Hard Light (19 page)

I snatched back the passport. Quinn gave me a crooked grin. “You jealous?”

“Fuck you. Do I need to be?”

I stared at him until he looked away. “No,” he said.

He went into the living room, slid his laptop and a few other things into his backpack, then sat for a few minutes speaking softly on his mobile before sticking it into his pocket.

“Okay, I'm outta here,” he said, pulling on his leather jacket. He'd shaved earlier, nicking the new scar alongside his mouth. Blood seeped to his jaw; I stepped over and wiped it away with a finger. Quinn took me gently by the shoulders.

“Cassie, listen. Do not let anyone in. Do not answer the phone. And do not under any circumstances use that fucking mobile. I'm going to get us both some TracFones while I'm out.”

“What if I need to call you?”

“You won't. I'll be back in a couple hours. If someone knocks at the door, ignore it. If by some insane chance Bruno shows up, just tell him you're my girlfriend. I'll see you in a bit; we can grab lunch then split.”

“Where you going?”

“Rotherhithe; I know a guy there with a barge. Trying to finalize our plans.”

“We're taking a barge to Greece?”

“That's the first leg. You didn't enter the UK on your own passport. Neither did I. We need to make other travel arrangements—that's what I'm going to do now. We'll leave tonight if I can swing it. Sooner the better.”

He held me close and kissed me, and I could feel his heart beating hard against my breast. “See you in a bit, Cassie. Lock the door after me.”

I did, then went to make more coffee and scrounge for breakfast. The kitchen was like a Williams-Sonoma showroom: Bunn coffee maker, La Cornue stove, Misono knives in a block of bird's-eye maple, a miniature washer/dryer. Everything but food. The fridge held nothing but liters of bottled water and cans of Irn-Bru and, in the freezer, a half-full bottle of Sapphire gin and a miniature bottle of Polish vodka with a stalk of buffalo grass inside.

I settled for tuna from a can, washing it down with Scotch, then popped a Focalin and threw my clothes into the washing machine. I spent a few desultory hours doing laundry and watching TV, compulsively flipping back to Sky News. Poppy's death still seemed to be unreported; that or it had been bounced to the bottom of the newsfeed by the most recent round of explosions, machete attacks, volcanic eruptions, tornadoes, child abductions, and celebrity deaths. Most coverage focused on the apocalyptic storms in the southwest UK: gales and whiteout conditions, monster waves pounding Penzance and Falmouth. The coast guard had suspended efforts to search for onlookers swept out to sea in Trevena. A section of the Great Western railway line had been destroyed by flooding.

At last I switched off the TV, pulled a chair in front of the floor-to-ceiling window, stared out at the stark canyons of Canary Wharf shining through a curtain of fine snow, and waited for Quinn to return. He never did.

 

23

By one o'clock I was pissed off. By two, I was still pissed but also starting to panic. After that I cycled between anger and escalating anxiety, spiked with rage whenever I thought of Dagney Ahlstrand. Had Quinn ditched me and returned to Reykjavík to be with her? Had she come to London in search of him, me, or her stolen passport? Was all that shit about going to Greece just a lie to keep me in line?

But in line for what? It didn't make sense that Quinn would track me down in London just to fuck me—or fuck me over—then take off. He was in too much danger himself if he got nabbed by Interpol or the TSA or the Metropolitan Police. Which raised the possibility that he had, indeed, gotten caught.

The thought made me sick.

I finished the Scotch and started in on the Sapphire gin, pacing the apartment as my brain raced through every disaster I could imagine. The fact that Quinn knew Mallo Dunfries meant I could come up with an endless stream of scenarios, each one worse than the one before.

Quinn set up in some kind of sting; Quinn busted on the street right outside this building; Quinn in a bar fight where the cops were called in; Quinn breaking his decades-old resolve to score smack and ODing like Poppy Teasel. When I ran through those, I started in on scenes where Quinn met Dagney at Heathrow and they took off together for the South of France, or simply checked into some local hotel where they were even now fucking their brains out. Then I'd start back on visions of Quinn strung up or strung out or lying somewhere with his throat cut.

