The Search (7 page)

Monitoring footage of the scene, police gradually dispersed the crowd but Walker remained trapped for several hours more. By any normal standards it was still fantastically crowded but
eventually he stumbled into his hotel, shocked by the empty expanse of the lobby.

He was exhausted, his muscles ached and his back and arms were bruised. Soaking in a bath he went over and over the day’s events until he began doubting whether it was actually Malory he
had seen. And even if it had been, Walker was now as far away from him as ever. The fact that he had been within a yard of Malory meant nothing.

These doubts were reinforced the next day when he called Rachel. She had just spoken to a man in Port Ascension, a friend of Malory’s who was sure he had seen him there.

‘He wanted to know if I had a number for him.’

‘How long ago?’

‘I spoke to him this morning. Just a couple of hours ago. He left a number.’

Walker wrote the number down. ‘And what was the name of the town?’

‘Port Ascension. Do you think he might be there?’

‘It’s possible,’ he said absently. Ascension . . . Ascension. He tried to place the name and then remembered: the ferry times in the newspaper. A coincidence – but
without coincidence life didn’t happen. Coincidence was destiny broken down into its smallest unit.

‘Are you still there?’

‘Yes, sorry.’

‘You don’t sound very optimistic.’

‘I thought I saw him yesterday.’

‘You saw Alex?’

‘I’m not sure now. I could easily have been mistaken. The more I think about it the less sure I am . . . I think of you a lot.’

‘I know. I’m smiling when I think of you, Walker.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means I like thinking of you.’ Walker smiled into the phone. They listened to each other breathing. A few seconds later they hung up.

The sea was rough, the boat smelled of oil and bad food. For as long as Walker could remember he had been disappointed by boats: something to do with the thickness of the
metal, the size of the bolts; the way everything was covered in a thick skin of paint, the way you had to struggle through low self-closing doors, the way the toilets were always awash with water.
He stood on deck and was surprised by how quickly he became bored watching the land receding, the frantic gulls. Even the sea was disappointing. Grey, cold.

He went below deck to get some food but everything looked too foul to eat. A smell of french fries and eggs emanated even from the bolognese sauce congealing in a brightly lit tin. He wandered
to the lounge where people were already asleep on the floor – the seats all had arm-rests to prevent people stretching out on them. No effort had been spared to make the crossing as miserable
as possible.

Soon people were vomiting all over the ship. The smell of sick was impossible to dissociate from the reek of the food cooking in the galleys. Walker thought he might throw up himself and went
back on deck. The air was full of spray. To the disappointment of those lined up at the stern, cameras at the ready, darkness fell without a sunset.

Walker remained on deck and took a sounding – as he suddenly, under the nautical influence, began to think of the recordings he made with the dictaphone. Later, listening back to the
recording, he was surprised to find how the sounds of gulls and wind, the slap of waves, evoked not the grim reality of the crossing but the romantic ideal of a sun-soaked cruise.

The boat docked at dawn the next morning. Walker joined a line of people shuffling towards immigration officials, borrowing pens to fill in disembarkation cards. ‘Purpose of visit’:
Walker hesitated, scribbled ‘Tourism’ and gave the Grand Central Hotel – glimpsed over the shoulder of another passenger – as the place he would be staying. He waited at the
yellow line until the port official waved him forward – the sullen, bored, omnipotent wave of frontier staff the world over. Walker said, ‘Hi,’ handed over his card, waited.
Without looking up the guy consulted a huge log-book, let it fall shut and said, ‘Over there.’

‘What?’

‘Wait over there.’

Over there was a bench. Walker waited ten minutes. A door opened and another guy, squinting at the papers in his hand, called out ‘Mr . . . Walker?’ as if the name were
unpronounceably, suspiciously alien. Walker followed him into a room: desk, chair, banks of files. The guy smoked, was unshaven, wore an open-necked shirt. Walker recognized the uniform instantly
– bribe – and this knowledge gave the subsequent interrogation a relaxed, veiled purpose. All questions about his circumstances and intentions were really intended to establish only one
thing: how much he was good for. Walker indicated he might be good for plenty, especially if he could be furnished with a little extra assistance. The port official hesitated. That depended . .
.

