‘No, this is the Castle.’

‘I must have the wrong address.’

Silence on the other end. Conversation terminated.

Joe smiled.

He sat at the coffee bar outside and ordered a cappuccino. A wide-screen television inside showing BBC coverage of a European sports league. He sat with his back to it, watched the approach to the Castle. Not long to wait: a man came out, dark suit, a large frame, a once-broken nose – making sure he was gone.

Well, he wasn’t. The bruiser went back inside, seemingly satisfied. Joe lit a cigarette, added sugar to his coffee. The bruise at the back of his head still hurt.

He sipped his coffee. He watched the club.

09:30 – a black cab pulled up to the curb, a man in a brown suit came out, holding a briefcase and a cane. Climbed up the stairs, the door swallowed him, the cab drove off.

09:42 – a man and a woman, casual clothes, the woman smoking, the man gesturing with his hands as he talked – up the stairs, into the club.

09:48 – an elderly man with a wild mane of white hair, stepping out of the club, blinking in the light, walked off towards Soho Square, zigzagging a little.

Nothing for another fifteen minutes, and he ordered another coffee, went to the bathroom. Through the counter, through a too-low door, down stairs, a cubicle underground. Emerging back into the light to find his coffee waiting for him, and a horse-drawn carriage, no less, outside the Castle, men in livery holding open the doors: two Japanese officials emerging in full regalia, a white man with square glasses, receding hairline and a suit, the three of them went into the club. He could be waiting all day.

10:16 – three men in casual clothes, talking loudly, coming from the direction of Chinatown.

10:22 – a cab pulled to the curb, waited. Four minutes later two women came out of the club, climbed inside. Strong features, prominent noses, mute and expensive clothes – the cab drove away.

Another trip underground for Joe. Standing under London all sounds were muted, the small dark space closing in on him. He hurried back up the narrow stairs.

Third coffee, and he was beginning to lose the thread of what he was looking for. Only a sense, a feeling that he would find something, an end to follow, if only he waited long enough. But he had enough of the coffee. He felt wound up, kept fidgeting with the cigarette.

10:43 – black car, diplomatic registration plates, no flag flying, three men in black suits, the older man gesturing, telling a joke – they were too far away for him to hear the particulars – the other two laughing. Grey Hair and his two muscle-boys, last seen Moceau. The car drove away, the three went up the stairs, disappeared inside the club.

Cosy. Did they know about Longshott, then? Too many unanswered questions. He left money on the table and stood up, stretched. Went back to number twenty-two and stared at the door. A small blue plaque on the wall: “The first television broadcast was made on this location in 1926.” He waited. He didn’t have to wait long.

The door opened. The bruiser from earlier. The suit an excellent cut, the face cut also, from long ago. ‘Can I help you, sir?’

Joe liked the ‘sir’. The man’s massive frame blocked the door.

‘I was just leaving,’ Joe said.

The man waited, face impassive. Joe thought of the people coming and going from the club, of the man in front of him. Bruisers and cruisers, he thought, and smiled.

‘Sir?’ The man detached himself from the doorway. A bulge under his jacket. Concealed gun. ‘If you don’t mind.’

Joe left.

convict’s last

——

He walked back to the Red Lion. It was still early. The Pink Pussycat was closed. The broken window of the Red Lion was still boarded up. Two African men walking past; a woman in a sari; a red-headed girl with pale Irish skin; a group of builders, heading for the Red Lion –- Joe left them to it.

Spray-painted on the wall, there was that number again. 7/7, lucky number doubled. He wondered what it meant. There was that Bookshop sign again. He went up Great Windmill, stepped through the door to the shop. A bell tinkled faintly.

The interior dark, a little musty. Dusty books in piles on the floor, movie reels stacked on shelves behind a counter, a black cat sleeping on a rocking chair. Leather outfits like something out of World War Two hanging loosely on hooks. Behind the counter, straightening up: an old man, white candy-floss hair sticking out, glasses perched on the edge of his nose. ‘Can I help you?’

‘What sort of books do you have?’

‘Dirty books,’ the man said, flatly.

Joe trailed a finger on a spine, left a line in the covering of dust, said, ‘I can see that.’

‘Very funny. You want to buy something?’ the implication being – if not, get out.

‘Do you have any Medusa Press titles?’

The old man grimaced. ‘Sure. We got the latest titles just come in from Paris.’

‘Could I see them?’

The man gestured at a pile of books by the door, a little less dusty than the rest. ‘Help yourself.’

Why was he looking at the books again? He didn’t know. He had a feeling he had missed something, in his talk with Papa D. He squatted down and began sifting through the titles, forming a new pile as he shifted books starting at the top.

Confessions of Dungeon Slave.

Alien Sexperiments – this one a science fiction title.

The New Translation of theKamaSutra.

Countess Szu Szu’s Guide to Erotic Love.

Papa D had been busy.

He went through some more of the same. ‘Do you stock any of the Osama Bin Laden books?’

‘Vigilante?’ the owner made a face. ‘I might have the new one somewhere. Hold on.’

The man came from behind the counter. Liver-spotted hands. A thick moustache salt-and-peppered. A turkey neck. There was something about him that suggested a convict’s last, un-nourishing meal. A pile of unopened mail by the door. ‘There it is. Came in last week.’ He tore open the bag. Five slim paperback volumes slid out. He passed one to Joe, left the rest on a random pile and shuffled back to his stool. There was a distinct smell, very familiar by now, permeating the shop. Joe tried to ignore it.

‘You get a lot of business here?’ he said. The old man shrugged. ‘Some.’

Chatty. He looked at the book in his hands. The European Campaign. In big bold letters below: An Osama Bin Laden: Vigilante Novel. Smaller letters above: By Mike Longshott, author of “Assignment: Africa”, “Sinai Bombings”, etc. The cover depicting an exploding double-decker bus on a crowded street.

‘Ever read them?’ he asked the old man.

A shrug. ‘Sure.’

‘What do you think?’

‘Load of rubbish, innit.’

‘How much for this one?’

The old man shrugged again. ‘You want film?’ he said. ‘I have original reels.’

Joe wondered: original reels of what?

‘Film posters? Memorabilia?’

‘Just the book would be fine.’

‘I don’t make money on books,’ the old man said.

‘It does say bookshop above the door,’ Joe pointed out. The old man shrugged. ‘That’s just for respectability, like.’

‘Right.’

The man named a price. Joe paid. ‘You got anything else?’ he said, not sure why he did so. The old man squinted at him. ‘Like what?’

‘Stuff,’ Joe said.

‘Stuff,’ the old man said. ‘What the fuck does that mean?’

Joe shrugged. ‘Forget it,’ he said. The old man suddenly chuckled. ‘You mean opium?’

‘Sure,’ Joe said. ‘Opium.’

‘Fought two wars over opium,’ the old man said. ‘No shame in saying the name. I get mine in Chinatown, funnily enough. On account of tradition.’

‘Any place good?’

The old man looked him up and down. ‘Wouldn’t have figured you for an opium eater,’ he said. Joe shrugged. The old man said, ‘Try Madam Seng’s on Gerrard Street. Good ambience, and I supply them with the movies. Old black-and-white stuff.’