The Travelling Companion

by Ian Rankin

  “Thinking of staying?” I inquired.

  “I wasn’t about to do Paris and back in a day. Since when did you smoke?”

  I looked down at the cigarette I was rolling.

  “Not sure,” I admitted. Which was the truth—I had no memory of buying either the pouch of Drum tobacco or the packet of tissue-thin papers. All I knew was that Alice obviously didn’t mind. The look on Charlotte’s face was properly small-minded and Presbyterian. I could imagine her sitting primly in my parents’ drawing-room, holding cup and saucer and allowing herself “one small slice of cake.” Home baking? Naturally. The conversation stilted and bourgeois and safe. Everything so fucking safe.

  “What are you thinking?” she asked as I lit the slender cigarette.

  “I’m thinking you shouldn’t have come.”

  Was she really becoming tearful, or merely putting on a show in the hope of sympathy? My espresso had arrived, along with her Perrier. The barman waved a bottle of red in my direction but I shook my head and he seemed to understand.

  Pas devant les enfants …

  “I wanted to see you,” Charlotte persisted. “This is Paris, after all. Everyone says it’s a romantic city and I’ve been missing you, Ronnie. I thought maybe this would be the place for us to …”

  “What?”

  She lowered her eyes and her voice. “Don’t make me say it.”

  “Fuck our brains out?”

  Her eyes and mouth widened. She glanced at the barman.

  “He doesn’t have any English,” I reassured her, knowing Francois would actually have understood every word. He was polishing glasses at the far end of the bar. All of a sudden I craved something alcoholic, so ordered a pression. When it arrived, I demolished it in two gulps, and nodded for a refill while Charlotte stared at me.

  “You need help,” she eventually said. “Something’s happened to you.”

  “Well, you’re right about that at least—yes, something’s happened to me. For the first time in my life, and I’m all the better for it.”

  “You’re not though. Look in the mirror.”

  As it happened, there was a long narrow mirror running the length of the bar, below the row of optics and shelves of drinks. I hunched down so I could make eye contact with myself and couldn’t help grinning.

  “Who’s that handsome devil?” I chuckled.

  “Ronnie …”

  “My name’s Ronald!” I roared. Francois clucked and gestured for me to keep it down. I waved a hand in what could have passed for either apology or dismissal of his complaint.

  Charlotte’s hand was shaking as she lifted her glass of water. I realized that’s what she was: carbonated water, while my life had become so much headier and filled with sensation.

  “Will you help me find a hotel?” she was asking without making eye contact.

  “Of course,” I said quietly.

  “I’ll change my flight to tomorrow, if I can. I was going to stay a few days, but …”

  “They’ll be missing you at your work.”

  “Oh, I quit the job. My thinking was to do some travelling with you.” Finally she fixed her eyes on mine. “But that was when you were you.”

  “Who am I now?”

  “I’ve really no idea.”

  “Well, I’m sorry you had to come all this way to find out.” I placed a fifty-franc note on the counter and made to lift Charlotte’s rucksack from the floor.

  “No,” she snapped, hoisting it on to her shoulders. “I can manage perfectly well.”

  As we exited the café, I caught sight of a dress I recognized. Just the hem of it as its owner dodged around the corner of a building. We headed in the opposite direction, into the narrow maze of streets behind the bookshop. I looked behind me, but Alice didn’t seem to be following. There were plenty of small hotels here, most of them doing good business at the height of the summer. It was twenty minutes before we found one with a vacancy. The owner led Charlotte upstairs to inspect the room while I said I’d wait in the street. I was rolling a fresh cigarette when I heard a scooter come to a stop behind me. I was half-turning in its direction when the passenger launched himself from behind the driver and hit me with what looked like a broken chair-leg. It connected with one of my temples and sent me to my knees. A hand was rummaging in my pockets. It pulled out the notes from the till and rubbed them in my face. Then another smack on the side of the head and Harry climbed back aboard, the driver revving the small engine hard as they fled the scene. Pedestrians had stopped to gawp, but only for a moment. There were no offers of help as I scrabbled to pick up my pouch of tobacco. I got to my feet and felt the world spin. I knew I was grinning, but had no idea why. I lit my cigarette and leaned against the wall, head tilted so I could look at the bluest sky imaginable.

  Charlotte came out onto the pavement minus her rucksack, which meant the room had been declared acceptable. When she saw me she let out a screech, covering her mouth with her hand. That was when I noticed the blood dripping down from the cut on my temple. It was staining my already-disreputable shirt and trousers, and adding crimson spots to the street beneath.

  “What happened?” Charlotte asked.

  I took out my handkerchief and pressed it to the cut, feeling it sting for the first time.

  “Somebody hit me.” I was still grinning. “Don’t worry, I’ll get him back.”

  “We need the police.”

  “What for?”

  “You know who did this?”

  “I didn’t pay him for the drugs.”

