by Tim Lebbon
“There’s money in rare things,” he’d said, smiling strangely.
The post already came!
The idea hit her like a flash, driving all other thoughts aside. She ducked back into the hallway and snatched the single folded sheet of paper out of the cage behind the letterbox. Opening it up, she saw what might have been Vince’s spidery, hasty scrawl.
Sorry. Love you. Goodbye.
2
Angela was done with just waiting for him to call. He wouldn’t call. He wouldn’t text. The brief, strange note felt so final, and she found herself shivering with a cold that was more than skin deep.
Nothing had gone wrong. Everything had felt so right. They’d made love the previous evening, and it was as good as ever—passionate, close, as if they were made for each other. Their conversations involved casual, easy plans for the future. She’d only known him for a couple of years, true, and Angela would be the first to admit that it wasn’t long enough to really get to know someone. But sometimes it felt like they’d been together forever.
He finished her sentences.
She knew what he was thinking.
Vince couldn’t have left her. Not like this.
She rushed around the apartment, trying to look with different eyes. He had never been one for physical possessions, but there were things here she knew he would never abandon—the Robin Hood book his late mother had bought him when he was eleven, with her written birthday greeting on the inner flap. The classic car mug his father had passed down to him.
Her.
Pulling on her boots and grabbing a light jacket, she punched in Lucy’s number and pressed the phone between ear and shoulder.
“Heard from him?” her friend asked as soon as she picked up.
“No, nothing.” For some reason she didn’t mention the note. It would feel too much like an admission that he’d gone for good.
“Oh, well, I’ll bet he’s… gone for a drink after work, or something.”
“He never does that,” Angela said. “You don’t believe that.”
“I don’t know him as well as you.”
“I’m going out to wander around.”
“Wander around London? Yeah, you’ll find him in no time. Listen, Angie, it’s probably best you stay home, and wait for him to contact you.”
He has, she thought, but she still didn’t say anything. The note was folded in the back pocket of her jeans, and she heard it crinkle as she bent to lace her boots.
“Just the places we go together, you know. Local. Maybe his friends’ places. I just need to get out, been cooped up here all day.”
“Want me to come?” Lucy asked.
“No, no, I’m fine. Fresh air will do me good.”
“In London? Call me when you find it, and I’ll come and get some.”
“Call you later?” It was a plea more than a question.
“Sure. Take care.”
“I’m only going for a fucking walk.” She laughed, but worried that she’d sounded too harsh.
“Max says hi.”
“Hi back. See you soon.”
They disconnected and Angela stood frozen in the living room. The box set of the sixth season of Game of Thrones was open on the floor beside the Xbox. They were only halfway through.
“No way he’d leave it like that,” she whispered.
Slamming the front door behind her, she struck up a brisk pace. The warm summer evening smelled of exhaust fumes and fast food.
* * *
She went to The Bear. It was an old pub on a street corner less than ten minutes from where they lived. Nothing distinguished it from a hundred other pubs all across London. It had leaded windows, an L-shaped bar, a pool table, a selection of board games stacked beside the unlit fire, and an old man called Clarence who seemed to be a permanent fixture at the corner table.
Every single time Angela and Vince had been there, so had Clarence. He told them that he’d seen the pub through a score of landlords, two fires, one murder, and World War II, and neither of them had any reason to doubt him. He seemed out of time, and his constantly half-full glass of Guinness only added to the illusion.
Clarence raised an eyebrow as she entered, his eyes flickering slightly as he looked for Vince. Then he went back to staring across the room.
Angela approached the bar and ordered a glass of Pinot from the barman, Mike. As he poured, she glanced around at the mid-evening drinkers. You could almost tell the time of day by the clientele. The early drinkers on the way home from work had mostly gone, apart from some strangers in the corner with loosened ties and liquid smiles. The late night boozers on their way into town had yet to arrive. Now was locals’ time, and she knew at least half of the patrons by sight. She and Vince had chatted with a few of them, but she was here on her own. Apart from some nods and smiles, nobody approached. No one said a word.
Mike handed over her wine and took her money, friendly but silent. Then he moved along the bar to serve someone else.
She hadn’t really expected Vince to be here. That would have been too easy, and this didn’t feel like an easy situation. It was starting to feel surreal and… frightening. She was dislocated. She considered asking around, yet approaching their casual drinking friends and asking them if they’d seen or heard from Vince felt like weakness. She had no desire to look like a failure.
Why would it feel like failing? she wondered, and it took her a few moments and long sip of wine to pin it down.
“He hasn’t left me,” she muttered into her glass. She looked furtively over the rim. No one had heard, but she was worried they’d see her talking to herself.
She checked her phone. It was somewhere to retreat, even though she didn’t like using the screen as a hiding place. There was one message from Lucy. Take care. But nothing else.
He’d gone to the trouble of delivering that note to her, why not a text? Perhaps he’d lost his phone. Maybe he’d thrown it away. She clicked on the news app, focused on London, and before she even realised it she was scanning for news of street muggings, accidents, murders.
