Vicious Circle

“Any clues as to where he was going? Or did anyone ever visit him while he was here? Anyone who might have put him up afterwards, I mean?”

He looked out of the window again, as if checking an Autocue, then back at me. “No.”

I turned my attention back to Tang. “Who else is staying here, Reggie?” I asked. “I mean, besides you two?”

Reggie folded his arms. “Nobody.”

“And you’ve been staying here since—?”

“Castor, you said you came here looking for advice. You really think acting like a cop is going to get you any?”

“Well, you said you were happy to help. I’m just taking you at your word.”

“Okay. I think we helped you enough now. So my new word is sod off out of it.”

“That’s more of a phrase,” I pointed out, reasonably. “I’m not a cop, Reggie.”

“You think I’m simple? I said you were acting like one.”

“Not even that. A cop would be picking up on all your bullshit and shoving it back in your face to see if you blink.”

There was a moment’s—or maybe just half a moment’s—tense silence. “What bullshit?” Reggie demanded.

“Well, let’s see. You’re a Buddhist, but when I come in you’re sitting in front of a plate full of sausage, eggs, and bacon. You can’t bring yourself to actually touch the stuff, but you do your best to pretend it’s yours. And Mr. Potato Face over there had the same problem with the fag, so it’s fair to assume that somewhere nearby there’s a chain-smoking, carnivorous mate of yours who doesn’t want to be introduced to me for some inexplicable—”

It was just as well that Reggie’s eyes flicked upward. Like an idiot, I’d been watching the door at the back of the galley, but seeing that telltale glance I rolled off the couch a split second before a burly form crashed down feetfirst from above, and two size-ten boots thumped into the space where I’d just been sitting.

I hit the floor and rolled, fetching up against Reggie’s feet. He jumped back hastily, proving that his Bruce Lee looks were all window dressing, but the guy with the roomy footwear was a bit more aggressive. He strode across to me, lifted me up by my lapels with surprisingly little effort, and slammed me into the wall.

“Hold on to him!” he bellowed.

Reggie and Greg rushed to comply, taking an arm each. I could have fought back, but only at the expense of a few more hard knocks. I figured the time for that would come.

The man standing in front of me, rubbing right fist into left palm, looked like hard knocks were a daily fact of life for him. He was big enough to be covered by building regulations, and his hard, craggy face bore a couple of days’ growth of stubble. His hair was sand-blond, his complexion sandpaper-rough. There were deep shadows under his eyes, as dark as bruises. He must have been fairly handsome once, in a weather-beaten, roughly chiseled out, oversize kind of way. Now, in middle age, he looked like someone who was just starting to feel the pull of gravity and letting it get to him—psychologically, if not physically. He was wearing one of those shades-of-gray urban combat jackets over a green turtleneck sweater and olive-drab trousers tucked into those intimidating Dixon of Dock Green boots. An incongruous flash of gold from his wrist caught my eye: he was wearing a bracelet. But before I could take in the details he reached out and grasped my cheeks in his hand, tilting my head up so our eyes met.

He glared at me—a warning glare.

“I got your message,” he said. “That was you, yeah? At the Oriflamme? So you wanted to talk to me. Well, here I am. What do you want to talk about?”

“Abbie Torrington,” I suggested.

That was meant to be an opening gambit, but it got a more spectacular reaction than I was expecting. Peace gave a wordless roar and punched me in the stomach. I saw the punch coming and threw myself backward as far as I could into Reggie and Greg, trying to ride with it. Even so, it was like standing in the path of a cannonball. The pain was incredible, and I folded up with a feeble hiccup of displaced air. I sagged, but Reggie and Greg held on so I didn’t actually fall.

“You don’t—you don’t even talk about her!” Peace bellowed. “You don’t even—you bastard, you think I’m going to let you—? Who’s paying you? Who’s fucking sent you here?”

He grabbed a handful of my hair and jerked my head up again—but not before I took a closer look at that bracelet and saw it for what it was: a heart-shaped locket on a golden chain, wrapped twice around his muscular wrist.

“Who sent you?” he asked again.

“Her—her mother,” I wheezed.

“Well you tell that bitch she’s never seeing Abbie again in this world or any fucking other. That’s over. It’s over! I would’ve—I would’ve—I’ll kill before I let that coldhearted bastard—”