‘A friend of mine arrived here,’ said Walker, coming straight to the point. ‘A couple of days ago, I think. I’d like to look him up. I need the address he gave on his
disembarkation card.’

‘Impossible.’

‘How much?’ Walker could see greed flickering in the other man’s eyes and knew that in an hour he would be out of here with everything he needed. Only the price had to be
finalized now.

It took even less time than he expected. He checked in at the Grand Central and dialled the number Rachel had given him. No answer. He tried later, again without success, and set off for the
address given to him by his friend – as he now thought of him – at the port.

The house was in the middle of an old terrace of high town-houses in the east of the city. He stood in the lobby, waiting for the elevator, obscurely convinced that something was wrong. In the
elevator he stared at his face in the mirror and wondered what he looked like. His reflection posed the question it was supposed to answer.

The apartment was on the seventh floor; by the fifth Walker felt certain he was making a mistake. The elevator stopped on the sixth floor. A cigarette-faced woman stepped aside to let Walker
off. He padded along a corridor and up the emergency stairs. Easing the fire door open a fraction he had a good view of room 7D. He allowed the fire door to close until there was only a knife-edge
of light. Waited.

After ten minutes a squat man emerged from the lift and knocked on the door. The door opened and he spoke quietly. Seconds later a figure Walker recognized as Carver emerged. Walker moved back
down the stairs but heard footsteps coming from below. As quietly as possible he trotted back up to the top floor. A folding-ladder led to a frosted skylight. The ladder squeaked as Walker pulled
it down, creaked as he climbed up. He cracked open the skylight and clambered out on to the roof.

The noise of traffic was all around. Shadows hazed and disappeared. He crossed the roof and made his way along a ledge to the next house. There was a skylight here, locked from the inside. The
next house along was higher than the rest and he had to haul himself up. As soon as he had done so he heard footsteps from behind. Keeping low he moved across the roof and ducked behind a crumbling
chimney stack. Seeing his pursuers fanning out from the skylight, he scuttled away and lowered himself down on to the roof of the next house. He continued moving like this until the terrace was
split abruptly by a service alley running between two houses. In the darkness below, dustbins and trash, the glint of broken glass. The gap was only four yards but a low ornamental wall at the edge
meant that it was impossible to get the kind of run-up he needed. He glanced back and tried the entrance to the lift housing. It was locked, but lying nearby were two rusty scaffolding poles.

He picked up one of them, carrying it in his arms like a tightrope-walker, making his way to the edge of the building. Resting it on the low wall he began feeding the pole out over the alley.
With a yard still to go it became too heavy to handle. He dragged it noisily back over the wall towards him and tried again, this time standing it on end and lowering it by degrees towards the
opposite roof. When he could hold it no longer he let it drop like a metronome across the alley. It smashed down on to the low wall opposite, bounced, shivered. As he scrambled to steady it, the
pole slipped off the far wall, flicked up from beneath his hands and went twirling out of sight. By the time he heard the crash and tangle from the alley below he was already dragging the other
pole into position, this time to a place where a gap in the wall would support it like an oarlock. He upended the pole, released it and watched it swing down. Again it clattered and bounced but
this time, anchored by the wall, it remained lodged on the far roof. He pushed it out until there was an overhang of a foot on each side and then climbed over the edge of the building, began moving
out over the alley. A yard out he brought his legs up and curled them around the pole so that he could move more quickly.

There was a shout from the roof. Raising his head and looking back between his arms he saw his pursuers rush to the edge. They tried to prise the pole free of the gap in the wall but
Walker’s weight had jammed it in further. He continued moving, hand over hand, pulling with his shoulders, pushing with his legs, hauling himself away. He felt the pole quiver as they began
heaving it free of the gap, followed by a jarring crash as they let it fall back on to the top of the wall. The impact shook his legs free and left him hanging by his hands. For a second he dangled
uncontrollably and then, setting up a rhythm, began moving again, hand over hand. Glancing back he saw them standing on the wall, trying to tug the pole sideways, towards the edge. With a final
heave they wrenched it the remaining inch and out over the alley. Walker made a grab for the building. The scaffolding pole whipped past his shoulder, sheered away beneath him. His fingers curled
over the wall. Another crash from the alley below. He scrambled on to the roof and looked back. For a moment the four of them stood there, Walker and his three pursuers, not moving.