  Her eyes hardened. “Say that again.” And when I didn’t, she just nodded slowly, as if a small lump of dope explained everything. She clasped me by one wrist. “Come upstairs. We need to wash that clean.”

  I resisted long enough to finish the cigarette, then allowed myself to be led up a dark twisting stairwell to her room. It was tiny and stifling, the window open and shutters closed in a vain attempt to keep out the afternoon heat. Charlotte’s rucksack lay on the bed. She moved it and made me sit down, there being no chair. Then she knelt in front of me, examining the damage.

  “It’s deep,” she said. There was a thin towel on the end of the bed and she took it with her when she left the room. I could hear water running in the sink of the communal bathroom along the hall. Then she was back, dabbing and wiping.

  “Any nausea?” she asked.

  “No more than usual.”

  She smiled as if I’d made a joke. “You’re being very brave,” she cooed.

  “I’m tougher than you think.”

  “I’m sure you are.” She made another trip to the bathroom to rinse the towel. This time she wiped it slowly across all of my face, studying my features as she worked. “You’re filthy, Ronald. Really you need a bath.”

  “Will you scrub my back?”

  “I might.” Her eyes were locked on mine. I leaned forwards and kissed her on the mouth.

  “You’re bristly,” she said afterwards. “But I sort of like it.”

  So I kissed her again. Then we were standing, arms wrapped around one another. My hands felt beneath her sweat-dampened blouse, running down her spine. Our mouths opened as our tongues got to work, and she gave a small moan. Her fingers brushed the front of my trousers, then started to work at the zip. My eyes were still open but hers were closed, as she concentrated hard on fulfilling the whole purpose of the trip. So greedy and so intent on her own selfish self. I put my hand on hers, squeezing. She opened her eyes.

  “I’m going to take that bath,” I said.

  “Good idea,” she replied, sounding only half-convinced. “There’s only the one towel though, and it’s already wet.”

  “I’ll be fine.” I gave a smile and a wink and managed to escape the airless room. The bath was old and stained but hot water gushed from its tap. I locked the door before stripping. There were bruises on my body I was at a loss to explain. Piled on the floor, my clothes looked like rags. I sank into the water and slid beneath its surface. I had been soak
ing only a couple of minutes when Charlotte tried the door.

  “I won’t be long,” I called out.

  “I thought you wanted someone to scrub your back.”

  “Another time.”

  I could sense her lingering. But she moved away eventually, her bedroom door closing. I was debating my next move. Get dressed and slink away? Would that make me a coward? No, I would talk to her face-to-face and explain everything. I would tell her about Benjamin Turk and Alice and my newly blossoming life. We would part as friends, and I would then pay a visit to Harry and Mike, where both men would learn what happened to people who crossed me.

  “Yes,” I said to the bathroom walls, nodding slowly to myself.

  And then I closed my eyes and slid below the waterline again.

  The water had turned tepid by the time I climbed out. I used the towel as best I could, and slid back into my clinging clothes. Blood still trickled from the cut, so I held the towel as a compress as I unlocked the door and padded down the hall. The door to Charlotte’s room stood gaping. Charlotte herself lay on the bed, half-undressed and with a scarf knotted tightly around her neck, digging into the flesh. Her eyes and tongue bulged, her face almost purple. I knew she was dead, and knew, too, the identity of the culprit. She had unpacked one dress from her rucksack, the one almost identical to Alice’s. Pushing open the shutters, I looked down onto the courtyard and saw a familiar flash of color. Alice was heading for the street.

  I studied Charlotte a final time, knowing there was nothing to be done, then ran to the stairs, barging past the hotelier, who was on the way up. I crossed the courtyard, scanning the pavement to left and right. Making a decision, I started running again. I didn’t know Alice’s address or even her surname. Would she head for the Seine and the derelicts we had shared our wine with? Or to the bookshop, where she could wait for me on my infested alcove bed? Bars and cafes and the usual landmarks … We had criss-crossed the city, making it our own.

  But there was only one destination I could think of—Turk’s apartment.

  She wasn’t outside, nor was she seated on the stairs. I climbed to the top floor and tried the door—locked, as before. But this time when I hit it with my fist, there were sounds from inside. Benjamin Turk opened the door and studied me from head to foot.

  “It looks to me as though you’re finally ready,” he said with a thin smile, ushering me in.

  “Have you seen Alice?” I demanded.

  “Forget about her,” he said, his back to me as he hobbled towards the living-room. “I’ve laid everything out for you.” He was pointing towards the desk. Various documents lay there. “Took me some time and effort, but you’ll only begin to comprehend when you examine them.”

  “What are they?”

  “The story of Edwin Hythe. Sit down. Read. I’ll fetch you a drink.”

  “I don’t want a drink.” But I realized that I did—I wanted the darkest wine in the largest glass imaginable. Turk seemed to understand this, and returned with a glass filled almost to the brim. I gulped it down, exhaling only afterwards.

