THE LANGHAM HOTEL, LONDON
Jags woke early, just after dawn. He disentangled himself from the sheets and rolled out of the side of the four-poster bed with Elizabeth still sleeping. He knew from the previous and only other time that such an invitation had been extended that this was how she preferred it. He used the emergency stairs and went out through the back of the hotel using the fire door. The only camera he saw was situated above the holding bay. He avoided that by jumping down next to a laundry lorry and shuffling around the side before marching swiftly out onto the empty street. He kept his collar up and his head down during the twenty-minute walk back to his own hotel and he waited until he was sitting on the bed in his room before putting the SIM card back in his mobile phone and switching it on. There were several messages but none that demanded an immediate response so he decided to take a bath. He ran the hot tap only right up until the flow started to cool and then added just enough cold water that he could bear to lower his naked frame in through the thick layer of bubbles. He kept the lighting down low and before long he was asleep again and dreaming of what he’d hoped to dream of. The phone call jerked him back to an unwelcome state of consciousness; the number was unknown, which most of the time meant it was Fred.
‘Yeah?’
‘It’s me.’
‘Yep.’
‘You’ve been offline for quite a while.’
‘I’ve been sleeping,’
‘With your phone off?’
‘Yep.’
‘Too much sleep can kill you, did you know that? Just the same as too little.’
‘Is that right? What d’you want Fred?’ Using a real name on an unsecured line was absolutely against protocol and completely deliberate. He hoped it might encourage Fred to keep the call short and then fuck off so he could get back to his daydream.
‘I’ve been sent something from a friend in South America. A video.’
‘Okay.’
‘Your job is to make problems go away, not invite them in through the front door.’
Jags sighed.
‘Most likely it’s nothing, she was giving a speech and she just got a little over-excited.’
‘Well then you better go unexcite her. Put her straight. We need her back on script …’ He stopped. ‘… before anybody suggestible flies down there.’
‘I understand.’
‘Good. There are a couple more London-related matters I need you to sort out, I’ve FedExed the details.’
‘Fine.’
‘The envelope’s at the hotel reception. Your hotel.’
‘I’ll go down and get it.’
‘Okay. You’re sure you’re up to this are you? I could always send someone else, one of the new guys, to help you out.’
‘I don’t need any help.’ Jags hung up. He skimmed the phone in the direction of a towel that he’d left lying on the bathroom floor, but it overshot and ricocheted off the skirting board. He heard the plastic case crack. ‘Fuck. And fuck you Fred.’ The water had begun to cool and the dream he’d been enjoying had slipped beyond his reach. He pushed himself angrily out of the bath, sending a wave of suds out over the edge and onto the floor. He would ask reception to bring the envelope up and deal with Fred’s latest to-do list. After that he would book himself on the next direct flight from London to Santiago. He thought about calling Elizabeth, or texting her to tell her what was going on. To thank her for the meal. For saying that he could talk to her if he needed to. To thank her for everything. He quickly dismissed the idea as too risky. Not just risky in fact, positively reckless. He went to his jacket and found his notebook. He would write to her instead and have a bellhop at reception run it over. He checked the idea for flaws but found none; he started writing and for once the words came easily.
Fred sat behind his desk and stared at the computer screen. Elizabeth had sent him a couple of emails, asking that he call her on a secure line. He knew what she wanted to talk about, he’d already done the little research job that she’d requested, albeit against his better judgement. He’d let her wait a little longer before he called her.
His thin fingers danced across the keyboard and the map of the world filled with silver lights appeared before him. In certain locations there were clumps of brighter light – three or four pin pricks gathered close together, working together. And soon there would be more. Fred leant back in his seat and stared.
41 The Play
THE LENNON WALL, CENTRAL GOVERNMENT COMPLEX, HONG KONG
Patrick listened patiently to Eric’s somewhat paranoid-sounding account of the last few days.
‘We take every precaution, we use the latest encryption, we change phones all the time or pass messages by hand, but still they have some way of working out what it is we’ll do next, where we’ll be.’
‘The police are always going to guess right some of the time.’
‘It’s not some of the time these last several days, it’s all of the time. And I am no longer sure that this is the police.’
‘Who then?’
‘I do not know.’
Patrick reached into his canvas and leather kitbag and found the faxes that McCluskey had sent through. He’d left the sheets that he wanted Eric to look at and try to make sense of on top.
‘Have a read of these for me will you?’
Eric cleaned his spectacles on the tail of his T-shirt and started to read. It took a good while for him to work his way through the blocks of untranslated Chinese text.
‘What is this?’
‘What does it read like to you?’
‘It reads like it is a play …’ He pointed at the pages. ‘… a very odd play.’
Patrick nodded.
‘You’re not far wrong. It’s a transcription of a conversation, something that a colleague of mine in England sent me.’
Eric nodded.
‘It is incomplete.’
‘Yes. I think this is the only section of the conversation she managed to hear.’
‘To hear? I see.’
‘So what do you think?’
‘I think she overheard an extremely boring conversation.’
Patrick smiled.
‘Right, but what is it about?’
Eric tried to summarise. The two people were talking about an exchange of information of some sort.
