The Bookman - Lavie Tidhar [31]
Then, full-blown panic settled in. Already unsettled by the vision of Lucy, he did not notice until too late when two indistinct, towering figures rushed him from either side and pinned him between them. He struggled, but the two men held him tight and a cloth was thrown over his head and blinded him. He lashed out, heard one of the men grunt in pain. Then a blow caught him on the back of the head and pain exploded inside him, and he fell loose in his captors' arms.
He was dimly aware of being carried. When he returned to himself he found that he was sitting down (the chair soft and comfortable against his aching body), and the air was warm. He heard the clinking of glasses and voices speak, too softly for him to make out what they were saying.
The cloth was removed from his head.
He blinked. His arms were free, and he touched the back of his head gingerly, but there was no blood, only a small swelling starting up that hurt, but not too badly.
He looked up.
In a wide, plush armchair, a round glass in his hand with an amber drink sloshing inside it, sat the fat man from the King's Arms. The fat man from the mortuary at Guy's. And Orphan thought: Oh, no.
"You," Orphan said. He felt foolish as soon as he said it.
The fat man nodded companionably. "Me," he agreed.
What did he look like? The considerable bulk was spread over the tall body of the man. His head was large, too, with a prominent forehead and dark receding hair that was once – but no longer – lush, and his nose was sharp and prominent, commanding respect. His eyes, deep-set, seemed to penetrate into Orphan's soul. He was a man who missed nothing, who knew everything. He almost, Orphan thought, looked like one of Babbage's analytical engines.
But he was human enough. His fingers were chubby though strong, and his breath condensed on the glass as he raised it to his mouth. Red appeared in his cheeks then, and as he closed his eyes and savoured the taste of the drink there was something sensual in his action. This was a man, and a man who took great delight in drink, and in food.
They sat like this, without speaking. The room they were in was dimly lit and plush, covered in mahogany and dark velvet, like a club-room. Beside their chairs were side-tables. Behind the fat man was a drinks cabinet. Two small lamps burned, electric, behind sombre shades.
The fat man clicked his fingers and a dark-suited butler glided over and handed Orphan a drink of his own. He tasted it, found it to be a whiskey much superior to the brand favoured by Jack. He turned his head, feeling the back of his head hurt as he did so. To his right was a window. He looked outside – and saw the city spread out below.
From high above, the Thames was a silver snake curled into an unknowable glyph. Lights winked in and out of existence as the city breathed below. The lights seemed to spell out a message, a hidden truth that he could decipher if only he tried, if only he concentrated hard enough. The Houses of Parliament were a face, craggy and huge, studded with jewels, whispering secrets that reached out to him and went past, still unknown. The blimp swerved slowly, giving him a view of the north-east side of the river and of the dome of St Paul's, looking like the bald head of a secretive monk. He took another sip of his drink and felt it burn away the pain in his head, and he turned away from the window and said, "Who are you?"
The fat man nodded in approval. "You go straight to the heart of the matter. That's good." But he seemed in no hurry to reply to the question. He sipped again from his drink (the butler had long since withdrawn from the room, as silent and efficient as an automaton) and gazed at Orphan with those clear, penetrating eyes. "Perhaps," he said, "the question of who I am is not as significant as you suggest. I am intrigued more, my young friend, by the much more interesting question of who you are."
Surely you already know, you miserable old