.
Thomas’s lips are distinctly blue.
István saw this in Iraq too, and also once or twice since then in the toilets of nightclubs where he was working.
He understands what it means.
Thomas is asphyxiating.
He took too much.
István isn’t sure, suddenly, whether that was accidental or not. His first assumption, when he noticed it, was that it was. Now, thinking about it, he isn’t sure.