Dead Men's s Boots

Nicky’s been keeping house, ever since he died, in that derelict cinema in Walthamstow: and it had been trashed not so long ago by a pack of crazed American Satanists who only knew about Nicky in the first place because of his association with me. He’d been able to claim a heap of money back on the insurance, and he’d told me he had some big ideas about what to do with it, but he’d refused to be pinned down on the specifics.

The whole experience seemed to have changed him subtly – or maybe not so subtly. He’d been turning into one of those life forms whose house is part of their bodies, like a snail or a tortoise: now, apparently, he’d entered a different phase of his afterlife cycle.

By way of changing the subject – and coming to the point – I handed him the key and the A to Z, which I’d been carrying around with me all day. He pocketed the key without a word – he didn’t need to ask to know that I wanted it matched up with a batch and if possible, a rough location. Then he switched his attention to the book.

‘It belonged to John Gittings,’ I said. ‘And you’re in the middle column. Any idea why?’

Nicky looked bored as he scanned the names.

‘John the Git was one of my regulars,’ he said. s; hd a

‘You did data-raids for him?’

‘Occasionally.’

‘Recently?’

‘No.’

‘But you did see him recently?’

‘What are you, Castor, my father confessor? Yeah, I saw him.

‘In the line of work?’

‘Yes. And before you ask, no, I won’t tell you what the work was. It was his business, now it’s mine. You’d be choked if you heard I was advertising your wheelings and dealings to everyone else who waved a fifty under my nose.’

I nodded. He had me there.

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘I respect your professional integrity. But could you look through the rest of the shit in there and see if it makes any sense to you? John spent the last few weeks before he died writing out those names again and again, so they must have meant something to him.

Nicky flicked to the back of the book and looked over the list there. The final word, SMASHNA, glared up at us from the heart of the nest of ink-swirls.

‘Smashna,’ I mused aloud. It didn’t sound like a real word. Maybe it was an acronym of some kind.

‘It’s Russian,’ said Nicky.