The Search

CHAPTER SIX

The sea was rough, the boat smelled of oil and bad food. For as long as Walker could remember he had been disappointed by boats: something to do with the thickness of the metal, the size of the bolts; the way everything was covered in a thick skin of paint, the way you had to struggle through low self-closing doors, the way the toilets were always awash with water. He stood on deck and was surprised by how quickly he became bored watching the land receding, the frantic gulls. Even the sea was disappointing. Grey, cold.

He went below deck to get some food but everything looked too foul to eat. A smell of french fries and eggs emanated even from the bolognese sauce congealing in a brightly lit tin. He wandered to the lounge where people were already asleep on the floor — the seats all had arm-rests to prevent people stretching out on them. No effort had been spared to make the crossing as miserable as possible.

Soon people were vomiting all over the ship. The smell of sick was impossible to dissociate from the reek of the food cooking in the galleys. Walker thought he might throw up himself and went back on deck. The air was full of spray. To the disappointment of those lined up at the stern, cameras at the ready, darkness fell without a sunset.

Walker remained on deck and took a sounding — as he suddenly, under the nautical influence, began to think of the recordings he made with the dictaphone. Later, listening back to the recording, he was surprised to find how the sounds of gulls and wind, the slap of waves, evoked not the grim reality of the crossing but the romantic ideal of a sun-soaked cruise.

The boat docked at dawn the next morning. Walker joined a line of people shuffling towards immigration officials, borrowing pens to fill in disembarkation cards. ‘Purpose of visit’: Walker hesitated, scribbled ‘Tourism’ and gave the Grand Central Hotel — glimpsed over the shoulder of another passenger — as the place he would be staying. He waited at the yellow line until the port official waved him forward — the sullen, bored, omnipotent wave of frontier staff the world over. Walker said, ‘Hi,’ handed over his card, waited. Without looking up the guy consulted a huge log-book, let it fall shut and said, ‘Over there.’

‘What?’

‘Wait over there.’

Over there was a bench. Walker waited ten minutes. A door opened and another guy, squinting at the papers in his hand, called out ‘Mr. . Walker?’ as if the name were unpronounceably, suspiciously alien. Walker followed him into a room: desk, chair, banks of files. The guy smoked, was unshaven, wore an open-necked shirt. Walker recognized the uniform instantly — bribe — and this knowledge gave the subsequent interrogation a relaxed, veiled purpose. All questions about his circumstances and intentions were really intended to establish only one thing: how much he was good for. Walker indicated he might be good for plenty, especially if he could be furnished with a little extra assistance. The port official hesitated. That depended. .

‘A friend of mine arrived here,’ said Walker, coming straight to the point. ‘A couple of days ago, I think. I’d like to look him up. I need the address he gave on his disembarkation card.’

‘Impossible.’

‘How much?’ Walker could see greed flickering in the other man’s eyes and knew that in an hour he would be out of here with everything he needed. Only the price had to be finalized now.

It took even less time than he expected. He checked in at the Grand Central and dialled the number Rachel had given him. No answer. He tried later, again without success, and set off for the address given to him by his friend — as he now thought of him — at the port.

The house was in the middle of an old terrace of high town-houses in the east of the city. He stood in the lobby, waiting for the elevator, obscurely convinced that something was wrong. In the elevator he stared at his face in the mirror and wondered what he looked like. His reflection posed the question it was supposed to answer.

The apartment was on the seventh floor; by the fifth Walker felt certain he was making a mistake. The elevator stopped on the sixth floor. A cigarette-faced woman stepped aside to let Walker off. He padded along a corridor and up the emergency stairs. Easing the fire door open a fraction he had a good view of room 7D. He allowed the fire door to close until there was only a knife-edge of light. Waited.

After ten minutes a squat man emerged from the lift and knocked on the door. The door opened and he spoke quietly. Seconds later a figure Walker recognized as Carver emerged. Walker moved back down the stairs but heard footsteps coming from below. As quietly as possible he trotted back up to the top floor. A folding-ladder led to a frosted skylight. The ladder squeaked as Walker pulled it down, creaked as he climbed up. He cracked open the skylight and clambered out on to the roof.

The noise of traffic was all around. Shadows hazed and disappeared. He crossed the roof and made his way along a ledge to the next house. There was a skylight here, locked from the inside. The next house along was higher than the rest and he had to haul himself up. As soon as he had done so he heard footsteps from behind. Keeping low he moved across the roof and ducked behind a crumbling chimney stack. Seeing his pursuers fanning out from the skylight, he scuttled away and lowered himself down on to the roof of the next house. He continued moving like this until the terrace was split abruptly by a service alley running between two houses. In the darkness below, dustbins and trash, the glint of broken glass. The gap was only four yards but a low ornamental wall at the edge meant that it was impossible to get the kind of run-up he needed. He glanced back and tried the entrance to the lift housing. It was locked, but lying nearby were two rusty scaffolding poles.

