I know they saw me. I’m sure I lost them but they know I’m here now. Somehow they knew it was me.
I dream. I’m still running in that blasted alley, but now it’s different; for the first time in the dream I remember to look at the end of the road. I look and look and there are the ordinary buildings and ordinary fains and a bus and some cars, but I still can’t reach them. I hear Hunters behind me, shouting, ‘Get him! Rip his arms out!’ And I panic and run faster and they’re shouting so close behind me and I can’t run any faster … and then I wake up.
Gabriel is on his haunches watching me.
I tell him, not in a nice way, to leave me alone and then lie back down and close my eyes. I’m not sure I should tell him what happened today. I’m not supposed to leave the apartment, but maybe if I tell him about the Hunters he’ll take me to Mercury. I decide to tell him. But when I open my eyes Gabriel has gone.
Day five. I’m building up to tell Gabriel about the Hunters while we’re washing up. He passes me a cup to dry and as I take it he holds on to it for a moment before releasing, so I have to pull it a little from him, and he says, ‘Switzerland is a great country. There are few White Witches, none in Geneva, and the Black Witches here can be trusted. But there are Half Bloods who will sell you out if they see you. Hunters use them.’
That’s Gabriel’s way of saying that he knows I left the apartment.
I dry the cup.
He says, ‘Geneva is a wonderful city. Don’t you think?’
That’s another way of him saying he knows I left the apartment.
I swear at him.
‘You’re not supposed to leave the apartment.’ And that’s the final way he has of saying he knows I left the apartment.
‘Then take me to Mercury.’
‘How do I know you’re not a spy? How do I know you didn’t go to meet some Hunter?’
I just stare at him. In his sunglasses I see this lone figure staring back.
‘How do I know, if you won’t talk to me?’
I swear at him again and go out on to the terrace.
When I come back into the apartment Gabriel has gone.
I don’t know what to do about Gabriel, but I’m not about to share my life story with him, that’s for sure. I decide to mark time with five-bar gates like they do in prison movies. I cut short vertical lines into the wall near the window and scar in a deep gouge diagonally across them.
I stare out of the window for a while and do some press-ups. Then I stare out of the window. Then I do sit-ups and a few more press-ups. More staring out of the window and after that it’s time for a bit of shadow-boxing. Then back to check out the view.
I don’t think me telling Gabriel anything will make any difference anyway. It could all be lies. He must know that.
I flop on to the sofa. Then get up. Then throw myself back down.
There’s no way I’m going to tell Gabriel anything real about me.
I get up. I need something to do.
I decide to sort the fire out, which means standing in the fireplace with my head up the chimney. There needs to be more draw, but I don’t know how to create it, so I just tidy up in there, cleaning the soot out as much as I can, finding a slate that is sticking out of the bricks and jiggling it around a little, and then finding a loose brick and a large, flat tin hidden high in a narrow gap above it.
With the chimney cleared and the slate back in place the fire blazes, but I am black with soot. I need to wash everything. I get in the bath with my clothes on. The bath is an old-fashioned tub on ball-and-claw feet; it’s deep but not very wide. As soon as I get in the water turns grey. I peel my clothes off and throw them on to the terrace to sort out later. I have a change of clothes. I even have two pairs of socks.
I run another bath. There’s a little nail-brush and I scrub at my feet and hands but the dirt is in the skin and won’t budge.
I submerge myself and hold my breath. I can do it for over two minutes, nearly three if I get the breathing right beforehand. But I’m not as fit as I was under Celia’s regime.
I dry myself and put clean jeans on, and check out my tattoos. They are the same. The scars on my back seem worse but they’re not. How thick they are always surprises me. The line of scars on my right arm is faint, white on the paler skin there, but my wrist can only be described as an ugly mess. My hand works fine, though, and my fist is solid.
When I lean over the basin and look in the mirror, my face looks the same, only more miserable somehow, greyer. It looks old. I don’t look sixteen. There are grey circles under my eyes. The black, empty pieces that move around in my eyes seem to be bigger. The blackness of my eyes is not like the darkness up the chimney; it’s a blacker black than that. I move my head to the side, wondering if I can catch any glints, but instead I see Gabriel standing in the doorway staring at me, mirrored glasses reflecting back.
‘How long have you been there?’ I ask.