“Sorry, mate,” the driver said. “I’m going home after this. I’ve a wife waiting for me.”
Chant dug in his inside pocket and pulled out his wallet, then passed it through the window, letting it drop on the seat beside the driver.
“What’s this?”
“All the money I’ve got. This letter has to be delivered.”
“All the money you’ve got, eh?”
The driver picked up the wallet and flicked it open, his gaze going between its contents and the road.
“There’s a lot of dosh in here.”
“Have it. It’s no good to me.”
“Are you sick?”
“And tired,” Chant said. “Take it, why don’t you? Enjoy it.”
“There’s a Daimler been following us. Somebody you know?”
There was no purpose served by lying to the man. “Yes,” Chant said. “I don’t suppose you could put some distance between them and us?”
The man pocketed the wallet and jabbed his foot down on the accelerator. The cab leapt forward like a racehorse from the gate, its jockey’s laugh rising above the guttural din of the engine. Whether it was the cash he was now heavy with or the challenge of outrunning a Daimler that motivated him, he put his cab through its paces, proving it more mobile than its bulk would have suggested. In under a minute they’d made two sharp lefts and a squealing right and were roaring down a back street so narrow the least miscalculation would have taken off handles, hubs, and mirrors. The mazing didn’t stop there. They made another turn, and another, bringing them in a short time to South-wark Bridge. Somewhere along the way, they’d lost the Daimler. Chant might have applauded had he possessed two workable hands, but the flea’s message of corruption was spreading with agonizing speed. While he still had five fingers under his command he went back to the window and dropped Estabrook’s letter through, murmuring the address with a tongue that felt disfigured in his mouth.
“What’s wrong with you?” the cabbie said. “It’s not fucking contagious, is it, ’cause if it is—”
”. ..not.. .“Chant said.
“You look fucking awful,” the cabbie said, glancing in the mirror. “Sure you don’t want a hospital?”
“No. Gamut Street. I want Gamut Street.”
“You’ll have to direct me from here.”
The streets had all changed. Trees gone; rows demolished; austerity in place of elegance, function in place of beauty; the new for old, however poor the exchange rate. It was a decade and more since he’d come here last. Had Gamut Street fallen and a steel phallus risen in its place?
“Where are we?” he asked the driver.
“Clerkenwell. That’s where you wanted, isn’t it?”
“1 mean the precise place.”
The driver looked for a sign. “Flaxen Street. Does it ring a bell?”
Chant peered out of the window. “Yes! Yes! Go down to the end and turn right.”
“Used to live around here, did you?”
“A long time ago.”
“It’s seen better days.” He turned right. “Now where?”
“First on the left.”
“Here it is,” the man said. “Gamut Street. What number was it?”
“Twenty-eight.”
The cab drew up at the curb. Chant fumbled for the handle, opened the door, and all but fell out onto the pavement. Staggering, he put his weight against the door to close it, and for the first time he and the driver came face to face. Whatever the flea was doing to his system, it must have been horribly apparent, to judge by the look of repugnance on the man’s face.
“You will deliver the letter?” Chant said.
“You can trust me, mate.”
“When you’ve done it, you should go home,” Chant said. “Tell your wife you love her. Give a prayer of thanks.”
“What for?”
“That you’re human,” Chant said.
The cabbie didn’t question this little lunacy. “Whatever you say, mate,” he replied. “I’ll give the missus one and give thanks at the same time, how’s that? Now don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, eh?”
This advice given, he drove off, leaving his passenger to the silence of the street.
With failing eyes, Chant scanned the gloom. The houses, built in the middle of Sartori’s century, looked to be mostly deserted; primed for demolition, perhaps. But then Chant knew that sacred places—and Gamut Street was sacred in its way—survived on occasion because they went unseen, even in plain sight. Burnished by magic, they deflected the threatening eye and found unwitting allies in men and women who, all unknowing, knew holiness; became sanctuaries for a secret few.