And then there’s me, wearing sunglasses, a cap, an Arab scarf, fingerless gloves, a thick green army jacket, jeans and boots, carrying my battered rucksack.
I don’t know what time it is but I’ve been here ages: it’s way past eleven o’clock.
A movement in the cafe to my right catches my eye. A young man in sunglasses waves me over.
I pick my way through the narrow gaps between the tables and stand opposite him. He doesn’t look up but swirls his half-full coffee cup round and drains it. He puts the cup in the saucer as he stands, grabs hold of my arm and, moving fast, guides me through the revolving doors and into the next building, the train station.
We go down an escalator to Platform 4 and straight on to a train. It’s gloomy in here. The train’s a double-decker and we go upstairs where he lets go of my arm. We sit on a sofa-style seat with a little round table in front of us.
My contact looks a year or two older than me, Arran’s age, I guess. His skin is olive, and he has shoulder-length wavy hair, dark brown with lighter streaks in it. He’s smiling, lips together, like he’s just heard a really good joke. He’s wearing mirrored aviator sunglasses with silver frames, almost identical to mine.
The train starts, and a few minutes into the journey a ticket inspector appears at the far end of the carriage. My contact goes downstairs and I follow. We stand by the doors. He’s slim, a tad taller than me and he doesn’t have a mobile-phone hiss to him.
I think he might be a Black Witch. I want to see his eyes.
The train stops a minute later. It’s Geneva Central Station. My contact sets off fast, and I walk a step behind him.
We walk for an hour or so, always fast, but going back on ourselves quite a bit; I come to recognize a few shop windows and glimpses of the lake. We finally enter a residential area of tall apartment blocks and stop at a door in an old building much like all the others we’ve passed. The road here is quiet, a few parked cars, no traffic and no other pedestrians. My contact pushes a number code into the entry system, saying to me, ‘9-9-6-6-1 … OK?’
And I say, ‘9-9-6-6-1, OK.’
He lets the door swing back hard in my face so that I have to stop it with a slam of my palm. I stride after him up the stairs, up and up, and up, and up, and up …
We continue to the sixth floor, the top floor, where the stairs come to an end at a small landing. There is one wooden door.
Once again there isn’t a key but a number code. ‘5-7-6-3-2 … OK?’
And he goes in and lets the door slam behind him.
I stand looking around. The varnish on the door is peeling, the landing is bare, the plaster is cracked, an old blackened cobweb hangs loosely in the corner. An empty silence hangs around too. There is no hissing.
He opens the door. ‘5-7-6 –’
‘I know.’
His smile has gone but he still has his sunglasses on.
‘Come in.’
I don’t move.
‘It’s safe.’
He holds the door wide open with his back and repeats, ‘It’s safe.’ He speaks quietly. His accent is strange. I think it must be Swiss.
I walk over the threshold and the door clicks shut behind me. I feel him watching me. I don’t want him there, behind me.
I wander round the room. It’s large with a kitchenette in the right-hand corner: a few cupboards, a sink, an oven. Moving round I pass between the fireplace and a small, old sofa. There’s no carpet, but wooden floorboards stained dark brown, almost black, and three rugs of different sizes, all a sort of Persian design. The walls are painted a creamy colour but there are no pictures or anything else apart from a long smoke stain on the chimney-breast over the fireplace. It looks like a fire might be the only source of heat and the slate fireplace contains a metal grate and some blackened logs. Next to it is a large pile of wood, a newspaper and a box of matches. Moving left, I come to a small window that looks towards the lake and the mountains beyond. I can see blue water and a section of green-grey mountains. In front of the window is a wooden table and two old-style French cafe chairs.
‘I left the window open when I went out. The fire keeps filling the room with smoke.’
He goes to the fireplace and starts to build a fire.
I watch.
He lights the pile of newspaper and it goes out.
‘I want to see Mercury.’
‘Yes. Of course.’
But he doesn’t stop messing with the fire.
‘I don’t get the feeling that she’s here.’
‘No.’
I go to one of the other two doors and open it. I can tell he’s stopped with the fire and is watching me. Inside the small adjoining room is a bed, a chair and an old-fashioned wooden wardrobe.
‘That’s my room,’ he says, and walks past me to close the wardrobe door. There isn’t much to see. He hasn’t made his bed. There’s a book on the chair.
I lean against the doorway and say, ‘Good book?’