Those two worlds blurred into each other twice a day. Dawn had its pleasures, of course. There had been times sleeping rough when he had watched the first pink thatches of cloud glowing above the jagged black tops of the buildings, and there was even an odd sort of magic in saluting the first buses as they appeared. But dusk had always suited him best. The bright lights of the shops and offices flicking off. The darkness settling down. The drop in temperature, as though the world was falling asleep without a blanket and had begun shivering slightly.
All of that had appealed to him more. He wasn’t sure why.
Maybe it was just that he had always felt more like a nighttime person.
But as he sat in the café now, the day dying outside the window, his nerves were singing. It felt like a world was arriving in which he no longer quite belonged. The apprehension he’d felt while packing away the tent earlier was stronger now, and it was taking all his resolve not to walk out of here without looking back.
Because he couldn’t do that. For one thing, it didn’t feel like there were many other courses of action open to him. This was something he had to do; he and James had no choice. And for another, the phrasing itself didn’t work. Not looking back might be a luxury available to some, but it had never felt like an option for Chris. People like him always had to keep looking around them.
He checked his phone.
Five minutes until the man was due.
No messages from James.
He put the phone away, then looked out past the pale reflection beside him in the glass. The sidewalk and road outside were illuminated intermittently by the faltering streetlights. He wondered if, from across the street, the café window might look a little like that painting, Nighthawks, by Hopper—but then again, perhaps not. There was some kind of romance there, whereas there was none to be found here.
The café was one of the few properties still open on this street, and he suspected it wouldn’t be for very much longer. It was little more than a harshly lit rectangular room full of folding tables. A rudimentary counter at the side. Back in the day, Chris remembered this place had attracted its fair share of nighttime people, and that was why he had suggested it for the meeting. In his memory it was safe. But now that he was here, it appeared even the old addicts had abandoned this place, and it no longer felt quite so safe.
He was the only customer.
But not the only person. In the reflection, Chris could see the owner behind the counter. He was in his sixties, with a shaved head and built like a bull. Right now he was drying a cup with a ragged cloth. But he kept looking at Chris, a conflicted expression on his face.
Chris turned and called over.
“Another black coffee, please.”
The man stared back at him for a moment, then nodded and put down the cup and cloth before turning away. Chris heard the rasp of the machine, like something clearing its throat, and a minute later, the man brought the cup over and put it down on the table in front of Chris.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He paused. “What are you doing in here, kid?”
“Business.”
“Really?”
“Not that kind of business,” Chris said. “You don’t need to worry.”
But the man stood there, looking down at him, and his expression remained conflicted. He was clearly uneasy about Chris being here.
He took a deep breath and seemed to be about to say something.
But then he looked over Chris’s shoulder as the bell rang. Chris turned in his seat to see the door opening. A man walked in, moving slowly and awkwardly. He was clearly very old, and his legs seemed stiff. The overhead lights gleamed on a skull from which all traces of hair had long since vanished. He was dressed in an immaculate suit with a bright red rose tucked into the lapel, and he was carrying a briefcase.
Chris held his breath.
Because—just for a moment—it might have been Alan Hobbes he was looking at. There was a familiarity there. But then he saw the man’s face, and the sensation evaporated. Despite his eccentricities, Alan had always been kind. But there was nothing resembling kindness in this man’s expression.
In fact, there was nothing to see there at all.
“Your business?” the man said quietly.
“I think so.”
The old man used his free hand to brush off the shoulders of his suit as though it had been snowing outside. First one side. Then the other.
The owner called across.
“What can I get you, sir?”
The man didn’t look up.
“Coffee.”
His voice was as weathered as his body.
“Black.”
The owner nodded and retreated to the counter.
The man walked slowly over to where Chris was sitting and took the seat across from him, his gaze directed down at the table between them.
“So—” Chris began.
But the man held up a hand.
“No. You have your drink. You will have the courtesy to wait for mine.”
“Okay.”
Chris leaned back and waited, the two of them sitting in silence. He found himself staring at the rose in the man’s lapel. The red was one of the deepest colors he could remember seeing. Then the owner came across, breaking the spell. He put the man’s cup carefully down on the table. As he did so, Chris noticed his hands were trembling.
The old man picked up his coffee and sipped it. It was surely far too hot to drink right now, but if the temperature bothered the man at all, then he did not show it.
“So,” Chris said again.
“So indeed.”
The man still had not looked at him. But now he did—although he seemed to gather himself together a little before doing so. When he finally looked up, Chris could feel his gaze moving over his face, taking in every detail, as though the old man was looking for something there.
And whatever it was, he found it.
The blankness of his expression was interrupted by the briefest flash of anger. Hatred even. And whatever the reason for it, Chris suddenly thought that he was in trouble. Faced with the coldness seated across from him, he felt like a child again. And while he had taken precautions by not bringing the book itself to the café, they no longer seemed enough. He was out of his depth here. And he was swimming with sharks.
But what choice did he have?
“You have the money?” Chris said.
“Yes.” The old man tapped the briefcase. “And you have the book?”
“No, but it’s somewhere nearby.”
“With your boyfriend?”
Chris stared at the old man for a second.
How did he know about James? But then he remembered how he had felt over the past few weeks. The sensation of being watched and followed. The half-glimpsed figure on the street outside their apartment.
There was the slightest of smiles on the old man’s face now. As though this was a game in which he was several moves ahead of Chris and knew all the ones ahead were about to play out to his benefit.
“Who are you?” Chris said.
“My name isn’t important. All that matters is that I am a man of my word.”
With his gaze not leaving Chris’s, the old man placed the briefcase on the table between them and unlocked it.
Click click.
And then he opened it.
Thirty