He said, ‘I’m trying.’

For a moment she seemed to smile. She leaned towards him. The suggestion of lips touching his – he closed his eyes. When he opened them again she was gone.

Banging on the doors. People stirring. Rick striding to him. Rick: ‘You’ve got to leave.’

Joe – ‘Why –’ question uncompleted.

Rick: ‘CPD. I don’t want them here.’

‘What do they want?’

But he knew the answer already.

Rick: ‘You.’

Another hunch, playing it straight – ‘You have an arrangement with them.’

Rick, angry. ‘I’m just trying to get by.’

Joe: ‘I know. You stick your neck out for no-one.’ A slight smile. Rick hit him.

Joe fell back, tasted blood. Rick: ‘Get out. There’s a back way. Come on. Quickly.’

Joe followed. A small door past the bar. Through that: a narrow corridor, empty. The only light coming through from streetlamps outside, bars on the windows, a criss-cross of shadows falling inside. Another door, a room as empty as the corridor, a back-stage to the bar with no props and no actors. Another door, another corridor – a final door opening on an alleyway outside. Trashcans with no trash, graffiti on the walls – We’ll meet again some sunny day.

‘Go,’ Rick said. Joe turned, saw him framed in the doorway. ‘They’ll be through soon. I can’t stop them. Make sure you’re a long way away.’

Joe: ‘Why are you helping me?’

Rick shook his head. ‘I don’t want trouble. This way is easiest.’

Joe: ‘You’re not being sentimental, are you?’

Rick: ‘Get out, and don’t come back.’

Joe left at a run. The moon cast his shadow on the dirty-grey walls.

assault on 22 Frith street

——

He had to know, and he had a plan. It was not a well-formulated plan but it should work – he’d had some experience already that day. It had the benefit of being simple. He had the benefit of Mo’s gun, the muzzle still smelling faintly of gunpowder. He came to Frith Street – eventually, getting lost in the maze of dark streets, but Old Compton Street and Frith Street were still lit and there were people sitting outside drinking beer and coffee and listening to music. There was laughter, which came at Joe like an alien sound. He walked up Frith Street and turned at the door to the castle and pressed the buzzer and waited, staring at the same blue plaque about the inaugural television broadcast.

‘Yes?’

‘Mike Longshott,’ Joe said.

‘Just a moment, sir.’

He waited out the moment. The door opened. The same bruiser as before, in a too-expensive suit, the bulge for a gun under the jacket - ‘Thought I made it clear enough last time that you’re not to –’

Joe kneed him, once, twice, brought out the derringer, smashed the man’s nose in, eased him down to the floor. ‘You thought wrong,’ he said. He stepped over the man, said, ‘Try to breathe.’ Walked inside.

Upstairs to the guests’ dining-room. Downstairs to the library, smoking lounge, and postal room. A girl behind reception, rising, looking alarmed – ‘Don’t move.’

She followed the movement of the gun. Joe checked behind her – an unmarked door made to look like a part of the wooden panelling of the wall – ‘What’s behind there?’

‘Kitchen and service area,’ the girl said.

‘Open it.’

She went to the door, pushed it open. ‘It isn’t locked.’

‘Get inside.’

He followed her through. A utilitarian corridor, stained walls, smell of garlic wafting through, a bucket of dirty soapy water standing forlorn outside the first door.

‘What’s in there?’

‘Cleaning supplies.’

There was a key in the door. It was dark inside, smelled of cleaning liquids – no windows, a single chair. ‘Looks comfortable,’ Joe said. He pushed the girl inside, not hard, heard her begin to say, ‘Hey, what –’ and locked the door behind her. He didn’t have long and this was wasting too much time. There was nothing elegant about his plan. Perhaps he could change that.

He found a hidden cupboard behind the desk and dressed himself. A jacket and a tie – dashing. The doorman was coming around. Joe was tired of hitting doormen. Still. He hit him on the back of the head with the butt of the gun, pushed him out with difficulty, closed the door.