‘Listen,’ Carver called, pausing for breath. ‘We should talk. We can help each other.’

Walker gulped in mouthfuls of air. Carver was talking again, silhouetted against a sudden burst of sunlight.

‘We want the same thing. We know where Malory is.’ Walker had got his breath back, was on the brink of listening. He turned and walked along the row of roofs. Carver was calling,
‘Wait. Walker, wait.’

Walker kept moving, heard Carver shouting, ‘This is your last chance, Lancelot. You’re a dead man.’

Walker tried an entrance to the emergency stairs. It was locked but the frame and door were so rotten that one kick smashed a hole. He reached through and unlatched the door, lowered himself on
to the steps. He charged down the stairs and out into the swarm and din of the street. A taxi pulled up nearby. Walker barged past a waiting executive and wrenched the door open, lunged in.

Back at the Grand Central he piled his stuff into a bag. His only concern was to get away from Ascension. Where he went next didn’t matter. But even as he thought this he wondered also if
flight might not be the best form of pursuit, the best way of finding Malory. Malory’s movements were so random that perhaps he too should abandon any plan. He hurried to the station and
bought a ticket to Alemain, the closest town to which he had sent his speculative mail.

He arrived at the station with time to spare: the train did not leave for fifteen minutes and passengers were not yet being allowed on board. He drifted round the concourse, half expecting to
catch a glimpse of Carver. At least half the people here, it seemed, were either following or being followed. Perhaps it was so many people wearing hats that contributed to this impression.
Anywhere else a hat looked like an affectation but here, in a railway station, it was part of the standard luggage of travel, a kind of ancillary ticket. The chance to wear a hat with impunity was
probably one of the things that preserved the romance of train journeys.

As he made his way towards the platform he passed a Photo-Me booth and ducked beneath the curtain. It was as good a place as any to hide from view but, without intending to, he found himself
spinning the stool down as far as it would go and paying in coins, posing for four sudden snaps of the flash. Clambering out of the booth he saw a woman reading a tabloid stroll towards him. An
Asian girl went into the booth. He looked at the clock and at the sign that said ‘Photos Delivered in Four Minutes’. All around this sign were sample photos of smiling couples, smiling
and serious individuals. One strip showed a black and white couple kissing and pulling faces – you could do what you wanted in the relative privacy of the booth; the machine didn’t
care, it recorded but didn’t notice. Ugly or beautiful, tall or short, everyone came out the same way.

After only a couple of minutes the pictures arrived. He moved towards the machine but saw they were of a woman, the woman reading the paper, who reached down and took them.

The developing times were cumulative, so he had another four minutes to wait – more like five probably – and it was now exactly four minutes to. The train’s departure was being
announced. Two minutes clicked by. He looked up at the clock, glanced down at the little metallic cage where the photos arrived and set off for the train. He had gone two steps when he thought he
heard a faint rustle from the booth. He hurried back, checked the empty tray and ran for his train.

Buildings, people, streets and shops: beyond that Alemain had little to recommend it – especially since Walker had such trouble finding his way around.

He had picked up a street plan at the station and set off for the Am Ex office. For an hour now he had been pacing the streets, scrutinizing the map at almost every corner, but was still nowhere
near his destination. The smaller streets were not shown on the map but it was detailed enough to reveal that he was lost. This was the true purpose of maps: without one it was impossible to say
with certainty that you were lost, with one you
knew
you were lost.

Walker persisted for a long while, becoming steadily more frustrated as streets changed name, distances expanded or contracted and expected turnings and landmarks failed to appear. Gradually he
became convinced that the map bore no relation to his surroundings. The fact that here and there reality and representation corresponded was entirely coincidental. It took Walker a long time to
accept this: so entrenched was his faith in the integrity of maps that his first reaction was to assume that the map was right and the city somehow wrong. The whole point about a map was that it
was a more or less accurate representation of reality. He had heard of towns where streets and buildings were being demolished and built so fast that maps, lagging behind reality, were obsolete by
the time they were printed, but this map either deliberately distorted reality or ignored it.