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FORTUNE COULDN’T REMEMBER PUTTING THE DO NOT DISTURB sign on his hotel door. He couldn’t have done it when he left, because it had been all he could do to stand up, walk down the corridor, call a lift. Must have been on before; he must have hung it the night before. That must have been it.

  He inserted his key card, heard the click and saw the small light on the lock turn from red to green. He opened the door. The lights were off and the curtains were drawn, what little light there was outside not making it inside the room. The door swung closed behind him before he could turn on the light switch, and for a moment he couldn’t find it, couldn’t remember where it was, though he’d been staying in this room for what felt like weeks. At last he found it, turned it on, and caught sight of himself in the mirror. He looked terrible, a man he could barely call overweight any more, who probably wasn’t. The cancer diet. Everyone should try it.

  There was a short entryway before the room opened up. In front of Fortune was a table. On the right was the main part of the room, where the bed was. It was still in darkness, but he could see right away that somebody was on the bed, and that whoever it was, they weren’t moving. He turned on the main light and saw that it was Charlie Jackson. He was lying on his back, his head towards Fortune, bent back over the edge of the bed so that from Fortune’s standing position, Jackson’s eyes looked right into his.

  ‘Are you all right?’ said Fortune, but he didn’t expect an answer. The last dead body he had seen, apart from that poor girl in the morgue, had been his father’s twenty years ago, but he recognized the look. Eyes open but without sight, all comprehension gone, all hope, laughter, disdain, hate. He walked towards Jackson’s corpse, walked slowly before reminding himself that Jackson was dead and it was unlikely he’d wake up. He got closer, closer still, and bent to see that Jackson had a wound in the side of his head, like a broken floorboard but red, light and dark, a mess of dry blood, a wide stain on the white sheet beneath his head. Fortune wondered who could have done such a thing and then backed away from the body, stood up straight. He realized with a twist in his heart and a drop in his stomach that this was his hotel room and that he was the prime suspect, given that he’d been to see Jackson a couple of days before and that his daughter had been involved with him and that Fortune had recently stolen millions and was clearly unhinged. He was the only likely suspect and he was in deep, deep trouble.

  He walked backwards, bumped up against the table, felt with his hands behind him and skirted it, found a chair and sat down. He looked at Jackson for some time, then stood and turned off the light and sat back down, watching the indistinct shape of Jackson’s corpse in the gloom. Like it might magically come alive, back to life, and all of this might go away. Like it might never have happened, Jackson, the money, his daughter, everything. Jackson didn’t move but Fortune knew that he had to, that he had to get out of there. He needed to put a lot of distance between himself and where he was right now. Because he was now wanted for embezzlement on a massive scale, and very soon would be for murder as well.

  How had this happened? Who was doing this to him? And who – and at this thought he grunted in the darkness, almost in appalled admiration – would believe him? He’d been set up, manipulated, toyed with from the off. Only now could he truly empathize with what his daughter had been put through. The gradual, unanswerable deconstruction of her life. Now, it seemed, it was his turn. But why? All this effort. Why?

  He stood up and found clothes, luggage, started packing in the near darkness. He never wanted to look at Jackson’s face again, never wanted to see those dreadful eyes. He needed passport, cash. His passport he’d given to the customs official, Sunita Gandham. Cash, he had less than a hundred on him, and his accounts would have been frozen. It had been decades since Fortune had been short of cash. Right now, he didn’t have any. No passport, no cash. Great start.

  He heard a noise, a buzz. He stopped packing, looked around and saw a light next to the bed. The screen of a mobile phone, illuminated in the room’s artificial twilight. It wasn’t his, wasn’t his phone; that was still in his pocket. He walked towards the phone like it was a suspect device, bent down to get a better look. It was just a phone. A phone with a message notification on it. From Starry Ubado. Starry Ubado. His daughter’s troll, the man who had left her such vile comments, left such hatred. He picked the phone up and tapped the screen. The message opened:

  How are you enjoying it?

  He looked at the message, gazed at it, but after a few seconds it disappeared, again like it might never have happened. How are you enjoying it? The question was beyond cruel, was gleeful in its malice. Starry Ubado. The person who had abused his daughter, dismantled her life piece by piece, taken her. And who was now taking a wrecking ball to Fortune’s life. Who the hell was he? Fortune felt a deep anger, an impotent fury. Involuntarily his hands made fists and he felt his heart racing, anger, heat on his skin.