He went down the stairs. Down there: wood, plush velvet, soft lighting. A man in uniform, ‘Sir, this is a members only –’

‘I just joined,’ Joe said. He made some cash materialise. The man followed it. ‘Always a pleasure to welcome new members, sir,’ he said, making the money dematerialise. Joe grinned. ‘Where’s the post room?’ he said. The man pointed. ‘Straight and to the left,’ he said. ‘There’s only Millie on duty, sir.’

‘Thanks,’ Joe said.

He walked down the muted corridor. He was running on nervous energy, a sense of something ending. Sounds of cutlery, clinking, the pop of a bottle, laughter, conversation. He felt like the intruder that he was. At the end of the corridor he turned left – the post room small, a sleepy girl behind the counter, a red Royal Mail post box by the open door.

‘Millie,’ Joe said, and the girl opened her eyes with a start – ‘Sir?’

‘The name’s Mike,’ he said. Smiled friendly. ‘Mike Longshott.’

He saw the reaction in her eyes – ‘Sir, I –’

‘I understand you’ve been holding some mail for me?’

‘Sir? No, sir.’

‘What do you mean?’

The girl looked confused – a mirror held up to Joe. ‘Your instructions, sir,’ she said.

‘Of course,’ Joe said. ‘I might need to change them though. Now that I’m here.’

Raised voices in the distance. There was a clock above Millie’s head – the ticking was driving Joe insane. ‘Can we just go over my original instructions?’

More money materialising like magic. ‘For your trouble,’ he said.

The girl suddenly beamed. ‘I have to say I was intrigued,’ she said. ‘I never thought…’

‘You’d see me?’

She nodded. He didn’t tell her, the feeling echoing deep inside him. The voices louder – coming closer. ‘My instructions –?’ he said, leaving a gap for her to fill.

‘All moneys from Mr. Papadopoulos in Paris to go towards maintaining the membership account,’ Millie said happily. ‘All queries, fan letters, requests and miscellanea to go direct to Mr. Papadopoulos in –’

‘Paris?’

‘Yes.’

Round and round and round we go, Joe thought. It was a clever setup. Another dead end. Also – Papa D. held out on me.

‘Any fan letters?’

‘Not really, Mr. Longshott.’

‘Anything come in recently?’

‘Only this. I haven’t forwarded it yet.’

She handed him an envelope. United States stamp, dated two weeks before. Joe put it in his pocket. ‘On second thought,’ Joe said, ‘I think I’ll keep the arrangement as it stands. You’re doing an excellent job, Millie.’

She blushed. And – ‘Could you –?’ she said. A paperback appeared from under the desk – worn, dog-eared. Assignment: Africa.

Joe: ‘Is there a back door exit from here?’

Millie: ‘Yes, right through here.’

Running steps in the corridor outside. Joe closed the door, locked it. ‘Problem with the account,’ he said, shrugged. Pen on her desk. Opened the book to the title-page, wrote, To Millie, who looked after me, and signed it, with a flourish – Mike Longshott.

Knocks on the door. ‘Follow me,’ Millie said. Opened a second door, led him into a narrow service corridor, walked down it, pushed open steel fire doors and let in the night.

‘Goodbye, Mr. Longshott,’ she said.

‘Goodbye, Millie. Thank you.’

There was something wistful in her smile.

Joe walked out and the fire doors closed behind him with a sound like that last thumping of a drum.

a sheet of paper, folded 

accordion-fashion

——

He sat on a bench and the night went past him in a blur.

Just sitting there felt good. He had reached the end of the road – there was no trail left to follow, nowhere left to go. Freedom made him light-headed. Opium fumes, alcohol, nicotine and coffee made epic battles in his body. When he closed his eyes he felt like he was falling. There was a gaping darkness underneath. He wanted to let go, fall into it. When he opened his eyes he saw disconnected images: the girl on the stage, a screen of rainbows hiding her face; another London he had glimpsed and didn’t like; Rick, the shadows of the bars falling on his face; the man from the CPD talking about opium, stirring coffee; Madam Seng’s hand on his face, her eyes wet; Mo’s empty office, the row of books on his shelf slouched like guerrilla soldiers on parade; the woman he met at the airport in Bangkok, searching the board for a flight that would never come.