as it was, Gentle answered as if there were white waters between them:
‘Prepared for what?’ he shouted.
The man shook his head, and even across the street, with the sleet between them, Gentle could see how much despair and confusion there was on his face. He wasn’t certain why the expression made his stomach churn, but churn it did. He started to cross the street, plunging a foot into the imaginary flood. The expression on the assassin’s face changed: despair gave way to disbelief, and disbelief to a kind of terror, as though this fording was unthinkable, unbearable. With Gentle halfway across the street the man’s courage broke. The shaking of the head became a violent fit of denial, and he let out a strange sob, throwing back his head as he did so. Then he retreated, as he had before, stepping away from the object of his terror -Gentle - as though expecting to forfeit his visibility. If there was such magic in the world - and tonight Gentle could believe it - the assassin was not an adept. But his feet could do what magic could not. As Gentle reached the river’s other bank Pie’oh’pah turned and fled, throwing himself over the wall into the park without seeming to care what lay on the other side: anything to be out of Gentle’s sight.
There was no purpose in following any further. The cold was already making Gentle’s bruised bones ache fiercely, and in such a condition the two blocks back to Jude’s apartment would be a long and painful trek. By the time he made it the sleet had soaked through every layer of his clothing. With his teeth chattering, his mouth bleeding and his hair flattened to his skull he could not have looked less appealing as he presented himself at the front door. Jude was waiting in the lobby with the shame-faced doorman. She came to Gentle’s aid as soon as he appeared, the exchange between them short and functional: was he badly hurt? No. Did the man get away? Yes.
‘Come upstairs,’ she said. ‘You need some medical attention.’
3
There had been too much drama in Jude and Gentle’s reunion already tonight for them to add more to it, so there was no gushing forth of sentiment on either side. Jude attended to Gentle with her usual pragmatism. He declined a shower, but bathed his face and wounded extremities, delicately sluicing the grit from the palms of his hands. Then he changed into a selection of dry clothes she’d found in Marlin’s wardrobe, though Gentle was both taller and leaner than the absent lender. As he did so Jude asked him if he wanted to have a doctor examine him. He thanked her but said no, he’d be fine. And so he was, once dry and clean; aching, but fine.
‘Did you call the police?’ he asked, as he -stood at the kitchen door watching her brew Darjeeling.
‘It’s not worth it,’ she said. ‘They already know about this guy from the last time. Maybe I’ll get Marlin to call them later.’
‘This is his second try?’ She nodded. ‘Well, if it’s any comfort, I don’t think he’ll try again.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Because he looked about ready to throw himself under a car.’
‘I don’t think that’d do him much harm,’ she said, and went on to tell him about the incident in the Village, finishing up with the assassin’s miraculous recovery.
‘He should be dead,’ she said. ‘His face was smashed up … it was a wonder he could even stand. Do you want sugar or milk?’
‘Maybe a dash of Scotch. Does Marlin drink?’
‘He’s not a connoisseur like you.’
Gentle laughed. ‘Is that how you describe me? The alcoholic Gentle?’
‘No. To tell you the truth, I don’t really describe you at all,’ she said, slightly abashed. ‘I mean, I’m sure I’ve mentioned you to Marlin in passing, but you’re … I don’t know … you’re a guilty secret.’
This echo of Kite Hill brought his hirer to mind.
‘Have you spoken to Estabrook?’ he said.
‘Why should I do that?’
‘He’s been trying to contact you.’
‘I don’t want to talk to him.’ She put his tea down on the table in the lounge, sought out the Scotch and set it beside the cup. ‘Help yourself,’ she said.
‘You’re not having a dram?’
‘Tea, but no whisky. My brain’s crazed enough as it is.’ She crossed back to the window, taking her tea. ‘There’s so much I don’t understand about all of this,’ she said. To start with: why are you here?’
‘I hate to sound melodramatic, but I really think you should sit down before we have this discussion.’
‘Just tell me what’s going on,’ she said, her voice tainted with accusation. ‘How long have you been watching me?’
‘Just a few hours.’
‘I thought I saw you following me a couple of days ago.’
‘Not me. I was in London until this morning.’
She looked puzzled at this. ‘So what do you know about this man who’s trying to kill me?’
‘He said his name was Pie’oh’pah.’
‘I don’t give a fuck what his name is,’ she said, her show of detachment finally dropping away. ‘Who is he? Why does he want to hurt me?’
‘Because he was hired.’
‘He was what?’
‘He was hired. By Estabrook.’
Tea slopped from her cup as a shudder passed through her.
‘To kill me?’ she said. ‘He hired someone to kill me? I don’t believe you. That’s crazy.’
‘He’s obsessed with you, Jude. It’s his way of making sure you don’t belong to anybody else.’
She drew the cup up to her face, both hands clutched around it, the knuckles so white it was a wonder the china didn’t crack like an egg. She sipped, her face obscured. Then, the same denial, but more flatly: ‘I don’t believe you.’
‘He’s been trying to speak to you to warn you. He hired this man, then changed his mind.’
‘How do you know all of this?’ Again, the accusation.
‘He sent me to stop it.’
‘Hired you too?’
It wasn’t pleasant to hear it from her lips, but yes, he said, he was just another hireling. It was as though Estabrook had set two dogs on Judith’s heels - one bringing death, the other life - and let fate decide which caught up with her first.
‘Maybe I will have some booze,’ she said, and crossed to the table to pick up the bottle.
He stood to pour for her but his motion was enough to stop her
