the Grove had sent him the information. Probably the same person who regularly sent him clippings from the local rag, leaflets taken from the Tourist Information Centre, and countless other pieces of seemingly random information. He’d been receiving this stuff for years. Even when he moved house — which was often — the anonymous sender somehow managed to track him down.
But none of this information was random — not really. It was all connected by geography.
Simon reached out and grabbed his mouse, double-clicking on the left button and opening a shortcut on his computer desktop. The icon was a link to an online server, where he stored all the information he collectively termed the Concrete Warehouse.
The rented space on the server acted as a depository for anything that he felt might be linked to his old home town — things he’d been sent by his nameless informant, information he’d gathered himself. He also had copies of everything on a portable hard drive that he kept hidden in a drawer of his desk back at the office. He had been updating these files for years, since he moved away from the area to live in the capital. The files weren’t exhaustive; he had probably missed a lot of things, mostly due to his inability to afford a decent computer until his business concerns had begun to do well. Before that, he’d done what he could, storing information when he was able. Only when he was in a position to buy good equipment had he switched to the server.
If asked, he would struggle to give a reason for doing this. It just felt right. He thought it was a thing he should do, an interest he should maintain. It was also for these vague reasons that he’d kept an eye out for the names of his old friends on the estate, particularly the two boys he’d shared his childhood with. The boys he had never made contact with since leaving the Grove. Only one of those names had proved fruitful, and he’d kept tabs on its owner for quite some time. The other name was as good as lost.
Simon ran his hand across the roughened cover of the book. It felt calloused, like old skin. He turned back to the window and stared out at the night. He picked up the book and opened it, thumbing through the pages at random. Scrawls and scribbles; doodles and diagrams. A page from an old A-Z map was pasted over the centre pages, and the word ‘Loculus’ was written in black pen and underlined several times on the back page; other words had been written, too, the handwriting different for almost every one.
He turned to page twenty-nine and stared at the words he knew he’d find there. His own handwriting, years out of date, looked like a fake, a forgery. But he had written the words himself, just after the single biggest event of his life. This single sentence was the reason he knew the book was the same one he had owned when he was ten years old.
He had never known what the phrase meant, but it had been in his head when he and his friends had emerged from the derelict tower block that morning, battered and bruised and covered in filth. Like a message in a bottle, it was meant for him: a warning, a declaration of war, a reminder from his childhood self that he could never escape the shadows of his past.
He shut his eyes and closed the book, placing the palm of his hand across the cover, as if trying to hide it from view. He felt like crying, but he wasn’t sure why. Sorrow grasped him, squeezing him tight.
“I need a drink,” he said. He was already feeling light-headed, two Martinis to the wind, and he had a long way to drive later. But he no longer wanted to drink alone; he needed company, even if it was the company of strangers.
Making a decision, Simon put on a T-shirt and checked his reflection in the mirror. Then he grabbed his coat, shrugging it on as he crossed to the door of the penthouse flat, went out onto the private landing and pressed the button for the lift. He watched the lift lights flash on and off as he waited, showing the elevator climbing through the floors. He experienced the absurd notion that somebody was in the lift, coming to meet him.
The lift doors opened, and after only a slight pause he stepped inside the empty chamber, hitting the button for the ground floor. Nobody else got on during the downward journey. It was late — the other tenants in the building were either entertaining at home, enjoying a quiet Friday evening in, or out and about in the pubs and clubs of the capital. He had picked this apartment block specially, because none of his neighbours was aged over thirty- five and they were all well-heeled executive types, with busy social lives. This was a young place, a vibrant environment, and the endless activity in the rooms and corridors helped him not to dwell on the past — or, at least, the parts of the past that he could remember with any real clarity.
Simon felt his mobile phone vibrating in his inside jacket pocket. He retrieved the phone and glanced at the screen. Natasha was trying to call him. He made no move to answer the call. He didn’t want to see her, not tonight. He needed to clear his head, not muddy it by having to deal with her demands and recriminations. Things had been strained lately, because of his fuzzy plans to return to the estate of his youth, and the fact that he had not invited her along for the ride had irked her, making her angry and paranoid. For reasons of her own, Natasha was unable to fully trust any man.
“Sorry, darling,” he muttered, and put the handset back in his pocket. Before he reached the ground floor, the vibrations ceased. Then, as if on cue, the lift doors opened. Simon stepped out into the lobby and walked towards the main doors. Norman, the aged security guard, was sitting at the front desk reading a slim paperback and ignoring the flickering bank of CCTV monitors to his left.
“Going back out, then?” He smiled and lowered his book.
“Yeah, I fancied a few pints. I couldn’t settle up there on my own… not tonight.” Simon liked the old man. He had a good face: all lines and creases, but with sharp bones underneath.
The security guard smiled and nodded, as if they were sharing a private joke. “Enjoy,” he said, and raised a hand, palm open, fingers splayed. “Have one for me, would you?” He made a slow fist, the sight of which set off tremors inside Simon’s mind.
“You bet. See you later, Norm.” Simon went through the sliding doors and stepped out onto the footpath, aware of an obscure fear dogging his heels. The night was warm; there was no breeze. It was going to be a hot summer. Part of him was glad that he’d be in the milder climate of Northumberland, while the rest of him was beginning to yearn for London before he’d even stepped outside her borders.
He headed southwest, in the direction of Caledonian Road, where his friend Mike owned a small bar called The Halo. An odd place, never quite full but rarely what would be called empty, and the rough-edged clientele made for an interesting and varied bunch. Simon felt safe there; he found himself drinking at The Halo more and more these days, as if it offered something he craved but could never quite identify.
Cranes dotted the skyline, rearing against the darkness like strange prehistoric beasts. The area was being renovated, cleaned up and made into a tourist-friendly location: the word was that the Borough of London wanted King’s Cross to be a destination itself rather than simply a way station for weary travellers on their way to somewhere else. The old porn shops and stripper bars were slowly being forced out of business, and in their place had sprouted chain sandwich bars and coffee shops. Simon knew this was a good thing, and that it could only raise the profile of the area, but he would miss the seediness he had always associated with the streets around the station.
The Halo was situated on the corner of Caledonian and All Saints Street — a street name he’d always found amusingly inappropriate. The windows bled light, and music and the buzz of conversation drifted from the open doorway. The jukebox was playing Bowie, which meant that Mike was back behind the bar after his trip to Dublin.
Simon walked into the bar, feeling a sensation of belonging. Mike was the closest thing he had to a real friend, and he was glad that he’d get the chance to say goodbye. He wasn’t sure why this was important, but he knew that it was.
“Hey, Simon! Good to see you.” Mike started pulling a pint of Guinness. By the time Simon reached his usual stool at the bar, the glass was being put down on the scarred bar top to settle.
“How was Dublin?”
Mike shook his head. His tousled blond hair was a mess, as usual, and his blue eyes glistened. “Not bad. The stag couldn’t hold his drink, the best man was pick-pocketed by a stripper, and half of us ended up going for an Indian meal instead of to the nightclub.” He smiled. “I think I must be getting old.”
“You and me both, brother. That Guinness settled yet?”
