In the Evil Day

She had no idea what he was talking about.

‘People seem to have thought so at the time.’

Would that response pass?

Salinas laughed and he sounded stronger.

‘That’s what Bob loved about Australians. Give nothing away. Not bad. See something, read something, it’s excellent, you love it. What do you say? Not bad. Bob adored that. He adopted that. It was our joke. Shakespeare? Not bad. Picasso? Not bad. You like this food, exotic ingredients, three hours in the making? Not bad. He had a time, any shit descended, he’d say, Paul, let’s go live in Australia.’

Salinas had a deep voice. Each word had its space. She saw a big man with a beard, black hairs on the backs of his hands.

‘We need to get Richard Monk’s permission to publish,’ she said. ‘But I can’t find a writer or journalist by that name on any database.’

‘Doesn’t surprise me,’ said Salinas.

Silence.

‘Behind Enemy Lines was Bob’s last fling. Not that he knew it.’

‘It doesn’t surprise you that I can’t trace Richard Monk?’

‘Hell, no. Write for anything Bob published, brace yourself for wiretaps, mail intercepts, the short-haired men in the brown suits having a quiet word with your neighbours.’

‘You’re saying that wouldn’t be the writer’s real name?’

‘Not if you can’t find him.’

‘Well, they say it’s such an interesting piece. We’d be sad not to republish it. But if we can’t, we can’t. If I can’t ask him, that’s that.’

‘Yeah, pretty much.’

Caroline sensed something. ‘I feel like a failure,’ she said. ‘I am a failure. Can I ask you for advice?’

‘Sure.’

‘If you were some dumb publishing assistant and you wanted to find out who Richard Monk was so that you could ask him, what would you do?’

There was a moment of nothing, just a hollow sound on the line.

‘I’d ask the person I was talking to.’

‘Who is Richard Monk, Mr Salinas?’

‘Hold on, I’ll get Bob’s secret ledgers.’

She held. The lonesome sound. This would all be worthless.

Nothing would come of this. He came back inside two minutes.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t retain your name?’

‘Carol Short. The Conviction Press. Sydney. The number is 61 2 7741 5601.’

Please God, don’t let him say, I’ll ring you back.

‘Doesn’t seem to be here. I’ll have to ring you back.’

Gone.

‘At any time,’ she said.

McClatchie wouldn’t have fucked this up.

‘Let me ring you back,’ she said. ‘There’s no need for you to pay for the call.’

‘No, wait. Here it is, this is it…the last issue…And Unquiet Lie…here we are. Money order, address in San Francisco. Not much. Still, he would’ve been doing it for the cause.’

‘There’s a name?’

‘John Anselm.’

45

…LONDON…

Would they report the stolen car to the police? They’d tried to kill him three times. Tonight was just a delayed execution. They were not ordinary citizens who reported things to the police.

Three times in this huge city they’d found him. How had they done that? Once by the mobile, perhaps, he had worked that out, there was no other way.

But after that?

He had hurt three of them. Possibly badly. Possibly kissed them off.

Air. He needed air. He found the button, his window descended.

Cold London winter air. Exhaust fumes. A wet smell, like the smell in a cupboard where damp clothes had been hung.

Go where?

He was on a main street now, lots of traffic, bright shops, crowded pavements, no idea where he was. He saw a parking space, pulled in behind a Volvo. Sat, trying to think, too much adrenaline in the system to think straight.

‘Lookin for me?’

Niemand jerked away, his right elbow coming up in defence.

‘Relax, relax, mon. Need to calm down, chill out. Smell the roses. What can I get you? I’m your mon.’

A black man stooping, standing back from the open window. Not big. Shaven head, goatee beard. Tight leather jacket. Three strands of golden chains.

‘I need a cellphone,’ said Niemand. ‘Quick.’

The man looked at the car, side to side, exaggerated movements of his head.

‘Got any ID, officer?’

‘Fuck you.’

The man looked at him, weighed him up.

‘Sixty quid,’ he said. ‘Bargain. Today’s special. Nokia, brand new. Okay for a week. Guaranteed. Well, say six days from today. Be safe not sorry, hey, mon?’

‘Okay.’

‘Wait.’

He was gone. Niemand looked around for something to identify the car’s owner. Nothing in the glovebox, on the tray. He felt behind his seat, in the footwell.

Something.

A nylon jacket? No, too heavy.

It was a BB, a belly-and-balls bulletproof waistband, hips to solar plexus, fastened at the side with Velcro, tied between the legs. Niemand had owned one. Never mind the chest shot, what worried soldiers was the gut shot, groin shot, balls shot off-those were the major worries.

There was a pocket across the back, sideways. It held a Kevlar knife, like a piece of thin bone, a fighting knife. Weighed no more than a comb and you could carry it through a metal detector.

Niemand put the corset into his bag.

The man was coming back, weaving down the busy pavement. He came close, showed the device.

‘State of the fuckin art, mon,’ he said. ‘The 6210. Internet. Voice diallin. Four hours talkin time to go.’

Niemand found a fifty and a ten. ‘Where’s the owner?’

‘On holiday. Won’t know till he comes back.’

They did the exchange.

‘Where is this?’ said Niemand.

‘This?’

‘Here. Where am I?’

The man shook his head. ‘Battersea, mon. Thought it might be sunny fuckin Hawaii, did ya?’