Europe in Winter (The Fractured Europe Sequence)(63)

By the time Forsyth reached his floor, the vibrations of the band were so strong he could feel them in the pit of his stomach. One of the other residents came down the corridor, wagging a finger and talking to him in a presumably angry voice, but Forsyth couldn’t hear what she was saying, and he mimed a helpless shrug as they passed. Ukrainians. I mean, who knows?

As he reached his flat, one of those strange moments of synchronicity occurred. The music suddenly cut off, and at that very moment he noticed his front door was open. It was all terribly sinister. He poked his head through the doorway.

“Thought I’d missed you,” said Crispin.

“And we couldn’t have that, could we,” Forsyth said, propping himself against the doorframe and crossing his arms.

Crispin was busy with a game on the coffee table which resembled Go but involved arranging numerous tiny coloured spheres, ovals, octagons and assorted ’hedrons on the tabletop. He wasn’t doing very well because every time he got a pleasing pattern he popped one of the shapes in his mouth, spoiled the pattern, and had to start over again.

“You started dyeing your dandruff or something?” he asked, looking up and frowning.

Forsyth brushed flakes of puff pastry off his shoulders. “You wouldn’t believe me.”

Crispin shrugged. “You say so.”

“So. They let you back into the country, eh?”

“I have to go down the hole, man,” Crispin said, going back to his game.

“They’ll never let you,” said Forsyth. “They’ve got your eyes recorded on every security system on every building site between here and the Tatras.”

Crispin shook his head. “I have to, man.” He selected a red sphere, put it in his mouth, and crunched down. “Real important.”

“I hear the Ivans are extending the Moscow Metro,” Forsyth suggested.

Crispin made a sour face. “Moscow Metro. Shit, man. Been there. Chandeliers.” He looked up. “I mean, chandeliers?”

Forsyth shrugged.

“This is good,” Crispin said, poking a yellow rectangle out of the pattern he was making. “I like this one.”

Forsyth walked over to the sofa and sat down beside Crispin. “What does it do?”

“Can’t remember.”

Forsyth sat back with his pear drops in his lap. “How did you get in here?”

“Mister Bones let me in.” Crispin took from the back pocket of his jeans a little leather case and unzipped it to let Forsyth see the skeleton keys and lockpicks inside. “Say hello to Mister Bones.”

“What about the alarm?”

“Ah, shit, man.” Crispin reached into a pocket of his greasy combat jacket and took out something that looked a little like an old-fashioned electric shaver, with two long wires terminating in tiny complicated-looking silver plugs dangling from it. “Say hello to Ol’ Sparky.”

Forsyth took Ol’ Sparky and turned it over in his hands. “Have you been mixing with criminal elements?”

Crispin grinned a grin that was more gold than enamel. “Chechens. Technical boys.”

“Violent boys.”

Still engrossed in his game, Crispin waved a hand.

“Well.” Forsyth put the alarm-jumper on the table. “It sounds as if your travels have been more interesting than mine, anyway.”

Crispin nodded. His auburn hair had grown down to his shoulders and it didn’t look as if he’d washed it in months. He had the calm, trusting, unworried face of a child, and the eyes of a maniac. “Still living with the pornographer?”

“Political film maker.”

“Yeah, that.” Crispin thought about it. “This his place, yeah?”

“Yes.”

Crispin shook his head. “It’s not right. Man needs a place of his own. Landlords. I mean…”

“Leon’s been really good to me,” Forsyth told him, as if Crispin didn’t know already.

“Whatever.” Crispin waved his hand again. “Try this, man.” He pointed at the yellow rectangle.

Forsyth picked up the pill and put it in his mouth. “What will it do to me?”

Crispin shook his head emphatically. “Can’t remember. But I like it.”

Forsyth swallowed and sat waiting for something to happen. All of a sudden the Enzyme Kings started up again. Against Leon’s protests, Forsyth had installed soundproofing, on the grounds that he needed to sleep occasionally, so the Ukrainians’ racket was reduced to a manageable level, but the first beat still knocked a print off the wall and made Crispin sit bolt upright, staring wildly about him.

“Jesus f*ck, I’ve been hearing that all afternoon!” he shouted.

“Neighbours,” Forsyth said, feeling himself starting to sink through the substance of the sofa.

“Oh wow,” Crispin said, relaxing. “I thought it was me...”

Forsyth felt himself smile lazily, felt the sofa gently enfolding him, felt his molecules slipping into the spaces between the sofa’s molecules.

“Hey.” Crispin jumped to his feet. “Hey, man. Did I show you this?”

“What?” Forsyth asked, still smiling.

Crispin was grinning maniacally. “You’ll love this. Just look what I learned to do.” He went over to the wall, put out his hand, and pressed the palm against the faded wallpaper.