But he left that note!
She tucked two fingers into her back pocket and felt the folded reality of it. He’d touched that piece of paper, taken time to write those final words to her. Goodbye had been his intention.
“No Vince tonight?” a voice asked. Nathan was a young kid approaching twenty, good company and wise beyond his years. He was usually on their quiz team when they came on a Sunday evening. Vince called him their Font of Sport.
“Working late,” Angela said, lifting the empty glass to her lips to hide the lie.
“Get you one?” Nathan asked.
“Nah, I’m off—just popped in for a quickie.”
“Quizzing on Sunday?”
“Yeah,” Angela said, and a flush went through her, a sudden realisation that not only had Vince gone, but there would be a future without him. She was living minute by minute as she waited for contact from him, but barren days and weeks stretched ahead, and she had no fucking idea what she was going to do.
Nathan nodded, and moved on to join his friends. Angela watched him go. Then she walked from the pub, eyes down so that she didn’t see anyone else. She wanted to leave. There were other places to look, and it was already edging toward nine o’clock.
Cars grumbled along the road, horns sounding at junctions. A dog or something else howled at the setting sun. A siren sounded in the distance. London never slept, but it was slipping from day to night.
* * *
She went to their favorite Indian restaurant, the Spice Garden, and looked in through the front window past the display menu. It was buzzing. There were a few people eating alone, but none of them were Vince.
Walking north toward Clapham Common Tube, she passed a couple more pubs they sometimes frequented, shielding her face against the windows and seeing so many people inside, none of whom she knew.
Night fell as she walked. Checking her phone every few minutes, she had three texts
but none from the man she loved. Lucy checking in again, her mother asking what she wanted for her birthday, her childhood friend Andy sending a pic of his new daughter from back in the States. She replied to none of them. She didn’t feel that she could, because injecting false bonhomie was beyond her now.
Close to the Tube station she paused, bought a coffee from one of those all-night coffee shops that seemed to lose its identity come darkness, and leaned outside against a wall. She had to take stock. Was she panicking, just walking all over London looking for one person in millions? Was she stupid?
There was no way she could call the police. In reality he was only a few hours late, and maybe he was already home and wondering where she was. Yet she couldn’t bring herself to text him to find out.
The note might have been a trick. A random coincidence. Someone playing with her. Maybe it was Vince messing with her, some strange, contrived scheme to get her out of the house while he drew together intricate plans for a surprise birthday party. She was thirty-five in two weeks, perhaps now was the only time he’d been able to bring all her family and friends together for a surprise bash.
But on a Thursday?
She shook her head and took a swig of coffee. It was scorching hot and tasted of nothing. She burned her top lip and cursed, licking it slowly and waiting for the pain to fade. Then Angela closed her eyes and wished she could make everything go back to normal. But as time ticked on, so normality moved further and further away.
* * *
She was surprised when her watch beeped midnight. Evening had turned to night, and things had changed, though it had been so gradual that, at first, she barely noticed. The safe, chatty noise of people had faded, replaced with sirens and swearing, the angry growl of engines, the staggering waltz of drunks looking for pubs that might still be open.
A gang of teenagers laughed their way out of the Tube station, and although they seemed good-natured, Angela felt threatened. They didn’t even look at her. But she was on her own, and it was very rare that she’d be out on her own at this time of night. Out without Vince by her side.
She realised just how used she’d become to being half of a couple.
A sudden panic washed over her. Unsettled, disturbed, she walked back and forth in front of the Tube entrance, wondering what to do. Part of her wanted to go further afield, deeper into the chaos that London became at night, but the city was vast, and larger still after the sun went down. Another part of her wanted the safety of home. At least there it would smell of him, familiar things around her would form a cocoon of safety, and if and when he did come home she’d be there for him. Whatever his problem might be, he’d need her there to help him through it.
If it was their relationship, they needed to talk.
She rang Lucy. Her friend picked up on the second ring.
“What?”
“Nothing,” Angela said, looking around at the cruising taxis and police cars, hurrying people, prowling dogs, and shifting shadows that constituted nothing. She felt eyes upon her, but then this was London, and there were windows and watchers everywhere. She searched the shadows and saw no one. Still, that feeling of being watched persisted.
“You home yet?”
“No. No, I’m going home now. There’s no sign of him. What do I do, Lucy?”
“I don’t know, babe. Get home. Get some sleep. Want me to come over?”
“No,” Angela said. Bless her friend, but no.
Something moved along the street, a shape ducking into a doorway. She paused, watched, waiting for it to emerge.
“I’ll come by in the morning, yeah? On the way to work?”
“Would you?” She turned away from the dark doorway. It was a hundred yards away and none of her business.
“Sure. I’ll bring croissants. Where are you?”
“Clapham Common.”
“What? Well get a cab home, and text me when you’re in.”
“Okay, yeah. Okay.”
“It’ll all be fine,” Lucy said, and Angela broke the connection.
Moments later a man approached. He was young, smiling, vaguely threatening.
“Want to buy something?” he asked.
“Like what?”
