Joe looked at the clock again. Everyone knew that after twelve was already the afternoon…

‘Sure,’ Joe said.

Romeo and Juliets

——

… And somewhere it was always just past twelve. Mo had a bitter. Joe had a French lager. They both had a shot of whisky just to help the beer go down. They had walked a short distance up Shaftesbury Avenue, turned left, and were now seated in the Red Lion pub, hemmed in by the Windmill Theatre on one side and the Pink Pussycat club on the other. A black girl with a blonde wig was standing outside the door of the Pink Pussycat smoking a cigarette. A beggar walked past pushing a shopping trolley. The Red Lion had large windows and cheap beer and Joe was paying. They finished the first round and ordered another. Neither, it seemed, could find a reason not to. ‘I’ll have a Gin and Tonic,’ Mo said. ‘Malawi-style.’

The bartender said, ‘What’s Malawi-style?’

‘You put a pickled chilli instead of a slice of lime in the glass,’ Mo said. ‘Gives it a kick.’ The bartender shrugged. ‘Just a beer for me,’ Joe said.

Two Chinese men in suits walked past. A large poster on the side wall of the Windmill Theatre promised Fully Nude Shows. The girl outside the Pink Pussycat finished her cigarette, dropping the stub to the ground, and remained standing, holding her arms across her chest. Joe lit a fresh cigarette. Mo lit a new cigar. The smell of the Hamlet had a life all of its own. Mo must have seen something in Joe’s face, because he shrugged, and said, ‘When business is good I prefer Romeo and Juliets.’

Joe let it pass without comment.

‘I’m a bit of a Shakespearean,’ Mo said. Then he smiled and said, ‘At least when it comes to cigars.’

There was something about the man, Joe thought, that wasn’t quite right. Sitting in the pub with only the dim sunlight coming in through the windows, Mo’s skin had the colour of tobacco leaves, his thin eyebrows the colour of smoke. ‘First thing I can tell you is, getting access to members’ records isn’t going to be easy,’ Mo said. ‘The Castle is your typical private members club. There are at least ten in the Soho area alone and they all take privacy very, very seriously. It’s part of the appeal. The Castle’s clientele seems to be varied – about half are actors, some writers, directors, that sort of people, and the rest is government – councillors, MPs, a couple of ministers. So they don’t want anyone snooping around. There was a case a few years ago, one of the waiters at another club opened his mouth to a journalist, all kinds of stories – drugs, orgies, underhand deals conducted in the dining room, you know, the usual – and I only found out about it accidentally. The story never got published, the journalist involved lost his job, and I never heard shit about the waiter again. No one else ever did, either.’

‘What does that mean?’ Joe said. Mo was beginning to irritate him.

‘It means that people respect privacy around here,’ Mo said. ‘And if they don’t, they can be made to respect it. Savvy?’

‘Yes,’ Joe said, a little testily. ‘Do go on.’

‘The castle has three floors – a basement, a second and third floors –’ he was counting the way the British do – ‘and a ground floor which, as far as members are concerned, is only a reception area. That’s where the kitchens, et cetera, are located, out of sight. The members’ entrance is through an unmarked door at number twenty-two Frith Street. There is a discreet exit through the back, and also a staff entrance two doors down on Frith Street again. To become a member you have to be first recommended by an existing member, then approved by a committee. The membership numbers are restricted. On the second floor is a dining room where guests can be entertained. The third floor holds bedrooms for members wishing to stay the night. In the basement are a private dining room, a library, the smoking lounge and a postal room for use of members wishing to route their post via the club – and that’s really what you wanted to know, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

The address Papadopoulos had given Joe in Paris was for the Castle Club, in London’s Soho area. Royalty payments for the Osama books went to Mike Longshott, care of the Castle Club. Mike Longshott, therefore, must have been a member of the club. And membership numbers, as Mo pointed out, were restricted. It was Joe’s first solid lead. Somewhere inside the Castle there would be information leading him to Longshott – there had to be.

He took a last swig from his beer and laid down some notes for Mo. The bald man stuffed them inside his raincoat but seemed in no hurry to leave the premises. ‘Everybody’s looking for something,’ he said suddenly. ‘Only some of us get paid to find it.’

Joe was taken aback. Mo smiled and signalled the bartender for another drink. ‘I hope you find it, whatever it is,’ he told Joe. Joe nodded. ‘And you?’ he said. ‘Anything you’re looking for?’

Mo shrugged. ‘I mainly do divorces,’ he said. Joe smiled and walked to the doors. As he was about to leave, a small brass plaque on the wall caught his eyes. ‘In a room above this pub, in 1847, the second Congress of the Communist League was held. In the same room, Karl Marx wrote Das Kapital.’ Below that, in smaller letters, was the legend: ‘ “Our age, the age of democracy, is breaking.” Frederick Engels.’ Joe stepped outside and lit a cigarette.

voices at a funeral

——

There were two shots. The air was a foggy haze. The girl in the doorway opposite had disappeared. There were no pedestrians. The sunlight had a murky quality. It was very silent but for the gunshots. He hadn’t taken more than two puffs on the cigarette – it stayed between his fingers, the smoke curling up so slowly to the sky, but you couldn’t see the sky in London. A moth fluttered past. Brick walls. Great Windmill, a pedestrian street. The sound of traffic coming through from Shaftesbury Avenue, but muted, like voices at a funeral. A torn piece of newspaper blowing past his feet. Someone had spray-painted 7/7 on the wall further up, the direction from which the three men were approaching. He saw black shoes, no faces. The door opened behind him, Mo emerging into the street, oblivious, saying – ‘I’ll give it to you for free – if you get stuck try looking out for Madam Se –’

Gunshots, three this time. One took the bald man in the head. Joe spun, slow-motion-like, his hands trailing bands of light. The sound of the shots was very loud in the street. A glass window exploded. There were screams from inside. Glass fragmented, rippling out of the blast core, flying through the air, the shards catching the light as they blew. There were momentary rainbows. Mo, falling, like a body in water. The cigarette was still glued to Joe’s fingers.

Take stock. Turn. Mo still falling, falling, the ground a long way away, his body trailing light like coloured smoke. Three men coming, three men with guns, Joe trapped in a triangle between the Pink Pussycat, the Windmill Theatre and Marx’s pub. Up the road a sign said Bookshop. Mo hitting the ground and Joe thought – Strange. There was no blood. Time speeded up and he staggered, the three men still coming, two of them circling him, the third stopped where he was. Joe ducked a blow, kicked out, heard a man grunt in pain. Someone swore. A pistol butt connected with Joe’s head and he fell back, hit an obstruction, fell. The ground came at him hard. Mo’s body a rise above the plane of the street. Mo’s face, turned to Joe, pale thin lips, moving. A whisper. Joe strained to hear.

‘One of us…’

The eyes closed. The lips settled into a line. A face like the surface of an asteroid, passing in the darkness of space. Fading out. Hands reached for Joe. He fought them. From somewhere, a shout: ‘Don’t knock him out!’

Pain flared in the back of his head. He thought, Too late.