Half Moon Chambers (15 page)

Rowan watched this performance in silence.

He'd been kind enough not to laugh, but his dark
eyes
were glimmering. "Which part of
slow
did
you
not hear?"

"I thought I'd...
been
slow. What the hell is
this
?"

"I told you. Proper absinthe, from a dark little
bar
in Montmartre, where they haven't changed a
stick
of furniture since the 1890s and the artists
pay
for their drinks by leaving sketches on the
walls
. Try it again
--
as if it was snake venom this
time
--
and I'll tell you something about myself."

He smiled. "It's not that I think I'm particularly
fascinating
, but policemen love background, don't
they
? And then it'll be only fair that you tell me
something
in return."

I struggled to collect myself and focus. Maybe
even
here, in these extreme circumstances, I might
be
said to be doing my job. If Rowan started
talking
, who knew where it could lead? I might be
able
to bring my good and patient boss a witness
after
all. I lifted the glass to my lips again, this
time
barely sampling the agate poison inside it.

Again there came the hit, but now it was tinged
with
sunlight, and I saw a summer meadow open in
the
back of my mind. "All right. Sounds like a
deal
."

"Okay." He too tucked his feet up under him,
mirroring
my gesture, as if settling in for a story. "I
didn
't send away for any of the stuff in this flat. I
bought
it all myself. I travelled to all the places
where
the things were made
--
Kerala for
the
Sanskrit book, Japan for some of the others, dozens
more
bazaars and alleyway bookshops in the
Far
East. I had a job in acquisitions for one of
the
London museums, and they sent me everywhere."

It didn't occur to me to disbelieve him. The
story
didn't fit with the semi-derelict garret, the
struggle
to make ends meet on a small-time
curator
's salary, but his gaze was calm and direct.

"That must have been amazing. Why did you
stop
?"

"I said I'd tell you one thing. It's your turn
now
."

I rested my brow on the wing of the chair. I
could
see that summer meadow definitely now, and
it
was a memory, not hallucination.
Meadow
wasn
't quite accurate, though, not by the time my
brother
and I had found it
--
just the last green
space
left over from a building project, a raw
-
brick
new estate mushrooming up half a mile from
our
own. We'd found it in the first summer when
we
'd both been big enough to put serious distance
between
ourselves and home. I'd been eight or so
,
Phil twelve. He'd been a fantastic big brother that
year
, playing with me tirelessly, nicking bricks
from
the building site to construct a den. That
winter
he discovered new mates, a gang from his
senior
school, and with them came car-jacking,
aerosols
, glue-sniffing, stolen booze and crack.

He'd spent the next summer in a young-offenders
unit
, no visitors allowed. Fine with me
--
I hadn't
wanted
to visit him by then. I'd visited the meadow
instead
, but the project had been finished, two
dozen
meanly constructed houses where the grass
had
been. "I don't have any good stories to tell," I
said
. "No exotic past jobs. I've just always been a
copper
."

"A copper who got shot. Tell me that story."

I did. Sort of. The absinthe curled golden
tendrils
round my defences until they were nothing
but
ivy-clad ruins, and I talked. I told him Jack's
version
because, even drunk and unravelled, I
wanted
to sound sane, and Jack's was the sane
variation
.
I was there with Jack. Yeah, that's
right
--
Brad Pitt. I was going for a rooftop sniper and
another
one got me in the back. Jack couldn't
help
me. He'd seen another group of Maric's men
heading
up to ambush our unit. He had to go
after
them.

"Oh, God. Goran Maric did this to you?"

I surfaced. I'd told him this much in an
underwater
dream. I didn't know why he'd gone
white
to the lips, why he was looking so sick. "Not
personally
. One of his mob. We didn't even get the
bastard
that night, after all that."

"You think Jack left you to die."

I put the little glass down before it smashed in
my
grip. Jack and I hadn't been perfect, but we'd
been
partners, and I'd have punched anyone in the
face
who'd breathed a word against him. "Of
course
he bloody didn't! He was my partner. You
know
nothing about coppers, the way we work. If
you
did, you'd know how tight we hang together -
it
's that or let this damn world hang us one at a
time
." My heart was thumping. I was furious - and
worse
than that, scared. Scared by the sound of my
own
voice defending Jack, my sense of self,
everything
I'd founded on that partnership. I
shouldn
't have to. "Anyway, I didn't say that." I
was
suddenly terrified that I had, my tongue
loosened
to treachery by the absinthe. "Did I?"

"No. No, you didn't." He got up and stood
over
me. Jack's story was the right one
--
that was
my
gospel, my scaffold. I wanted to grab him, drag
him
down to me and shout it in his face, but he was
so
bruised already, and his expression was so
kind
I couldn't handle it: I turned my face aside and shut
my
eyes.

His hand closed gently on my shoulder. "Why
don
't you grab a couple of hours more sleep?" he
asked
, his tone ordinary, as if I hadn't just allowed
him
free access to my deepest, dirtiest wounds. As
if
he'd be willing to forget I ever spoke. "It's still
early
. Do you have to work today?"

If I knew what day it was, I could give him an
answer
. "Yeah," I said roughly, just in case. "I've
got
a morning shift."

"I'll wake you at seven, then. Will that be
okay
?"

I couldn't even tell him that much. I was adrift
in
deep waters, a sea of truth and lies. I'd never
dared
swim there in case I couldn't tell which was
which
, in case I never reached the shore again. But
it
was too late now. His hand left my shoulder,
and
I sank away, at the last instant choosing, turning my
drowning
thoughts into a dive.

