Dr. Armstrong rises to leave. “I’ve heard those words before, in another mouth,” he says drily. “They ended in tears last time around. Why should they end any differently this time round, if we let you out of your box?”
“Because”—the prisoner’s expression is fey—“you have no alternative.” He smiles again, in evident pleasure. “I won’t fail you, Michael, if what you want is to protect this nation from the true threats that beset it. I’ve learned my lesson and I won’t make the same mistakes twice, I assure you. Unlike the public-relations-obsessed opportunist currently running the show, I understand the coming storm better than anyone in politics—and once I move into Number Ten, my top priority will be to attend to the parlous state of the nation’s occult defenses. After all, there’s not much point in my being PM if all I have to rule over is ashes, is there?”
The SA pauses. “Promise me you will stick within the letter of the law,” he says, “and I’ll see what I can do.”
“Is that all?” The prisoner snorts. “Of course I promise to obey the law! As you made perfectly clear, it was very shortsighted of me to ignore that requirement earlier. I, Fabian Everyman, also known as the Mandate, swear by my true name to obey the law of the land,” he swears. “There! Satisfied?”
“It’ll have to do.” The SA nods at the prison officer, and mimes turning a door handle; the fellow nods back and rests a hand on the doorknob. “Be seeing you, Fabian…”
*
Nearly a week has passed since Johnny and I broke Cassie and Alex out of Camp Tolkien. I’m parked in a different ex-council maisonette in Hemel, courtesy of Airbnb, and I’m sleeping badly. It’s my conscience: whenever I’m not working I feel as if I’m going up the wall, but there’s a limited amount of work to be done, and I can’t run away from the back of my own head. While I can hide from the police I can’t hide from my own guilt. I’m effectively under house arrest, and I’m sinking a bottle of cheap supermarket plonk before bedtime each night to try and wash the taste of dying soldiers and brain-bruised friends out of my cortex.
Then the doorbell rings.
This is no immediate cause for concern, because my meals are being delivered in supermarket prepacks off the back of a delivery van, but I’m pretty certain today’s drop-off isn’t due for another couple of hours, so I approach the front door with caution. I open my mind’s eye and see that there’s somebody on the doorstep, the only person within a dozen meters (if you don’t count the neighbor’s bored and whiny King Charles spaniel, depressively chewing on a shoe as it awaits its owner’s return from work) … and they’re warded, but there’s something familiar about them. Very familiar. In fact … with a stab of apprehensive excitement I yank the door open and Mo stumbles into my arms. She’s wearing a cardigan over a frumpy maxi dress and the wig doesn’t suit her but she’s still the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen.
“Quickly! Inside.” We stumble-waltz sideways as I kick the front door shut again.
“Bob—” She hugs me tight.
“What are you—”
“Stand down, I finally convinced the SA to give me permission to come and visit, I’m clean—they’re not hunting for accountants yet—and nobody followed me, and I’ve got a surprise for you.” I hug her back and then without warning she kisses me as if she’s trying to make up for all our lost time in a few stolen seconds, and I kiss her right back. Everything—and I mean everything—goes out of my head except for the desperate lonely need to bury myself in her arms, and from the way she’s responding she feels the same way.
We hold each other tight for a while, and one thing leads to another and we end up upstairs, and what happens next isn’t going in my work diary.
(To clarify: We have been together and/or married for nearly a decade, albeit lately separated, but the cause of our separation is not a lack of love but of safety. Her violin—now, thankfully, banished—tried to kill me. And in the other direction, I sometimes sleepwalk, or levitate, and my eyes glow when I’m not home in my own head. The thing I’ve become, or the thing that is becoming me, is quite capable of lashing out and killing, and while I don’t know what I’d do if I woke up one night to find her lying dead beside me, I know that it wouldn’t be anything good.)
More than an hour passes before we’re ready to talk at greater length than urgent monosyllables. We’re spooning on what’s left of the bedding, me wrapped around her back, nuzzling her neck with one palm pressed between her breasts. There’s a pile of discarded clothing and a wig on the carpet and I can feel her pulse, butterfly-fast but gradually slowing, the sweat sticky on her thighs.
She sighs.
“I know,” I say, and cuddle her closer.
(It’s surprising how much meaning you can unpack from a tender intake of breath when you know the other person well enough.)
“It doesn’t get easier. Still don’t think I should stay, but…”
“Here.”
(Interpreting monosyllables is a lot of work, so from now on I shall unpack them for you.)
“Sleepy, only mustn’t. Bathroom?” (“I want nothing more than to drift off to sleep in your embrace, only I’m terrified that the psychotic death-clown who stalks your dreams will take you over in the middle of the night and eat my face. Also, my crotch feels disgusting and I want to shower.”)
“Derp.” (“Derp.”)
She elbows me in the ribs. “Seriously, now!”
I sigh (“If you must”), and let go of her. We pull apart, the drying sweat itching, and as she rolls to her feet my eyes are drawn to her behind. “Turn left, it’s the second door along.” I begin to sit up. “Oh fuck.”
“What?”
“The johnny burst.”
“Fuck!”
Of an instant we’re both wide awake, tense, and not feeling even remotely monosyllabic. It’s been around a year since I had to move out, and staying on the pill at her age without a good reason isn’t a great idea, but we’re sensible grown-ups, and suddenly I have a sick sense of doubt in my stomach. I pulled out afterwards, but now I see that the condom’s tip has split neatly, as if razored, probably while we were at our most joyfully inattentive, which is why I didn’t notice at the time. “Shower,” I say on autopilot as she stumbles out of the bedroom and I follow, then divert into the cramped toilet cubicle to ditch the treacherous rubber.
(Personal hygiene interlude.)