‘And when he wasn’t rolling around for her to scratch his tummy,’ said Lamb, ‘did this Shin mention what their final act would be at all?’
Unconscious of doing so, they all leaned in as Flyte answered.
‘Not as such,’ she said. ‘What he did tell her was, the whole world would be watching. And then he said something about the snake eating its own tail.’
Everyone fell quiet for a moment.
Then: ‘Oh for fuck’s sake,’ said Louisa.
‘Sorry. But it’s what she said.’
‘Where’s it from? Sun Tzu?’
‘More like Kung Fu Panda,’ said River.
But Lamb said, ‘I keep forgetting you lot are idiots.’
St Paul’s was bathed in heavenly light, or that’s what it was hard to avoid thinking. In his heart, Zafar Jaffrey knew it wasn’t so, and would have felt the same had it been a mosque. Which it actually looked like, a bit. A thought best kept to himself.
On the commuter train, surrounded by businessmen, voters, he’d tried to disappear; to cloak himself in the early morning misery colouring the carriage. All he’d wanted was anonymity; just another upright stiff on the daily pilgrimage: whisked through the half-light, dumped on a platform, spat underground. They’d barely left Birmingham before a man leaned over and touched his elbow. ‘First class travel, eh?’ Chuckling. ‘Not quite the man of the people after all.’
‘Go fuck yourself,’ Zafar had told him.
A vote lost, but a moment won.
Last night, he’d given Tyson all the cash he had to hand; instructed him to go as far as possible as soon as possible. Short-term advice, but that was the only kind Tyson was likely to hear, the long term always having been a puzzling perspective where that young man was concerned. What could be more important than the here and now? For Tyson’s own good, what Zafar should have done was call a lawyer. All he’d done, really, was buy breathing space.
He had the address memorised.
For some reason, this was the detail Jaffrey’s imagination snagged on; that a criminal enterprise was being run from a stationer’s. Pick up a few rollerball pens, a notebook, some Post-its. Want some fake passports to go with that? A driving licence? A gun?
Said the man with the face tattoo, thought Jaffrey.
Tyson left, his pocket full of cash. How far would he get? Jaffrey wondered. Soon, if not already, people would be hunting Tyson Bowman, who wasn’t an unnoticeable man; had gone out of his way to be someone you gave a second look. He was a moving violation of the law of common sense: someone who’d spent his adolescence in criminal activity, and just to simplify things for everyone, had had himself branded to that effect. Which made Zafar Jaffrey wonder whether that was why he’d recruited Tyson in the first place. Not to offer redemption, but on the off chance he’d need a partner in crime one day. It was Tyson who’d known how to solve Jaffrey’s problem, Tyson who’d shown him to Dancer Blaine’s door. It was the way the world turned. You dipped a toe in the criminal waters, you could always get dry again. But once you’d inked your face, nobody would ever truly believe it.
Jaffrey located the stationer’s easily enough, but it wasn’t open yet, so he circled the nearby streets, glad to put the moment off. How did one approach this, exactly?
London was stirring; coming to life. It had been full enough already, but that was with people hurrying to work. Now came the new wave, of those who weren’t in a rush. Those with time to look in shop windows, or to pause at corners and check their phones.
When he reached the shop again, it was open, and he went in.
A youngish man was the only creature visible: behind the counter, reading his phone. A mug of something steamed on a shelf beside him, not quite aromatic enough to mask the sweet-sick smell of marijuana coming off his clothes. He took no notice of Jaffrey’s arrival. Barely looked up when Jaffrey spoke.
‘I’m looking for Mr Blaine.’
‘Never heard of him.’
Okay, Jaffrey thought. So what now? Buy a ream of A4 and wander back to Euston? He reached into his pocket, brought out the envelope he’d been carrying for days, scared to leave it anywhere in case it disappeared. A frightening chunk of his savings account. The remaining half of what Blaine was owed. He slapped it on the counter, hard; the unmistakeable sound of money.
The young man looked up.
‘Heard of him now?’ said Jaffrey.
