‘Is there anyone you do care about?’
The speed of her response threw him, a hemorrhage of faces and names, memories, all of them evaporating away into nothing in the hostile environment of his consciousness.
‘Not anymore, not for a long time. I care about my books, my solitude.’
‘You sound like an old man.’ He smiled but didn’t reply and she said, ‘Have you got anything to read?’
‘Sure. I’ve got A Journal of the Plague Year by Defoe—that’s what I was going to read next, but you’re welcome to have it. And you know I’ve got The Nibelungenlied. You should give it a try; it’s a good story.’
She looked unconvinced but laughed a little and said, ‘Go on then, I’ll try it.’ He was pleased. It wasn’t often he got the chance to recommend books to people, let alone have them follow those recommendations. She might even finish it before they parted and want to discuss it with him.
The two of them sat opposite each other reading and Chris slept. It was like they were ordinary people on a straightforward journey. Maybe she still saw herself like that, unaware how deep this fault line ran. There might be a way back to an ordinary life for Chris but hers was changed for good.
Lucas found it appropriate somehow to be reading of rumors and the approach of plague, the steadily increasing tally of deaths. He’d become adept at shutting the present out while he was reading, but he was clicking off the minutes in the back of his head, conscious that this slumberous calm would be torn too soon.
About half an hour before they reached Milan, he stopped reading altogether, keeping his eyes on the book only to avoid conversation. Chris had woken and was checking his watch every few minutes. Ella was still reading but she was beginning to look restless too.
Lucas was calmer than they were but he was uncomfortable all the same, knowing that he could put it off no longer, make no more excuses. It almost made him wish they’d be ambushed again in the station, just for the further diversion it would cause.
It would have been a good place for them to take a pop at her too, but he was confident now that they were clear of trouble. Even so, he still played it cautious as he moved them to the next train, stung by the slip he’d made that morning.
Before leaving them in the new compartment, he gave Chris the gun again but told him to take it out only if he was certain they were in trouble, stressing that he thought they were over the worst. Then he left them, checked his watch and found a phone that was away from the telltale background noise of the station.
At first he thought it would run onto the answering machine again, but on maybe the last possible ring it was picked up and a woman said hello. He knew.
‘I’m sorry, I must have the wrong number; I was trying to reach Mark Hatto.’
There was an awkward pause before the woman said, ‘No, you have the right number. I’m a police officer. Could I ask who you are, sir?’
‘Of course. I’m Philip Hatto, Mark’s cousin. Now if you don’t mind me asking, why are you there? Is everything okay?’
Another awkward pause, suggesting she was new to this aspect of her job.
‘Do you have someone else there with you, Mr. Hatto?’
‘My wife’s here, but what’s that got to do with anything? What’s going on?’ It was like he’d said to Chris that morning about watching movies: he knew the part he was playing, the script he was meant to use. It was probably the same script she’d used in role-play during her training.
‘I’m afraid I have some very bad news, Mr. Hatto. We were called to the house this morning by a member of staff. I’m sorry to have to tell you that your cousin, his wife and son have all suffered gunshot wounds, each of them fatal.’
‘They’re dead?’ He wanted to make sure she hadn’t misused the word ‘fatal’ in her attempt to break the news gently.
‘I’m afraid so.’ He hung up the phone. It was what he’d expected, but it didn’t mean anything to him. The news had all the impact of an election result in some country he’d never heard of.
The only thing that mattered to him was that he had to go back and tell Ella that her family had been killed, and he didn’t know whether she was safe, whether she’d ever be safe. That was some news to break to a girl who’d been as close to death as she had been today.
As he walked back along the platform, a couple of pigeons took flight from his path and he followed their ascent for a few seconds, up into the vaulted sky of the terminus. For a moment, it seemed like he could still hear the flapping of their wings, even above the train noise and the background bustle of the station, and it gave him a strange sense of peace.