The Devil You Know

“It probably can’t,” I admitted. “But the coincidence worries me. The ghost turning up so hot on the heels of the collection, and speaking in Russian.” And the weeping woman I saw when I was touch-sifting the stuff but I didn’t mention that. “Have you still got the address?”

“I might have. I don’t even know if the bloke is still there, though.”

“Doesn’t matter. I thought I might go over and take a look around. If there’s nobody there, I don’t lose anything except time.”

“Hang on a minute, then. I’ll go take a look.”

It took a lot longer than a minute; I was close to hanging up and dialing again when Rich finally got back to the phone.

“Found it,” he said cheerfully. “I knew it was around here somewhere. Most of the correspondence went through Peele, but I found the guy’s first letter to me. Number 14 Oak Court, Folgate Street. That’s right off Bishopsgate, up the Shoreditch end.”

“Thanks, Rich.”

“Let me know how it comes out. You’ve got me interested now.”

“I will.”

I hung up and headed east.

Nobody remembers the name of the medieval bishop who built the bishop’s gate and gave it its name. But then again, he was a lazy bugger and deserved to be forgotten. All he was doing was building himself a back door through the city wall so he could commute from his gaff in sunny Southwark to St. Helen’s Church without having to walk around to Aldgate or Moorgate—and maybe so he could have a pint at the Catherine Wheel on Petticoat Lane on the way.

There’s precious little of either sanctity or idleness about Bishopsgate these days. It’s all banks and offices and finance houses most of the way up from Cheapside, having been homogenized and beaten flat by the slow historical tidal wave of monopoly capitalism. But if you’re lucky or persistent, you can step off that old main drag into a maze of courts and alleys that date from when London’s wall still stood and her gates were locked at night in case unwelcome guests should come calling. Hand Alley. Catherine Wheel Alley. Sandys Row. Petticoat Lane itself. Old names for old places. That weight of time hangs over you when you walk them.

But Oak Court was postwar and carried no weight except for a few gallons of ink and paint squandered in uninspired graffiti. Three stories of yellow brick, with external walkways on each level and a blind eye here and there where a window had been covered over with rain-swollen hardboard. Three staircases, too, one at each end and one in the middle, separated by two squares of dead-and-alive lawn with a wrought-iron bench in the center of each. It was a dispiriting place. You wouldn’t want to be one of the people who had to call it home.

I climbed the central stairwell. The sharp stink of piss cut the duller but more pervasive scent of mildew, and the brickwork was stained brown-black close to the ground—stained and still wet, as if the building bore wounds that had only half healed.

Number 14 was on the top floor. I rang the bell and, when I heard no sound, knocked on the door as well, but the place looked deserted. At the bottom of the full-length glass panel, there was a sill of dust, and through it I could see an untidy avalanche of old circulars from Pizza Hut and campaign fliers from the local Conservative Party. Counting back to the general election, I decided it had been a while since anyone was in residence here.

I turned away and headed for the stairs. When I got to them, the force of very old habit made me glance back over my shoulder one last time to make sure that nobody had come to the door just as I left. Nobody had, but as I turned, I felt a familiar prickling of the hairs at the base of my neck—the familiar pressure of eyes against my skin and my psyche.

I was being watched—by something that was already dead.

I couldn’t tell whether my watcher was close by or far away. Out on the walkway like this, thirty feet above the street, I could be seen from a fair distance. But forewarned is forearmed. I kept on going down the stairs, and as I went, I unshipped my whistle and transferred it into my sleeve.

There was no sign of anyone down on the street. I headed back toward Liverpool Street, using windows where I could to glance behind me without turning my head. There was no sign that I was being followed.

As soon as I got around the corner, I broke into a sprint, made it to the next turning, and sprinted again, heading for a sign fifty yards away that said MATTHEW’S SANDWICH BAR. It was a narrow place, only just wide enough to take the counter and the queue, which was surprisingly long, given that this was the middle of a Saturday afternoon. I got through the door at a dead run and joined the end of the line, turning my back to the street. A window behind the counter allowed me to look back toward the corner without seeming to.