The Bookman - Lavie Tidhar [48]
Orphan turned. Behind him, the door to the room had opened. Jo Jo stood in the corridor outside.
Orphan took a step towards him. Stopped. Turned back. The Turk was wrapped in the darkness. The Bookman, Orphan thought. And he took a deep breath, half-angry, half-surprised. For he knew then; he knew where the Bookman was hiding. He turned again, ready now. Jo Jo waited silently in the doorway.
FIFTEEN
Jack
Just the place for a Snark! I have said it twice: That alone should encourage the crew.
Just the place for a Snark! I have said it thrice: What I tell you three times is true.
– Lewis Carroll, "The Hunting of the Snark"
"Orphan."
The girls were gone. Tom was on his own, dressed in silk pyjamas, reclining in a chair. He had a book in one hand, a rolled-up cigarette in the other.
Orphan glanced at the title. Moriarty's The Dynamics of an Asteroid. "I need to borrow your gun."
Tom stood up. "What happened?" he said carefully. "Orphan, are you well?"
Orphan giggled. He felt feverish, and yet, inside, there was an icy calm. "I'm very well," he said. "I need to borrow your gun."
"What happened at the Hall?"
"It was as Maskelyne said in his note," Orphan said. "Smoke and mirrors. Mirrors and smoke."
"You don't make no sense. Sit down. I will make you some tea." He turned to go to the bar area. "Did you meet Theo?"
"Jo Jo the Dog-Faced Boy," Orphan said. "I met him. Or, rather, he met me."
"Did you find what you were looking for?"
"Ask me later tonight." He looked at Tom and suddenly shouted, "I don't need tea!"
"What do you need?"
"Your gun."
"What," Tom said levelly, "for?"
Orphan giggled again, ignoring the concerned look Tom was giving him. "Hunting," he said. "I'm going hunting."
"It's a bit late to go a-hunting." Tom said. "Perhaps you should stay here tonight."
"Your gun," Orphan said, and now his voice was quiet and hard, with no trace of laughter left, and he stood tall against the door.
Tom, too, was quiet. He stood in his pyjamas and regarded Orphan without blinking.
"Please," Orphan said.
It was the please that perhaps did it; for when he said it, Orphan came as close as he had ever been to breaking. Perhaps Tom saw that. Maybe he had his own reasons. Either way, he went behind the bar without a comment, and returned a moment later with a giant revolver in his hands. Orphan took an involuntary step back.
Tom smiled. "My old Peacemaker," he said, holding the gun with obvious affection. He needed both his hands to hold it. Then he proffered the revolver to Orphan, holding it by the barrel, and Orphan took it cautiously, suddenly wondering if what he was doing was making any kind of sense at all.
"The Colt forty-five, single-action revolver," Tom said. "A six-shooter. So who are you planning to shoot?"
"No one," Orphan said. "Hopefully."
Tom nodded. "I should hope so too. Here." He went again behind the bar and returned with a belt and a handful of bullets. "You know how to use it?"
"I'll figure it out," Orphan said. Tom merely nodded, and helped him put on the gun belt. "Of course you will."
With expert hands he loaded five bullets, one after the other, into the chamber. "Cock it before you want to shoot. Always leave it on the empty chamber, or you'll end up shooting yourself. Have fun – try not to kill anyone."
"I will," Orphan said. The gun felt heavy on his hips, yet reassuring. I would need it, he thought. If only to make me bold enough to proceed.
"Here," Tom said. "You need a hat, too." He went to the right corner of the room, rooted in a small cupboard, and returned with a wide-brimmed hat that he put on Orphan's head. "Now you look proper, like."
Tom kept a full-length (at least, full-length for him) mirror close to the stairs. Orphan positioned himself far enough and examined himself in the mirror. He saw a tired face looking back at him, covered in stubble, a face shaded by the hat, a poet's hands clenching and unclenching into fists. He looked like a gunfighter, he thought. Like one of the men from