  He pressed reply and a blank message appeared. Who are you? he typed, and hit send. He watched the screen for some time, for minutes, but nothing happened, nothing came through. Starry Ubado, whoever you are, I’ll find you, he thought. I don’t care what it takes, what it costs me. I’ll find you. It’s all I have left to live for.

  The phone had the time displayed on its screen and Fortune realized that he had been in his hotel room for nearly an hour. Time to move. He put the phone into his pocket, put his daughter’s computer in his case, and looked around. What had he forgotten? For a brief moment he considered wiping the place for prints, before remembering that he had been living here, that everybody knew him by sight and that, basically, he was screwed and there was no point, none at all. He put on his coat, pulled out the handle of his case, and wheeled it to the door. Again he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He looked like a typical jet-lagged approaching-retirement-age corporate trouble-shooter, predictable, boring, the kind of man who, he was sure people would say, was the last person you’d expect to leave behind a corpse, its head broken open, on their hotel bed. He checked that the Do Not Disturb sign was still in place and wondered just how long it would stay there, how long he’d got.

  *

  Fortune had a credit card and he used it to pay his hotel bill. He walked to the nearest cashpoint, used the same card to withdraw five hundred pounds, the most it would allow. He didn’t expect the card to work for long, imagined it would be cancelled soon enough, once one bank department managed to talk to another and tell them what he’d done. Which, actually, he hadn’t done. He didn’t know how far five hundred pounds, six hundred including the money he already had, would get him in London. He didn’t know the price of milk, or bread, or the Tube. Why would he? But, he suspected, it wasn’t going to go very far. Not very far at all.

  There was one thing, however, that had got Fortune through thirty years of high-pressure corporate life. He was, he knew, excellent in a crisis. Impossible to fluster, cool-headed, the kind of person who could make quick decisions in stressful situations that, when the dust had settled, usually proved to be excellent. Cold-blooded was another way of putting it, he supposed. Although it remained to be seen how well these skills transferred from the corporate world to life on the run.

  The first thing he needed was to lose his mobile phone. He opened it, took out the battery and SIM, dropped all the pieces in different bins. Next, somewhere to sleep. Somewhere cheap, somewhere with Wi-Fi, and somewhere discreet. He knew plenty of discreet places, but that kind of discretion always came at a price, one he couldn’t afford. He bought a ticket for the Tube, a day’s travel: £12. He blinked at the machine. Jesus. How did people live in this city? He rode the escalator down to the platform and took the Central Line eastbound to Oxford Circus. If you wanted advice on living below the radar, off grid, there was one place he knew to go.

  Jake was in the same doorway as the last time Fortune had seen him, two days ago. He was asleep, curled up underneath his blanket in the foetal position, and he looked very young and very vulnerable. Fortune hesit
ated, didn’t want to wake him, but Jake opened his eyes and said, ‘Back again?’

  ‘I wondered if you’d still be here. Wasn’t the money enough?’

  ‘I prefer it out here. I put it in the bank.’

  Fortune nodded, not understanding but willing to accept Jake’s choice. ‘I need your help.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Jake blinked his eyes open properly, sat up, yawned, shivered. ‘What kind of help?’

  ‘Do you mind?’ Fortune said, nodding at the space next to Jake.

  ‘What? Yeah, sure, whatever, man.’

  Fortune laid his case down in the doorway and sat on it. Jake watched him curiously. ‘You joining me?’

  ‘I might do,’ said Fortune. He took out cigarettes and offered one to Jake, who took it. Fortune lit their cigarettes and they sat there, watching people pass by, smoking quietly. It was dry, but there was a cold wind and Fortune soon felt it, wondered how anybody could live out here 24/7.

  ‘What kind of help?’ Jake said again, exhaling smoke as he spoke that was immediately stolen away by the wind.

  ‘I’m in trouble,’ said Fortune. ‘Sophie, too.’

  ‘What kind of trouble?’ said Jake. ‘I know about trouble.’