‘One person is telling the other that no piece of information should be considered insignificant. They’re asking for every item of information from every source available. They say that even the smallest dot or scrap of information is significant when placed alongside another. That is why they need everything.’ Eric pushed his glasses back up his nose. ‘Maybe they are talking about a scientific study of some sort?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Then at the end it gets simpler. The person who has been doing most of the listening just asks the other for an update, about the repairmen? He or she wants to know where they are? It reads like a request.’
Patrick nodded.
‘Yes, we’d figured that part out already. Nothing else?’
Eric shook his head.
‘As I said. It is incomplete. If you got hold of the rest then I could probably tell you more.’
‘Yes. My colleague back in England, she’s working on it.’
42 Promises
HIGHBURY FIELDS, LONDON
William was sitting on the park bench outside Rebecca and Patrick’s flat on Highbury Fields. He’d laid an old newspaper down on the bench; the air felt more crisp than cold and he had his anorak on anyway so he was fine. He checked the time. Rebecca taught down in south London somewhere and it would take her a while to get back, even if she got to leave when school finished and he knew that was rarely the case with teachers. He had a book to read plus a few notes about Public Square’s accounts that Donnie had messaged him, although he hated reading anything like that on his phone. He’d wait until he got home. But he was happy to wait, more than happy in fact. He guessed that every person had one place where the memo
ries were strongest. Either you’d spent so long somewhere that there was plenty to remember. Or the handful of things that happened there were so significant. A single event in some cases – a choice made or a defining event. This patch of London was his place. The long straight line of plane trees shone in the early evening light. Autumn had taken a toll, the footpath was mulchy with fallen leaves, but there were still enough clinging to the dark branches to make the scene spectacular. At least to Carver’s eye. He stared and sighed.
‘Bollocks to New England in the fall.’
When he’d first started out as a cub reporter on a local newspaper, this had been his patch. He’d bored Patrick stupid with stories about Highbury’s colourful past – before the estate agents moved in and pushed the proper good old-fashioned gangsters out. Carver wondered whether Patrick had told Rebecca any of these stories. If not then maybe she’d appreciate a tale or two? He enjoyed telling them. He was wondering which of the various horror stories he’d reported on might be most appropriate to tell Rebecca when a neckless young man in a blue quilted jacket, grey tracksuit bottoms and trainers strode up, an apologetic look on his face.
‘Hey there boss, sorry to bother you. I don’t suppose you’ve seen a dog wandering around near here have you? Looking a bit lost?’
‘No ’fraid not.’
‘Ah, no problem.’ The man glanced across the road in the direction of the houses. ‘Perhaps he’s headed back home.’
‘Perhaps. What type of dog?’
‘What? Oh, he’s a cross. A mutt really. Medium-sized, brown.’
‘Okay, I’ll keep an eye out.’
‘Thanks, appreciate it.’
Carver nodded and studied the man. ‘You lost the leash too?’
‘What?’
‘You don’t have a dog or a dog lead.’
‘Right … he ran off wearing it. Slipped out of my hand …’
Carver nodded.
‘That explains it.’
The man tried to smile, but it wouldn’t stick. He moved away, up the footpath towards the clock tower at the top of the Fields.
As soon as he was out of sight, Carver reached into his briefcase for his notepad and scribbled down a brief description of the man and beneath that, a sketch. It wasn’t bad. He was wondering about the possible significance of this encounter when, glancing up, he saw Rebecca outside the door to her house She was digging around inside her satchel for the door keys. He shouted her name and she turned to see where the call had come from. Seeing Carver, she smiled, before a sudden look of panic crossed her face.
‘Is he all right?’
Carver stood.
‘What? Yeah, he’s fine. Absolutely fine.’ He put his notepad back in his briefcase, clicked it shut and crossed the road to her side. ‘I was in the area, thought I’d come say hi …’ He paused. ‘… and actually Patrick asked if I’d come talk to you, reassure you about stuff you know? Tell you he’s okay and, er …’ One reason he’d decided that a visit would be better than a phone call was that he wasn’t sure how to start a conversation like this. Now he was here, he realised that doing it face to face was going to be just as tricky. More so perhaps. He wasn’t good at things like this, whatever this thing was. ‘Any chance of a cup of tea?’
‘Of course William, sorry. Come on up.’
They sat side by side on a worn grey sofa, a tray of tea and chocolate digestives on a low table in front of them. The sitting room looked out onto the Fields and the autumn sun filled it with light. There was a richly coloured rug on the floor that William remembered Patrick buying in Casablanca. He pointed at it.
‘He was desperate to get that rug for you, spent ages haggling over it. He drank about ten cups of mint tea and still got fleeced as I recall.’
Rebecca smiled.
‘He’s a rubbish haggler.’
There were various interesting knick-knacks around the room and on the mantelpiece, as well as framed photos of the two of them on holiday, at a family wedding, both dressed up to the nines. It was a good room. Carver had munched his way through several chocolate digestives before he noticed that Rebecca hadn’t touched them. ‘You don’t want a biscuit?’
