The Bookman - Lavie Tidhar [54]
He knows I am coming, he thought. He is waiting. The thought did not upset him. The Bookman wants you to find him, the Turk had said. He has kept his eyes on you for a long time now…
"I know you are watching," he said aloud. There was no other sound but the lapping of the waves. "I'm coming."
He pushed the boat into the water and climbed inside. It was made of wood and smelled of disuse. Once in the water it began to move of its own accord.
He sat back. There was nothing else for him to do, and he was suddenly glad. He let his hand trail in the water of that dark lake. Perhaps it is the same boat Lucy had travelled on, he thought. Soon we could come back, together in it.
His hand touched something soft in the water. He looked overboard and nearly fell over: there was a body floating in the water, its eyes open and looking straight at him.
The body floated just below the surface of the water. It was that of a man, naked, not alive and yet not dead, either, and he recognised it: it was Henry Irving, the actor. He had last seen him blown up into pieces at the Rose.
He pulled away from the side of the boat, feeling sudden revulsion. As he looked now, he could see other bodies submerged in the water of the lake. The water was very clear, translucent. The lake, he realised, was very shallow. He sat back, unsettled. Henry Irving's body diminished behind him.
As the shore grew farther in the distance a shape loomed ahead, rising out of the lake. A small island, he thought. The boat, of its own, unknown will, headed towards it.
It was not a long journey. Soon, too soon, the boat ran aground on the island, and he stepped out. He felt better now, and the various pains in his body had disappeared. Touching his nose, he could not feel the break. Instead, he felt light and clear-headed. Something in the water, he thought.
His feet touched black sand. Before him the island was almost flat, a disc floating on the water. He scraped away at the sand and was not surprised to discover a greenish metal underneath. An artificial island. He took a step forward, then another. The ground rose, then, after only a few more steps, gently sloped downwards.
Above his head the globes of light slowly faded, leaving him in total darkness. He stood for a long moment, not moving, and waited.
Though he thought he was prepared, when the voice came it nevertheless startled him. "Mr. Orphan. What a delight to finally meet you." It was a deep, mellow voice.
A light came to life directly ahead of him. An oldfashioned, ornamental streetlamp planted in the sand. It illuminated a small square of chequered tiles, black and white like a chess set. In the centre of the square was a table. On the table stood a tea pot, a small milk jug, a jar of sugar and two delicate china cups. On a saucer he could discern what looked like ginger biscuits.
One chair was unoccupied. In the other sat a man.
He rose when Orphan approached. He was a tall, athletic-looking man. Black hair was only just beginning to recede across his forehead. He was dressed in a smart suit, like that of a well-to-do City worker. He was clean-shaven. He came towards Orphan with his hand outstretched, and shook his hand. His handshake was strong and confident. His eyes twinkled. Orphan felt completely lost.
"Please," the man said, gesturing at the table. "Sit down. Have some tea. I have been looking forward to talking with you." Not waiting for Orphan, he returned to his seat and began pouring tea into the cups. Orphan, not knowing what to do, and feeling a vague sense of unease – or perhaps, he thought, it was disappointment? He couldn't tell what he had been expecting, but it wasn't this – sat down opposite.
"Milk? Sugar?"
"Yes, please. Two sugars," Orphan said. His voice felt unreal to him. Maybe, he thought, maybe I never shot Jack. Perhaps I am still lying on the floor of the basement, concussed, and I am merely hallucinating this. I will be glad if it turns out I never shot him. It wasn't like me.