disconnected, like the telephone. On the other hand, if he stepped out into the street he’d be a walking target. And I doubted if Charon would miss a second time.
But McGuffin was obviously used to thinking on his feet. Suddenly he was out of the chair and over the other side of the room where Tim’s raincoat was hanging on a hook. “I’ll give you fifty pounds for the coat,” McGuffin said.
“But you’ve already got a coat,” Tim observed.
“I’ve got to get out of here without being seen.”
McGuffin pulled off his own coat. Underneath he was wearing an off-white suit that had probably been white when he put it on. It didn’t quite hide the gun, jutting out of a shoulder holster where most people carry a wallet. He put on the raincoat, folding the collar up so that it hid most of his face. Finally he produced fifty pounds out of nowhere and threw them down on the desk, five ten pound notes which were the best thing I’d seen all day. Tim wasn’t going to complain either. The coat had only cost him ten pounds in the Oxfam shop and even they had probably made enough profit out of it to buy another ox.
McGuffin took a deep breath. He hesitated for one last moment. And then he was gone. The door clicked shut behind him.
I got off the tray. “What do you think?” I asked.
Tim opened his eyes. The money was sitting right in front of him. “Fifty quid!” he exclaimed.
“I wonder who he was working for?”
“Forget it, Nick,” Tim pocketed the money. “It’s none of our business. I’m just glad we’re not involved.”
I picked up McGuffin’s coat, meaning to hang it back on the hook. As I lifted it, something fell out of one of the pockets. It was a key. There was a plastic tag attached to it and in bright red letters: Room 605, London International Hotel.
I looked at the key. Tim looked at me. We were involved all right.
SOUTH BY SOUTH EAST
Maybe I should have emigrated to Australia.
My parents had left the country three years before when I was eleven, and of course they’d meant to take me with them. I’d got as far as Heathrow. But while my parents had got jammed up in one door of the aircraft, I’d slipped out another. Then I’d legged it across the main runway, leaving the screams of the engines — and of my mother — behind me. I remember stopping at the perimeter fence and turning round. And there they were, my mum and dad, flying off to Australia without me. As the plane soared away into the setting sun there was a big lump in my throat and I realized I’d laughed so much I’d swallowed my chewing-gum.
Ever since then I’d been living with Tim. Twice I’d almost been killed with him. I should have remembered that as we set off together in search of McGuffin. Perhaps this was going to be third time unlucky.
“Are you sure about this?” Tim asked as we walked together.
I jiggled the key in my hand. “We’re just going to give it back,” I said.
As we approached Skin Lane, a street cleaner limped round the corner, stabbing at the pavement with a broken, worn-out brush. The cleaner wasn’t looking much better himself. Maybe it was the heat. There was a dustcart parked in the alley and that puzzled me. Why hadn’t the cleaner taken the cart with him? Meanwhile Tim had walked on and, looking past him, I saw Jake McGuffin standing in the telephone box with the receiver propped under his chin.
“He’s still there,” I said.
“Yes.” Tim sniffed. “But look at that. He’s only had my coat five minutes and he’s already spilled something all down the front.”
“What?” Suddenly I wasn’t feeling so good. The hairs on the back of my neck were standing up, which was strange, because I didn’t know I had any hairs on the back of my neck. Leaving the cart, I moved quickly past Tim. McGuffin watched me approach but his eyes didn’t focus. I reached out to open the door.
“Wait a minute, Nick,” Tim said. “He hasn’t finished talking.”
I opened the door.
McGuffin had finished talking. The telephone was dead and any minute now he’d be joining it. The stuff he had spilled down the coat was blood, his own blood, and it was Charon who had done the spilling. Even as I opened the door I saw the shattered pane of glass where the bullet had passed through on its way to McGuffin’s heart. And at the same time, I knew that the man with the broom — Charon — had just made a clean getaway.
I was holding the door. For a moment I was trapped behind it. Tim was standing in front of me, his mouth open, his eyes wide. Then McGuffin pitched forward, landing in Tim’s arms. He was still alive. He began to talk. I would have heard what he said but it was exactly then that a train decided to pass overhead, and for the next few seconds the air was filled with the noise of grinding, creaking metal. The brick walls of the alley caught the sound and batted it back and forth like a ping-pong ball. I saw McGuffin’s lips move. I saw Tim nod. But I didn’t hear a word. I tried to move round but the glass door was still between me and them. By the time I managed to close it and get over to them, the train was gone.
So was McGuffin.
Tim let him go and he sprawled out on the tarmac. I tried to talk but my lips were too dry. I took a deep breath and tried again. “What did he say?” I asked.
“Suth,” Tim said.
“Suth? You mean — south?”
“Yes.”
“Was that all?”
“No. He said ‘bee’.”
“A bumblebee?”
“No.” Tim shook his head. “Just ‘bee’.”
“South. Bee…”
“Suff-iss.”
“Suff-iss?”
Tim looked at me sadly. “I couldn’t hear,” he wailed. “The train was too loud…”
“I know!” I forced myself not to shout at him. “But you were closest to him, Tim. You must have heard what he said.”
“I’ve told you. Suff. Bee. Suff-iss.”
“Suff. Bee. Suff-iss?” I played it over in my head a few times. “You mean south by south east? Was that what he said?”
Tim brightened. “Yes! That was it, Nick! I mean, that’s what it must have been. South by south east! That’s exactly what he said.”
“South by south east.” I made a quick calculation, then turned round so that I faced the corner of Skin Lane, away from the High Street.
“A dead end,” Tim said. He looked down at the body, his face going the colour of mouldy cheese. If we stayed here much longer he was going to pass out on me.
“You’re not going to faint, are you?” I asked.
“No!” Tim was indignant.
“You usually faint when there’s a dead body.”
“No I don’t.”
“You even fainted when your goldfish died.”
“That was grief!”
“We’d better call the police,” I said.
Tim glanced at the phone box but I shook my head. “We can’t use that one. Fingerprints…”
We half walked, half ran. The police station was a half-mile away. It seemed we were doing everything by halves. It even took us half an hour to get there. The trouble was that Tim was seeing Charon all over the place now. A woman with a pram, a traffic warden, a man waiting for a bus… they all had him paralysed with terror and