I was so wasted I eventually slumped on the couch and stared out at the vertical lines of sleet, a flickering test pattern. From my clenched fist dangled a length of rawhide with its carven eye. As I gazed at it, the eye winked at me.

I staggered to my feet, raced to the bathroom, and vomited. I hung my head over the sink, my face raw from crying. At last I undressed and stepped into the shower. I stood there until my skin puckered, stumbled out, and leaned against the bathroom counter.

My eyes ached as though I'd been staring into the sun. Everything I touched, including my own skin, felt coated with a layer of finely ground glass. Blood-red specks floated across my vision: The room looked like a frame from Leith Carlisle's film. I felt the numb dread that follows a blackout drunk: I'd lost the ability to map the line between nightmare and everyday life, or even recognize that a boundary existed between them.

I took a deep breath, wrapped myself in a towel, got my satchel, and removed the scissors and hair dye I'd bought at Super Drug. Beneath the kitchen sink, I found a plastic bag and a container of bleach. I returned to the bathroom, stood in front of the mirror, and began to cut my hair.

In my twenties, I'd wear my hair in a ragged Johnny Lydon crop, dye it black or orange or red or platinum blond, then after a few months or a year, grow it out again.

But that had been years ago, before I retreated to the stockroom of the Strand and the decades-long, speed- and alcohol-fueled aftermath of my brief life as a working artist. After a few minutes I put down the scissors and ran my fingers through the few inches of hair that remained on my scalp, carefully swept what I'd cut into the plastic bag. I wiped the floor and counter with a washcloth soaked in bleach, dumped that into the bag as well. Then I opened the box I'd bought at the Super Drug and squeezed the dye through my hair.

After half an hour I stepped back into the shower, watching the dye swirl and disappear down the drain like blood in a black-and-white film. When the water ran clear I got out and toweled myself off. Only after I dressed did I look in the mirror.

A ghost's face had been superimposed upon my own.Or, maybe for the last thirty-odd years, I'd been the ghost. The halo of ragged black hair made me appear younger and even more gaunt, my gray eyes no longer bloodshot but wolf-pale and piercingly alert. Close inspection might prove me to be the same woman in my passport or the photo that Mallo had taken. But if you passed me on the street, you wouldn't recognize me; not unless you'd known me thirty years earlier.

The leather jacket and cowboy boots might be more of a giveaway. I rifled Bruno's bedroom, opening drawers and rummaging through his closet. Dries van Noten, Raf Simons, The Elder Statesman. I grabbed a black sweater and a black henley and several pairs of socks, all cashmere, then spent a few minutes examining overcoats before choosing a long, drapey black cashmere coat with a leather hood, big enough to wear loosely over my leather jacket.

His shoes were too small, which was a moot point. There was no way I'd be giving up my Tony Lamas.

I went to the kitchen and drank a liter of Pellegrino from the fridge, filled the empty bottle with tap water and drank that as well. Then I found my camera bag and returned to the bathroom.

I did one more sweep through the bathroom cabinets. No medications except for a bottle of ibuprofen. I popped four capsules and kept the rest, wiped everything down again with the bleach, and made a final circuit of the kitchen.

I'd drunk everything except the mini of Polish vodka, which I pocketed. I ate the last can of tuna, then inspected Bruno's cutlery and selected a paring knife as a shiv. I returned to the living room and switched on the TV to check the time.

Wednesday, 7:37
P.M.
Quinn had been gone for almost thirty-six hours. I'd lost an entire day. I flipped through channels, searching for mention of Poppy's death, anything that might relate to Quinn or myself. There was nothing but the now-familiar litany of bad weather, airport and road and train closures, automobile pileups, flooded roads, and reports of scattered looting.

Maybe Quinn had just gotten stuck somewhere. Maybe, maybe I could find him.

I switched off the TV. In the kitchen I found a pen and some scrap paper, wrote down the time and date and set the note on the counter. Then I stuffed the bag filled with my hair clippings and bleach-soaked rags into my satchel. I dropped the paring knife into the pocket of Bruno's cashmere overcoat, along with a cigarette lighter that Quinn had left on the counter, then slid my hand into the pocket of my leather jacket and withdrew Poppy's mobile phone.

