I am at ease.
“What you’re describing… sounds pathological.”
“Yes,” he mused again. “I would not disagree with that.”
“Do you… have sympathy for her?”
“Sympathy?”
“If she is… everything you think she is… do you feel sorry for her?”
“No. Of course not. She breaks the law.” He hesitated then, head on one side, considering the statement further.
I am at ease.
I am at ease.
I fail to be at ease. My face is hot; what is this? Excitement, terror, happiness, dread, guilt, pride, giddiness of companionship after too long alone, what a companion, a man who knows everything about me, who knows me, the shock of it, the delight, the…
His features flicker in unexpected concern. I am at ease, I am at fucking ease. He mumbles, “I’m sorry, you are… did I say something? I’m not selling my job well, it is of course—”
“No,” I cut him off, sharper than I’d meant. Then soft, smiling, I am my smile, I am my bloody fucking smile, “No, it wasn’t anything you said. Sorry. It’s been a long day for me too. Let’s… talk about something else.”
We talked, he and I, for another hour and a half.
Then he said, “I should…”
Of course, I replied, jumping to my feet. You’re very…
It’s been a pleasure…
… good luck with the…
… of course, you too.
A moment, perhaps.
But no: he looked at me, and saw a young woman, looking to him for ideas, inspiration, an example. He would set a good example.
Luca Evard was always a good man.
Good night, Inspector Evard.
Good night. Perhaps we shall meet again.
Chapter 33
Pickpocketing on the Istanbul metro. Find a crowded train, bounce, body to body, the rattle of people, motion keeping your mark preoccupied. I stank, my eyes were bruised, I wanted to sleep and couldn’t believe sleep would ever come, that my mind would ever stop.
I counted supporters of Fenerbahce and Besiktas, of Barcelona and Madrid, Munich and Manchester. I saw one lone supporter of Sheffield United, and wondered if he had picked up the shirt because he liked the pattern.
I counted patent-leather shoes and flip flops.
Gold bracelets and plastic bangles.
I counted until there was only the world, the numbers, the breath, and I, my aching mind and my burned body, didn’t exist. I was only eyes, counting, only fingers, reaching, only the slight pressure against the stranger’s arm as I bumped against him, lifting the wallet from his pocket as he turned away. I counted buckles on bags as I pulled the mother’s purse; counted the studs in a student’s ears as I pilfered his phone and ID; I counted coins as I rode the funicular to Karakoy. The wallets themselves I threw away — no use to me. The face of the student on his ID tumbled into the bin. The mother’s library card fell into the dark. The lawyer’s credit cards vanished into the remnants of a sticky lamb kebab at the bottom of the trash can. They would be angry. They would feel violated. They would waste time and money restoring the things I had stolen. They would tell their friends that they no longer felt safe on the metro.
I didn’t care.
I would live.
On Siraselviler I bought a bowl of spiced yoghurt and lamb served with scalding rice and ate it in great shovelling mouthfuls. From an ice-cream house, the walls decked out with pictures of cartoon characters with ice-cream cones grafted into the frame — Princess Jasmine and Aladdin sharing a couple of cones on their magic carpet, the Pink Panther licking his lips with satisfaction, a half-devoured strawberry cone in one hand — I ordered lemon and honey with extra sprinkles, and ate until my belly hurt.
From one of the dozens of mobile phone outlets that lined the street, I bought a cheap handset with a cheaper SIM card, and accessed my email.
Parker hadn’t replied.
As the sun set, the lights brightened on Siraselviler, and a patter of light rain began to fall. I stood a while, letting it wet my hair, run into my skin, enjoying it like the sleep I hadn’t yet had, before wandering into the nearest universal-brand of universal-store that sold the same universal-clothes that you could buy anywhere, and dressing myself like a tourist.
Chapter 34
Why counting?
A lesson learned from my dad. A common trick in the police: when you’re sitting opposite the bastard who you knew did it and who won’t say a word; when you show that bastard the pictures of the old woman he beat, the child he robbed, the woman he raped and his face doesn’t even flicker, no surprise, no regret, just “no comment, no comment”, when you think you’re going to punch him in the face, shake him by the throat and scream, Say something, you bastard, show some fucking humanity!
at that moment, instead, let out a slow breath, and count backwards from ten.
Ten nine eight seven six five four three two one.
You can always get the fucker on forensics anyway.
Not that my dad ever swore. Not worth it, he’d say. People are just people, doing people things. Sometimes they’re stupid, and sometimes they’re desperate, and a lot of the time it’s just bad luck. Don’t get your knickers in a twist over people.
By midnight, Parker still hadn’t replied. Had these been normal circumstances, I might have found a casino, somewhere to count the cards; but Istanbul had shut its casinos years ago, and I didn’t have the contacts to find where the gambling was now.
Reluctantly, I went back to the bunk bed in Zetinburnu, and slept badly, and dreamed of sand.
Forty-nine hours after I’d contacted him, and thirteen stolen wallets later, Parker replied.
Dear Hope
I’m sorry to disappoint, but I don’t deal in these things any more. Should you need help, I suggest you approach an embassy or consular authority. I wish you luck,
Yours faithfully,
What did I feel?
I had no memories of this man, no face to hate.
Was he just a fantasy in my mind, a dream?
Was he real?
(Was I?)
If I had been in Newark, and had access to the box where I stored my memories of him, I would have torn them to pieces and, as they burned, I would have rejoiced in the murder of the flames.
I tore the dressings off my burns.
I walked through the street in three-quarter shorts and a strappy top so people could see my still-blazing injuries.
On the tram, I stole a wallet from a woman who’d looked at me with contempt, and fumbled the grab, and as she began to scream and cry thief, thief, thief, I slapped her across the face and ran away, until my lungs burned again and I couldn’t remember where I was or how I’d got there.
No one would remember me as I stood upon this corner, gasping for breath.
There was only now.
The now in which I opened the stolen wallet, tore the contents out, ripped the money to pieces, snarled like an injured animal, sat on the pavement, remembered I was alone.
This now.
I stand up.
The now is fading.
Those who saw it, forget it.
Now it is gone.
Now I am walking.
Counting my steps.
And gone.
On my seventh day in Istanbul, I bought a laptop, loaded up Tor, and went looking for Byron14.
He was hiding, tipped off perhaps by my silence, or by my looking, or by some other action of Gauguin’s. I posted up the following:
whatwherewhen: For sale. Perfection base code, unencrypted. Full 106 Club database with names and bank details. Total access or your money back.
Byron14 was there in less than twenty minutes.