The Black Sun Conspiracy - читать бесплатно онлайн полную версию книги автора Preston W. Child (Chapter Five) #6

Chapter Five

It started with an opinion piece. Trish’s first opinion piece in her new role as a regular contributor to the Clarion’s comment pages. She wrote the first draft of it with a vicious hangover after we celebrated her new job with a combination of very good single malt and really cheap corner shop fizz.

The opinion piece itself started with a broken-down train. Trish’s ex-husband had finally agreed to return the last of her belongings, a handful of sentimental items, as long as she collected them from a friend of his in Greenwich. On the way home the Docklands Light Railway train we were riding in had a sudden attack of the vapors, meaning we were all pitched out onto the platform. Fortunately — or so we thought — we were already at Canary Wharf, so a quick change onto the Jubilee line would take us straight home to Stratford East.

Canary Wharf is one of those odd stations that are actually two stations, so we had to leave the DLR station and cut across Reuters Plaza. It was evening by that time, about 8.30pm, and it was Bonus Day. The city boys, obscenely well-paid even in the wake of the crash, were out to play, and there was a sense of danger in the air that you could almost smell — sharp and metallic, a little bit like blood.

As we walked past brightly-lit bars and restaurants lugging Trish’s box of knick-knacks, we could hear the sound of braying laughter and popping champagne corks. A lad in his late 20s ran whooping across our path, wielding a fizzing Jeroboam high over his head, its contents spilling out in an incredibly expensive trail behind him. Trish stopped in her tracks and looked down. “More than I earn in a week, just pissed across the street,” she chuckled. “These people are crazy. What’s the betting that he’ll blow more money tonight, just in one single night, than you and I will make this year — put together?”

We spent the rest of our journey home talking about the atmosphere in Canary Wharf, that near-palpable sense that anything could happen and that these people were just seconds away from spiraling out of control. When Trish got the news about her new column a few days later, she already knew what she wanted to write about — the incredibly rich City boys who are mad, bad and dangerous to know. She had taken her first step on the path that led her straight towards Charles Whitsun.

Sam set down his pen and pushed the notebook away. It wasn’t an easy story to tell, knowing how it ended. But he was determined to tell it. Trish was dead, Charles Whitsun was dead, Admiral Whitsun was dead — the only person who could still be hurt by these memories was Sam, and it was time to face that pain.

“Not that I know if I’ll ever be in a position to publish it,” Sam muttered to himself. Thinking about Trish no longer filled him with the old feelings of bleak anguish. He could now remember her without wanting to drink himself into oblivion — but while he no longer wished for oblivion, he still felt the familiar impulse telling him to drink. “Best not,” he mumbled. “I’ll never get this written if I start all that now.”

He headed into the tiny kitchen, filled the kettle and set it on the gas ring. He missed the electric kettle back home. In fact, there were many things he missed. The galley kitchen that had seemed so pokey back in Edinburgh but now seemed palatial in comparison to its Italian counterpart. The teabags. The soft Scottish water. The search for a clean mug, no longer an issue since Purdue would not tolerate disorder. Bruichladdich sitting in the sink, watching him judgmentally. Sam really missed Bruich. He wished that he could give Paddy a ring and check that the cat was doing well. And Paddy…

‘Probably thinks I’m dead,’ thought Sam, splashing milk into his mug. ‘My sister probably does too, though I doubt she’ll mind as much. I wonder if Bruich misses me. Probably not. Cats know which side their bread’s buttered and he’s definitely better off at Paddy’s.’

At last the water came to the boil. Sam poured, dumped in a few spoonful of sugar and left the bag in to stew. The tea was not good, but it was hot and vaguely comforting, and that was good enough. He pushed open the door to the sitting room. To his surprise he found Purdue there, by the table at the far end of the room, apparently just emerging from his bedroom.

“Sorry, man,” said Sam, setting his mug on the table. “I should have asked if you wanted one. Do you? It’s just boiled.”

“I think that’s exactly what I need,” Purdue nodded. “But sit down and enjoy your tea, Sam. I can make my own.”

Sam did not argue but allowed Purdue to squeeze past him into the little kitchen. It was only as he sat down to read over what he had written that he realized that he had left his work lying around in plain sight. ‘I wonder if Purdue read any of it?’ He thought. ‘Oh god, I hope not. There’s nothing worse than somebody seeing the crap I churn out in a first draft.