  “Does the wound hurt?” he was asking.

  I dabbed at my head. “No,” I said.

  “Then you should read.” He pulled over a chair so he could sit next to me, and while I focused on the various sheets of paper he explained the significance.

  “Stevenson and Hythe were close friends as students, belonging to the same clubs and drinking in the same low dives late into the night. Then the murder of a prostitute is recorded in the newspaper and there’s a parting. Hythe disappears from Stevenson’s life. The murderer is never apprehended. When Stevenson writes a novel about just such a woman, his wife persuades him it is not going to be good for his reputation. But Hythe, too, hears about it, and makes his way to Bournemouth. He comes from money so he stays at the best hotel in town, a hotel that keeps impeccable records.” He tapped the photocopied sheet showing Hythe’s signature in the guest book, along with the duration of his stay. “It’s fairly obvious that Hythe was the killer and that Stevenson was either a witness or else was privy to his friend’s confession. The golden young man Stevenson had known in Edinburgh was by now a dissolute figure, in trouble with creditors, disowned by his family, earning a living of sorts from any number of illegal activities.” He tapped a series of court reports and newspaper stories. “Pimping, trafficking, receiving stolen goods … And with a temper on him. One arrest talks of the superhuman rage of the man after too much drink had been taken.” Turk paused. “And when Hythe left Bournemouth, Stevenson sat down and wrote Jekyll and Hyde in three days. Not the version we know, but one set in Edinburgh, where Hythe aka Hyde attacks and kills a harlot rather than trampling a child. Again, he was dissuaded from publishing it. Fanny knew what it would mean—people in Edinburgh would talk. They would remember the killing of the prostitute. They would know the name Hythe and point the finger from him to his close friend Robert Louis Stevenson. That couldn’t happen—it would mean prison or even worse. The book had to be destroyed, the story reworked, and Hythe’s name changed to Hyde.”

  “All right,” I said quietly. Tears were falling from my eyes on to the desk. I was seeing Charlotte, in that horrific pose on her bed, her life snuffed out. I was about to say as much, but Turk was opening a drawer and pulling out more sheets. They comprised a family tree, along with some drawings—portraits of the same man, showing him in his late teens and then in raddled middle age. He looked so familiar to me …

  “Edwin Hythe,” Turk was explaining. “The first time I saw you, I was struck by the resemblance. This was some time back, through the window of the shop. I asked George about you and decided it was no mere coincidence. Which is why I asked him to send you on that particular errand.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s on your mother’s side,” he said, running a finger back up the family tree from my name. “You are descended from Edwin Hythe. His blood in your blood, and with it, unfortunately, his curse.”

  “His what?” I was rubbing at my eyes, trying to blink them into some kind of focus.

  “Your devil has been long caged, Ronald. He has come out roaring!”

  There was a mad gleam in his eye as he spoke. I leapt to my feet. “You’re crazy,” I told him. “You’re the devil here! You and your damned Alice!”

  “There is no Alice.”

  “She knows you—she runs errands …”

  But he was shaking his head. “There’s only you, Ronald. You and the demon that’s been sleeping deep inside you, waiting for the right catalyst. Paris is that catalyst.”

  “Where are the manuscripts?” I demanded, looking about me. “The two unpublished novels?”

  He gave a shrug. “You’ve seen all there is. Nothing more than fragments.”

  “You’re lying!”

  “Believe what you will.”

  “Alice is real!”

  He was chuckling as he shook his head again. His silver-topped walking-stick glinted at me from its resting-place by the desk. I grabbed it and raised it over my head. Rather than shrink from me in fear, his smile seemed to widen. I bared my teeth and struck him across the side of the head. He staggered but stayed on his feet, so I hit him again. He wheeled away from me into the long hallway. I stayed a few footsteps behind him as I continued to rain down blows upon his head and back until he fell, just inside the front door. He was still conscious, but his breathing was ragged, blood bubbling from his mouth. A few more blows and he lay still. I hauled him by his feet away from the door so I could open it and make my escape.

  Outside, I could hear sirens. Police cars, probably, heading for a hotel not too far away, where passers-by would be able to describe the bloodied figure running from the scene. Alice was standing on the opposite pavement, her eyes full of understanding. We shared a smile before I looked to left and right. There was plenty of traffic, but I started to cross towards her, knowing it would stop for me. When I looked again, however, she had vanished. Pedestrians and
drivers were beginning to stare. I noted the fresh spattering of bright red blood on my shirt, so began to rip at it, throwing it from me until I stood half-naked in the middle of the road, the sirens drawing closer. I stretched out both arms, angled my head to the heavens above, and roared.

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2015 by Ian Rankin

  Cover design by Mauricio Díaz

  978-1-5040-3153-0

  Published in 2016 by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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