Do not under any circumstances use that fucking mobile
.

There was no landline in the flat. I'd memorized Quinn's mobile number but had never used it. I stared at the mobile, and turned it on.

Cartoon-colored icons fizzed across the screen, the Disney version of the blobs in
Thanatrope.
I tapped in Quinn's number, after a few seconds heard an electronic bleat, followed by silence and then Quinn's voice.

You've reached Eskimo Vinyl in Reykjavík. Leave a message, I'll get back to you.

I disconnected and slipped the phone back into my pocket, picked up my bag and walked out of the flat. As the door shut behind me I had the dreamlike apprehension that my skin had dissolved, leaving no barrier between me and the cool recycled air.

Both hall and elevator were empty and silent. I saw no one until I reached the lobby, where the same security guard sat behind the desk. He looked up as I approached, betraying no recognition whatsoever.

“Mr. Bogart,” I said. “Have you seen him?”

“Not today.” He glanced at his laptop. “Would you like to leave a message?”

I shook my head and left.

 

24

Outside, I pulled up the hood of Bruno's overcoat and shaded my eyes, dazzled by the infernal grid of towering highrises and the headlamps of approaching cars. The sidewalk hadn't been swept or cleared; footprints shone eerily in the ice. I picked my way toward the Underground station, past another cluster of blond women smoking near the entrance. Inside I paused to check a transport map, locating Highgate. I shut my eyes and tried to visualize the path from Adrian's squat to the tube station. I decided I would wing it.

It took a long time. Trains were running but delayed. By the time I got out at Highgate, the sleet had turned to rain again. I took several wrong turns, but at last saw the stretch of chainlink fence where we'd emerged from the woods. After a few minutes I found the sheet of ivy-covered plywood, slipped through the gap, and walked cautiously across the ice-brittle lawn.

Light seeped from the perimeter of Adrian's window. Otherwise the place appeared desolate and empty. The back door was padlocked; I knocked but got no response. I was reluctant to break a window, so I grabbed handfuls of gravel and pitched them at Adrian's window.

I kept it up until a good-sized stone thunked loudly against the sill. I looked up, shielding my eyes from the rain. Someone peeled back the newspaper curtain and I waved frantically, pointing to the door, then ran to take cover on the stoop. A minute later the door cracked open and Adrian glared out. He wore his Aran sweater over black trousers, his feet bare on the wet tiled floor.

“Who is it?” he demanded.

“It's me,” I said, dropping the hood of Bruno's coat. Adrian's eyes widened, and I shoved past him into the hall. “Is Quinn here?”

“Quinn? No. Why?”

“Because he's gone. He left early yesterday morning; he was supposed to be back by eleven but he never showed up.”

“So?”

“So something happened to him. He told me he asked you to look out for me—”

“Sounds like he's the one needs looking after,” broke in Adrian. He peered at me and reached to touch my hair. “It's rather good—takes about ten years off. I hardly recognize you. Good work with that drop.”

“Poppy's dead.”

Adrian laughed. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“I delivered the package to her and left. But I forgot my scarf. When I went back to get it, the door to her flat was open. I went inside and found her on the couch with a spike in her arm. OD.”

“That's impossible. She's been straight for years. She would never do that.”

“She didn't. Someone else did. I thought it was you.”

“Me?” He let the door slam shut and grabbed my arm. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Someone stuck a needle in her brachial artery, and she bled out. Whatever they gave her was pure enough that she didn't feel any pain. There was no sign of forced entry—whoever it was, she let them in.”

I hesitated. Adrian's shock seemed genuine.

“She told me she had brain cancer,” I said, prising his fingers from my arm. “Maybe it was a suicide pact—maybe she asked someone to help her.”

“She would never do that,” Adrian repeated. “Heroin? Never.”

“‘Once the needle goes in it never comes out.'”

“Do you fucking understand what I'm saying?” His voice rose threateningly, and I took a step away from him. “She
would not touch it
. If she wanted to die, she'd find another way. She used to say it was like being dead—if she just thought about shooting up, she felt like she was dying, over and over again. She could have gotten it from the NHS but she refused. It was the most terrible thing she could imagine—the worst way she could think of dying.”