He picked up one of them, carrying it in his arms like a tightrope-walker, making his way to the edge of the building. Resting it on the low wall he began feeding the pole out over the alley. With a yard still to go it became too heavy to handle. He dragged it noisily back over the wall towards him and tried again, this time standing it on end and lowering it by degrees towards the opposite roof. When he could hold it no longer he let it drop like a metronome across the alley. It smashed down on to the low wall opposite, bounced, shivered. As he scrambled to steady it, the pole slipped off the far wall, flicked up from beneath his hands and went twirling out of sight. By the time he heard the crash and tangle from the alley below he was already dragging the other pole into position, this time to a place where a gap in the wall would support it like an oarlock. He upended the pole, released it and watched it swing down. Again it clattered and bounced but this time, anchored by the wall, it remained lodged on the far roof. He pushed it out until there was an overhang of a foot on each side and then climbed over the edge of the building, began moving out over the alley. A yard out he brought his legs up and curled them around the pole so that he could move more quickly.

There was a shout from the roof. Raising his head and looking back between his arms he saw his pursuers rush to the edge. They tried to prise the pole free of the gap in the wall but Walker’s weight had jammed it in further. He continued moving, hand over hand, pulling with his shoulders, pushing with his legs, hauling himself away. He felt the pole quiver as they began heaving it free of the gap, followed by a jarring crash as they let it fall back on to the top of the wall. The impact shook his legs free and left him hanging by his hands. For a second he dangled uncontrollably and then, setting up a rhythm, began moving again, hand over hand. Glancing back he saw them standing on the wall, trying to tug the pole sideways, towards the edge. With a final heave they wrenched it the remaining inch and out over the alley. Walker made a grab for the building. The scaffolding pole whipped past his shoulder, sheered away beneath him. His fingers curled over the wall. Another crash from the alley below. He scrambled on to the roof and looked back. For a moment the four of them stood there, Walker and his three pursuers, not moving.

‘Listen,’ Carver called, pausing for breath. ‘We should talk. We can help each other.’

Walker gulped in mouthfuls of air. Carver was talking again, silhouetted against a sudden burst of sunlight.

‘We want the same thing. We know where Malory is.’ Walker had got his breath back, was on the brink of listening. He turned and walked along the row of roofs. Carver was calling, ‘Wait. Walker, wait.’

Walker kept moving, heard Carver shouting, ‘This is your last chance, Lancelot. You’re a dead man.’

Walker tried an entrance to the emergency stairs. It was locked but the frame and door were so rotten that one kick smashed a hole. He reached through and unlatched the door, lowered himself on to the steps. He charged down the stairs and out into the swarm and din of the street. A taxi pulled up nearby. Walker barged past a waiting executive and wrenched the door open, lunged in.

Back at the Grand Central he piled his stuff into a bag. His only concern was to get away from Ascension. Where he went next didn’t matter. But even as he thought this he wondered also if flight might not be the best form of pursuit, the best way of finding Malory. Malory’s movements were so random that perhaps he too should abandon any plan. He hurried to the station and bought a ticket to Alemain, the closest town to which he had sent his speculative mail.

He arrived at the station with time to spare: the train did not leave for fifteen minutes and passengers were not yet being allowed on board. He drifted round the concourse, half expecting to catch a glimpse of Carver. At least half the people here, it seemed, were either following or being followed. Perhaps it was so many people wearing hats that contributed to this impression. Anywhere else a hat looked like an affectation but here, in a railway station, it was part of the standard luggage of travel, a kind of ancillary ticket. The chance to wear a hat with impunity was probably one of the things that preserved the romance of train journeys.

As he made his way towards the platform he passed a Photo-Me booth and ducked beneath the curtain. It was as good a place as any to hide from view but, without intending to, he found himself spinning the stool down as far as it would go and paying in coins, posing for four sudden snaps of the flash. Clambering out of the booth he saw a woman reading a tabloid stroll towards him. An Asian girl went into the booth. He looked at the clock and at the sign that said ‘Photos Delivered in Four Minutes’. All around this sign were sample photos of smiling couples, smiling and serious individuals. One strip showed a black and white couple kissing and pulling faces — you could do what you wanted in the relative privacy of the booth; the machine didn’t care, it recorded but didn’t notice. Ugly or beautiful, tall or short, everyone came out the same way.

After only a couple of minutes the pictures arrived. He moved towards the machine but saw they were of a woman, the woman reading the paper, who reached down and took them.

The developing times were cumulative, so he had another four minutes to wait — more like five probably — and it was now exactly four minutes to. The train’s departure was being announced. Two minutes clicked by. He looked up at the clock, glanced down at the little metallic cage where the photos arrived and set off for the train. He had gone two steps when he thought he heard a faint rustle from the booth. He hurried back, checked the empty tray and ran for his train.