How to Stop Time(72)

‘I don’t know. Honestly, I just don’t know.’

‘Did she talk about places?’

‘She’d travelled. She talked about places she’d been. She’d been to Canada.’

‘Canada? Where? Toronto? I was in Toronto.’

‘I don’t know. I don’t think so. She’d also spent a lot of time in Scotland, I think. Her voice was very Scottish. I think she’d travelled around, though. Through Europe.’

‘Do you think she’s in London?’

‘I honestly don’t know.’

I sit back. Try to think. I am simultaneously relieved that Marion is still alive – or had been until recently – and worried for whatever torments she has known.

I wonder if the society has caught up with her. I wonder if someone has tried to silence her. I wonder if Hendrich knows about this and hasn’t told me. I wonder if someone has taken her. The institute in Berlin. Or someone else.

‘Listen, Mary,’ I say, before I leave, ‘I think it’s important that you don’t talk about the past any more. It may have been dangerous for Marion, and it is dangerous for you. You can think about it. But it’s dangerous to talk about your age.’

She winces at some invisible pain as she shifts, with careful effort, in her seat. A minute goes by. She is mulling my words, and dismissing them.

‘I loved someone once. A woman. I loved her madly. Do you understand? We were together, in secret, for nearly twenty years. And we were told we couldn’t talk about that love . . . because it was dangerous. It was dangerous to love.’

I nod. I understand.

‘There comes a time when the only way to start living is to tell the truth. To be who you really are, even if it is dangerous.’

I hold Mary’s hand. ‘You have helped me more than you know.’

One of the nurses comes over and asks if I want a cup of tea and I say I am fine.

And then I ask Mary, in a low voice, ‘Have you ever heard of the Albatross Society?’

‘No. Can’t say I have.’

‘Well, just be careful. Please, don’t talk about, you know . . .’

I look at the clock on the wall. It is a quarter to three. In three hours’ time I need to be on a plane to Dubai, en route to Sydney.

‘Be careful,’ I tell Mary.

She shakes her head. Closes her eyes. Her sigh sounds closer to a cat’s hiss. ‘I am too old to be scared any more. I am too old to lie.’ She leans forward in her chair, and clasps her walking stick until her knuckles whiten. ‘And so are you.’

I step outside and phone Hendrich.

‘Tom? How are things?’

‘Did you know she was alive?’

‘Who?’

‘Marion. Marion. Have you found her? Did you know?’

‘Tom, calm down. No, Tom. Have you got a lead?’

‘She is alive. She was at a hospital in Southall. And then she disappeared.’

‘Disappeared? As in, taken?’

‘I don’t know. She might’ve run away.’

‘From a hospital?’

‘It was a mental hospital.’

A postman trundles along the pavement. ‘I don’t know where she is,’ I whisper into the phone. ‘But I can’t go to Australia. I need to find her.’

‘If she has been taken . . .’

‘I don’t know that.’

‘If she has been taken you will not find her alone. Listen, listen. I will get Agnes to put her ear to the ground in Berlin. After Australia this will be our chief operation. We will find her. If she’s been taken she’ll probably be in Berlin, or Beijing, or Silicon Valley. You won’t find her alone. I mean, you’ve been in London and you haven’t found her.’

‘I haven’t been looking. I mean, I’ve been side-tracked.’

‘Yes, Tom. Yes. You finally see it. You’ve been side-tracked. That is exactly it. Now, we will sort this. But you have a flight to catch.’

‘I can’t. I can’t.’

‘If you want to find Marion, you need to focus again, Tom. You need to go and bring your friend in. Who knows? He himself might have information for us. You know how it is. Albas are the people to ask about albas. You need to get back on track, Tom. The truth is: you don’t know where Marion is. But we know where your friend is. And so does Berlin. Marion has survived for over four hundred years. She’ll still be alive for another week. Just do this in Australia and I swear – I swear – we will work together and we will find her. You have a lead, yes?’

I can’t tell him about Mary Peters. I don’t want to endanger a woman who clearly would never agree to be a part of the society. ‘I, just, I need to find her.’

‘We will, Tom,’ he says, and I hate him almost as much as I believe him. I have doubted him many times, but the truth is, I feel it too. I feel every word as he says it. ‘I can sense it. I have experienced so much past that I can sense the future. I know. I know. We are nearly there, Tom. You will see her again. But, first, if you want to save your friend, you really need to get to the airport. Omai needs you.’

And the conversation ends and, as always, I do what Hendrich wants me to do. Because he is the best hope I have.