‘Who is the reporter?’

‘Thomas Thorne. Small fry,’ I say, letting out a sigh. He gives me another nod as he lowers his hand, straightening a glove one finger at a time. I blink at him.

‘Aren’t you going to tell me what the—’

‘Pegasus,’ he interrupts, bearing down on me all over again. ‘You will say nothing to anyone without Pegasus. But be sure to wait for word, next time. You know the rules. You cannot afford to make any more mistakes. Remember that, if you cannot remember anything else.’

And with a flash of trailing willow, he’s gone, disappearing into the storm like vapour, as if he was never here in the first place. Thousands of years of tree trunk prop me up as I look up at the canopy, green leaves turned black in the dark of the storm, threats colliding in my ears. This is how it’s done, they said, way back, at that first whispered meeting; just after that first unexpected brush on the shoulder, a ghost’s finger. You must know that by now, surely? After all, experienced journalists do, don’t they? A tip here, a nod there … perfectly normal stuff. And what goes around, comes around, doesn’t it? One good turn deserves another? 118

Blood trickles from my fingertip as I push through willow, oblivious to everything except the emerging route in my mind, the only route I can possibly take from here. My feet move as if by themselves, but then they would, wouldn’t they? I’ve planned for this since they took her away from me, since they told me to forget she was ever mine; every ticket, every obstacle, even analysing it out loud in those stupid meetings, just so I could keep thinking about it. Victims were failed. I speed up as the gate clangs behind me, weaving in and out of the growing crowds on the pavement – places to go, people to see, rain to get out of. Just a speck of her will be enough. That’s all I need.

~~~

It’s night by the time I get there, sliding silently out of my taxi on to the still-wet street, even though I don’t look suspicious – just some girl in a raincoat getting out of a cab at night on a random residential road in the far suburbs. But still I shiver, tucking my head down inside my collar as I pad down the pavement, staying in the shadows. I’m not supposed to be here, never was, never will be. I’m the interloper in this world, not her.

The countryside night wraps round me, all velvet dark as I pass luxuriously spread houses, skate across driveways guarded by fat, pruned bushes, ducking below the odd lit window, amber patchwork on black.