But Nancy was out there someplace. Nancy was out there, all on her own. And it didn’t matter to Josh how independent she was, how self-sufficient. It didn’t matter if she was one hundred percent sure that she could handle herself. All that mattered was that he wasn’t able to stand beside her and protect her.
He wondered if he was jealous of her, for having had the courage to go looking for Frank Mordant on her own, and for trying to solve the mystery of Julia’s murder for him. All his adult life, people had come to him for help, and he wasn’t used to the idea of being looked after.
In spite of his anxiety, he slept for nearly an hour, although when he woke up he felt worse. He read a few pages of a John Grisham novel that somebody had abandoned in the nightstand, folded over at page twenty-three. Then he watched the television news. Serbs and Muslims were killing each other in Kosovo. Catholics and Protestants were killing each other in Northern Ireland. A famous television chef had suffered a heart attack. England’s cricket team were all out for eighty-seven. Tomorrow’s weather: humid, with thundery showers. No hijacks along the Embankment; no Hooded Men killed; no Masters of Religious Observance found in the road with their throats cut. But what was the difference?
Did that other London really exist? Or did this London really exist? What did existence mean? If nobody knew that you existed, would you still be there?
The phone rang. It was Ella. “Are you OK?” she wanted to know. In other words: you’re not going to try anything rash, are you?
“Sure, I’m fine. I’m just trying to catch some zees.”
“Well, make sure you do. Abraxas will never forgive you if you do anything stupid. He’ll come around and bite your balls off.”
“I’d like to see him try.”
When he woke up again it was half past midnight. He went into the bathroom and splashed his face with cold water. He still felt stiff and pummeled, but he was much steadier on his feet, and his head was clear.
After cleaning his teeth, he went to the closet and took out a pair of dark blue chinos, a pale blue check shirt, and a tan linen coat. Maybe it wasn’t exactly period costume, but it was reasonably inconspicuous. He had seen three or four people in the other London wearing linen coats. Admittedly, they had all been clerics, but that was a chance that he was prepared to take.
He left his room and went down to the lobby, to the night porter’s desk. The night porter was a gray-haired black man, who was sitting comfortably in his chair with the cryptic crossword in The Daily Telegraph.
“Morning, sir,” he said. “Looking for a drink?”
“No, no. I… uh … I wondered if you had any candles.”
“Candles?”
“It’s a religious thing. Every fourth Tuesday I light a candle for my father, and a candle for my mother, and a candle in memory of John Lennon.”
The porter took off his glasses and gave Josh a long, unfocused look. Then he said, “Are you serious, sir?”
“Do I look as if I’m joking?”
“No, sir, you don’t. But then different people have a different sense of humor.”
“Listen, I’m serious. I’m looking for candles.”
The porter rummaged in the bottom drawer of his desk and eventually produced four wax nightlights, in little aluminum-foil cups.
“That’s the best I can do, I’m afraid. But you’re welcome to them.”
“They’re great,” said Josh. “Absolutely ideal.”
“They’re nightlights, that’s all. I only keep them here in case of power cuts. You’re not going to light them in your room, are you?”
“No, no. I’m going to do this outside.”
“Well, that’s OK. We don’t allow candles in the rooms. Not even for religious purposes.” He picked up his glasses and said, “You could help me with this clue, though. ‘It’s disgusting that hell is so elegant.’ Eleven letters.”
“Don’t ask me. I was never any good at cryptic crosswords.”
Josh left the hotel and hailed a passing taxi, reaching Star Yard at about twenty after one in the morning. His footsteps echoed against the buildings on either side. The only background noise was the harsh brushing of a roadsweeping truck as it made its way slowly up Chancery Lane.
As he knelt by the niche that led to the other London, he thought he saw a brief shadowy flicker, further up the passageway. He turned his head, and saw a gray cat running around the corner. He stood up, wondering if he ought to go after it. It meant something, he was sure, but he didn’t know what. But he waited and waited and it didn’t reappear, so he knelt back down again, and set out three of the nightlights, and lit them.
Jack be nimble, Jack be quick, he breathed to himself. He waited until he was sure that the nightlights were burning properly, and then he jumped into the niche.
Putting out one hand to steady himself against the wall, he looked back at the London he had left. The nightlights were still burning, their flames dipping in the breeze; and beyond the nightlights, with the flames reflected in its eyes, stood the gray cat, staring at him.
“Ladslove?” Josh challenged it.
The cat continued to watch him with the solemnity that only cats can muster. Then it turned away and disappeared.
Josh turned left, and then right, and then left. It was very dark between the buildings, and when he looked up he couldn’t even see the stars. He was beginning to feel very tired, and the wounds of the Holy Harp were feeling sore. What was worse, he had to make sure that he breathed through his nose, because the slightest flow of air across his deeply-drilled teeth was agony.
He saw light up ahead – not as bright as the sodium lights that he had left behind him, but the same distinctive orange. He stepped out of the niche, back into Star Yard. He heard traffic, and the distant clanging of bells. There was a strong smell of burning in the wind, and another smell, like dust.
Cautiously, he walked as far as Carey Street. It was deserted, except for three parked trucks and an old-fashioned-looking automobile. There were no streetlights anywhere, and not a single light in any of the buildings all around him, but there was a glow in the sky above the rooftops, and so he guessed that this part of the city was suffering from a power blackout. He heard a woman’s high heels walking very quickly down a side alley, but he couldn’t see her.
It felt like the same London that he and Nancy had first ventured into. He recognized the Law Society and the Public Record Office – and down at the end of Chancery Lane, although it was closed for the night, he saw the same newsstand where they had tried to buy a paper. But as he walked down to Fleet Street, the smell of burning grew stronger, and before he could reach the corner, a firetruck drove past, with a silver bell clanging on its front bumper, and firefighters standing on its running-boards.
He soon saw where it was headed. Less than a mile away, the great dome of St Paul’s Cathedral was surrounded by fires. Thick gray smoke was billowing up into the night sky, and powerful searchlights were criss-crossing through it, as if they were fencing with each other. The air was filled with distant shouts and panicky bells and the deep, soft rumbling noise of buildings burning.
There was hardly any traffic around – only one or two small private cars speeding along Farringdon Street with their headlights shuttered – and not a soul on the sidewalks. No sign of the Hooded Men, thankfully, or their drummers, or their dog-handlers. Josh didn’t have much of a plan, apart from finding Nancy, but he knew that he was going to need help. He started to walk toward the British Museum, keeping close to the walls, and stepping back into the shadows whenever he heard a vehicle approaching.