As he spoke, he cocked the hammer, and lifted his chin towards me, the gun loose in his hand. Sweat spurted from the palms of my hands and my throat wouldn’t work. I waited. Because that was all I could do.

Murdahconsidered me for a moment. Then he reached out, pressed the muzzle of the gun to the side of Lucas’s neck, and fired twice.

It happened so fast, was so unexpected, was so absurd, that for a tenth of a second I wanted to laugh. There were three men standing there, then there was a bang bang, and then there were two. It was actually funny.

I realised that I’d wet myself. Not much. But enough.

I blinked once, and saw that Murdah had handed the gun to Barnes, who was signalling towards the door behind my head.

‘Why did he do that? Why would anyone do such a terrible thing?’

It should have been my voice, but it wasn’t. It was Murdah’s. Soft and calm, utterly in control. ‘It was a terrible thing, Mr Lang,’ he said. ‘Terrible. Terrible, because it had no reason. And we must always try and find a reason for death. Don’t you agree?’

I looked up at his face, but couldn’t focus on it. It came and went, like his voice, which was in my ear and miles away at the same time.

‘Well, let us say that although he had no reason to die, I had a reason to kill him. That is better, I think. I killed him, Mr Lang, to show you one thing. And one thing only.’ He paused. ‘To show you that I could.’

He looked down at Lucas’s body, and I followed his gaze. It was a foul sight. The muzzle had been so close to the flesh that the expanding gases had chased the bullet in, swelling and blackening the wound horribly. I couldn’t look at it for long.

‘Do you understand what I’m saying?’

He was leaning forward, with his head on one side.

‘This man,’ said Murdah, was an accredited American diplomat, an employee of the US State Department. He had, I’m sure, many friends, a wife, perhaps even children. So it would not be possible, surely, for such a man to disappear, just like that? To vanish?’

Men were stooping in front of me, their jackets rustling as they strained to move Lucas’s body. I forced myself to listen to Murdah.

‘I want you to see the truth, Mr Lang. And the truth is that if I wish him to disappear, then it is so. I shoot a man here, in my own house, I let him bleed on my own carpet, because it is my wish. And no one will stop me. No police, no secret agents, no friends of Mr Lucas’s. And certainly not you. Do you hear me?’

I looked up at him again, and saw his face more clearly.

The dark eyes. The sheen. He straightened his tie.

‘Mr Lang,’ he said, ‘have I given you a reason to think about Miss Woolf’s safety?’

I nodded.

They drove me back toLondon, pressed into the carpet of the Diplomat, and chucked me out somewhere south of the river. I went over Waterloo Bridge and along the Strand, stopping every now and then for no reason, occasionally dropping coins into the hands of eighteen-year-old beggars, and wanting this piece of reality to be a dream more than I’ve ever wanted any dream to become reality.

Mike Lucas had told me to be careful. He’d taken a risk, telling me to be careful. I didn’t know the man, and I hadn’t asked him to take the risk for me, but he’d done it anyway because he was a decent professional who didn’t like the places his work was taking him, and didn’t want me to be taken there too.

Bang bang.

No going back. No stopping the world.

I was feeling sorry for myself. Sorry for Mike Lucas, sorry for the beggars too, but very sorry indeed for myself, and that had to stop. I started to walk home.

I no longer had any reason to worry about being at the flat, since all the people I’d had breathing down my neck over the last week were now breathing in my face. The chance to sleep in my own bed was just about the only good thing to come out of all this. So I strode out for Bayswater at a good pace, and as I walked, I tried to see the funny side.

It wasn’t easy, and I’m still not sure that I managed it properly, but it’s just something I like to do when things aren’t going well. Because what does it mean, to say that things aren’t going well? Compared to what? You can say: compared to how things were going a couple of hours ago, or a couple of years ago. But that’s not the point. If two cars are speeding towards a brick wall with no brakes, and one car hits the wall moments before the other, you can’t spend those moments saying that the second car is much better off than the first.

Death and disaster are at our shoulders every second of our lives, trying to get at us. Missing, a lot of the time. A lot of miles on the motorway without a front wheel blow-out. A lot of viruses that slither through our bodies without snagging. A lot of pianos that fall a minute after we’ve passed. Or a month, it makes no difference.

So unless we’re going to get down on our knees and give thanks every time disaster misses, it makes no sense to moan when it strikes. Us, or anyone else. Because we’re not comparing it with anything.

And anyway, we’re all dead, or never born, and the whole thing really is a dream.

There, you see. That’s a funny side.

Fourteen

Thus freedom now so seldom wakes, The only throb she gives,

Is when some heart indignant breaks, To show that still she lives.

THOMAS MOORE

There were two things parked in my street that I hadn’t expected to see when I turned into it. One was myKawasaki, bruised and bloodied, but otherwise in reasonable shape. The other was a bright red TVR.

Ronnie was asleep at the wheel, with a coat pulled up to her nose. I opened the passenger door and slid in beside her. Her head came up and she squinted at me.

‘Evening,’ I said.

‘Hello.’ She blinked a few times and looked out at the street. ‘God, what time is it? I’m freezing.’

‘Quarter to one. Do you want to come in?’ She thought about it.

‘That’s very forward of you, Thomas.’

‘Forward of me?’ I said. ‘Well, that depends, doesn’t it?’ I opened the door again.

‘On what?’

‘On whether you drove over here, or I rebuilt my street around your car.’

She thought a bit more. ‘I’d kill for a cup of tea.’

We sat in the kitchen, not saying much, just sipping tea and smoking. Ronnie’s mind was on other things, and at an amateurish guess I’d say that she’d been crying. Either that or she’d attempted a fancy rag-rolling effect with her mascara. I offered her some Scotch but she wasn’t interested, so I helped myself to the last four drops in the bottle and tried to make them last. I was trying to concentrate on her, to put Lucas and Barnes and Murdah out of my mind, because she was upset and she was in the room. The others weren’t.