Heidi’s twisted body. “See you next time, Marinus. It’s time you got a newer vehicle, anyhow.”
What? Not “Oh, Holy Christ!” or “Heidi, no, Heidi, no, no!”? Ian looks at Rhîmes’s body. “On bad days you wonder, ‘Why not just back off from the war and lead a quiet metalife?’ Then you see a scene like this and remember why.” Last, Ian twists his busted head my way. “Sorry you had to witness all this.”
I slow my breathing, slower, and—“Who …” I can’t do more.
“You weren’t fussy about the tea. Remember?”
The old woman by the Thames. Esther Little? How could Ian know that? I’ve fallen through a floor and landed in a wrong place.
In the bungalow hallway a cuckoo clock goes off.
“Holly Sykes,” says Ian, or Esther Little, if it is Esther Little, but how’s that possible? “I claim asylum.”
Two dead people are lying here. Rhîmes’s blood’s soaking into the carpet.
“Holly, this body’s dying. I’ll redact what you’ve seen from your present perfect, for your own peace of mind, then I’ll hide deep, deep, deep in—” Now Ian-or-Esther-Little topples over like a pile of books. Only one eye’s open now, with half his face shoved up on the squashed sofa cushion. His eyes look like Davenport’s, the collie we had before Newky, when we had him put down at the vet’s. “Please.”
The word lifts a spell, suddenly, and I kneel by this Esther-Little-inside-Ian, if that’s what it is. “What can I do?”
The eyeball twitches behind its closing lid. “Asylum.”
I just wanted more green tea, but a promise is a promise. Plus, whatever just happened, I’m only alive ’cause Rhîmes is dead, and Rhîmes is only dead ’cause of Ian or Esther Little or whoever this is. I’m in debt. “Sure … Esther. What do I
do
?”
“Middle finger.” A thirsty ghost in a dead mouth. “Forehead.”
So I press my middle finger against Ian’s forehead. “Like this?”
Ian’s leg twitches a bit, and stops. “Lower.”
So I move my middle finger down an inch. “Here?”
The working half of Ian’s mouth twists.
“There …”
T HE SUN ’ S WARM on my neck and a salty breeze has picked up. Down in the narrow channel between Kent and the Isle of Sheppey a trawler’s blasting its honker: I can see the captain’s picking his nose, and looking for somewhere to put the bogie. The bridge is a
Thomas the Tank Engine
job—the whole middle section rises up between two stumpy towers. When it reaches the top a klaxon sounds and the trawler chugs underneath. Jacko’d love this. I huntin my duffel bag for my can of Tango and find a newspaper—the
Socialist Worker
. What’s this doing here? Did Ed Brubeck put it in for a joke? I’d chuck it over the barrier, but this cyclist bloke’s just arriving, so I open my Tango and watch the bridge. The cyclist’s ’bout Dad’s age, but he’s slim as a snake and nearly bald, where Dad’s a bit chubby, and it’s not for nothing his nickname’s Wolfman. “All right,” says the man, wiping his face on a folded cloth.
He doesn’t look like a pervert, so I answer him: “All right.”
The guy looks up at the bridge, a bit like he built it. “They don’t make bridges like that anymore.”
“Guess not.”
“The Kingsferry Bridge is one of only three vertical-lift bridges in the British Isles. The oldest is a dinky little Victorian affair over a canal in Huddersfield, just for foot traffic. This one here opened in 1960. There’s only two like it, for road and rail, in the world.” He drinks from his water bottle.
“Are you an engineer, then?”
“No, no, just an amateur rare-bridge spotter. My son used to be as mad about them, though. In fact”—he takes out a camera from his saddlebag—“would you mind taking a snap of me and the bridge?”
I say sure, and end up crouching to fit in both the man’s bald head and the bridge’s lifted-up section. “Three, two, one …” The camera whirrs, and he asks me
What? Not “Oh, Holy Christ!” or “Heidi, no, Heidi, no, no!”? Ian looks at Rhîmes’s body. “On bad days you wonder, ‘Why not just back off from the war and lead a quiet metalife?’ Then you see a scene like this and remember why.” Last, Ian twists his busted head my way. “Sorry you had to witness all this.”
I slow my breathing, slower, and—“Who …” I can’t do more.
“You weren’t fussy about the tea. Remember?”
The old woman by the Thames. Esther Little? How could Ian know that? I’ve fallen through a floor and landed in a wrong place.
In the bungalow hallway a cuckoo clock goes off.
“Holly Sykes,” says Ian, or Esther Little, if it is Esther Little, but how’s that possible? “I claim asylum.”
Two dead people are lying here. Rhîmes’s blood’s soaking into the carpet.
“Holly, this body’s dying. I’ll redact what you’ve seen from your present perfect, for your own peace of mind, then I’ll hide deep, deep, deep in—” Now Ian-or-Esther-Little topples over like a pile of books. Only one eye’s open now, with half his face shoved up on the squashed sofa cushion. His eyes look like Davenport’s, the collie we had before Newky, when we had him put down at the vet’s. “Please.”
The word lifts a spell, suddenly, and I kneel by this Esther-Little-inside-Ian, if that’s what it is. “What can I do?”
The eyeball twitches behind its closing lid. “Asylum.”
I just wanted more green tea, but a promise is a promise. Plus, whatever just happened, I’m only alive ’cause Rhîmes is dead, and Rhîmes is only dead ’cause of Ian or Esther Little or whoever this is. I’m in debt. “Sure … Esther. What do I
do
?”
“Middle finger.” A thirsty ghost in a dead mouth. “Forehead.”
So I press my middle finger against Ian’s forehead. “Like this?”
Ian’s leg twitches a bit, and stops. “Lower.”
So I move my middle finger down an inch. “Here?”
The working half of Ian’s mouth twists.
“There …”
T HE SUN ’ S WARM on my neck and a salty breeze has picked up. Down in the narrow channel between Kent and the Isle of Sheppey a trawler’s blasting its honker: I can see the captain’s picking his nose, and looking for somewhere to put the bogie. The bridge is a
Thomas the Tank Engine
job—the whole middle section rises up between two stumpy towers. When it reaches the top a klaxon sounds and the trawler chugs underneath. Jacko’d love this. I huntin my duffel bag for my can of Tango and find a newspaper—the
Socialist Worker
. What’s this doing here? Did Ed Brubeck put it in for a joke? I’d chuck it over the barrier, but this cyclist bloke’s just arriving, so I open my Tango and watch the bridge. The cyclist’s ’bout Dad’s age, but he’s slim as a snake and nearly bald, where Dad’s a bit chubby, and it’s not for nothing his nickname’s Wolfman. “All right,” says the man, wiping his face on a folded cloth.
He doesn’t look like a pervert, so I answer him: “All right.”
The guy looks up at the bridge, a bit like he built it. “They don’t make bridges like that anymore.”
“Guess not.”
“The Kingsferry Bridge is one of only three vertical-lift bridges in the British Isles. The oldest is a dinky little Victorian affair over a canal in Huddersfield, just for foot traffic. This one here opened in 1960. There’s only two like it, for road and rail, in the world.” He drinks from his water bottle.
“Are you an engineer, then?”
“No, no, just an amateur rare-bridge spotter. My son used to be as mad about them, though. In fact”—he takes out a camera from his saddlebag—“would you mind taking a snap of me and the bridge?”
I say sure, and end up crouching to fit in both the man’s bald head and the bridge’s lifted-up section. “Three, two, one …” The camera whirrs, and he asks me
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