“Something precious. Something rare.”
“Are you offering me drugs?” She injected as much confidence and disapproval as she could into her voice. The man’s smile slipped, he looked her up and down, then he moved on.
Angela hailed a cab. Time to go home and leave the night to itself.
* * *
She saw a fox.
The taxi rolled from the main road and twisted through a network of residential streets, a route she could only assume was a quicker way home. The fox was trotting along the pavement, purpose in its gait, sleek and low to the ground. It appeared healthier and larger than the usual urban foxes. It glanced at the cab as it passed and paused, head down as it watched the vehicle move away. It was hunched in the penumbra between streetlights. Even when she could no longer see it, Angela felt its attention upon her. Her neck tingled.
She’d seen city foxes before. They were shy but confident animals. Vince always said they knew which time was theirs. Turning to look through the rear window, she wondered where that one lived during the day.
A few minutes later, as the cab turned into her street and threw headlights across parked cars and curtained windows, a shadow shimmered in the front garden. She leaned forward in the cab, holding her breath so that she didn’t steam the dividing window between passenger compartment and the driver.
This was no fox.
“Vince!” she whispered. The shadow moved again, seeming to flow against the night, leaping through the headlight beams and curling around the base of a streetlight. The taxi stopped and the shadow moved a little more, before it too came to an angled rest beside a neighbour’s car.
Nothing there. Nothing.
She blinked, no longer seeing things, and handed the driver a twenty.
Minutes later she opened the front door and closed it behind her, leaning back against it and breathing in relief. She smelled the familiar scents of home, looking along the hallway and waiting for Vince to step out from the kitchen. She expected it so much that she almost saw movement, but it was tiredness playing with her vision.
It was only as she turned to draw the security chain over the door that she saw the paper in the mail cage.
She pulled it out quickly, unfolded it.
Be safe. Don’t look for me.
Crying at last, Angela sank down against the wall, and knew that now she would only look harder.
3
For a while after waking he tried to keep his dream alive. In his twenties he’d spent a long time trying to perfect lucid dreaming, reading books, watching instructional programs, and enrolling in a course at the local adult education center that turned out to be more about the instructor’s bank account than anything else.
Nothing had worked. His goal of dreaming himself afloat on a drifting island, with countless naked beauties surrounding him, had never come to pass.
Now, his senses were firing and telling him the truth, but he struggled to allow the lie to persist. The lie that he was safe, secure, and at home with the woman he loved. He didn’t reach out a hand, in case she wasn’t there. He didn’t open his eyes, in case he wouldn’t see her hair swept across the pillows. Not yet.
He listened intently for the sound of lovemaking from the floor above. Maybe he’d slept through it, but he hoped not. He wanted to hear the groaning and creaks because they’d encase him in familiarity.
The stench of blood and sweat touched his nostrils. The taste of uncleaned teeth filled his mouth. His head throbbed dreadfully, the pain pulsing in time with his heart. He could feel the cold floor through the thin, dirty blanket on which he’d been sleeping, and his left arm was numb where he’d been resting his head on the bicep.
Vince opened his eyes, and he was still there.
He groaned, rolled onto his b
ack, and sat up.
The room was large but virtually bare. There was a bucket in one corner that he’d already used too much, its stink filling the stale air. The walls were rough concrete, dripping with condensation and decorated with the memory of tiles. The only remnants were straight lines of pointing and dabs of mortar. The ceiling was low and gray, strung with wires spanning both diagonals, a couple of bare bulbs on each length. The weak lights were permanently on.
There was a single metal door in the opposite wall. He knew that it was locked. He couldn’t remember being brought down here, but he could feel the weight of rock beyond the room, the pressures of the deep underground pressing down upon him.
They’d taken him down. Of course they had. He tried not to think of the room as a dungeon.
He felt like shit. Dried blood coated his hands and bare arms, and he could feel the crisp of it on his face, too. He wasn’t sure that all of it was his own. There were several cuts on his left arm and a deeper wound across the inside of his left elbow, but he didn’t think that could explain so much blood.
He frowned, trying to remember what might.
Something rattled against the other side of the door, tumblers turned, and it swung inward. Vince squinted against the stark light that flooded in from outside, then a shadow passed through the doorway and it closed again.
The woman stood there. She’d visited him twice before, but this time she carried a tray holding food, and across her arm were slung several damp towels. She had barely said a word to him during the other two visits, and he hadn’t felt much like talking.
Now, things were different. His head still throbbed from the blow he’d taken, but vague memories were beginning to surface. A story was forming, and perhaps she could fill in the missing chapters.
She walked across the subterranean room toward him. Her step was so light that he could not hear it, and she moved with a fluid, casual grace. She almost flowed. She was extremely short, her athletic frame obvious even beneath the loose trousers and long-sleeved shirt. Dark hair tied in a ponytail, cute, pointed ears, piercing green eyes, her expression was so calm that it was almost a blank. She was beautiful and made his heart ache with a shameful desire. He could read nothing in her face, and knew she probably wanted it that way.