The Family Remains(46)

‘Hey,’ he starts. ‘Joshua!’

‘Yes. Hey. Speaking.’

‘Joshua. I have your watch and I’m heading into town first thing tomorrow. I can drop it at your hotel if you’re still there.’

‘Oh, that’s great. Thanks, Kris. I’m very grateful! What sort of time do you think it would be?’

‘Oh, like eight o’clock, I guess?’

‘Eight o’clock. Great. I’ll see you then.’

‘You don’t need to get up. I’ll just drop it behind the desk.’

‘I’m an early riser, Kris, I’ll be up. See you tomorrow!’

I can hear the timbre of his voice change slightly. ‘And oh! Joshua! I meant to say to you, but it completely slipped my mind. I had a strange phone call before I took you out yesterday. From someone called Mike? A British accent. Do you know a Mike?’

‘Oh, probably, doesn’t everyone?’

‘Yeah. That’s what I thought. It sounded kind of fake. But they said they were looking for a guy called Henry Lamb? Does that ring a bell?’

My grip on the stem of my champagne glass tightens. I leave a beat and a half, barely a nanosecond, but still a potential giveaway. Then I say, too fast, with too much emphasis, ‘No. No it doesn’t.’

‘Yeah. I thought it was probably nothing to do with you, it was just that they said something about a Finn? Right before he said his name was Mike. He said it was Finn, and then he corrected himself and I didn’t think much of it at the time but then we were talking about my British friend Finn earlier and it just seemed … weird. You know. Kind of strange. I mean, first off, I haven’t heard anything from Finn for, like, months and months, then within like forty-eight hours I hear he’s back in town, then I get that phone call from the guy in the UK and then he comes up in conversation with you and it was, I dunno, weird.’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘That is very weird. What did he want? This Mike guy?’

‘Oh, he said he wanted to tell this “Henry Lamb” that his father was dying and that they couldn’t get a hold of him and that they’d found a search for my bike tour on this guy’s search history and wondered if he’d ever called me.’

My search history.

I blanch. My search history. I have not logged out of Google. That means that anyone with access to any of my other devices would be able to see what I’ve been googling. Including, possibly, although I cannot entirely recall, the hotel I’m staying in.

‘But anyway,’ Kris continues, ‘it’s clearly something completely unconnected, just the universe fucking with us, I guess. So yeah, I’ll see you tomorrow!’

‘Actually, Kris, I’m thinking I might check out of my hotel tonight? It just occurred to me that it would be nice to mix it up a bit, you know? Get a sense of a different neighbourhood. So, give me a minute and I’ll text you the name of the next place I’ll be the moment I’m checked in. Is that OK?’

‘Sure! Sure, that’s fine. Just message me and I’ll see you wherever you may be. Sleep tight, Joshua!’

‘You too, Kris. You too.’

I stay at the bar opposite the apartment block until all the lights go off, one by one, and the building is almost completely dark. Then I head back to my hotel, throw my things in my suitcase (well, that’s a lie, I fold them very neatly because I really don’t want to have to iron them; I have enough on my plate right now, quite frankly, without ironing T-shirts) and check out. I jump in an Uber to take me to the next hotel, which I booked over the phone, because I am clearly not to be trusted not to leave a stinking trail of internet-based clues in my wake. It’s a few doors down from the Magdala bar, and what I believe to be Phin’s place of residence. I WhatsApp the name of the hotel to Kris from the back of the taxi at one in the morning. In my room I unpack, and then I open a beer which I drink in the shower. By the time I am dry, I am too tired to do anything other than put my head on the pillow and sleep.

My alarm wakes me the next morning at 7 a.m. I throw on some clothes and head down to the breakfast room. I speed eat two croissants, suddenly ravenous after nearly a day without food. I slurp back two foamy cappuccinos and I make a bacon sandwich which I fold into a paper napkin and put inside my shoulder bag for later. Then at exactly 8 a.m. I pass nonchalantly through the foyer, my eyes on the plate-glass window to the street beyond, but I hear him before I see him: the animal thrum of his huge bike as it pulls up outside. I watch him unstrap and pull off his helmet, tuck it under his arm, then head towards the hotel. I go to the desk and ask for the Wi-Fi code, even though I already have it, and then I turn from the concierge and beam at Kris as he strides across the foyer and I say, ‘Oh, hello! Kris! Hold on, I’ll be right there.’

I pretend to put the Wi-Fi code into my phone and then I go over to Kris. He is more handsome on second viewing, and I feel strangely shy. An adolescent blush leaches from my chest to the lower half of my face and I breathe in to contain it. ‘How are you?’

‘I’m great,’ he says. ‘Just about to pick up a customer across town. But this is a nice place.’ He looks around at the hotel. ‘I mean the other place was nice, but this is little more … homey. And this is a great neighbourhood. Funnily enough, you’re just up the street from the bikers’ bar I was telling you about yesterday. Anyway. Here’s your watch.’