  ‘She’s been kidnapped by somebody who plans to kill her in seven days,’ Fortune said. ‘And very soon I’ll be wanted for murder.’

  ‘Yeah?’ said Jake. He took a last drag of his cigarette, right down to the filter, flicked it away. ‘Never met that kind of trouble.’

  ‘I haven’t got much money, and I need somewhere to stay. Cheap. I need internet connection. No questions. Know anywhere?’

  ‘Want your own room?’

  Fortune looked at Jake, frowned as if he’d asked Fortune whether the earth was round. ‘Of course I want my own room.’

  Jake laughed. ‘Course you do. Ever hear the phrase “beggars can’t be choosers”?’

  ‘I’m not there yet.’

  ‘Doesn’t take long. Believe me. You want your money back?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Sure? It’s no problem.’

  Fortune wondered how many other people were like Jake, open and honest and generous. He hadn’t met many, working in finance. Not over the past couple of decades.

  ‘I’m sure,’ he said. ‘So. You know anywhere I can stay?’

  ‘Know plenty of places,’ said Jake, getting to his feet and looking down at Fortune. ‘But first you’re going to need to ditch that coat.’

  The place Jake showed Fortune was a Victorian town house in west London, which they walked to because Jake couldn’t afford the Tube. It took an hour and Fortune felt the toll of it, felt old, his hands shaking when they stopped, his breathing short and ragged. Plus, his new coat was nowhere near as warm as the camel hair. It was green and came from a vintage clothing store and could have done with a wash.

  ‘You all right?’ said Jake.

  ‘No,’ said Fortune. He sat on a low wall, hands on his knees, head bowed. ‘I’ve got lung cancer. Probably terminal.’

  ‘Wow,’ said Jake. ‘Anything else?’ He laughed. ‘You know, you’re good for me. Nice to know someone worse off.’

  ‘Charming,’ said Fortune.

  ‘You ready?’

  Fortune stood. ‘Yes. This is it, right?’ The house had unpainted window frames, dirty net curtains behind the glass, debris piled beneath, in the basement level.

  ‘This is it. Hey, you said you wanted cheap.’

  ‘Let’s go.’

  They walked up the steps. Jake rang the bell, which made a whirring sound like an engine that refused to turn over. They waited, listening to sounds within. A man opened the door. He was wearing a leather jacket and had dark hair, dark skin, stubble. Fortune, a man accustomed to five-star hotels and obsequious staff, felt his spirits die a little.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘My friend here’s looking for a room.’

  ‘Twenty a night,’ the man said.

  ‘Have you got Wi-Fi?’ Fortune said.

  ‘Yeah, I got Wi-Fi.’ Fortune couldn’t place his accent, thought perhaps it was Turkish. Or Bulgarian, Romanian, Albanian. Or Kosovar. Could be from anywhere. ‘You want Wi-Fi, it’s twenty-five a night.’

  ‘Single room?’

  The man shrugged. ‘Yeah. Single room.’

  ‘Can I have a look?’

  ‘Never seen a room before? You want it, give me the money.’ He had an agitated air, the man, his hands bunching and unbunching, like he really needed to be doing something else, couldn’t wait to get back to it. Dismantling stolen cars, thought Fortune. Or worse.

  ‘What’s your name?’ Fortune said.

  The man shrugged. ‘Why you want to know? Georgi.’

  ‘Georgi. All right, Georgi, is there water? A shower?’

  ‘Think this is?’ Georgi said. ‘Yeah, I got that. You want the room?’

  Jake laughed to himself, a soft chuckle. ‘I guess, if you don’t like it, you can always find somewhere else tomorrow.’

  ‘Shit,’ said Fortune, a rare profanity. ‘Okay,’ he told Georgi. He took out money, handed it to him. ‘Here. Are you going to carry my bag?’ But Georgi had already turned away, gone back inside. Fortune turned to Jake. ‘Would you like a bed too? I’ll pay.’

  ‘Nah,’ said Jake. ‘You’re all right.’

  ‘Too good for it?’

  ‘Something like that. You need me, you know where to find me.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Fortune.

  ‘No problem,’ Jake said and skipped down the steps. He looked back at Fortune and laughed again. ‘Sweet dreams,’ he called up.

