Somehow he found himself on Charing Cross Road and the mute fronts of myriad books stared out at him from beyond a prison of glass. Turning, and there was that poster again he had last seen at Papa D’s place, in Paris, the man with the long beard and the clear, penetrating eyes that seemed to look inside him, to sift through the dust and debris that made up his life, and to know him. Wanted: Dead or Alive. Osama Bin Laden, Vigilante. A display of garish paperbacks. Some sort of crime fiction bookshop. Walking, walking, down Shaftesbury Avenue where it was quieter and cooler, on a building of chrome and glass someone had spray-painted the message Madam Seng is a Snake Head and he paused, because there it was again, and suddenly he had too many leads to follow and he guessed they would all be dead-ends and he didn’t want to start. The darkness behind his eyes was alive, rattling doors in his mind that he wanted tightly closed. He walked, not conscious of any particular direction, folding away from Shaftesbury Avenue until music stopped him. An organ played, pouring out a sea of notes that washed over him, halted him, lifted him, and he saw a church and beside it, right where he had halted, the doors of yet another pub.

the angel of St. Giles

——

The interior of the pub was dark and there were people inside and the sounds of conflicting talk. A fire was burning despite the heat outside, but Joe did not find it suffocating; he found it comforting. There was a bar area and the barman was tall and dark and unspeaking, like an extra in a silent movie, and Joe ordered a shot of whisky and drank it and still felt cold. He ordered another one and lit a cigarette and went to stand by the fire. He was shaking, and he didn’t know why.

Conversations came wafting like smoke:

‘So I said to him, is that really a way to run a business? We’ve got ten tonnes a month coming in from India, we need two people just to do the customs clearance, and he wants to –’

‘It’s the shipping costs. Good thing for us the Saudis know what’s expected of –’

‘If we could break open the Japanese market it wouldn’t be so bad, but –’

‘The Asian market has always been too-good a promise –’

‘And he says, do you have a passport? Well, do you?’

‘I liked him in that film, the one with –’

‘And he says, well, how much if we buy this amount a month, and you won’t believe it –’

‘It was a ghost movie. I’m sure that –’

‘Ten tonnes a month!’

‘I’m sure that’s not right.’

‘With that actor who plays a detective, and he has to –’

‘You have to follow the paper trail, that’s what it comes down to. Always keep your eye on the paper trail –’

‘Co-Prosperity Sphere, sure, but how does it benefit us?’

‘Hong Kong –’

‘Don’t say Hong Kong to me, you know perfectly well that –’

‘A passport for what? I mean, it’s not like we’re back in World War Two, is it? So I said to him –’

‘It’s the Saudis, it’s a good thing we’ve got our hand firmly on the rudder, if you know what I’m saying –’

‘With that actress who plays the love interest, what’s her name –’

‘Opium. You can use it to finance wars or heal the sick. That’s what he says to me. The cheek of it! As if we’re not already paying enough –’

‘You know that joke, the one with the elephant –’

‘Ten tonnes!’

‘Does he die in the end?’

Joe shuddered. In the fireplace the flames danced to the beat of an unseen drum. He saw a small blue plaque fixed to the wall: The Angel Inn. Here, in the middle ages, the condemned would stop for a final drink before proceeding to the gallows in St. Giles’ Circus.

Below, in black marker pen, someone had scribbled: So have a drink!

‘The Americans would have you believe they won the war single-handedly –’

‘The Russian Deal –’

‘And there’s a pink elephant in the room! A pink elephant! And no one wants to admit to seeing it. You know that expression –’

‘I need another drink. You want one?’

‘What’s the time?’

‘Time for another drink.’

‘Oil isn’t the problem, it’s the –’

‘But I can’t remember who the bad guys were. Was it ever even explained?’

‘Ten tonnes! And what does he want to go for instead? What? Tea. How much bloody tea can you drink?’

‘Built the empire on –’

The talk swirled round and round in Joe’s head, snatched sentences meaningless, the volume too high, the voices of the condemned, dead men talking, the flames dancing in the fire and he smashed his glass against the wall, the fragments cutting into his skin, blood running between his fingers, and he left a bloodied handprint on the wall as the conversations died around him and the bartender came from behind the bar and said in a quiet, almost voiceless voice: ‘Perhaps you should leave now, sir.’

Joe stared at his hand, made a fist and released it, watched the tiny glass shards moving like silent boats across a bloodied sea. He could no longer find shelter in those places of the world where peace could be bought for the price of a drink. The realisation physically hurt him. He closed his eyes and when he opened them again saw only the impassive face of the bartender, heard that empty, featureless voice again say, from inside hollow eyes and bleached-white skin: ‘I think you should leave. Now, sir.’

The conversations returned, the voices louder, drowning out thought. Joe nodded. ‘I think you’re right,’ he said. The bartender nodded. ‘This way, sir,’ he said; and, gently taking hold of Joe’s elbow, he led him to the door.

the one clear thread

——

London was full of angels, it seemed to Joe. He didn’t know what was happening to him. The darkness behind his eyes was pounding at him; he could not find solace in drink; his mind refused to quiet down, was dancing like the flames he had been watching, was forcing him down dark pathways he did not want to take. London was a road-map, its directions less than helpful. People went past him. His hand was throbbing. He flexed his fingers and found satisfaction in the pain. A waking up. He walked, turned the corner, and was at St. Giles’ Circus, but there were no gallows there.

Traffic crawled past him. The Circus was a four-way traffic jam. He waited for the lights to change, crossed over to the butt-end of Charing Cross Road where it meets Oxford Street, and found himself before the open entrance to the London underground.

He stared inside. People came and went, shoving past him. Stairs led down into the ground. Light bulbs cast a yellow glow over the entranceway. He could hear rumbling far down below, and voices seemed to call out to him, to whisper through the throng of people, a wedding feast for the circus performers, chanting through a silver screen. He shook his head and suddenly it cleared, and he knew that he was scared.

He turned away. There were leads for him to follow, a goal that was clear in its simplicity. Do the job he was hired to do. Find the man he was hired to find. Be a detective. He felt relief, and the blackness was gone, and he felt light-headed. He lit a cigarette and it tasted good, and he turned away from the entrance and walked down Charing Cross Road, ignoring the books in the windows, and realised he was hungry and still hadn’t eaten that day. There was a maze around him but he didn’t need to follow every turn: all he had to do was follow the one clear thread that would lead him out. At a stall in Leicester Square he bought himself a sandwich and ate it as he walked back to the hotel. At the Regent Palace he found comfort in the quiet abandoned corridors with their faint smell of disuse, had a long hot shower in a cubicle and, back in his room, bandaged his hand and then lay in the bed. Someone had come in while he was gone and changed the sheets, and they felt cool and soft against his skin, and he sighed and, turning over, clutched the pillow against his chest and fell asleep.