The Travelling Companion (6 page)

“Edwin Hythe,” Turk was explaining. “The first time I saw you, I was struck by the resemblance. This was some time back, through the window of the shop. I asked George about you and decided it was no mere coincidence. Which is why I asked him to send you on that particular errand.”

“I don't understand.”

“It's on your mother's side,” he said, running a finger back up the family tree from my name. “You are descended from Edwin Hythe. His blood in your blood, and with it, unfortunately, his curse.”

“His what?” I was rubbing at my eyes, trying to blink them into some kind of focus.

“Your devil has been long caged, Ronald. He has come out
roaring
!”

There was a mad gleam in his eye as he spoke. I leapt to my feet. “You're crazy,” I told him. “
You're
the devil here! You and your damned Alice!”

“There is no Alice.”

“She knows you—she runs errands …”

But he was shaking his head. “There's only you, Ronald. You and the demon that's been sleeping deep inside you, waiting for the right catalyst. Paris is that catalyst.”

“Where are the manuscripts?” I demanded, looking about me. “The two unpublished novels?”

He gave a shrug. “You've seen all there is. Nothing more than fragments.”

“You're lying!”

“Believe what you will.”

“Alice is
real
!”

He was chuckling as he shook his head again. His silver-topped walking-stick glinted at me from its resting-place by the desk. I grabbed it and raised it over my head. Rather than shrink from me in fear, his smile seemed to widen. I bared my teeth and struck him across the side of the head. He staggered but stayed on his feet, so I hit him again. He wheeled away from me into the long hallway. I stayed a few footsteps behind him as I continued to rain down blows upon his head and back until he fell, just inside the front door. He was still conscious, but his breathing was ragged, blood bubbling from his mouth. A few more blows and he lay still. I hauled him by his feet away from the door so I could open it and make my escape.

Outside, I could hear sirens. Police cars, probably, heading for a hotel not too far away, where passers-by would be able to describe the bloodied figure running from the scene. Alice was standing on the opposite pavement, her eyes full of understanding. We shared a smile before I looked to left and right. There was plenty of traffic, but I started to cross towards her, knowing it would stop for me. When I looked again, however, she had vanished. Pedestrians and drivers were beginning to stare. I noted the fresh spattering of bright red blood on my shirt, so began to rip at it, throwing it from me until I stood half-naked in the middle of the road, the sirens drawing closer. I stretched out both arms, angled my head to the heavens above, and roared.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2015 by Ian Rankin

Cover design by Mauricio Díaz

978-1-5040-3153-0

Published in 2016 by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
180 Maiden Lane
New York, NY 10038
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