>
Anomie: yeah she was a fkn bitch
<A new private channel has opened>
<5 June 2015 16.00>
<Anomie invites Morehouse>
Anomie: you finished your exams, bwah?
Morehouse: it’s not an exam, it’s a research thing
Anomie: oh yeah, I knew that
Morehouse: Paperwhite been in?
Anomie: doubt it’ll be long now you’re here
>
>
>
Anomie: and here she is. Telepathy or coincidence?
Morehouse: telepathy, obviously
Anomie: you’re a fkn physicist, you don’t believe in that shit
Morehouse: then it was coincidence
Anomie: fine, go and private channel her
Morehouse: you know you’re my number 1
Anomie: lol
Anomie: you fag
Morehouse: go talk to BorkledDrek, he thinks you’re a god
Anomie: true. But then, I am
<Anomie has left the channel>
<Morehouse has left the channel>
<Private channel has closed>
<A new private channel has opened>
<5 June 2015 16.03>
<Paperwhite invites Morehouse>
Paperwhite: Mouse?
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
Paperwhite: hello?
>
>
Paperwhite: are you chatting up a hot fellow scientist?
>
>
>
<Morehouse has joined the channel>
Morehouse: sorry, I was keeping Anomie sweet
Morehouse: you’ve seen? The bombing?
Paperwhite: Yes!!! wtf?
Morehouse: they’re saying it was The Halvening
Paperwhite: I know, I saw
Morehouse: well this fits, it all fits, doesn’t it?
Morehouse: that Ellacott woman jumped down to help Vilepechora
Morehouse: so they probably thought she was following him, not Anomie
Paperwhite: that makes sense.
Paperwhite: but if Ellacott’s not at the office, how do we find her?
Morehouse: we’ll call the number, we’ll find a way
Morehouse: how many more exams u got?
Paperwhite: 2
Morehouse: not long til we meet then
Morehouse: unless you’ve got cold feet and don’t want to
Paperwhite: fuck off, Morehouse
Paperwhite: I’ve been begging u to meet me for how long?
Morehouse: lol
74
Yet—sayst thou, spies around us roam…
That there is risk our mutual blood
May redden in some lonely wood
The knife of treachery?
If there was one upside to getting bombed out of his home and office thought Strike, as he walked down Kilburn High Road buying himself underwear, socks, toiletries including cream for his stump, a couple of shirts and a pair of pyjamas (the first he’d owned since his teens, but which he thought he ought to wear at Robin’s), it was that it gave him a cast-iron excuse not to have dinner with Madeline that night, especially as the bomb was now being reported on the BBC News website.
‘What?’ she said, when he called her from the doorway of Superdrug to tell her what had happened. ‘Oh my God – who – why—?’ He heard her gasp. ‘I’ve just seen it online! It’s Corm!’ he heard her call to some unknown person, presumably one of her sales girls. ‘He’s been sent a parcel bomb and it bloody went off!’
For reasons he couldn’t quite put his finger on, Strike didn’t like the fact that Madeline was telling one of her sales staff this, although the bombing was hardly private information, given that the BBC had it.
‘Come and stay with us!’ said Madeline, turning her attention back to Strike.
‘I can’t,’ said Strike, reaching for a cigarette. ‘The Met say it’s best for me to lie low for a while. I don’t want to bring this stuff down on you and Henry.’
‘Oh,’ said Madeline. ‘D’you think—? I mean, nobody really knows about us, do they?’
Not for want of trying from you, was Strike’s immediate, ungracious thought.
‘They’re terrorists,’ he said. ‘They watch people.’
‘Terrorists?’ repeated Madeline, now sounding truly scared. ‘I thought it was some random nutcase?’
‘No, it’s the same group that sent pipe bombs to those MPs. The ones that went after your friend Gigi.’
‘Oh my God,’ said Madeline again. ‘I didn’t realise you were investigating—’
‘We’re not. We just ran afoul of them because of another case. I can’t tell you any details. It’s better you don’t know.’
Given that you’ll just pass it straight on to your sales girl.
‘No, I s’pose… but where are you going to go, then?’
‘Travelodge or somewhere, I expect,’ lied Strike. ‘I’ll call you when I know what’s going on.’
‘Call me anyway,’ said Madeline, ‘whether you know what’s going on or not. I want to know you’re all right.’
After Strike had hung up, he noticed how much lighter of heart he felt, knowing he didn’t have to go to Pimlico that night. He reached automatically into his pocket for a celebratory cigarette, but after taking out the familiar gold packet he stood for a few seconds looking at it, then replaced it in his pocket and re-entered Superdrug.
Having bought all immediate necessities, plus a cheap rucksack to carry them in, he headed into McDonald’s where, remembering the condition his stump had been in that morning, he reluctantly eschewed a burger and bought an unsatisfactory salad. After this, still being hungry, he bought an apple pie and a coffee, consuming the former while trying not to resent three skinny teenagers at the nearest table, who were all tucking into Big Macs.
Though tired, Strike felt agitated. Adrenalin tingled in his veins, urging him to take some kind of retaliatory action, but instead he ate his pie, staring into space while people laughed and clattered all around him. The consequences of the bombing were sinking in, now that he had no Pat to look after and no practical tasks to distract him. He had no access to his laptop, no computer and no printer. All the work materials he had were his notebook, the Anomie file and his phone.
He picked up the last, intending to open Twitter to check what Anomie was up to, then noticed that he had two new texts, one from his half-sister Prudence and one from Shanker, a friend dating back to his teens with whom he remained in touch, in spite of the fact of Shanker’s incurable criminality. He opened Prudence’s first.
I’ve just seen your office has been bombed. Really hope you’re ok