The Sudden Appearance of Hope

Chapter 85

I gave Gauguin everything I’d promised. Meredith Earwood, Agustin Carrazza, Berkeley, the hydroponic clinic, photographs of her passports, snapped from a hotel room in Korea, copies of her journal written in San Francisco. He replied through the darknet, politely thanking me for my information. He even activated his old name: mugurski71, and I replied as _why, all things returning to where we had begun, back to Dubai, back to Reina, the summer sun and a bunch of stolen diamonds. It all seemed a long way away, now.

The occasional question comes in from Gauguin. Describe Byron’s current appearance. Describe her eating habits. Does she exercise? How was her Spanish? Did she express any views on politics or popular culture? Did she admit to the murder of Matheus Pereyra-Conroy? Did she say anything about me?

She spoke with regret, I replied, but I don’t think it went as far as remorse.

Gauguin asked nothing more.

Talk to us, said mugurski71 one day. Come in and talk to us in person. Let us record you. You won’t be harmed.

Memories of Tokyo, Luca Evard, you won’t be harmed.

A present tense, a memory that is like the present tense, he said before, you won’t be harmed, and now he says it again, and Gauguin is mugurski71 again and I am _why, time has changed nothing, regret changes nothing, hope changes nothing there is only now, and now, and now, this moment, this decision as I say

no.

Running through Venice, past the Hotel Madellena. Every day I buy the loyalties of a housekeeper by the name of Yanna, slipping her a hundred euros in exchange for an answer to the question — is the 206 Club coming here?

“Oh yes,” she says, “it’s all such a fuss.”

The glamour mags, excited, celebrity this, sensational that, is she pregnant, is he having an affair, the 206 coming to strut their perfect, beautiful stuff, so wonderful, we could all be like that one day…

Why is this still happening?! I demand.

There is no proof that Byron will be there, Gauguin replies.

If I could email you a fucking nosebleed you pillock!!

Five days before the party, Rafe Pereyra-Conroy arrived, a beautiful woman I had never seen before on his arm, all legs and hair and teeth and dress. His sister walked behind.

Filipa looked… something in how she stood, perhaps. Something in how she dressed. Lace panelling across her back, down to the coccyx, all suggestive of other things. I’d never spotted before how slim she was, not skinny, but slim, a word which meant better things. If you cared about words.

I am forgettable! I screamed down the data highways and the network links, the secret cables and waiting satellites, roaring it over the darknet at Gauguin.

I will call the police, tell them there’s a bomb. I will rob every journalist blind, I will put poison into your party treats, I will destroy it before it ever has a chance to begin, I will stop this thing if you don’t stop it now!!

Mr Pereyra-Conroy has decided to go ahead with the event, replied Gauguin, he does not feel the risk is significant.

The risk is significant, you coward! You idiot, she will destroy everything and people will die!!

Mr Pereyra-Conroy feels that even if Byron were to attack the 206, this is an opportunity to catch his father’s killer. We are monitoring trains, cars, boats — there are only so many ways in and off this island, if Byron comes near the venue she will…

She is smarter than you all. You are walking to your own damnation and she will destroy you!

I’m sorry, _why. The event will proceed, and if Byron comes, we will apprehend her.

I threw the laptop across the room with a gasp of rage, and sat on the bed, shaking, sweating. Where is your knowledge now, thief, where is your stillness, where your honour, your worth, your code, you nothing, forgettable nothing, having a temper tantrum in your room, little girl, cross that desert. The desert will eat you whole, hey, hey hey, hey Macarena!

Need a friend to talk to, need Luca, need Filipa, need to clear my head, go for a run, go to a bar and pick up a guy, tell him everything, and he’ll nod and smile and say, “Wow, that’s so deep” and we’ll fuck and he’ll forget and it’ll be fine, it won’t mean anything but it’ll be good, it’ll be great, it’ll be me, my power, me, in control, me, using the world to steal, to speak, to live, to survive to live fuck you, fuck you all!

On the balcony, shaking with rage, tears in my eyes.

A boat on the small canal outside, struggling to find a place to park. It’s going to rain soon, smell of it on the air, the cobbles are slippery, difficult to run.

I am the rain.

I am the cold.

I am my breath.

I pick my laptop up from the floor. It’s still working, hanging on in there, sorry about the sulk. I look up “need a friend”.

Need a friend? Choose your option:

I went to close the laptop, but before I did, another message, from mugurski71.

This is Luca, it said. This is my number.