I sit on the chair and hold the mug to warm my hands. The room is remarkably cold and the soup only just warm.
The man sits with his legs crossed, revealing how incredibly thin his legs are beneath his baggy trousers and also one red sock. He twirls his foot round and round and sips his soup.
I swallow most of mine in one.
His foot stops. ‘It’s the dampness that’s the problem in here. Even on a summer’s day it never gets any sun and there’s damp coming up from underneath. It must be the river.’ He sips his soup, pursing his lips after each taste, and then puts the mug on the table, saying, ‘And the electric ring’s on the blink and not giving out much heat.’
I savour the last mouthful of soup. It’s not as good as the BLT, but it’s good. And I realize I’m relaxed. I know it is him. He is definitely no Hunter. He is Bob.
‘I’m serious, I’d love to paint you. Like that.’ He waves a hand at me. ‘Sitting on the simple wooden chair, half starved and young. So, so young. And with those eyes.’ He stops waving his hand and leans forward to stare into my face. ‘Those eyes.’ He leans back again. ‘One day maybe you’ll let me. However, that is not for today. Today is for business of a different nature.’
I’m about to open my mouth to speak and he puts his finger to his lips. ‘No need for that.’
I smile. I like this guy. I’m fairly sure his magic is mind-reading, which is incredibly rare and –
‘I have a certain skill, but a bit like my painting it’s competent and practised – workman-like you might say, rather than …’ He stops and gazes at me. ‘I’m no Cézanne. For example, I have to concentrate hard to pull the key thoughts from the scrambled egg that is your mind. But still it is obvious why you are here.’ And now he taps the side of his nose.
I think loudly, I have to find Mercury.
‘Now that I got clear as a bell.’
Can you help me?
‘I can put you in touch with the next person in the chain. Nothing more.’
So it’s not going to be straight to Mercury from here. But I’ve got a deadline to work to. Two months away.
‘Time enough. But you must understand, and I’m sure you understand better than most, that caution is vital for all concerned.’
Does he know who I am? Why would I understand better than most?
‘I heard a rumour that a prisoner escaped from the Council. An important prisoner. The son of Marcus.’
Oh.
‘Hunters are out hunting him. And they are very good at that.’
He stares at me.
I realize I have let a thought out of the bag.
‘May I see them?’
I extend my hand towards him, but he gets up and goes into the far room. I hear a switch flick and the light bulb above me dithers about coming to life. Bob returns and stands in front of me. He takes my hand in both of his. His hands are cool and thin and his bony fingers pull my skin so that the tattoo is distorted.
‘They really are hateful, aren’t they?’
I’m not sure if he means the tattoos or White Witches.
‘Both, my darling, both.’
He lets go of my hand. ‘May I see the others?’
I show him.
‘Well, well, well …’ Bob returns to his seat on the sofa and his foot starts to twirl round again. ‘We need to see if you are right, if these are some way of tracking you. If they are, well, my fate is sealed already.’
He holds his hands up. ‘No, no. No apologies necessary … Indeed I think I may have to apologize to you because we are going to have to get someone to look at those. I suspect it won’t be a quick procedure and I know it won’t be pleasant. The man I’m thinking of is a philistine.’
Bob gets up and takes the mugs to the sink.
‘I don’t think I’ll bother clearing up. Time to move on. You know, I’ve always thought I should paint in France, search for Cézanne’s spirit in the hills. I can do better than this.’
Yes.
‘Should I take the paintings?’
I shrug.
‘You’re right, a clean start is best. You know, I feel better already.’
He disappears again into the far room and comes back with a piece of paper and a pencil. Leaning on the kitchen worktop, he sketches. It’s good to watch him. His sketch is better than his oil.
‘You’re very kind. I thought a picture would make more sense to you than some ugly words.’
The sketch is of me reaching up to feel on top of a locker, in what looks to be a railway station. There is a sign, but I don’t try to read it now. I’ll spell it out later.
He hands the drawing to me, saying, ‘You know you are beautiful, don’t you? Don’t let them catch you.’
I look at him and can’t help but smile. He reminds me of Arran, his soft grey eyes filled with the same silvery light, though Bob’s whole face looks grey and lined.
‘No need to rub it in about my appearance. Oh, there’s something else. You will need money.’