*
Marcus slept as the taxi made its way through empty streets across London, his cheek pressed against the cold glass. He woke with a start as they sped along Bayswater Road. It was only when they drew up outside his flat that he realised that he had lost his key. He searched through his pockets, turning out tissues, his phone, his wallet, and a packet of cigarettes, but the key was not there.
‘Fuck,’ he said.
‘No money, mate? Need a bank machine?’ The cabby looked at him in the rear-view mirror.
‘No. I’ve lost my key. Shit!’ Marcus remembered that he had given Abby’s key to Mouse. ‘Listen, would you mind taking me to the top of Ladbroke Grove? Just past the Sainsbury’s. A friend of mine has a spare key.’
‘No problem, mate.’
Marcus was feeling terrible by the time they got to the canal. His mouth was dry, his throat had begun to scratch and his sinuses ache; he could sense that he was coming down with a cold. He paid the driver and stepped out onto the bridge, then made his way down to the towpath. The wind sent the rain raking painfully down his cheeks. He held his arm up, shielding his face with his jacket, but the wind whipped around, and he found himself dancing to try to avoid the rain. Dark clouds raced across the sky as he squelched along the path, his shoes wet through, his socks damp and cold. The trees shuddered in the wind, sending spirals of their last leaves down onto the water to float among the cans and plastic bags. The canal was brown with fallen leaves, pockmarked by the rain.
Marcus reached the Gentle Ben and stepped down onto the deck. He banged on the door of the cabin. No response. He cupped his hand to the window where the curtains hung open a crack. He could see no one inside. He banged on the door again, then tried the handle. It swung open. Gratefully, Marcus flung himself down the steps and into the dark cabin. It was cold inside and Marcus tried without success to locate the heating controls. He flicked the light switch and nothing happened. Marcus opened the curtains, but it was so dark outside that it barely altered the murky cabin.
Marcus made his way through to the small room at the back of the boat that Mouse used as a study-cum-wardrobe and found one of his Thomas Pink shirts. Mouse’s jeans would be too short for him, so he took off his own and hung them over a chair, hoping that they might dry a little while he searched for the key. He looked at the papers piled on Mouse’s desk. There were pictures from children’s fairy tales, scholarly articles on C. S. Lewis, a copy of The Way of the Pilgrim.
Marcus padded through the gloomy boat, checking whatever pieces of Mouse’s clothing he found, willing the key to appear from a trouser pocket, or perched on a sideboard. Marcus could picture his bed at home and longed to be back there with the heating turned up, a mug of tea and a book beside him, Darwin sprawled at his feet. He went back into the study and searched through the drawers in Mouse’s desk, looking with interest at the photographs he found. Many were of Lee, or had clearly been taken by her. Marcus realised that he should show Mouse his own collection of pictures. It had helped him to feel closer to Lee, to capture more accurately his feelings for her, when he saw her at her most beautiful, before the sadness set in.
Marcus was about to give up looking for the key when he noticed a small tortoiseshell box on the desk. It was the sort commonly used to house cufflinks, but Marcus thought that the key might have been placed inside for safekeeping. He fiddled with the tiny clasp of the box, opened it and stood staring at the contents, his tired mind suddenly racing. He held the box up to the window. Inside, against the black velvet lining, sat two earrings: one lapis blue, the other turquoise. Marcus picked them up and laid them in his palm. He sniffed them, not quite knowing why. Very gently, Marcus placed the earrings back in the box and carried it through to the main cabin.
Marcus pulled on his damp jeans and sat down. He found a slightly grubby pair of socks, and then wrapped a blanket around his still-icy feet. He felt the box in his pocket. There would be an explanation. There must be an explanation. He dialled Mouse’s phone. It rang several times, but there was no answer. Marcus sat on the bed, shivering every so often, and waited for his friend to come home.
He saw Mouse trudging down the towpath towards him an hour later. The canal curved round past the gasworks, so there was a stretch of about a hundred yards where Marcus had an uninterrupted view of his friend. Mouse’s velvet jacket was drenched. He had his collar turned up and he was doggedly sucking on a cigarette that he had to pause and relight several times as it was extinguished by the rain. He looked very small among the flying leaves and raging trees. His blond hair was soaked to brown, plastered flat upon his head. He jumped when he saw Marcus.
‘Hello, sport.’
‘Hello.’ Marcus heard his voice come out low and cold. He tapped the box in his pocket again. ‘I lost my keys last night. I thought you might have left Abby’s lying around.’
A flicker of worry crossed Mouse’s face.
‘I had it with me. Here you go.’ He reached into his pocket and threw Marcus the key. He set down a copy of the tabloid newspaper that had published an article about Lee’s disappearance.
‘I read it on the Tube. It’s rubbish, total nonsense.’ He paused. ‘Where did you get to last night? I was looking for you everywhere. You were out by the fire with the Lee-girl and then you were gone. I ended up going to sleep down the back of a sofa while Hugo Carrington had sex on top of it. Not my idea of fun.’
There was a silence. Mouse pulled another key out of his pocket, inserted it in the control panel by the steps leading up to the deck, and flicked a switch. The lights came on. Marcus drew out the box.
‘What’s this, Mouse? Where did you get these earrings?’
Mouse stared at him, his eyes wide with panic. Marcus tipped the earrings out onto the table where they rolled for a while and then stopped. Mouse and Marcus looked at each other for a moment longer, and then Mouse turned and ran up the steps to the deck. The boat rocked as he jumped to the shore. Marcus unwrapped the blanket from around his feet and stood up. He pulled on his jacket, slipping the earrings into his pocket. He couldn’t find his shoes. He charged into the study at the stern of the boat. His shoes were hanging on the back of a chair. He slipped them on and ran out into the rain.
Mouse was already out of sight. Marcus sprinted in the direction of Ladbroke Grove, slipping every so often on the muddy path. The rain tore at him as he ran, pricking pins and needles on his scalp. A bicyclist coming in the other direction swerved to avoid him. He lengthened his stride, knowing that he would catch Mouse eventually. Mouse was no athlete. As he rounded the bend by the gasworks, he saw Mouse far ahead. He was moving quickly, in spite of his awkward, waddling gait. His head was down and he pumped his arms out to the sides. A flock of pigeons that had been sheltering in the overhang outside Sainsbury’s rose into the air as Mouse ran past. Mouse turned to look back and Marcus could tell that he had seen him. Marcus watched as Mouse’s pudgy form made its way up the slope towards the road, then over the bridge and north towards Kensal Green.
Marcus reached the bridge just in time to see Mouse turn left onto the Harrow Road. Marcus’s loafers were not made for running and he thought about discarding them, then plunged forward, over the bridge and down the hill towards the traffic lights. A bus roared past him and he saw the face of a child at the window, a young girl of seven or eight who beamed at the sight of the gangly man barrelling down the road in the pouring rain, his bobbing head pointing upwards, his jaw clenched with the strain. When Marcus rounded the corner onto the Harrow Road, Mouse was gone.