by Neil Rowland
“Are you serious? How can they find us here?” he lamented.
“They’ve literally caught up with us again...unless we are unlucky to attract the attention of those creepy guys over there. Do you see?”
“Where are they?” Pitt said. He attempted to look back over his shoulder, without making the fact too obvious.
“Enjoying a beer outside that bar, under a striped canopy in the plaza....do you see? Do you recognise them?”
“Where do you mean? Are you sure they are suspicious?”
“Unless we are interesting to a group of voyeurs,” she remarked.
“You get all types here. You picked a right place to meet, didn’t you?”
“They seem very concentrated on us. Although at this moment they have no idea we are watching them back,” she added.
“Now I see them,” he told her. “What a bunch of charmers. An unmistakable combination of designer labels and obsessive gym work. Maybe we’ve already met, but after a while they all look the same,” Clive remarked.
He observed them, as secretly as possible; took in their burning goggle eyed looks, and discomforted shuffling between strained conversations, attempting to seem casual over inflated tourist beers. In truth nobody gave even this group of heavies a second look. Leicester Square is a marginal space, where people could operate freely.
“They are watching us,” he noted.
“I told you.”
“What concerns me is that they’ve seen you, with me. It’s the first time they have linked us, since my return. These things get around you know.” Nerves made him joke at this stage. He was secretly devastated that she was identified and involved.
“They already think that we are lovers. Now they have literally seen us kiss and hug. Hopefully they imagine I am a silly girl... that I don’t understand anything. Anyway I know about personal danger. When I was a schoolgirl in Geneva my boyfriend was on the run from national service. He faced prison and disgrace in his own country. I felt an intense risk every time we met in public... we usually met under the bridge in the old town,” she recalled.
“Try to land softly at the bottom of Sep’s heart. Don’t let him realise that you’re even more rebellious than his daughter,” he urged her.
“Sep has no idea that I looked through hospital databases.”
“Then don’t ruin his illusions, Pix,” he told her. “Let him be fond and foolish.”
“Do you have any other ideas Clive?” she replied. “We must literally separate now. We should dash into the crowds in opposite directions. We’ll be hidden immediately if we do that. I’ll get towards Shaftsbury Avenue and you can go into Piccadilly Circus. Just get on the tube as normal, do you understand?”
“They must have found where I’m staying now... the hotel. I’m not going back to that place...together or alone,” he argued.
“You see I had a clever idea in meeting in Leicester Square, because there are always crowds. It will be difficult for them to isolate us.”
“I’m not exactly in a hurry to separate from you,” Clive said. “You’ll need a bit of protection at this point. We should try to get out of the country together. I’m serious. That isn’t a guarantee of safety. But it will confuse them and give us more time.”
“If you gave up fighting the deal,” she said. “If you were able to forget...”
“You should know the chances of that,” he replied. Warily, cautiously, he kept an eye on that bunch of guys, who were eyeing him back, nervously across the square.
“Why don’t you borrow another phone and call me up? When you feel there’s a proper moment?” Pixie suggested.
“What happens if they ask you about our date?” he replied tensely.
“There’s no more information to report back,” she insisted.
Pitt was sceptical of her chances, but he kept his fears to himself. “All right Pixie, I agree that I’m going to call you later... at the first opportunity.”
“Then kiss me again Clive and say good night.”
He carried out this instruction and then, without hesitation, they dashed into opposite directions. Immediately Pitt felt himself surrounded by other bodies, trying to squeeze through packed spaces; trying to get between those hordes of visitors, making their ways in multiple directions, towards the numerous attractions of the capital city.
She was gone, like a bottle top in a rip tide; even while he retained impressions of her touches and kisses. He was pressing towards the even more intense crush of Piccadilly Circus, as she had suggested.
38
Pitt slogged out the West End pavements, negotiating an aggressive rush of traffic. He threaded and squeezed through a good-time crush, constantly looking back over his shoulder, along every shadowy side street. He slipped up a garbage strewn alley into Chinatown; half hidden among lantern lit restaurants and shops, but didn’t feel like a free man. He wouldn’t go back to that hotel room to soak in the bath like a rubber duck.
Get out of the country, assume a different identity, he told himself; lead a different existence; become anonymous. He could pull off his own vanishing act and reappear when he chose - if at all. Except that he didn’t have the resources to achieve that, or an exchangeable identity. He didn’t want to continue as a criminal since, it had already been established, and there was not a single warrant or police officer out against him.
Most basically he didn’t possess a passport. Forgeries were easily obtainable from a Nigerian contact in New Cross, but there wasn’t time to make such a transaction. For his enemies passports were as obtainable as fishing licences. These people didn’t respect national borders except, with passion, their own. They usually had violent nationalism as a personality trait. Rather he didn’t have his own valid passport at hand. Probably it was with his wife in the US, reviled or mourned over in a forgotten box.
