Coyle lay still, breathing steadily, heartbeat level. I washed my face in the polished sink, left the key to the room again in the pot by the elevator and went out to find New York’s rush hour.

The Subway.

On the express you slide along the plastic seats with the deceleration of the train. The escalators clack irritatingly as you descend; the ticket barriers have a nasty bite as they open and close around you.

I rode the rush-hour train and, when the crowd was substantial enough, I

jumped

and jumped

and jumped again

moving without motion

leaving my body far behind.

Chapter 82

Coyle was awake when I returned to the hotel, watching the news.

The news was loud, opinionated and local. In the land of the free you are free to say whatever you want, regardless of whether you have anything to say.

I was the porter again, and as I shuffled in with a tray of fruit and croissants, I said, “I can’t stay in this boy long–how are you feeling?”

Coyle’s fingers unconsciously fumbled at the dressing over his shoulder. “Crap. But not too crap.”

“Feel like food?”

“I’ll give it a go.”

He gave it a go and asked for more.

I said, “I really need to let this body get on with its work.”

“I need to make a phone call.”

“Who to?”

“A friend.”

“What kind of friend?” His eyes slipped up sideways at me, a sharp stare. Back off. I pulled my flat cap off my head, scratched at the dark hair nestled beneath, a thin shower of dandruff from my fingertips. “OK. You trusted me, I guess I owe you that. But please don’t do anything reckless.”

“More reckless than stealing a porter’s body for an hour?”

“Like I said, sometimes people are grateful to find the hours have passed. I’ll go for a walk in someone discreet.”

I went for a walk in someone discreet.

A woman, whose thick grey hair and overhanging eyelids proclaimed her to be old, but whose skin beneath my shirt was soft and pink, and whose arms, as I flexed them inside my sleeves, were sturdy and ready to work.

I walked the tourist’s shuffle, for only tourists ever really walk in New York.

I walked to Washington Square and stood beneath the white arch raised by city forefathers who loathed imperialism but had a soft spot for its ego. In the grand central circle buskers competed with the pigeons and each other for the attention of passers-by. The last time I visited the square, I had turned the corner to find four hundred zombies, faces melting, skins grey, butcher’s knives impaled through their skulls and sticking out of their spines, chatting about the weather. One zombie, his throat a bloody mess of latex and food colouring, had fallen behind the crowd, and stood beneath an oak tree on his mobile phone asking, where now? Which left do I take?

Now the sky was grey and the grass crackled underfoot, and only the bravest had ventured out from the university buildings that framed the square. One or two, in defiance of the threatening sky, hunched over the chess tables that marked the end of the would-be “chess district” of the city, complete with venerable shops and men who knew the difference between a Vienna and a king’s gambit. One offered to play me for twenty-five dollars. I patted my pockets and was surprised to discover I had nearly three hundred stuffed into a soft leather wallet. I sat down to play–sure, why not?

I don’t know how good you are, said my opponent. I won’t gamble. It’s money for the game, that’s all.

That’s fine, I replied. I’m only here to pass the time.

He said his name was Simon, and he lived at the Salvation Army shelter.

“I used to be an interior designer,” he explained, tearing into my pieces like a lion with a lamb. “But the recession came, and now I do whatever jobs I can.”

Like chess?

“I make maybe eighty bucks a day on the boards. Less now it’s cold. Sometimes folk don’t pay up, and the police don’t do nothing about that, cos it’s gambling and technically illegal, but they don’t care so long as no drugs are being dealt under the table.”

“Is there nothing you can do?”

“Against them who won’t pay? Nah. Folk who think they’re good don’t always take well to losing.”

“What happens when you lose?”

“I pay; wouldn’t come back here if I didn’t.”

“How often do you lose?”

He sucked breath judiciously between his teeth, then let it out all at once, cheeks puffing. “Not so often that it ain’t worth the risk.”

I nodded and struggled to stay alive in the face of his attacks. He moved carefully, without raising his head from the board. The ends of the fingers on his left hand were lightly calloused; those on his right were not. His eyes were grey and heavy, his skin was deep coffee, his hair was turning white at the roots long before its time. I said, what’s it like at the Salvation Army shelter?

It’s a roof, he replied. They’re strict, but it’s a roof.

He beat me, but only just, and I shook his hand, felt the coldness in his fingertips, and though he was beautiful–so very beautiful–I had no desire to be him for even a day. I left fifty dollars on the table and went on my way.

I dropped my body where I had found it and went via

a woman with bum compressed achingly into her tight, bright skirt,

a policeman with the taste of nicotine gum in his mouth,

a courier with headphones turned up far too high beneath his helmet,

the cleaning woman who changed the sheets in every room, wedding ring too tight on her right hand

back to Coyle.

I knocked on the door of the room, called, “Service!”

To my surprise, Coyle answered, his face washed, his hair combed, some semblance of civility on his face. “Already?”

“Yes, already,” I replied, tucking my trolley of white towels against the wall and pushing past him into the room. “I don’t know what you’ve been up to, but this body is dying for a pee.”

He was sitting on the end of the bed, legs swinging down to the floor, hands clasped, head bowed, when I returned.

“Did you have a good walk?” he asked.

“Sure. Saw some of the sights, took in a bit of atmosphere. Did you make your phone call?”

“Yes.”

“And? Should I be expecting armed vengeance to come crashing out of the cupboard any moment now?”

“No. I told you. I called a friend.”

“And who is this friend?”

“She’ll help us meet the sponsor.”

“And this sponsor will have answers for us? For you?”

“Yes. I think so.”

I shrugged. “Fine then. Who now?”

Chapter 83

Too long since I slept.

My bodies are rested, and I am not.

We sat in a diner off Lafayette and East Houston Street, and waited.

Coyle waited with coffee.

I waited in an Asian student with bright orange hair, who carried in her purple rucksack books on…

“The medicinal applications of chitin.”

“Really.” An empty sound as Coyle prodded his cup of coffee.

“Good God.” From the bottom of my bag I pulled out a small glass jar. Within it a creature as long as my index finger, fat as my thumb, rattled and bumped, its translucent wings flapping ineffectively against its prison walls. “No matter how old I get, I’m still always surprised by what I find in the bottom of my bag.”

“Do you know anything about the medicinal applications of chitin?” asked Coyle as I returned my belongings to the gloom of the rucksack.