Иэн Рэнкин - The Travelling Companion

We then fell silent as two new arrivals entered the alley. They either hadn’t noticed that they had an audience, or else they simply weren’t bothered. The woman squatted in front of the man and unzipped his trousers. I had seen more than a few prostitutes on my nighttime walks through the city — some of whom had tried tempting me — and here was another, hard at work while the woozy client tipped a bottle of vodka to his mouth.

And suddenly I knew.

The Travelling Companion...

I lifted a hand to my forehead with the shock of it, while my companions took a step back towards their kitchen, perhaps fearing I was about to be sick.

“No,” I whispered to myself. “That can’t be right.” Harry was looking at me, and I returned his stare. “It doesn’t exist,” I told him. “It doesn’t exist.”

Having said which, I weaved my way back towards the mouth of the alley, almost stumbling into the woman and her client. He swore at me, and I swore back, almost pausing to take a swing at him. It wasn’t the alcohol or the dope making my head reel as I sought the relative calm of the darkened Shakespeare and Company.

It was Benjamin Turk’s message to me...

I was unlocking the doors next morning when Mr. Whitman called down to tell me I had a phone call.

“And by the way, how did you get on with Ben Turk?”

“I have a note of the books he wants to sell,” I replied, not meeting his eyes.

“He’s an interesting character. Anyway, go talk to your woman friend...”

It was Charlotte. She had found work at a theater box office and was using their phone.

“I need to pass the time somehow. It’s so boring here without you.”

I was leaning down to rub at the fresh insect-bites above my ankles. The list from Turk was folded up in the back pocket of my trousers. I knew I had to tear a strip from it before showing it to my employer.

“Are you there?” Charlotte was asking into the silence.

“I’m here.”

“Is everything okay? You sound...”

“I’m fine. A glass of wine too many last night.”

I heard her laugh. “Paris is leading you astray.”

“Maybe just a little.”

“Well, that can be a good thing.” She paused. “You remember our little chat, the night before you left?”

“Yes.”

“I meant it, you know. I’m ready to take things a bit further. More than ready.”

She meant sex. Until now, we had kissed, and gone from fumbling above clothes to rummaging beneath them, but nothing more.

“It’s what you want, too, isn’t it?” she asked.

“Doesn’t everyone?” I was able to answer, my cheeks coloring.

“So when you come back... we’ll do something about it, yes?”

“If you’re sure. I mean, I don’t want to push you into anything.”

More laughter. “I seem to be the one doing the pushing. I’m thinking of you right now, you know. Thinking of us lying together, joined together — tell me you don’t think about that, too.”

“I have to go, Charlotte. There are customers...” I looked around the empty upstairs room.

“Soon, Ronnie, soon. Just remember.”

“I will. I’ll call you tonight.”

I put the phone down and stared at it, then took the note from my pocket and tore across it. Downstairs, my employer was manning the till.

“You look like hell, by the way,” he said as I handed him the list. “Did Ben ply you with booze?”

“Do you know much about him?”

“He comes from money. Pitched up here for want of anywhere better — not unlike my good self. Drinks fine wines, buys books he wants to own but not necessarily read.” He was scanning the list. “He’d probably give these to us for free, you know. I think he just needs space for more of the same.” He paused, fixing me with a look. “What did you think of him?”

“Pleasant enough. Maybe a bit eccentric...” I suppressed a shiver as I remembered waking on Turk’s bed, shirt open, and him dabbing at my chest. “Is he...” I tried to think how to phrase the question. “A ladies’ man?”

Mr. Whitman hooted. “Listen to you,” he said. “Remind me — which century is this?” After his laughter had subsided, he fixed his eyes on mine again. “Ladies, gents, fish and fowl and the beasts of field and wood,” he said. “Now off you go and find yourself some breakfast. I’ll manage these heaving crowds somehow.” He waved his arm in the direction of the deserted shop.

It was warm outside, and noisy with tourists and traffic. I slung my jacket over my shoulder as I walked to my usual café, only four shop-fronts away. Benjamin Turk was seated at an outdoor table, finishing a cafe au lait and reading Le Monde . A silver-topped walking-stick rested against the rim of the table. He gestured for me to join him, so I dragged out the spare metal chair and sat down, slipping my jacket over the back of my chair.

“It was the local prostitutes who called Stevenson ‘Velvet Jacket,’ you know,” Turk said.

The liveried waiter stood ready. I ordered a coffee of my own.

“And an orange juice,” Turk added.

The waiter gave a little bow and headed back inside. Turk folded the newspaper and laid it next to his cup.

“I was coming to check on you,” he said. “But the lure of caffeine was too strong.”

“I’m fine,” I assured him.

“And you’ve looked at the list, I presume?”

I took the scrap of paper from my pocket and placed it between us. He gave an indulgent smile.

“It’s a book Stevenson wrote,” I said. “Never quite completed. His publisher liked it well enough but considered the contents too sordid.”

“It concerned a prostitute,” Turk agreed.

“Set in Italy, I think.”

“Some of it.” Turk’s eyes were gleaming.

“Fanny made Stevenson put it on the fire,” I said quietly.

“Ah, the formidable Fanny Osbourne. He met her in France, you know. He was visiting Grez. I suppose he became infatuated.” He paused, playing with his cup, moving it in circles around its saucer. “It wasn’t the only book of his she persuaded him to sacrifice...”

“ Jekyll and Hyde ,” I said, as my own coffee arrived, and with it the glass of juice. “The first draft, written in three days.”

“Yes.”

“Though some commentators say three days is impossible.”

“Despite the author’s Presbyterian work ethic. But then he was taking drugs, wasn’t he?”

“Ergotine, and possibly cocaine.”

“Quite the cocktail for a writer whose imagination was already inflamed. You know why he consigned it to the flames?”

“Fanny persuaded him. She thought it would ruin his reputation.”

“Because it was too raw, too shocking.” He watched me as I finished the orange juice in two long gulps, watched as I poured hot milk into the viscous black coffee.

“Nobody really knows, though,” I eventually said. “Because only Stevenson and Fanny saw that first version. Same goes for The Travelling Companion .”

“Not quite.”

“Yes, his publisher read that,” I corrected myself.

“Not quite,” Turk repeated, almost in a whisper.

“You’re not seriously telling me you have that manuscript?”

“Do you really think any author could burn the only copy of a work they considered worthwhile?”

“Didn’t Fanny see it burn in the grate?”

“She saw something burn. She saw paper. I’m guessing there would have been plenty of paper in the vicinity.”

Lifting the coffee towards my mouth, I realized my hand was shaking. He waited until I’d taken a first sip.

“I have both manuscripts,” he then announced, causing me to splutter. I rubbed the back of my hand across my lips.