‘No, thanks. I’m not feeling great today …’ Carver nodded; now she mentioned it, she did look a little green around the gills. ‘… I think maybe I ate something that didn’t agree with me.’
‘Like an Ofsted inspector?’
Rebecca grinned. They talked about her school for a while, then about Carver’s teaching before eventually working their way back to the purpose of his visit.
‘So Patrick asked you to come speak to me?’
‘Yes.’
‘How come?’
‘He said that you’d been followed by someone.’
‘I thought I had … last week. Some woman pretending to be a parent. I don’t know why it freaked me out so much. It just seemed weird, running into her twice in one day. Patrick figured it was some kind of misunderstanding or mix-up.’
‘If he thought that then, I’m pretty sure he doesn’t think it now.’
‘Why, what’s changed?’
‘It’s not a one-off, it’s part of a pattern of – as you say – weird things. Something similar happened to a colleague of mine, a friend really, McCluskey. Maybe Patrick’s mentioned her to you?’
‘Oh yes, at length.’ Rebecca paused. ‘I’m sorry to hear that, is she all right?’
‘Yeah, she’s fine. McCluskey’s bullet-proof. So can you tell me what happened with you?’
Rebecca talked Carver through it; several times he asked her to slow down or repeat something, he wanted every detail.
‘How come you decided on the Portrait Gallery?’
‘I hadn’t been for a while, I couldn’t remember the opening hours so I checked those.’
‘On your phone?’
‘Sure.’
When eventually he felt like he’d got the story straight in his head, Carver sat back on the sofa. He glanced up at the ceiling.
‘Clever.’
‘Huh? The woman who was following me?’
‘No, not her. You. Engaging her in conversation, testing her with a fictitious nursery name. Really smart.’
Rebecca smiled.
‘Thank you William.’
‘But it won’t put them off, they’ll just have someone else keep an eye on you instead.’ He considered telling her about the stocky fellow with the missing dog, but decided against. Rebecca stared down at her feet.
‘So does all this have something to do with what Patrick’s working on?’
‘Well … I can’t think of any other explanation. Can you?’
‘No.’ She paused. ‘That’s great, just what I need.’
‘Eh?’
‘More reasons to be angry with Patrick.’
‘Are you two not getting along?’
Rebecca laughed.
‘I’ve seen him for five days in the last forty-five William.’
‘Right, I see.’
‘And he slept for most of that. He’s so wrapped up in the work he’s got no room for anything else. These last few months, even when he’s back …’ She shook her head. ‘… he’s not completely back. Do you know what I mean?’
‘I do.’
Having not wanted to start talking about Patrick, Rebecca was now finding it difficult to stop.
‘I know that the idiot I fell for is in there somewhere, I’m just having a hard time finding him right now …’ She smiled. ‘… geographically, emotionally, in every way.’ She paused. ‘We had our annual auction of promises at the school last night.’ She laughed and looked over at William. ‘Sorry that must sound like the non sequitur to end all non sequiturs.’
‘It’s definitely up there.’
She grinned.
‘Soon after I started at this school – my first term – they had the auction of promises. I made a complete fool of myself. I tried to deal with how nervous I was by drinking a couple of glasses of white wine.
Then a couple more. Patrick had come along to lend some moral support and he tried to slow me down, but I was flying and towards the end of the night, the last few lots were being auctioned – a week in Malta, the VIP experience at Charlton Athletic Football Club, that kind of thing – and I staggered up and said that I would cook my famous Chinese stir-fry, in fact a whole meal at the home of whoever bid the highest.’ Carver shook his head. ‘There was this deathly silence. Nothing. I was standing up there next to the auctioneer, staring at this hall, filled with people staring back at me. All my colleagues, the parents of every kid in my class and all the other parents too. Just silence. I was about to walk back to my chair when Patrick stuck his hand up and shouted that he’d pay twenty pounds and a couple of people laughed. Then he bid thirty. Then he moved seats and bid forty …’ Carver glanced up at Rebecca, her eyes were damp. ‘… moved back again and bid eighty and the whole room was laughing now. The auctioneer joined in and by the end he’d paid one hundred and fifty quid, just bidding against himself and everyone in the hall was in hysterics. My stir-fry raised more than the VIP trip to Charlton Athletic.’
Carver nodded.
‘He’ll be back before long, er, and you two will sort it out. I’m sure.’
‘Right. I wish I was sure. He’s not the same man at all, not right now anyway.’
‘There’ll be reasons.’
‘Sure, I know that. He isn’t sleeping enough, I think he’s drinking too much. He just isn’t looking after himself properly – everything is about the work. He loves his job and I know that what he’s doing is important, but so is what I’m doing. And so’s our future. I’m worried that he’s going to end up—’ She stopped.
William smiled.
‘End up like me?’
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean …’
‘Don’t worry, I understand.’ He paused. ‘It’s the right thing to worry about. I didn’t intend to end up like me either. It just kind of happened, over time – the way things do.’
Rebecca put her hand on Carver’s arm.
‘I think with you – it’s different. I mean, you’re brilliant. Patrick always says you’re brilliant.’
A Cursed Place Page 21
