Иэн Рэнкин - The Travelling Companion

“I’m going to take that bath,” I said.

“Good idea,” she replied, sounding only half-convinced. “There’s only the one towel though, and it’s already wet.”

“I’ll be fine.” I gave a smile and a wink and managed to escape the airless room. The bath was old and stained but hot water gushed from its tap. I locked the door before stripping. There were bruises on my body I was at a loss to explain. Piled on the floor, my clothes looked like rags. I sank into the water and slid beneath its surface. I had been soaking only a couple of minutes when Charlotte tried the door.

“I won’t be long,” I called out.

“I thought you wanted someone to scrub your back.”

“Another time.”

I could sense her lingering. But she moved away eventually, her bedroom door closing. I was debating my next move. Get dressed and slink away? Would that make me a coward? No, I would talk to her face-to-face and explain everything. I would tell her about Benjamin Turk and Alice and my newly blossoming life. We would part as friends, and I would then pay a visit to Harry and Mike, where both men would learn what happened to people who crossed me.

“Yes,” I said to the bathroom walls, nodding slowly to myself.

And then I closed my eyes and slid below the waterline again.

The water had turned tepid by the time I climbed out. I used the towel as best I could, and slid back into my clinging clothes. Blood still trickled from the cut, so I held the towel as a compress as I unlocked the door and padded down the hall. The door to Charlotte’s room stood gaping. Charlotte herself lay on the bed, half-undressed and with a scarf knotted tightly around her neck, digging into the flesh. Her eyes and tongue bulged, her face almost purple. I knew she was dead, and knew, too, the identity of the culprit. She had unpacked one dress from her rucksack, the one almost identical to Alice’s. Pushing open the shutters, I looked down onto the courtyard and saw a familiar flash of color. Alice was heading for the street.

I studied Charlotte a final time, knowing there was nothing to be done, then ran to the stairs, barging past the hotelier, who was on the way up. I crossed the courtyard, scanning the pavement to left and right. Making a decision, I started running again. I didn’t know Alice’s address or even her surname. Would she head for the Seine and the derelicts we had shared our wine with? Or to the bookshop, where she could wait for me on my infested alcove bed? Bars and cafes and the usual landmarks... We had criss-crossed the city, making it our own.

But there was only one destination I could think of — Turk’s apartment.

She wasn’t outside, nor was she seated on the stairs. I climbed to the top floor and tried the door — locked, as before. But this time when I hit it with my fist, there were sounds from inside. Benjamin Turk opened the door and studied me from head to foot.

“It looks to me as though you’re finally ready,” he said with a thin smile, ushering me in.

“Have you seen Alice?” I demanded.

“Forget about her,” he said, his back to me as he hobbled towards the living-room. “I’ve laid everything out for you.” He was pointing towards the desk. Various documents lay there. “Took me some time and effort, but you’ll only begin to comprehend when you examine them.”

“What are they?”

“The story of Edwin Hythe. Sit down. Read. I’ll fetch you a drink.”

“I don’t want a drink.” But I realized that I did — I wanted the darkest wine in the largest glass imaginable. Turk seemed to understand this, and returned with a glass filled almost to the brim. I gulped it down, exhaling only afterwards.

“Does the wound hurt?” he was asking.

I dabbed at my head. “No,” I said.

“Then you should read.” He pulled over a chair so he could sit next to me, and while I focused on the various sheets of paper he explained the significance.

“Stevenson and Hythe were close friends as students, belonging to the same clubs and drinking in the same low dives late into the night. Then the murder of a prostitute is recorded in the newspaper and there’s a parting. Hythe disappears from Stevenson’s life. The murderer is never apprehended. When Stevenson writes a novel about just such a woman, his wife persuades him it is not going to be good for his reputation. But Hythe, too, hears about it, and makes his way to Bournemouth. He comes from money so he stays at the best hotel in town, a hotel that keeps impeccable records.” He tapped the photocopied sheet showing Hythe’s signature in the guest book, along with the duration of his stay. “It’s fairly obvious that Hythe was the killer and that Stevenson was either a witness or else was privy to his friend’s confession. The golden young man Stevenson had known in Edinburgh was by now a dissolute figure, in trouble with creditors, disowned by his family, earning a living of sorts from any number of illegal activities.” He tapped a series of court reports and newspaper stories. “Pimping, trafficking, receiving stolen goods... And with a temper on him. One arrest talks of the superhuman rage of the man after too much drink had been taken.” Turk paused. “And when Hythe left Bournemouth, Stevenson sat down and wrote Jekyll and Hyde in three days. Not the version we know, but one set in Edinburgh, where Hythe aka Hyde attacks and kills a harlot rather than trampling a child. Again, he was dissuaded from publishing it. Fanny knew what it would mean — people in Edinburgh would talk. They would remember the killing of the prostitute. They would know the name Hythe and point the finger from him to his close friend Robert Louis Stevenson. That couldn’t happen — it would mean prison or even worse. The book had to be destroyed, the story reworked, and Hythe’s name changed to Hyde.”

“All right,” I said quietly. Tears were falling from my eyes on to the desk. I was seeing Charlotte, in that horrific pose on her bed, her life snuffed out. I was about to say as much, but Turk was opening a drawer and pulling out more sheets. They comprised a family tree, along with some drawings — portraits of the same man, showing him in his late teens and then in raddled middle age. He looked so familiar to me...

“Edwin Hythe,” Turk was explaining. “The first time I saw you, I was struck by the resemblance. This was some time back, through the window of the shop. I asked George about you and decided it was no mere coincidence. Which is why I asked him to send you on that particular errand.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s on your mother’s side,” he said, running a finger back up the family tree from my name. “You are descended from Edwin Hythe. His blood in your blood, and with it, unfortunately, his curse.”

“His what?” I was rubbing at my eyes, trying to blink them into some kind of focus.

“Your devil has been long caged, Ronald. He has come out roaring !”

There was a mad gleam in his eye as he spoke. I leapt to my feet. “You’re crazy,” I told him. “ You’re the devil here! You and your damned Alice!”

“There is no Alice.”

“She knows you — she runs errands...”

But he was shaking his head. “There’s only you, Ronald. You and the demon that’s been sleeping deep inside you, waiting for the right catalyst. Paris is that catalyst.”

“Where are the manuscripts?” I demanded, looking about me. “The two unpublished novels?”

He gave a shrug. “You’ve seen all there is. Nothing more than fragments.”

“You’re lying!”

“Believe what you will.”

“Alice is real !”

He was chuckling as he shook his head again. His silver-topped walking-stick glinted at me from its resting-place by the desk. I grabbed it and raised it over my head. Rather than shrink from me in fear, his smile seemed to widen. I bared my teeth and struck him across the side of the head. He staggered but stayed on his feet, so I hit him again. He wheeled away from me into the long hallway. I stayed a few footsteps behind him as I continued to rain down blows upon his head and back until he fell, just inside the front door. He was still conscious, but his breathing was ragged, blood bubbling from his mouth. A few more blows and he lay still. I hauled him by his feet away from the door so I could open it and make my escape.