He could head for Victoria coach station or the rail station, sleep rough overnight and purchase a ticket in the morning. Except these days that route was not an escape, because Europe was like the Isle of Wight. If he flew to the continent then he could get the boat from Cadiz to Casablanca, smuggle himself into North Africa - people smuggling in the opposite direction was unproblematic.
But even in those places he would struggle to survive, to get basic shelter and food. The resident populations of those countries had a few troubles of their own, the ‘Arab Spring’ notwithstanding, as night follows day. His only chance to escape was through his associate, his friend, Doug Breadham. The guy was a financial lawyer and had useful contacts, not only with banks and corporations; he had freedom to manoeuvre and no doubt resources. Clive would restrain himself from trying to communicate to Pixie, to avoid making the link for them. She was already linked, it was far too late, but why dispel their doubts?
Clive retraced his steps to confound his enemies. He went back to the recognisable environment of his old home. They would never expect him to do that. He had the profound sense of being like a ghost, as his intimate memories and regrets returned. He was disturbed by a weightless feeling of being unconnected, just as he was unable to access any communication or information.
There was only a blanket of stars and a freezing temperature over his back. His fingertips were frozen and a chill spread up his arms. Then Pitt trudged on to the next village, like some folk myth to frighten the impecunious, on the road to Doug’s estate. Obviously there was nothing for Clive at his original home. It was also an empty shell, he judged. There were just the haunting sounds of owls from a nearby barn and the alarming screams of foxes, scurrying at the edges of fields and hedges, denied a meal or a mate.
On calling at Gatemead however, Reg explained that Breadham was staying over in London; at his apartment in Chelsea. Fortunately Reg wanted to make amends for his past rudeness and obstruction. He gave the Chelsea address and useful directions, which Pitt took
gratefully - thanking him profusely - before turning back up the long gravelled drive towards the lawyer’s leonine gates. It was a given that the contemporary world couldn’t be approached on foot. At least Reg the man-servant had tagged his employer and wasn’t such a bad guy.
But returning to London, he had problems finding Doug’s apartment by the naked eye and unassisted mind. The narrowly serpentine highway of the King’s Road was choked with traffic, as he set off from the Royal Court theatre. Customers were milling about the theatre, as well as restaurants, bars and clubs of the borough. In former days, before Pitt’s troubles began, he enjoyed socialising after hours at his favourite bars in Shoreditch. That was in another life it seemed. The idea of enjoying himself now felt completely unlikely. Indeed such behaviour was eccentric, even sinister. What was it like to relax with your friends and colleagues? Such normal scenes of people having fun in public, now struck him as other worldly, as for a battle weary soldier.
Pitt felt as if he could measure his own reduction by these activities. There were reasons to be watchful, but the situation was affecting his personality; it was changing his neural responses. Only Pixie provided a thread to normal existence, by a single touch or a single word. The pair of them were cuffed together as if by invisible links.
But was it ethical to make her play this game of double jeopardy?
After some fun and games Clive located Doug’s address. The apartment was within a complex of redeveloped and renovated buildings around Chelsea harbour. There was an intercom and security camera system. After stubbing his thumb on the button he listened to static noise for a while - as if the lawyer was lost in deep space - until a tinny voice emerged in response.
“Yes?”
“Hi.”
“Who is it?”
“Clive.”
“Clive?”
“That’s right, mate.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I’ve come to see you.”
“Whatever for?”
“I need advice.”
“Advice? Private?”
“Yes, I’d appreciate that, mate.”
“Now?”
“There’s no other time.”
“You alone?”
“Yes.”
“Is this important?”
“What do you think?”
“You’re still in a mess?”
“Up to my nose.”
“It’s kind of awkward Clive, at the moment, to be honest.”
“Why awkward?”
“I’m not alone.”
“Sorry, mate.”
“Can’t leave you I suppose.”
“Thanks.”
“Come on up.”
There was a sustained buzzing, signalling for him to push and to enter. Clive took the hint and was presented with a narrow walkway, a row of wooden post-boxes, and then a winding stairway, comprised of stone steps worn-down at the centre, as if by giant feet. Time had this heavy tread, aided by stevedores and commodity brokers. As Pitt ascended he seemed to be imitating these, with his heavy weary tread.
He climbed three levels, turning into a claustrophobic passage. This was barely wide enough to admit his bulk; poorly lit by electric nautical lamps, which only revealed oppressively rough stone walls. He had the feeling of wandering the corridors of a Victorian jail, dark and cold, like Newgate. He had to peer and grope to find the correct apartment number (wondering who would seriously choose to dwell here).
Pitt thumped the door and waited, trying for composure and to disregard humming nerve ends. He had the constant sensation of a tremble through his body, like electricity or radiation. Was this just stress, or had he been poisoned at some stage? Feeling as if he couldn’t inhale properly, to get enough oxygen into his body, and on the edge of consciousness. Pitt waited for his friend to answer.
