A Good day to die

36

I thought I would have woken up late the next morning after all the activity of the night before, but at just after nine I opened my eyes and realized that the last thing that had passed my lips had almost certainly been a cupful of someone else's blood. I was sure I could still taste it in my mouth. What was worse was that it appeared to have done me a lot more good than harm. My head was clear, and when I removed the bandage round it in front of the bathroom mirror, the injuries looked to have partly healed. For some reason, my next thought was of Blondie. I wondered how much they'd tortured him before he died. I also wondered whether they'd removed any of his organs, and whether they would have been used for a specific ritual. Then I stopped wondering, because I was beginning to feel sorry for the man who the previous night had slaughtered four people and who'd done his utmost to kill me.

The world is a hard, dark place. It's inhabited by some brutal people. I'd met a disproportionate number of them in the past few days, although I had a feeling that none was more brutal than the man I was now effectively working for. But then I was pretty sure he hadn't killed my friend. Someone else had, and I knew I was getting steadily closer to finding out who.

But I was also riding my luck. When I'd come in the previous night, the guy on the desk had seen the bandage I was wearing and had given me a strange look. Someone might have seen me at Andrea Bloom's house. The footage from the CCTV in Soho would be released soon and might give a better picture of me than I'd bargained for. Whichever way I looked at it, pretty soon my second chances were going to run out. If I wanted to find out who was behind the murder of my friend, then I was going to have to hurry.

I went for breakfast at the Italian place. They knew me there now and the woman behind the counter greeted me with a smile and hello, which I thought was a nice touch. I plumped for more traditional fare that day and ate a full English breakfast of bacon, eggs, sausages, tomatoes and chips while I read the paper. There was no mention of the events of the previous night. By the time I'd finished, I felt heartily refreshed and the imaginary taste of blood in my mouth was gone. I paid my bill, told the woman to have a nice day, and went outside to phone Emma.

She answered on the third ring.

'How are you feeling?' I asked.

'Better than I did last night. I'm leaving as soon as I've finished packing. How did it go with the girl?'

'Not good. They beat me to it.'

'Is she…?'

I sighed. 'Yeah, she is.' I didn't add that her housemates were dead too. 'Did you say anything to Barron about her?'

'No, of course not. You asked me not to.'

'Because I'm wondering how the hell they knew about her.'

'Hold on. You're not accusing me of anything here, are you? You don't think I'm anything to do with this?'

'Of course not, but I'm beginning to get worried about the quality of information the people we're up against are getting hold of, that's all. I'm thinking they may be bugging your phone. They may even be listening now.'

'Shit, Dennis. This is getting far too heavy. I'm going to hang up and leave right away. And I think you'd better get out, too.'

'Don't worry about me — worry about yourself. How are you getting to your parents' place?'

'Driving. It's a lot easier than the train, and once I'm out of London it'll be a lot quicker, too. I'll be honest, I'm really glad to be going now. If I never hear another word about this case I'll be happy. I wish I'd never written a word about it. And if you're listening, whoever you are, I'm not going to write another word about it, either.'

'Just lie low for a while and it'll blow over,' I told her. I thought about adding that I'd probably got rid of her harassers, but decided against it. It was better for her if she didn't know. Maybe better for me, too, since I'd resigned myself now to the fact that this was it between us, a feeling that was confirmed when there was a pause down the other end of the phone, which seemed to suggest that she wasn't sure what else to say to me. I remembered Christine, the Australian girl, being similarly lost for words when we'd parted at the port of Larena in Siquijor. What do you say?

I said, 'Take care.'

She said, 'You too.'

Even now, months later, I wish that those were the last words to each other we ever spoke.