So anyway. All of that, and now here they were, much later, and he was worried Bachelor was going to put the arm on him again: wanting not money but space, time, his company. Wanting to intrude on Lech’s solitude, which was all Lech had left that he considered valuable. Even this small amount of it, an hour or so after the working day, he’d sooner close his fist around and keep to himself.
But Bachelor was talking. “I’m fine too. In case you were wondering.”
“Oh, yeah. Glad to hear it. Sorry, John.”
“You’re worried I’m going to ask if I can move back in, aren’t you?”
“I’m what?”
“Worried I’ll ask to move in. Into your flat.”
Lech said, “Look, the thing is—”
“Yeah yeah, it’s okay.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Forget about it.” He put a hand on the younger man’s arm. “That’s not what I wanted to talk about.”
Later, leaving the pub, Lech had walked home, all four miles or whatever it was: the streets weren’t fully dark, and it hardly counted as one of his insomniac rambles, but it wore him out enough that he had no trouble falling instantly asleep when he hit the pillow. But he was awake again two hours later, Bachelor’s story climbing round his head. It was absurd, of course, and would lead nowhere—obviously—but at least the older man hadn’t asked him the favour he’d been dreading. There was that memory, too, of Bachelor’s concern when he, Lech, had been locked in Covid’s monstrous offices.
He was remembering a line his father had enjoyed quoting—
Which was why, the following afternoon, he’d wandered from the office he shared with Roddy Ho to talk with Louisa Guy, whose room was on the floor above, its view ever so slightly better than his. Same street, same Barbican: tarmac and brickwork and concrete. But a little higher up.
He said, “You busy?”
She was busy like a slow horse: plenty to do, none of it mattering, all of it skull-numbing dross. More specifically, she’d reached T on her library project. Library project—it sounded like something a primary school might inflict on its defenceless charges. The reality was worse. Way back when, round about the Middle Ages, Lamb had had one of his pet ideas; the kind of brainwave which doubtless struck somewhere between the fourth and fifth drink, the second and third vindaloo. Why not make Louisa’s life a screaming, maddening hell? Actually that was less an idea, more a mission statement; what the actual idea was was, why didn’t Louisa spend the rest of her life drowning in library-loan statistics? Because there were books out there which banged a certain kind of drum, and Lamb couldn’t help wondering who, if anyone, was marching. That was how he’d put it:
“And I hate lists,” he’d beamed.
“This might be a long one.”
“Maybe devise a points system,” he suggested. “You know. Bonus marks if they’re already on the hot map. Double that if they have a . . . dodgy name.”
“Dodgy name?”
“I’ve always thought ‘Gary’ a bit suspect.”
So far she’d taken special notice of those who’d borrowed a supposedly inflammatory text without ever, as far as records showed, returning it. Which meant she was flagging with budding-terrorist status those who’d committed the fearsome crime of losing a library book. But it was keeping the national security candle alight, or at least keeping herself in a job. She was aware that these weren’t the same thing exactly.
To Lech, she said, “Yeah, no. Same old usual. Why?”
“I heard something odd last night.”
“How odd?”
He glanced around. “We have a scale?”
“Just so long as it doesn’t involve library books.”
“You know John Bachelor?”
She knew the name. “He’s been staying with you, right?”
“He did. A while back.”
“An old family friend?”
“We confused ourselves into thinking so. I met him at a wedding, so somebody’s family was involved. Then we discovered we both worked for the Service.”
