Fortress

23

Sam’s eyes fluttered open. The clock said four twenty. He propped himself up on one elbow. Someone was ringing the doorbell. It was probably one of the other tenants who had lost their keys. He decided to ignore it.

He turned over and glanced at the empty half of the bed. Helen’s half — of her bed, in fact — and although she had referred to it as ‘the flat’, it, too, was hers. He wondered if she had seen him on TV, and what she would make of his new position. Maybe it would induce her to come back. But he was using his real name now. Probably her mother would be even less in favour of her going out with him now he was called Sahim.

The bell went again. He let it ring. He had no inclination to be helpful to her neighbours. He would be out of here just as soon as he had found a room to rent. Besides, he was exhausted. After the Channel 4 News appearance Pippa had whisked him off to the Shard for an informal meet and greet with the home secretary, Sarah Garvey, some Whitehall bigwigs, their special advisers and some senior police. Garvey had been pretty distracted and barely acknowledged him. Nevertheless the heady thrill of rubbing shoulders with Establishment high-ups had boosted his confidence no end, especially when one of her mandarins patted him on the shoulder and told him he had a gift for a good sound-bite. He had been assured this would mean a lot more attention from the media.

The bell sounded yet again. ‘Fuck off,’ he said, but this time he struggled to his feet, pulled on a pair of shorts and padded to the door.

‘Yeah?’

‘Kovacevic?’

A male voice. No one he recognized.

‘Who is this?’

‘Sahim Kovacevic?’

He put the chain on the door and opened it a fraction. A motorbike messenger, holding a slim envelope. ‘Yeah, that’s me. What do you want?’

‘Just take this.’

The man thrust the letter through the gap.

‘Do I need to sign anything?’

‘No.’

He went back up to the flat and opened it.