The Quiet Man

Circular

“Volume better?” Actually, it is. It’s less like shouting now, more like talking.

“Much.” I mumble this time, into my hand. The microphone is sensitive, I know. He can hear me.

“Good.”

He’s silent for a moment. I can hear him breathing. He’s watching me. I know he is: one of his computers has access to the CCTV cameras. One of the advantages of working with his brother as opposed to against him, I suppose. Where’s the nearest camera? Oh: there, right. Above the shop window, just there.

“Don’t look directly at the cameras, John. That’s a dead giveaway. All right, can you cross here? That’s it. Yes, going south now. Good. South on Allsop. Excellent.”

What are we doing here, Sherlock? What, precisely, are we doing here?

“Alright, stop here a moment, would you? Stop and...I don’t know, look at your phone. I’ll send you a text if that will help.”

So I stop. On the pavement, in front of a shop. Why? Is there a camera nearby? Don’t look for one; I fish my phone out of my pocket, and he’s sent me a text. His fast thumbs make short work of texting. That’s not even a new number: that’s his old number. His name appears on my phone as if I were expecting a text from him. As if he hadn’t been gone all this time.

Act like this is a normal text. From Stamford, or something. Saying something in that incomprehensible poor spelling.

That’s funny. I can’t help but smile at that. The only person I know who sends incomprehensible texts is you, Sherlock. Text him back: can I move now?

“Yes, all right. Go ahead.” I pocket my phone and keep walking. The road bends east, which is at least in the direction of the Euston Road Tesco.

It’s chilly. Bright, but chilly.

“Good, yes. Follow it around to Marylebone Road.”

Yes, Sherlock. I know. I did live in this neighbourhood for nearly two years, you know.

“You mentioned this spot once, in one of your stories. But you got it wrong.”

What stories? I never mentioned it on the blog, I’m sure I–

Oh. Not my blog, no. I set a crime scene on Allsop Place in one of my stories for The Strand. The one about the wealthy client who invited us in and made us wait too long in her sitting room. You spent the time making jokes about the appalling and tasteless paintings, and it turned out that the client fancied herself an artist and put only her own work on her walls. I had to spend twenty minutes pretending to admire them.

So you were reading my stories, were you? Well, of course you were. They were all about you.

“That wasn’t Allsop Place, it was the Outer Circle, right on Regent’s Park. I was surprised you got that wrong. I remember you remarking on the views at the time.”

I didn’t forget, Sherlock. I knew it wasn’t Allsop Place where that woman lived. I was trying to protect the innocent. Well, not so innocent in that case.

You commented on that story, didn’t you. I bet you did. There was an odd comment, now that I think of it. Someone telling me that a house like the one I described couldn’t be found on Allsop Place. Were you trying to remind me? I don’t remember if I replied to that one. It was pedantic, it missed the point. That should have been my first clue that it was you: pedantic, missing the point, obsessed with the details. They’re only stories, I think I said. Bitterly, because they weren’t only stories. They were real. You were right. I should have said Outer Circle. The client ended up in jail anyway. They’re only stories, does it matter? The details always matter to you. Was that you? Trying to correct me still, leaning over my shoulder to read what’s on my screen.

If only I’d known. I should have guessed, I suppose. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t even begin to imagine this.

“All right, east here. Don’t cross the street, not yet. Stay on the north side. And east down Marylebone Road.” Yes, Sherlock. I know where the Tesco on Euston Road is.

I spent months with your voice in my head. Not once did you provide advice on which route to take to get to Tesco.

I can’t help it, that’s funny. That’s funny, I have to laugh about that.

“What?” You sound so confused. “What’s funny?”

It’s nothing. I just shake my head. It doesn’t matter: who knows what I’m listening to. No one notices. No one even looks at me. I’m just a tired man, hungover from the previous night, trudging down the road toward Tesco laughing at something he’s listening to on his iPod. He doesn’t want me to speak: fine. I’ll text him.

So you read my stories? Did you leave comments on them too?

I can hear the trill of a phone; his phone. He didn’t even change the number. All this time I could have sent him texts and he would have received them all. It’s a good thing I didn’t; imagine the humiliation of that. All I would have said is Come back to me. I can’t live without you. I love you.Dodged a bullet there.

“I read them. Your memory for details is quite dreadful, John. Each one had dozens of errors in it! But of course there was nothing I could do about that. Your editors were clearly more interested in the romance, not the details of my deductions. It’s disappointing. But everyone thought I was a fraud by then, didn’t they.”

Yes. Yes, they did. And I fought them all. You must have seen that. Me defending you. That wasn’t part of the plan, was it. You hoped I would believe your lies and not the evidence of my own experience. I couldn’t do that. I eulogised you instead. Romance. Yes, I suppose it was.

“I left comments where they were warranted.”

Did you? God. And I never guessed. Not once. You’d think I’d recognise words you’d put together, but I didn’t. Just picky readers, a bit of criticism among all the praise. There were always readers curious about the details, they couldn’t have all been you. People are genuinely curious about your deductions, always.

“Mycroft hated that.”

Of course he did.

You must have seen all the people who thought you were in love with me, or I was in love with you. What did you think of that? I’m not going to ask. You’d just ignore that, I’m sure. As you always do: people make assumptions, you ignore them. It doesn’t matter what they think. People are idiots, aren’t they.

“John, cross the street here, would you? And walk around the crescent rather than staying on Marylebone Road.”

Well that’s a circular route. Am I avoiding something? Is there someone waiting for me with a gun somewhere between here and Tesco on Marylebone Road?

“I know that’s a bit of a detour, but he’s more likely to see you this way.”

More likely? More likely? Am I on a safe trip to Tesco for something vital, or are you dangling me in front of your sworn enemy?

“Sherlock, do you actually need anything from Tesco?” There’s no one around; no one will hear me.

“As I said, it’s best if you don’t speak to me directly. And not particularly, no, pick up whatever you want.”

Right. So this isn’t about Tesco. This is about me being seen. Why? You want to stay hidden, but you want Moran to see me? Is he monitoring the CCTV cameras the same way you are? How did he get access to them? Is this a means of teasing him out into the open? Well, you did say I was bait. I thought you were joking. I should have known better. I suppose I’m playing bait right now, then.

I should hate that. But I don’t. I sort of love it. I can feel the rush of adrenaline. I have a gun pressed into my skin under the waistband of my jeans. I can handle myself. London is a battlefield. It never really stopped, did it. It was only me who stopped.

“Around the crescent, there. That’s good. When you get to the halfway point, perhaps you could stop and admire the trees, or something. Maybe snap a photo. I’ll let you know when you’re in the right spot.”

I thought the most dangerous thing was the fantasy of your voice in my head. It seems that the real thing is even worse.