Chapters (58)
- Cover
- Also by Oliver Harris
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- FORTY-TWO
- FORTY-THREE
- FORTY-FOUR
- FORTY-FIVE
- FORTY-SIX
- FORTY-SEVEN
- FORTY-EIGHT
- FORTY-NINE
- FIFTY
- FIFTY-ONE
- FIFTY-TWO
- FIFTY-THREE
- FIFTY-FOUR
- FIFTY-FIVE
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I finished the wine, found some English money and went out. The cold November night caught me by surprise, but I couldn’t be bothered to return for a coat. Walking felt good. The area suited me: international students, business travellers, tourists. The pubs were small enough to monitor from your seat. I favoured the Queen’s Arms. It didn’t play music, which meant you could hear conversations, sometimes even relax.
I ordered a pint of IPA and the ease of acquiring alcohol seemed briefly hilarious. Back in the land of the infidel, of personal space, cautious eye contact. Out of the realm of sweet teas and shisha and close, wiry bodies. Reacquainted with the blunt functionality of the pint, solid enough to grip and stop yourself from falling. A TV in the corner of the pub showed Sky news: flooding in Yorkshire, a glamorous awards ceremony. I thought through the stories that weren’t there. Someone laughed; a chesty public-school bellow. The man was one of a group of five beside the bar: white shirts, fresh haircuts. The laugher had a cashmere scarf loose around his neck, elbow on the bar, delivering an anecdote about turning up to someone’s place in the country uninvited. He reminded me of Christopher Bohren, in the bar of the Belvédère Hotel, in Istanbul’s Club 29. I had always been fascinated by people with acts, performers who know that, so long as you make life more interesting, you can commit whatever evil you want. Close by him, a young woman turned in circles. She held her phone in front of her face. I tried to see if she was Skyping or recording. She had strong makeup, a dark fringe, ankle boots with silver studs. A friend with hair scraped back in a ponytail watched her from a table in the corner. I angled my face away and tried to remember if they’d been here when I arrived. They were noticeable and I hadn’t noticed them.
When I went up to get another drink the woman with the fringe appeared beside me, clutching a purse.
‘Long day?’ she said.
She sounded Eastern European, maybe Scandinavian. Neither of the drinks on their table was finished; the trip to the bar seemed premature.
‘Long year.’ I smiled and extended a hand. ‘Christopher.’
‘Anna.’
‘Where are you girls off to tonight?’ I asked. She named a club a mile or so away. I tried to imagine what route would bring them via the Queen’s Arms. It was a down-at-heel start to the night.
‘Can I get you a drink?’ I asked.