He doesn’t answer but gives a little skip of delight as he spots a gleaming gray saloon. He says to me, “I love the new Audi. And these keys”—he holds a key fob, dangling it in front of me, grinning as he walks backward—“these electric sensor ones, are so much easier than the old style.”
He walks up close to the driver’s door and presses the fob. The door unlocks. We get in and Nesbitt rubs his hands. “Leather seats, air con, cruise control. Gorgeous.”
“But you don’t own it.”
Nesbitt laughs. “Ownership is theft, mate. Ain’t that what those fains say?”
“Not that I’ve heard.” I pick up the fob. I don’t know much about cars but I can see it’s for a BMW, not an Audi.
“Van put her magic on it and it opens the car you’re nearest to.” Nesbitt pulls out and screeches off at a frightening pace. I put my seat belt on tight. “We’ll be at the house in a couple of hours. It’s a humdinger of a place.”
“Van’s house?”
“Not exactly. There are many empty houses and it’s a waste not to use them. We maximize underutilized resources, like these cars that are left standing around.”
“I guess you never ask if you can maximize.”
Nesbitt grins. “You guess right, mate. Though, if Van did ask, people would agree. She has a potion for that. She’s got a potion for most things.”
*
Nesbitt is right. It is a humdinger of a house—a modern, sprawling, kingpin-of-the-drug-world sort of humdinger of a house. There’s a three-meter-high wall round it with a solid metal gate that looks like it could withstand a rocket attack and is operated electronically, presumably by the person watching through the cameras that are fixed on the gateposts. Van clearly found a way round the security system. I don’t see how potions could circumvent electronics, though I guess it’s the same way she can get cars to unlock.
We’ve left the Audi and walked the last couple of miles to the house. “They’ll find it. Missing a bit of petrol but no harm done,” says Nesbitt.
“Are you really bothered about that?” I ask.
“Well, some of these cars have trackers on them. Use ’em and lose ’em is my advice.”
At the gate we stand beneath the cameras, waiting. Nesbitt has pressed the buzzer and now speaks into the microphone.
“Hey! It’s me. This is Nathan. You know how I thought he was dead? Well, turns out”—Nesbitt shrugs—“he’s not.”
I glare at him.
“He’s a good kid really.” Nesbitt looks up at the camera and in a loud, slow stage whisper says, “He has the letters.”
There’s no reply, not even the buzz of an entry system.
The sun is fierce and the tarmac under our feet is like a furnace. The metal gate seems to throb with the heat but then it starts to move, silently sliding to the side, and we walk up the long, straight drive. I look back and the gate is already closing. On the ground along the inside of the wall and the bottom of the gate is a thick roll of razor wire. The house is as much a prison as it is a fortress. Ahead, half hidden in the tall pine trees, is a low building made of glass and stone.
A man comes out of the house and watches us approach. He’s dressed immaculately in a pale blue suit. The palest of blues, almost white. His trousers are wide and he’s wearing a waistcoat of pale blue too. As we get closer I see his shirt is white and his tie is pale pink, with a matching pink handkerchief in his jacket pocket. He turns his back on us as we get nearer and goes back inside. The man is tall, taller than me, and slender. His hair reminds me of Soul O’Brien’s, that white-blond, super-slick look, cut with precision to the nape of his neck. It only now occurs to me that I’ve assumed there’ll only be Van and Gabriel here but it seems there’s at least one other person.
“Who’s that? Who else is here?” I ask Nesbitt.
He glances at me and starts to dance around in front of me, flapping his arms, singing, “Ain’t nobody here but us chickens . . .” He clucks and flaps and sings and laughs all the way to the house.
We go into the house through the wide, cool entrance hall and into a living room that has a wall of windows overlooking a long, wide lawn down to Lake Geneva. The room is huge, big enough for a party, a ball I suppose, though it’s full of sofas and low tables set out in three groups.
The man has his back to me. He picks up a silver lighter from a low table and turns to light his cigarette so that I can see his profile. His skin is clear, pale, and looks incredibly healthy, and as he inhales and swallows the smoke I realize that this isn’t a man. This is Van.
She turns to look at us both and I’m amazed at how beautiful she is. She looks like a boy and yet a girl as well, maybe twenty years old.
“So?” She says this to Nesbitt. Her voice doesn’t match her looks but it does match her cigarette habit. She sounds like she smokes sixty a day.