Amberlough(108)

The mattress in the corner was old and flat, and when Aristide sat on it, the rope ties of the bed frame creaked. A few drops of rain rustled on the thatch, building into a steady patter.

It was colder inside than out, but he had no peat for the stove. Tomorrow. He would do that tomorrow. The thought filled him with exhaustion. He had not dug peat in almost thirty years; he had promised that he never would again.

He had escaped this house once, and he would do it once more. It would be easier. He was wiser now, and he would not be alone.

Closing his fist on the grubby pack of matches, he curled around his clenched hand and shut his eyes. Fully dressed and freezing cold, he lay awake and waited for morning.





CHAPTER

THIRTY-SIX

Cyril lost track of time; they left him in a windowless white room and didn’t turn off the light. A fly had got in somehow, and careened against the bare bulb over and over and over again.

He thought it had been about a day. He was hungry, his throat dry, whole body aching. But when the blackboots came to haul him out, he fought, and they weren’t gentle either. By the time they dragged him up the stairs, he could hardly see for the blood pouring into his eyes. Blinking the sting of salt away, he found himself in a chair opposite Van der Joost. In the back corner of the room, a thin man with rolled-up sleeves picked at a loose thread in his shirttail.

“Mr. DePaul,” said Van der Joost. “I’m glad you made it to our meeting after all.”

“Veedge,” said Cyril, and spat blood on the table.

Van der Joost cleared his throat and smoothed a stray wisp of thin hair back into place. “You didn’t hide Moore and Massey’s bodies very well. In a hurry, were you?”

“You could say that.”

“You must have been a very good agent, once.”

“You’ve read my file,” said Cyril.

“Indeed.”

“And what do you think?”

“I think your poor sister will be awfully upset if you disappear.”

A spike of fear, honed with guilt, stabbed him through. He hadn’t reached out to her, first because he wanted to get out of this mess himself. She wouldn’t have to sneak him dinner this time. Then, when it was too late, he didn’t ask because he didn’t want to tar her with his own treachery, his own failings. Well, she’d been splashed with that brush anyway, and now it was too late to warn her.

“Better than if I’d been hanged for treason,” he said, with sour humor dredged up from somewhere in his cramping gut. “It’d wreck her diplomatic career.”

“You should’ve thought of that before you leaked confidential documents to a black market profiteer.”

Cyril snorted. A dizzying trickle of blood made its way from somewhere high in his nose and slipped over his lip, into his mouth. “I haven’t even confessed.”

“I think we can both agree your attempted flight was confession enough.”

“So you’re gonna bag me and tag me?” Van der Joost’s bland face assumed an expression of distaste at Cyril’s purposefully coarse language. “I’m a little disappointed in your—”

The blow to the back of his head wasn’t really a surprise. He’d been expecting it since he sat down, with the thin man lurking behind him. Pinpricks of white and purple-black sparked across his field of vision. He forced a smile and felt his swollen lip crack.

“There,” he said, tossing a bit of bloody, displaced hair out of his eyes. “That’s more like it.”

“Some things have come to light,” said Van der Joost, “regarding Aristide Makricosta’s involvement with a certain employee of the FOCIS. One Finn Lourdes. A friend of yours, I think?”

Cyril turned his face away. The thin man pushed it back.

“I knew him.”

“‘Knew’?”

Cyril didn’t say anything. A slash of movement in the corner of his eye gave him half a second’s warning. The fist in his hair hurt, but he managed to angle his chin so he hit the table with the meat of his cheek and not his nose.

“Hmm.” Van der Joost watched him as he recovered from the blow. “I was hoping we could make this quick. I have a lunchtime meeting. However…” He looked over Cyril’s shoulder. “Rehimov, will you see to him? I’ll be back in a few hours to check on your progress.”

Whatever motion the thin man made, it must have satisfied Van der Joost. He gathered his leather datebook and pen and set his hat on his head. “I’ll be seeing you, Mr. DePaul.”

“See me? Sure.” Grinning hurt his face. The satisfaction was worth the pain. “But you won’t hear a thing.”

*

Cordelia stayed in Malcolm’s flat overnight. It wasn’t like she wanted to, but it was wet out on the street. Besides, if they weren’t after her yet, they would be soon. She needed to keep hidden. And more than that, she needed a day or two to lick her wounds.

So she closed the bedroom door and shoved a blanket underneath it, trying to keep out the stink of blood and shit. Raiding Mal’s drawers gave her enough white cotton for a bandage. Nauseous to the bottom of her stomach, she used her teeth to unwrap the grimy cloth from her cut-up fingers. Dried blood made the fabric stiff, and flaked off in rusty crumbs as she peeled the layers away. As she got closer to the skin, the blood was fresher, sticky and bitter. She gagged, but kept pulling cloth away.