Voices in the Dark by Catherine Banner

equal measure, and for a moment he could not speak. But then the name came back to him. ‘The city of London.’

T HE THIRTIETH OF
D ECEMBER
    By that part of the story, the weak sun was rising, and the guests in the inn were beginning to stir. I folded up the papers. Mr Hardy watched me thoughtfully for a moment, then got up and walked to the window and back again. ‘That story troubles me,’ he said. ‘It makes Rigel a traitor.’
    ‘I know,’ I said. ‘That was what made me think it was just a story.’
    ‘On the contrary,’ said Mr Hardy. ‘That is what makes me think it is true.’
    I watched him consider it, then turn and walk back to me and sit down heavily at the table. ‘Will you carry on telling me?’ he said. ‘Another evening.’
    ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘All right.’
    Soon after that, the innkeeper came down and gave us bread and water. We had hardly any money; it was an act of charity on his part. Then the coach driver sent for someone to mend the wheel, and before twelve o’clock, we set out again into the snow and the bleak moorland, leaving that village behind.
    We did not travel far that day. The snow was banked high on the sides of the road, and no one came out to clear it. After darkness fell, the coach driver began looking for another place to stop – another bleak inn in an unknown village somewhere. I slept with my head on my rolled-up jacket on the table in the front room. When I woke, I was confused. It was just past midnight, and thestars were shining outside over a landscape I did not know. It took me several seconds to remember where I was.
    Mr Hardy was sitting with his arms folded, gazing out into the dark. ‘Anselm,’ he said. ‘Are you all right?’
    ‘Yes,’ I said.
    I got up and went to the window. Drifts of snow like mist were crossing the dark moor. The whole thing made my heart turn cold.
    ‘Come and sit here,’ said Mr Hardy. He had been saying his rosary, but he put it away now and drew out a chair for me.
    I sat opposite him. ‘Thank you,’ I said. I did not know why my heart was still so heavy and why I still had not written one word of the account I had planned.
    Mr Hardy was evidently thinking of the same thing, because he said, ‘How is your story progressing?’
    ‘It’s not,’ I said. ‘Not really. I don’t know how to tell it.’
    ‘How you told me,’ he said. ‘Just write it down.’
    ‘Maybe,’ I said.
    ‘Go on telling me, if you like,’ he said. ‘I would rather listen to that than sit here in the dark.’
    I still had a wish, however childish, to explain myself. I wanted someone to tell me it would be all right. ‘Can I go on?’ I said. ‘Don’t you mind it?’
    He shook his head. ‘Where did you get to?’ he said. ‘Ah, yes. Your friend was about to leave the city.’
    It all came back to me, as though it had never been gone, and I started to tell him.

AUGUST

     
    On Michael’s last night in the city, we went out after dinner and walked through the streets. The night was starlit. There had been no riots in the past days, and the city had begun to come alive again. Wealthy people were gathering around the theatres and bars. We wandered through the markets. I did not know what to say to him; now that the Barones’ shop was packed up and Michael was really going, there seemed to be no words between us any more.
    We passed a gold and silver stall where the traders crowded so thickly that they shoved each other into the road. Michael slowed to look. A well-dressed man with greased black hair was shouting loudest and banging down crown notes on the stall. He had a suitcase in his hand and a necktie slung casually around his collar, as though it would have fatigued him too much to tie it properly. His accent was something like Alcyrian. I knew half the traders in the city by sight, but not this man. ‘Look at him,’ I said. Michael nodded with a kind of awe.
    ‘You are robbing me,’ the man was saying, holding a gold medallion to