Will Wiles - Plume

‘Not the first time, right?’

I shook my head. ‘I’ve been sloppy,’ I said, the words slipping.

‘Jesus,’ Pierce said. ‘Are you OK? You look like you’re going to be sick.’

‘Could I have a glass of water?’

‘Sure.’ He rose at once and disappeared into the kitchen. A cupboard opened, a tap ran. ‘I’m not trying to get you into trouble. You can relax.’

He was wrong about that – I could in no way relax. Just try to relax, when the gathering shadow that’s been chasing you for months appears in front of you, its terrible face bared, and you know that all this time you have been running straight to it. And ‘relaxing’ suggested tension, tightly wound muscles, stiff sinews. That was not how I felt. I felt undone , as if I were unravelling, unspooling. Pierce returned with a tall glass of tap water, which he placed in front of me, but he did not sit. Instead he went back to the kitchen.

There was a single ice cube in the water, a tiny kindness that I found almost overwhelming, and which did more to convince me that Pierce meant me no harm than anything he said. In putting these truths to me, he had spoken without condemnation or judgement but in the tone of a professional, a counsellor or doctor – or a sympathetic interviewer.

‘Thank you,’ I said, late. I took a sip of the water. Putting the glass back on the table, I saw that the DVR was still running, its red light still lit, counter still counting. This would all make uncomfortable listening, if I ever got around to that stage.

When Pierce came back, he was holding two small cut-glass tumblers and a bottle of whisky – Maker’s Mark, with the melted plastic around the neck of the bottle to look like a wax seal. Though I dearly wanted a drink, the sight of the bourbon filled me with fear. There was the usual reflexive secrecy of the addict – the fear of being seen indulging in addictive behaviour, a fear married to shame. But there was more. I tend to avoid spirits, even wine. Deep in me, I knew that it was too easy to overdo it that way. And by ‘overdo it’, I don’t mean getting incapably drunk – that was the work of every evening. I meant killing myself.

‘I don’t usually drink whisky,’ I said.

‘What do you usually drink?’

‘Stella.’

‘Stella. Huh. Wouldn’t have guessed. Wait.’ Pierce was off again, another trip to the kitchen. A fridge door rattled open, bottles clinked, a bottle top clattered against a hard surface.

‘Not Stella, but.’ It was a bottle of Czech lager.

‘Thank you.’ Still, the reflex reflexed – don’t let him see you drink – though it was clearly far past the point of being important, and that bottle, condensation making a stripe of light down its side, was the most welcome sight in the world. The mists receded, the world sharpened again, just from the sight of that hard green glass.

‘How many people know?’

I didn’t know what he meant; the question interrupted my thrill at having that cold bottle in my hand. ‘About the, er, problems with the articles, or about the drinking?’

‘Both. Either. I assume they are related phenomena.’

Pierce’s attitude, I realised, his demeanour, was entirely journalistic. Pleasant enough, but that pleasantry was like the soft toy dangling in the dentist’s office to distract child patients from what else was there. The equipment. I had been right about his professional mien, I recognised it – I was being interviewed.

‘No one,’ I said.

‘Really?’ Pierce’s eyebrows rose.

‘Maybe one or two people in the office have suspicions,’ I said, thinking of Polly. And Kay.

‘Quin likes data,’ Pierce said. ‘He was raised by spreadsheets, I don’t know. When he is confronted with a problem, he digs out all the data he can find, digs and digs and digs, and eventually the problem just isn’t there any more. When you have enough computing power, and enough eager employees and interns, you can do amazing things. When you have enough data.’

In a ball of numbness, I was hyper-aware of the cool weight of the bottle in my hand, the tiny interactions of the pads of my fingers against glass and condensation. I took a deep drink from it, realising as I did so that I had been deliberately delaying that moment – the usual ostentatious show of restraint, the one I used in pubs, drinking in company, to show that I didn’t have a problem. It was entirely surplus to requirements here. All the rules had changed; they had been changed by strangers, indeed, when I had always assumed that the confrontation would come from someone close to me. I knew how that felt, from the ending with Elise: the walls folding in, the ceiling coming down, crushed, trapped, suffocated. That was how I had imagined it, when I had dared to imagine it, or found the thought inescapable: with Eddie and Polly in the aquarium, with Eddie in the publisher’s office upstairs, with Kay.

But this was different. I wasn’t crushed and I wasn’t trapped. Which is not to say that I wasn’t afraid: on the contrary, the thought of a vengeful Quin in possession of this kind of information and talking about it with others as he had plainly talked about it with Pierce – that was chilling.

‘So Quin guessed?’ I asked. ‘About me?’ What I wanted to ask was: what kind of proof does he have? Anything I can’t lie my way around?

Pierce grunted, a bitter dreg of a chuckle. ‘Guessed. Yeah, Quin is great at “guessing”. Gifted really. Quin “guessed”.’

‘I don’t understand what this has to do with me. Or … I mean, I see what it has to do with me, but I don’t know what … why Quin said all this to you.’

‘He was angry,’ Pierce said. ‘With you, and with me. Are you still recording this?’

‘Yes.’

‘Switch that off for a minute, would you?’

‘Sure.’ I picked the DVR off the coffee table and pressed the off button.

‘Inaccuracy makes Quin angry,’ Pierce said. ‘Deliberate inaccuracy especially so. He says one of the biggest challenges Bunk faces is filtering out the lies from social media. Like when someone tells Tamesis that they’re in the office when really they’re in the pub.’

Acid bubbled up within me. Pierce’s sarcastic tone earlier could be understood – Quin hadn’t guessed at all.

‘He doesn’t care about the social reasons for that sort of thing, the niceties,’ Pierce continued. ‘It’s just bad data, it corrupts his models. I asked him why he wanted anything to do with my map, with the kind of research I did for Murder Boards . He said that he was trying to run a stochastic analysis of apocrypha and myth. But he … I had a lot of research material for Night Traffic around in the flat, and he looked at all that too. Without asking.’

Pierce had been taking very small sips from his whisky before this, as if unfamiliar with its taste, or at least unfamiliar with its taste at this hour. Now, however, he took a deep draught, draining his glass.

‘The thing about Night Traffic ,’ he said, with a little lick of his lips, ‘is that I made it up. None of it happened. None of it is true.’

I swallowed. Pierce was glaring at me, full eye contact, judging my reaction, as if he were trying to read my thoughts about what he had said.

He wouldn’t be able to. My thoughts were: He doesn’t know about the second DVR. The one that was in my shirt pocket. The one that was still recording.

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