Nothing of the night before made any more sense the morning after. There was no sudden insight into the nature of the waking dream he’d dreamt. There was just a series of stark facts.
In the mirror, the fact of the cut on his jaw, gummed up and aching more badly than his rotted tooth.
In the newspapers, the reports of two bodies found in the Covent Garden area, known criminals viciously murdered in what the police described as a ‘gangland slaughter’.
In his head, the inescapable knowledge that he would be found out sooner or later. Somebody would surely have seen him with Preetorius, and spill the beans to the police. Maybe even Christian, if he was so inclined, and they’d be there, on his step, with cuffs and warrants. Then what could he tell them, in reply to their accusations? That the man who did it was not a man at all, but an effigy of some kind, that was by degrees becoming a replica of himself? The question was not whether he’d be incarcerated, but which hole they’d lock him in, prison or asylum?
Juggling despair with disbelief, he went to the casualty department to have his face seen to, where he waited patiently for three and a half hours with dozens of similar walking wounded.
The doctor was unsympathetic. There was no use in stitches now, he said, the damage was done: the wound could and would be cleaned and covered, but a bad scar was now unavoidable. Why didn’t you come last night, when it happened? the nurse
asked. He shrugged: what the hell did they care? Artificial compassion didn’t help him an iota.
As he turned the corner with his street, he saw the cars outside the house, the blue light, the cluster of neighbours grinning their gossip. Too late to claim anything of his previous life. By now they had possession of his clothes, his combs, his perfumes, his letters – and they’d be searching through them like apes after lice. He’d seen how thorough-going these bastards could be when it suited them, how completely they could seize and parcel up a man’s identity. Eat it up,, suck it up: they could erase you as surely as a shot, but leave you a living blank.
There was nothing to be done. His life was theirs now to sneer at and salivate over: even have a nervous moment, one or two of them, when they saw his photographs and wondered if perhaps they’d paid for this boy themselves, some horny night.
Let them have it all. They were welcome. From now on he would be lawless, because laws protect possessions and he had none. They’d wiped him clean, or as good as: he had no place to live, nor anything to call his own. He didn’t even have fear: that was the strangest thing.
He turned his back on the street and the house he’d lived in for four years, and he felt something akin to relief, happy that his life had been stolen from him in its squalid entirety. He was the lighter for it.
Two hours later, and miles away, he took time to check his pockets. He was carrying a banker’s card, almost a hundred pounds in cash, a small collection of photographs, some of his parents and sister, mostly of himself; a watch, a ring, and a gold chain round his neck. Using the card might be dangerous -they’d surely have warned his bank by now. The best thing might be to pawn the ring and the chain, then hitch North. He had friends in Aberdeen who’d hide him awhile.
But first – Reynolds.
It took Gavin an hour to find the house where Ken Reynolds lived. It was the best part of twenty-four hours since he’d eaten and his belly complained as he stood outside Livingstone Mansions. He told it to keep its peace, and slipped into the building. The interior looked less impressive by daylight. The tread of the stair carpet was worn, and the paint on the balustrade filthied with use.
Taking his time he climbed the three flights to Reynolds’ apartment, and knocked.
Nobody answered, nor was there any sound of movement from inside. Reynolds had told him of course: don’t come back – I won’t be here. Had he somehow guessed the consequences of sicking that thing into the world?