* * *

Seven o'clock was a bleak hour, even
in
Rowan's enchanted castle. I woke with the sense of
a
broken spell, my heart bumping painfully. Those
beautiful
windows, so charming at night, in this
pale
winter morning let in a light like thin gruel.

The heating must have gone off. A draught trailed
cold
fingertips over the back of my neck, and my
five
o'clock shadow scraped on the velvet when I
moved
my head. I got up stiffly and stood clutching
at
the back of the chair, waiting for the wave of
pain
to subside. I hadn't gone without my dope for
this
long since leaving the hospital. This was why.

When I was reasonably sure I wasn't about to
throw
up, I looked around me.

The flat was empty. There were dozens of
places
where Rowan could be sleeping or
working
, but I was convinced I was alone.

Desolate relief shook me. The draught was a
breath
of reality. What the hell had I done? If he
was
out of the way for a moment, I had to make
good
my escape, even if that did mean I was a
fuck
-and-run coward. This time I wouldn't risk
stopping
to leave him a note.

I stumbled back to the bedroom
--
the place
was
easy enough to navigate now, not the
honeytrap
maze of the small hours
--
and found my
clothes
, which had been picked up off the floor and
folded
for me nicely on the dresser. They still felt
horrible
going on, like old skins I'd shed to allow
for
new growth and now had to pack myself back
into
. I didn't dare glance in the mirror. There I'd
meet
the eyes of a man who wanted to crawl away
and
hide somewhere in this flat until the night and
its
magic came down again. Once dressed, flesh
crawling
, I hurried to the hallway and shrugged
into
my coat. I checked my pockets for my badge,
my
keys, the things I'd need to make a dignified
exit
and not come back.

The front door clicked and opened. Rowan
came
in quietly, glancing over his shoulder before
he
shut the door. He was carrying a bag from
the
Bigg Market bakers, the one that opened early to
cater
to the traders and the hangover crowd. He
saw
me, dressed, ready to go, and smiled
uncertainly
. "Sorry. I was just about to wake you,
then
I realised I never even fed you, before we..."

He trailed off. And that was the problem.

There was literally nothing he and I could talk
about
which wouldn't lead us straight into the fire.

I had to end it, douse the glowing ashes all around
us
, and right now. "I've got to go. What we did
--
that
was all my fault. I was irresponsible. It can't
ever
happen again, and..."

"Don't."

He cut me off dead with that one quiet
syllable
. He edged by me in the narrow hall, not
touching
, and he went to the living-room window,
dumping
the baker's bag on the table as he passed.

The contents smelled good, as if he'd guessed my
weakness
for a toast-and-marmite breakfast on
cold
mornings. I thought he was going to give me a
scene
. The set of his shoulders was rigid. He
looked
thin again, with the cold light pouring round
him
. What was I going to do if he freaked out on
me
? I'd risked everything on a total stranger. He
knew
where I worked, where I lived. Worse, if I'd
had
my time over, I'd have risked it all again. I
wanted
to be back in bed with him. He was still
gazing
out into the street. He turned to me
suddenly
, his expression ordinary. Quite composed
and
cheerful. "Don't be daft. Go now, before
you
're late for your shift."

I swallowed. "Are... Are you okay?" He
looked
it. What the hell was wrong with me, that I
straight
away wished he didn't?

"Yeah, of course. It was a great night. Here,
take
these with you."

"What?"

"I got you some breakfast."

"What about you?"

"I'll grab something later. I've got to work
--
that
restoration job I was busy with before I was
so
rudely interrupted."

"Oh. Oh, okay." I hesitated, awkwardly
running
a hand across my hair. I'd been let off the
hook
with a vengeance. I didn't quite know how to
leave
.

He came back to me, holding out the aromatic
bag
. He was still smiling, but there was a shadow
in
his eyes, an urgency. "Go on, Vince. Seriously
,
I'm running late. Go now."

What - now he couldn't get me out the door
fast
enough? Had I really read him so wrong? Just
for
an instant, when he'd first seen me in my coat,
he
'd looked gutted. "I wish I could tell you I could
leave
you alone about this case," I said roughly.

"Well, maybe I can personally. I can tell my boss I
don
't want to lean on you any more. But that might
just
mean he'll send somebody else."

"Okay. Whatever. I'll deal with that when it
comes
." He put a hand to my back - carefully,
knowing
now exactly where and how it hurt - but
with
some force, and he actually propelled me to
the
door.

My confusion only lasted as long as it took
me
to find my way back to the lift. And by the time
its
heavy cage had rattled up to me, I had it all
worked
out. What an amazing conceit of my own
importance
I'd managed to dream up between my
arrival
in this great wrought-iron box and my
departure
! I'd been transformed by the pleasures of
the
night
--
given wings, a wild flight out of my
cold
, weary flesh
--
and so I'd assumed that Rowan
had
been altered too. Why the hell should he be?

For all I knew, he had a lover every weekday night
and
twice on Sundays. He was a bloody beautiful
lay
. It seemed unlikely that he'd saved his skills for
me
. He'd let me go without a pang, and that was
that
. I should have been gasping with relief. No
impassioned
pleas, no demands
--
and they would
have
been justified
--
as to what made me think I
could
walk in, a copper engaged on a murder case,
let
him screw my brains out, and stroll out in the
morning
unscathed.

I wasn't unscathed. The relief was there, yes.

And under it was bitter disappointment. I was,
as
I'd briefly let myself forget, nothing special. I
stood
for a moment on the steps of Half
Moon
Chambers, my arms folded tight across my chest. I
lowered
my head, reminded myself not to limp,
and
I walked back into the day.