  Fortune nodded, picked up his case and headed inside, to a different kind of life entirely.

  thirty-three

  HE PLAYS GAMES. HE LIKES TO PLAY GAMES, IT’S WHAT HE does. Everything’s a game. Everything. But there’s only going to be one winner, isn’t there? It’s not a fair contest. He calls the shots, he pulls the strings, he manipulates and plays with people. With me. It’s all a game for him, but it’s not for me because I don’t know all the rules. I know this one though: at the end, I die. That’s the aim of the game. I lose. I die. But it’s no fun for him if it’s not a game. It has to be a game.

  So here’s what’s new: the troll is at least, like, a hundred times more evil than I thought he was, and about as crazy, too, in a very, very scary way.

  This morning he knocked on the door and said, you need to turn and face the far wall. Why? I said. He didn’t answer immediately, but then he said, because I told you to. And if you don’t, I will leave you with a life-changing injury.

  Like on the news. I always wondered what that meant, a life-changing injury. Losing an arm? An eye? Whatever, I didn’t actually want to find out, not right then, so I turned and faced the wall and told him that I’d done it. I heard the door open and close and I thought he was in the room, and my whole back felt like it was covered in static electricity, I was shaking all over. But then I heard his voice from through the door, and he said I could turn around. So I turned around and there was a black sack on the floor, or it might have been a pillowcase. He said, put it on your head. Right over your head so you can’t see. So I picked it up and I put it over my head, feeling scared and ridiculous all at the same time, but at least it was clean, it had been washed, it was made of cotton and I could smell the fabric conditioner. It’s on, I told him. And I heard the door open and he took my arm and said, follow me.

  He’s got this weird way of talking, precise and with this kind of … certainty. Like he’s some kind of religious convert, and he doesn’t need to question what he does because he knows that it’s right. Listening to him talk, you just know that there’s no negotiation to be had. It’s going to be this way. End of. Honestly, he terrifies me.

  Where are we going? I asked him, and he said, we’re going to the Games Room. What’s that? I said. And he was silent for a while, and then he said, the Games Room is a magical place, full of surprises and unexpected happenings. He didn’t say anyth
ing else, and after a while I said, what? But he didn’t answer, just led me along.

  Then he opened a door and pulled me through, holding onto my arm. He told me to stand still and not to move, so I didn’t, I just stood there. And then I heard the door close and he spoke through it, telling me that I could take my hood off. For some reason I really didn’t want to, I really really didn’t want to, but what else was I going to do? So I took it off, and took a look around the Games Room.

  It was quite small, kind of suburban-living-room size, with brick walls painted black. There was this totally incongruous standard lamp in the corner with a red shade and red tassels hanging all round it, and its bulb must have been very weak because it hardly gave any light. There was nothing else in the room except for two iron rings set into the wall, and a hook in the middle of the ceiling. And a pile of paper in the middle of the floor. That’s it. Maybe, I thought, it won’t be so bad. How bad can it be?

  So, the game, the troll said through the door. Are you ready? He didn’t wait for a reply. You have got exactly ten minutes, he said. I would like you to arrange the papers in the correct order. If you get the order correct, you eat. If you don’t, then you don’t eat for two days. Do you understand the rules?

  You’re nuts, I said.

  He didn’t laugh at this and he was silent, and I regretted telling him he was nuts. But then he said, ten minutes. If you want to eat, I suggest that you concentrate.

  And off he went, leaving me alone in the Games Room, staring at a pile of paper. I was so confused, so bewildered and baffled that I almost laughed, although I didn’t.

  There were six sheets of paper. I spread them out on the floor. On each sheet were two letters.

  AK.

  TF.

  SS.

  OM.

  GA.

  FL.

  You? No, me neither. I stared at those sheets of paper for, well, for ages. It felt like ages. It’s amazing how slowly ten minutes can pass. States, that was my first thought. AK. Arkansas? GA was definitely Georgia. FL was Florida. OM … Omaha? Was that a state? Or Oklahoma, but I thought that was OK, though it could be OM. TF? It wasn’t Tennessee, and I couldn’t think of any other states beginning in T, but then, I wasn’t an expert. SS? No, nothing. And anyway, what kind of order would you put them in? South to north? Alphabetically? Size, smallest to biggest? Not a clue.