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.At King’s Cross Sam changed buses.The station was a scruffy building, made shabbier beneath its huge wrought-iron roof by a plaza full of McDonald’s and the like, and notices declaring that this train was also delayed.It was horribly dwarfed by St Pancras next door, with its fairy-tale towers and gothic majesty, even though the people going through King’s Cross quite outnumbered those in the sister station.Down the Euston Road in the next bus at walking speed, turning now towards Tavistock Square and an area of hotels, offices and underground car parks.At Russell Square there was the shade of great trees, and university buildings whose offices had spilled over into the tall Georgian terraces.Sam leapt off at a traffic light and made his way towards Holborn, where a third bus took him down to the river.Walking along the Embankment he was careful to take his time.He was still alert for pursuers, magical or mundane, however confident that he didn’t have any.Besides, he had to work out what he was going to say.‘Hi, you used to be a spy and had access to a network that I need.Where is it?’To which the obvious answer would be, ‘But that was sixty years ago and it was you who decided to close down the Moondance network.’Why had he done that? Had he convinced himself he didn’t need it, and could live a nice peaceful life without its help? To say the least, a rash thought.Not so rash, though, that he’d left every door closed.You left her a back way in, in case she ever needed Moondance again.And because she has a back door, so do you.Maybe you haven’t been so naïve.The river was at high tide, and a tracery of sea breeze blew away the fumes of the Embankment; it was even possible to shut out the roar of traffic edging towards Westminster.At a small park near one of the grand hotels claiming much of this part of London as its own, Sam cut inland and took a flight of stairs two at a time between giant buildings full of civil servants.The steps came out on a back street, empty of traffic except for a postal van.Glancing back, he saw that no one had followed.He moved faster now, his destination in sight, slipping through more small streets where sunlight rarely peeped over the high buildings, until any traffic was a distant roar, a world away and little more than a minute from where he stood.The building he was looking for had two brass plaques by the door.One declared that the bottom floor was the property of Noble and Transton, lawyers to the very rich and trivial, no tradesmen please.A much smaller one, weatherworn, and green around the edges, announced the residence of Mrs Annette Wilson.He rang the bell, and a curt voice declared from the speakers in a slight French accent, ‘Yes?’‘It’s Luc.’There was a long silence, in which he imagined what she was doing.Probably staring in shock at the speaker, trying to convince herself that her failing ears hadn’t heard what she had, rubbing her withered little hands together and straining her bent back as she reached for the open button.Didn’t she keep a nurse? he remembered.A watery-eyed girl who hardly spoke a word of English and looked after Annette as punishment for a sin from some other lifetime?Finally the door buzzed, and he pushed.Inside, the hall was marbled and cold.He jogged up the stairs, trying to get a little warmth into his system after the chill of the February streets.A heavy panelled door opened and this same sinner peered down at him, and asked with a heavy accent, ‘Mr Luc?’He nodded, and without another word she showed him in.The carpet was so thick Sam felt he’d be engulfed.He had forgotten what a taste for luxury Annette had.She was not by any means a poor woman – the French government had rewarded her well for her work in the Resistance and she’d gone through a collection of rich husbands as a child consumes his favourite sweets.Sculptures, strange things of twisted wood, adorned the room’s corners, and bent lights illuminated numerous paintings, some of them her own.As an artist Annette had been good.At least one shelf was full of books on her favourite occupation – weaving.Poor Annette.Can your hands hold anything, these days?And there she was, bent over in a huge chair bursting with pillows.Even now her ancient, wrinkled face bore signs of how pretty she’d once been.Her eyes, still horribly, accusingly bright with intelligence, looked him up and down as she vaguely waved the sinner from the room.Finally she spoke.‘It’s true.You don’t age, do you? Why couldn’t you have grown old, Luc? Why couldn’t you have been like my husbands? As soon as I married them I forgot why, because they were old and lifeless suddenly [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]