walked out of Bentley’s with his two companions later that Friday afternoon. But he had eaten the best fish and chips he had ever tasted, and it was worth every penny to see the smile on Tomasina’s face. One of the phone calls he had made earlier, while she had smoked her cigarette outside the building, had been to his son Brian, who had not only been available at a moment’s notice for lunch, his girlfriend Emilia being away in Scotland filming, but also more than willing to share his father’s company with a stranger in need. Or so Banks had put it. When Brian had arrived and joined them just as they were starting on the first glass of wine, Tomasina’s expression was a joy to behold and a thing to remember. She had been tongue-tied, of course, and blushed to her roots, but Brian’s natural charm had soon worked its magic, and they were all chatting away like old mates by the time the food came.
Now they stood outside the restaurant on Sparrow Street between Regent Street and Piccadilly ready to go their own ways, Tomasina reaching for a Silk Cut, Banks’s old brand. For a moment, it made him envious. She offered them around and Banks was surprised when Brian accepted one, but he didn’t say anything. If they were being watched, it was from a distance. The street was so short and narrow that Banks would have immediately spotted any suspicious activity.
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“Sorry,” said Brian to Tomasina, “but I must dash. It’s been a pleasure to meet you.” He reached into his inside pocket. “We’re playing the Shepherd’s Bush Empire next week, so here’s a couple of comps and a backstage pass. Come see us after the gig. I promise you it’s not as wild and crazy as some people think it is.”
“It had better not be,” said Banks.
Tomasina blushed and took the tickets. “Thanks,” she said. “That’s great. I’ll be there.”
“Look forward to it,” said Brian. “Got to go now. See you later, Tom. See you, Dad.” He shook Banks’s hand and then disappeared in the direction of Piccadilly Circus.
“Thank you,” said Tomasina to Banks. “Thank you so much. That was really nice.”
“Feeling better?”
“A lot.” She shuff led on her feet and tucked her hair behind her ears, the way she had done in the restaurant. “I don’t really know how to say this properly, and promise not to laugh at me, but I don’t really have anyone to, you know, share these tickets with. Do you want to come?”
“With you?”
“Yeah. That’s not such a horrible thought, is it?”
“No, no. Of course not. I was just . . . yes, sure, I’d be delighted to.”
“It’s easiest if you come by the office,” she said. “Then we can have a drink after work first. All right?”
“All right,” said Banks, thinking of Sophia. He would most likely have gone to the concert with her, and he still would if she was speaking to him again by next week. On the other hand, he didn’t want to let Tomasina down right at the moment. She’d been through a lot because of him. Well, he decided, he’d let it lie as it was for now and see how things turned out. It wasn’t as if it was a
Tomasina was young enough to be his daughter. Mind you, Sophia was young enough to be his daughter, too, at least technically. Maybe the three of them could go together. Sophia would understand.
“I’d better be going,” said Tomasina.
“Office?”
“No. I’ve had enough of that for the day. Home.”
A L L T H E C O L O R S O F D A R K N E S S
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“Where’s that?”
“Clapham. I’ll get the tube from Piccadilly. See you next week.”
Then she gave Banks a quick peck on the cheek and dashed off along Sparrow Street, a spring in her step. How resilient are the young, Banks thought.
The car, with his suitcase in it, was still parked at the hotel in Fitzrovia, and he thought that was probably where he should go to begin the long drive back to Eastvale. The other phone call he had made while Tomasina smoked was to Dirty Dick Burgess, but again he had got no answer.
Banks walked up Regent Street toward Oxford Circus, enjoying the sunshine and the slight buzz from two glasses of white wine, but keeping an eye open as best he could for any sign of a tail. He went into the Bose shop for a couple of minutes and tried out some noise-canceling headphones he liked. Around Great Marlborough Street, the crowds of tourists got too thick, so he turned right to avoid Oxford Circus altogether. He wanted to call at Borders and HMV, anyway, before heading back up north. He was somewhere between Liberty and the Palladium when he heard an almighty explosion, and the pavement shook beneath him as if there had been an earthquake.
High windows shattered and glass and plaster fell into the street.
For a moment, the world seemed to stop, freeze-frame, then it was all sound and motion again, and Banks became aware of people screaming and running past him, confused and terrified expressions on their faces, back toward Regent Street or deeper into Soho. To his left, up the narrow side street, he could see a pall of black smoke mixed with dark orange f lames. Alarms sounded everywhere. Without thinking, he ran up Argyll Street, against the panicking crowds, to Oxford Street, and he found himself in a scene of carnage that might have come straight out of the blitz.
There were fires all over the place. The dark thick smoke stung his eyes. It smelled of burned plastic and rubber. Plaster dust filled the air, and rubble lay scattered everywhere. Broken glass crunched under-foot. At first, everything happened in slow motion. Banks was aware of sirens in the distance, but where he was, in the smoke, felt like a sort of island separated from the rest of the city. It was as if he had arrived 2 6 0 P E T E R
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at the still center of darkness, the eye of the storm. Nothing could survive here.
Wreckage lay everywhere: bits of cars; twisted bicycles; a burning wooden cart; gaudy souvenir scarves and
