Dead Men's s Boots

I felt queasy all over again as I thought about the contrast between the vaguely well-meaning, more or less ineffectual man I’d known for the past fifteen years and this baleful ball of hate and wrath. Death changes you – in some cases, brings out the worst in you – but that didn’t make it any easier to take right then. Particularly since I found myself wondering whether John Gittings might still be alive if I’d taken his calls.

My internal logic-checker kicked in on my side at that point. You can’t save someone from suicide if they’re serious about making the effort.

John had wanted and intended to die: that much had to be true. Even in New York City, where they’re meant to have those giant alligators in the sewers, people don’t casually take loaded shotguns into the toilet with them.

And if it was murder dressed up as suicide . . . ? But that really sounded like Mister Paranoia dropping in for tea.

On paper, in theory, in the cold light of day, I had nothing to reproach myself with. But this was the dark night of John Gittings’s soul, and I couldn’t let myself off the hook that easily.

I picked up my stuff and went through into the bedroom, where I unrolled the sleeping bag on the stripped bed. There’s something cold and unlovely about a bare mattress: I tried not to look at it as I unpacked the rest of my gear from a ragged-arsed overnight bag that used to belong to Rafi.

Then I slipped off my shoes, sat back on the bed with my feet up, and finally peeled the layers of duct tape away from the Sainsbury’s bag that John had squirreled away so carefully.

The bag started to tear, and a few small items fell out before I’d finished unwrapping it: a small key on a knotted shoelace, and the torn back of a matchbook from some place called the Reflections Café Bar. That left one bulky rectangular object.

From what Carla had already told me, I wasn’t expecting very much. But the biggest item in the bag was an object of such spectacular banality that I felt a sense of bathos and let-down even as I pulled it clear of the plastic and stared at the cover.

It was an A to Z of London: one of the larger ones, spiral-bound.

I flexed it with my thumb and riffled through it. It had been marked up in black felt tip on almost every page – lines and circles sketched in, and in some cases scribbled out again afterwards, so that you mostly couldn’t see the features they were originally meant to be indicating. At least one of them was a church.

And that was it.