Pitt endured an unnerving delay, as when voicing his doubts face to face to a ZNT executive team. They expected him to be professionally useful and positive throughout their discussions; not to be critical or obstructive. They couldn’t handle that. Eventually Doug seemed to locate his front door: there was the shifting of bolts and locks, before the lawyer revealed himself, smiling in a chummily forced way.
At such an hour Breadham could only manage to smile for girls. Nocturnal hours formed a private transaction. He conducted an active on-line sex life, hooking up with pretty young women in search of a sugar daddy. Breadham used his address for such liaisons, as it was a safe distance away from his office. He only went into the country at weekends or Bank Holidays, where he was happy to slip into the quiet role of an eligible bachelor. This allowed him to recharge his batteries before another hectic week, when he would again swap his cocktail glass for a cocktail dress.
The lawyer was attired for bed. “Thought you’d lost your way,” Doug declared - as if he hoped this would be the case. “Take your shoes off, will you.” It was hard to keep cool, even for a polished City lawyer.
“No problem, mate,” Clive replied, sheepish. “I appreciate this. Some place you have here,” Clive said, scanning.
“Thank you, Clive. Glad you like it.”
Pitt entered a room which felt immense in comparison to the passageways. He began to relax into the warm comfort of the space. Long and high-ceilinged, with a wide window at the end, there was a view to the canal, where small boats were moored along romantically lit jetties.
“What happened to your new set of clothes? You know, that I purchased for you?” he observed.
“I went through them,” Clive informed him.
“Oh? Really? I think I may have kept the receipts... if you wish to -”
“I wouldn’t be bothered with that,” Pitt said, laughing painfully.
“Did someone buy you some more new clothes?”
“Another anonymous benefactor,” Clive returned.
He considered the point, before moving on. “Been to this apartment before?” Breadham wondered.
“Very impressive,” Pitt agreed, swivelling his eyes again. “But, no.”
“Are you sure?”
“Not really.”
“Have you been out somewhere?” Doug asked. Was he sarcastic? He was surprised by Pitt’s comparative neatness. This was a few degrees short of the horror show he’d been expecting.
“You’re with someone?” Clive recalled.
“Mm, yes. I asked her to get her things together. She’s on her way out.”
“She can stay, if you would like her to.”
“But she’s made her mind up.”
“At this hour?” Pitt wondered. “You think that I have something to hide?”
“There’s a cab coming. Who can read a woman’s mind?” Doug replied. “Best to let her shoot off, if that’s what she wants.” He exercised his facial muscles under strain, even while keeping an amiable gleam.
“Well if this girl’s determined to leave, I’m not going to stop her.”
“That’s the attitude,” Doug said.
Pitt strolled across the room, to gaze through the window to outside; to enjoy a glimpse of freedom.
The people sitting outside the pub were on a different planet. He expected to rely on Doug’s pragmatic approach. They had probably been friends for a long time, although their first meeting had been a professional matter; as far as he recalled. They dealt in the same circles because Doug worked with prestige clients, including banks and hedge funds, and even took on occasional spats between foreign oligarchs. This must have been where they first met and became friendly.
Clive’s attention was caught by movement in one of the adjoining rooms. He turned about to see a tall red-headed girl, striding across the rug in his direction. As expected she was an ultra-beautiful, glamorous young woman; she was a fragmented chip fr
om an exotic mineral. London had a virtual army of these beautiful girls; a veritable Warsaw Pact of glamour. These were lovely girls of great promise who found that travel itself didn’t always add up to happiness. Even if the grass was greener on this side of Europe it hid some peculiar creatures. Even if the advertisements claimed otherwise, beauty could not be traded so easily for wealth. Sometimes you were cheated out of your goods.
It was hard to read this girl’s emotions. She was trained to hide her feelings. This was an essential shield. Emotion might short-circuit to suffering and to poverty. She showed a blank mask and swished her long hair as she swivelled over the lawyer’s Afghan carpet.
Doug spoke to the girl in a commiserating tone. Then he put a hand on her long narrow waist and guided her toward the exit. Clive observed his friend’s authentic silk Chinese robe (probably a gift), cinched around pampered flesh, in an extravagance of red dragons on green. Pitt repressed a feeling of antipathy towards the man. The girl was wearing a red twin-set that must have come from Liberty’s or Harrods. On principle she only went for expensive brands. But she finally slipped outside, without a word or an expression.
Tomorrow was another shopping day.
“Someone special?” Clive asked.
“What can I do for you?” Breadham stated. He was not best pleased.
“I need your help, mate,” Clive admitted. His posture slumped to bridge a gap.
“How precisely?”
“There’s really no escape for me. Other than to...to get out of the country,” Clive answered, in a tone of bleak certainty.
“Where have you been, since we last spoke?”
“All over,” Clive said.
“Have you given up?” Breadham asked, stood astride in his silk gown.
“There’s a range of dangerous people toying with me. I don’t think I can keep away from them much longer. I don’t believe my innocence is their real concern.”
“You understand their concerns?”
“They aren’t looking out for me,” Clive said.
“Then why don’t you speak to the authorities?” Doug said.