Page 4

Christopher will be here soon, which reminds Hobbes that time is short. He can see death edging ever closer in his mind’s eye—a knife in its hand—and the thought of what is going to happen spurs him on.

It is October 4, 2017.

Hobbes picks up the old pen.

You can’t do this, he remembers.

It’s not allowed.

Even so, he begins to write.

Two

“Holy shit,” Pettifer said. “Would you look at this?”

Laurence was doing exactly that.

He had his shirtsleeves rolled up and his arm resting on the sill of the open passenger window. He had been staring idly out for some time, watching as they left the old factories and office blocks of the city center behind them and then the suburbs full of crammed houses. Now they were passing through the more affluent neighborhoods to the north. It was aspirational here: a world of sprawling bungalows, detached mansions, and enormous gardens.

But there were even richer locales ahead.

“How the other half live,” Pettifer said.

“And yet die like the rest of us.”

“Yes, well. Let’s try not to upset anyone at the scene, shall we?”

“Don’t worry.” Laurence closed his eyes, enjoying the sensation of the fresh air rushing over his face. “I will behave.”

“Do you need to have the window open?”

“I like the wind.”

“Could you close it?”

“I could,” he said happily. “It is within my power. But I’m not going to.”

Pettifer sighed. She had fallen into that trap before.

But she did have a point, Laurence thought. Not about the window, or him behaving (although, of course, there was that), but about the divisions of wealth within the city. Although it wasalsointeresting that it seemed a fresh observation to her. Laurence had come to this city—this country—as an infant, shortly after his mother’s death, and one of the many things he had inherited from his father was an immigrant’s sense of curiosity. Many of the other officers seemed to take the city for granted, whereas Laurence had never quite shaken away the sensation of being an outsider here. Of not quite belonging. Of seeing the city as something that needed to be understood. The way he thought about it was this: his colleagues were excellent at telling the time on the clockface, but it often seemed to surprise them to discover there were cogs behind it that made the hands turn.

A short time later, he opened his eyes.

They were driving through countryside now. Fields sprawled away into the distance on either side. Some were dotted with cattle or crops, but most seemed empty. Perhaps they were simply being left fallow? Laurence wasn’t sure; his knowledge of the agricultural industry was cursory. But it was difficult to shake the sensation that the land here belonged to people who owned so much of it that they could afford to leave acres barren and untended, forgotten afterthoughts in their vast inventories.

Laurence yawned.

“How much farther?” he asked.

“I’m afraid I can’t hear you because the window is open.”

“I don’t believe you.”

She didn’t reply—this time avoiding another familiar trap. Laurence smiled to himself. He liked Pettifer a lot. They had been working together as partners for more than three years. They complemented each other well in that they annoyed each other in precisely the right ways unless it was important that they did not.

A minute or so later, she slowed down and flicked the blinker. They turned right onto what seemed to Laurence little more than a narrow dirt road leading off between the trees that were packed in tightly on either side.The muddy ground beneath the car had hardened into an undulating wave, and the tires rolled from one side to the other as Pettifer navigated the twists and turns.

“Mr. Hobbes liked his privacy,” Laurence said.