“What they said to me,” Seb continues, ignoring my attempt to deflect him, “was that if you hadn’t called, no one might have noticed me in that alley. Apparently I was covered in a mound of litter, behind a bin. I might not have regained consciousness. It was one of the coldest nights of the year. Hypothermia. Kills people every winter.” He meets my gaze again, his eyes unreadable. “So. Life. Saved. And again: Thank you.”
“Well.” I feel a tingle rise up my cheeks. “I just … Anyone would have … What happened, though?” I can’t help asking. “You were fine. You were talking. And then you were out cold.”
“The guys who’d had a go at me came back,” says Seb, his face twisting up as though with a memory he doesn’t want to have. “Or maybe it was a different lot. As they say, didn’t see them coming. Knocked me out.”
I don’t know how to reply. I survey Seb’s injuries anew and feel tears of anger coming to my eyes. Seb is a good guy. He should not be hurt by anyone.
“Anyway, I owe you one,” Seb adds with a wry smile.
“You really don’t.” I smile back, relieved that he’s not looking quite so grave anymore.
“I really do,” he contradicts me. “Although how I ever pay that one back, God only knows.”
“Buy me a drink.” I shrug. “I’m a cheap date.” As soon as I say the words I realize with horror how they might sound. “I mean … Not …” I flounder hopelessly. “Not date. I meant …”
“I know what you meant,” says Seb, looking amused.
“How’s Briony?” I add quickly, to send the message: I know you have a girlfriend. “I expect she’s on her way. I’ll leave as soon as … She must have been shocked.”
“She’s in Amsterdam on a business trip,” says Seb. “Gets back tomorrow. We talked about her getting a flight today,” he adds, as though reading my mind, “but there’s no need for her to cut her trip short. I’m fine here, and it’s a pretty important conference for her.”
“Right,” I say, nodding. “Absolutely. Makes more sense.”
I’m not going to judge Whiny. I’m not.
But really? A conference? When he nearly died?
“Fair enough,” I add for good measure, to make it plain that I’m not casting any aspersions. “Let me pour you that water.”
As I hand him the glass, Seb has a quizzical look to his eyes and I have a horrible feeling he’s remembering all the rude things I said about Briony that night at 6 Folds Place. Quick, let’s move on to another topic.
“Anyway, the police were there,” I say. “So let’s hope they catch whoever did this.”
“Unlikely,” says Seb. “But, yes, let’s hope.” Then his expression changes. “Wait, you went there? To the alley itself?”
“Oh,” I say, flustered. I hadn’t intended to let that slip out. “Well … yes. Just to check the ambulance had got there. It was practically on my way,” I add quickly.
“No, it wasn’t,” says Seb, his face crinkling with some emotion I can’t read. “You really are my guardian angel.”
“Hardly! So … how long will you have to stay in?”
“Only a day or two,” says Seb. “It was the head injury they were worried about. But as you see, I’m completely all there, totally normal.” He suddenly pulls a grotesque face and I can’t help giggling.
There’s silence for a while, and we listen to the visitors in the next cubicle, who are saying things like, “You can hardly tell,” and “It’s not much of a scar,” and “You’ll soon be right as rain, Geoff!” in eager, overlapping voices.
“That guy was mugged too,” says Seb conversationally, gesturing at the curtain, and I wince. “You know, I’m a liberal kind of guy, but I find myself feeling … what would I call it? Vengeful.” He smiles enough that I know he’s joking, but his voice is dry enough that I know he’s kind of not joking too.
“I’m not surprised,” I say lightly, determined to keep the conversation upbeat. “Will you turn into a vigilante?”
“Maybe,” says Seb, giving a bark of laughter. “You’ll see me on the evening news, wearing my tights and mask, brandishing—what? Lead piping?”
“A candlestick,” I suggest, and we both smile again.
“Are you a vengeful person?” Seb asks, taking a sip of water. “You seem like a person who doesn’t bear grudges.”
“I guess I don’t, really,” I say after a moment’s thought. “Except once, and that was two years ago and I still bear the grudge.”
“Tell me,” says Seb, his eyes lighting up with interest.
“It’s a stupid story,” I say, feeling embarrassed.
“I love stupid stories,” says Seb firmly. “And I’m an invalid and I need entertaining. Tell.”
“Well … OK. Two years ago I set up this catering firm, and I had a girl who did the admin. Sarah Bates-Wilson.”
“She sounds like a villainess,” says Seb obligingly.
“Good. Because she is. She was always helping herself to stuff on my desk. Like, pens or whatever. And one day she borrowed my hairbrush.”
“Heinous!” says Seb.
“Stop it!” I say, laughing. “I haven’t finished yet. It was this really nice tortoiseshell brush from a set that my mum and dad gave me. You know. Brush, comb, mirror. It went together.”
“And she never gave you the brush back,” suggests Seb.
“Exactly. First she said she hadn’t taken it, then she said she’d given it back.… Anyway, one day I went round to her house.”
“For a hairbrush?”
“I really wanted it!” I say defensively. “It was a matching set! She lived in a ground-floor flat, so first of all I crept round the back and I looked in her bedroom window and I could see it. I could actually see it on her chest of drawers!” My voice rises with indignation.
“So what happened?” demands Seb.
“I rang the bell and she answered in her PJs and said she hadn’t got it and told me to leave. So I had to go.”
“No!” exclaims Seb, sounding genuinely outraged.
“Exactly! So then I thought, I’ll take a picture of it through the window and prove it’s there. But by the time I got back, it had gone. She must have hidden it.”
“OK, that’s creepy,” says Seb firmly. “Really creepy. Was she still working for you?”
“No, not by then.”
“Thank God. She sounds like a sociopath.”
“I wouldn’t have minded, except it was a present from Mum and Dad, and since Dad was gone …” I trail away. “You don’t want to lose stuff like that.”
“Of course.” Seb’s eyes soften. “I’m only teasing. I’d have been livid. And you don’t need to explain about the matching set either. We always had this wonderful family story that my great-great-grandfather had an antique chess set. One Christmas Eve, a queen was stolen and a ransom note was left in its place.”
“A ransom note?” I can’t help a giggle.
“It demanded two pounds, to be left inside the grandfather clock. I guess that was a pretty big sum back then. The only people in the house were my great-great-grandfather, his wife, and their four sons, aged between twelve and twenty-three. It could have been any of them.”
“So what happened?” I ask, agog.
“Apparently my great-great-grandfather paid the ransom, the piece reappeared, and no one ever said anything about it.”
“What?” I stare at him. “OK, that is so not what would have happened in our family. Didn’t your great-great-granddad want to know who it was? Didn’t he want to catch them? Didn’t he want to find out why they were kidnapping chess pieces?”