The Recollection by Gareth L. Powell Page A

canals in Amsterdam?”
    Kristin raised an eyebrow. “How so?”
    Alice brushed her fringe from her eyes. “In Amsterdam, the canals are arranged in semi-circular arcs. Wherever you are in the city, if you follow one, sooner or later you’ll end up back at the Central Station. You can’t get lost.”
    They reached the Land Rover. Kristin pulled off her hoodie and tossed it onto the back seat.
    “It’s more like a spider’s web,” she said. “Only we don’t know what’s at the centre.”
    “So you’re going to find out?”
    “That’s right. That’s our mission. And all our predictions point to that as the place we’ll find all the people lost in the network.”
    Ed’s breath caught in his throat. He felt Alice slip her hand into his.
    “Like Verne?” she said, eyes shining.
    Kristin nodded.
    “We may be ten years behind him, but if we head for the Prime Radiant, we’ll find him sure enough.”
     
    For the last three years of her life, Ed’s mother had lived in a gated retirement community on the outskirts of Cardiff, paid for by her eldest son, Verne. When she died of pneumonia at the age of sixty-two, he, Ed and Alice were the only attendants at her funeral.
    After the service, they crunched their way back along the shingle path to the crematorium’s wrought iron gate. Behind them, the last scraps of smoke rose from the brick chimney. It was a bright day in the Valleys. Frost lingered in the gaps and shadows between the grave markers and fir trees. A single vapour trail scratched the high blue sky. Verne and Alice were wrapped in coats and scarves. As they walked, Alice slipped her arm through Ed’s.
    “It was a nice service. I’m glad you came. Shirley would have been pleased.”
    Ed had his fists balled in his pockets. He wore a black suit jacket over skinny dark jeans and a paint-stained Ramones T-shirt.
    He said, “I’m sorry I was late.”
    Beside him, Verne had his head down and his shoulders hunched. He said, “I suppose we should be grateful you’re here at all.”
    Ed stopped walking.
    “What do you mean by that?”
    Verne turned to face him. “What do you think I mean? You’re always so wrapped up in yourself. When was the last time you bothered coming down here?”
    “I saw her at the wedding.”
    “Three months ago! Where were you when she really needed you, eh?”
    Ed bristled. His mother had been raised as a hard-working Valleys girl. She disapproved of his life as a penniless artist, and seldom missed an opportunity to voice her feelings on the matter. “I was going to come, you know I was. It wasn’t my fault she died when she did. And anyway, where the fuck were you?”
    Verne gave an exasperated sigh. He’d been in Mogadishu when Shirley died. “You know I would have been here if I could, if the rebels hadn’t closed the airport. They were shooting Europeans. We had to stay hidden in the hotel. Whereas you, Ed, all you had to do was catch a train.”
    Alice slid her arm out from under Ed’s.
    “Verne, this really isn’t the time.”
    “I’m just saying—”
    “Well, don’t.”
    She pulled the black fur hat from her head and shook her gloved fingers through her mussed, rust-coloured hair.
    “I’m sorry, Ed,” she said.
    She took his elbow and walked him to the gate. Moss dappled the cracked concrete path. Verne’s car waited on the opposite side of the steeply sloping street, in front of a row of terraced houses.
    “Are you sure we can’t give you a lift? We could drop you at Oxford and you could get a train back to London from there.”
    Ed glanced at his brother. Verne’s cheeks were a mottled red and he kept clenching and unclenching his fists.
    “No, don’t worry about it. I can get a local train from here to Cardiff, then straight through to Paddington. I’ve already booked the ticket and they don’t do refunds.”
    “Will you be okay?”
    “I’ll be fine,” Ed said. “I’ll probably sleep most of the way. And if not, I’ve got my