still out there, walking around with a pulse, a brain and a name.’
Her look said it all. You’re either crazy or you’re stupid. Proctor leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘It was a bomb that destroyed that aircraft. It wasn’t an accident.’
He waited for the reaction; a gasp of shock, or a denial, or something else. Instead, he got nothing. Stephanie picked at her fingernails and he noticed how dirty they were. And cracked. Her fingertips looked raw.
‘How much money have you got on you?’ she asked.
‘What?’
‘Cash. How much have you got on you?’
‘I don’t know.’
She looked up to meet his eyes. ‘I need money and you said you’d pay me.’
Proctor was at sea. ‘Look, I’m trying to explain to you –’
‘I know. But I need this money now.’
‘Aren’t you interested?’
‘Are you going to give it to me or not? Because if you’re not, I’m leaving.’
‘I paid you thirty last night and look what it bought me.’
She stood up and picked up her jacket.
To buy himself time, Proctor reached for his wallet again. ‘There was a bomb on that flight. The authorities know this but they’re keeping it secret.’
Stephanie sounded bored. ‘You reckon?’
‘They even know who planted it.’
‘Right.’ Her eyes were on the wallet.
‘He’s alive and he’s here, in London. But they’re making no attempt to apprehend him.’
She held out her hand. ‘Whatever you say.’
Proctor gave her two twenties. ‘I don’t get it. This is your family we’re talking about, not mine.’
‘Forty? I need a hundred. Seventy-five, at least.’
Proctor gave a cough of bitter laughter. ‘For what? Your time? Do me a favour …’
‘Bastard.’
He reached across the table and grabbed a purple wrist. She winced but he didn’t loosen his grip. With his other hand, he pressed a business card on to the two twenties and then closed her cold fingers over it. ‘Why don’t you go home and think about it, and then give me a call?’
She stared him down with a face as full of hatred as any he had ever seen. ‘Let go of me.’
I am difficult. I always have been and I always will be. I’m not proud of it but I’m not ashamed of it, either. It’s just the way I am, it’s my nature. In the past, I was aggressively difficult – sometimes out of pure malice – but these days, I would say that I am difficult in a more defensive way. It’s a form of protection.
Proctor was wrong when he accused me of not listening. I listen to everything. I just don’t absorb much. I am like a stone; a product of molten heat turned cold and hard. Yes, we were talking about my family. But the four that are dead cannot be retrieved – nor, for that matter, can the one that still lives – and that is all there is to it.
So as I walk along Wardour Street leaving Bar Bruno behind me, I don’t think about Keith Proctor. I am not interested in his conspiracy theories. I think about the hours ahead and those who will come to see me. The regulars and the strangers. And the one who left these bands of bruising around both my wrists last night. I doubt a man like Proctor could understand how I accept that and then return the following day to run the risk of receiving the same treatment. Or something even worse. The truth is, it’s not so hard. Not any more. I live alone inside a fortress of my own construction. Physical pain means nothing to me.
I am sure there are analysts out there who would enjoy studying me. Of course, they would be frustrated by me since I would refuse to speak to them. Nobody is allowed inside. That is how I survive. I am two different people; the protected, vulnerable soul within the walls and the indestructible, empty soul on the outside. When I am on track, this is how I live; but when I am derailed, it’s a different story.
It’s not easy being two different people at once. The pressure never ceases. Unless you have experienced it, you cannot know. So sometimes, when the borders blur, I fall apart. When I am cold and hard, I have to be in total control of myself – even in the worst situations. If I lose the slightest fraction of that control, I effectively lose it all. And then I crash. Spectacularly. Alcohol and narcotics are what I resort to in my pursuit of utter oblivion. When I come round from one bout of drinking or drug-taking, I immediately embark upon the next. It’s critical that I allow no time for sober thought because it’s during these prolonged lows that I see myself as others see me. Then the guilt, the shame and the self-disgust set in. In these moments, the hatred I feel for myself is too much to bear and it scares me to consider the options. So I’ll ignore the taste of vomit in my mouth and reach for the vodka bottle again. And I’ll keep going until I wake up and find the phase has passed and that I am as hard as stone once more.
Those analysts would probably say that my situation is, in part, a consequence of circumstance. And, in part, they might be right. But the greater truth is this: my situation is a product of choice. I chose this life. I could have had any life I wanted. I’m certainly intelligent enough. In fact, immodest as it sounds, I can’t remember the last time I encountered an intellectual equal. Most of the time, though, I pretend I’m stupid so as to avoid unnecessary trouble; in this business, nobody likes a smart mouth. They prefer a willing mouth.
So, of all the options available to me two years ago, this is the one I chose, which begs the obvious question: why? And the honest answer is, I don’t remember any more.
It was the smoker’s cough that woke her, a ghastly rib-rattling hack that repeated itself for the first hour of every morning. Stephanie was glad that it wasn’t hers. Then she remembered that it belonged to Steve Mitchell, Anne’s husband, and this reminded her of where she was. On their sofa, in their cramped sitting room.
Headswim brought on a wave of nausea. She swallowed. Her throat was dry, her skull ached, her nose was blocked. Anne and Steve were arguing in their bedroom, shouting between the coughs. The radio was on, loud enough to compete with them. Stephanie tried to ignore the noise and the smell of burned toast. How many consecutive hangovers was this? How long was it since Keith Proctor had bought her coffee? Four days? Five?
She struggled to her feet and tiptoed to the window. The Denton Estate in Chalk Farm, on the corner of Prince of Wales Road and Malden Crescent, had one high-rise building with several smaller buildings crawling around its ankles. It was a cheerless place, an ugly marriage of vertical and horizontal construction, in possession of one saving grace. The high-rise, where Steve and Anne Mitchell had their small eighth-floor flat, was a grim tower of red brick, but the view to the south was spectacular, worthy of any Park Lane penthouse. Stephanie absorbed it slowly, panning over Primrose Hill, Regent’s Park, Telecom
