“Here. See?” That’s last Thursday’s classifieds. The code, my initials, my notes over the digits in pen. It’s obvious: He’ll see it. He’ll remember. “But that’s not even everything.”
I can show him all my research, if he wants to see it; the research that started the terrific row with Mary. Two months’ worth of classified ads, several days’ worth of digging and parsing a dozen more of these codes, many of them simply repeated several times, all with my initials. Some have odd notes attached: “seething pratt,” and “craven butcher”, “cons, wild trio” “retreat west park”, “standard gun.” They all include specific locations in the A to Z code for seven different arrests. I missed the first eleven of the ads; how could I miss them? I wasn’t looking. It didn’t occur to me. I didn’t know I was wanted.
But apparently I have been. By whom? I don’t know. Another mystery. It’s dangerous, I know, taking directions from the classifieds. These could be from anyone. But they’ve got to be from someone on the right side of things. Whoever it is posting them knew precisely when these criminals would be arrested and hauled away. I’ve traced each of them to a documented arrest. It’s someone on the inside of this operation, it has to be.
Someone on the inside is leaving notes for me. Me, of all people.
All seven of them were murderers. I don’t get invited to all the arrests; just the ones of the murderers. Someone is giving me murderers, as if those are my favourites. I suppose they are. They were your favourites, too. Serial killers. The tricky ones. And these are all tricky ones.
I’ve missed so much, not paying enough attention. I don’t pay enough attention in any area of my life, apparently.
The row would be over if I just apologised, if I actually looked sorry about it. I know that. It was my fault, but I didn’t back down. I shouted at her, she shouted back. It was childish of me, and I should have known better. It was like arguing with Harry, when we used to argue, back before I gave up on arguing with her. Ancient rage that isn’t anyone’s fault poured out of me in all directions. I should just apologise. It was my fault. I’m twisted the wrong way, now. I’m sorry, Mary. I could just say it.
What’s the point, though? What’s the point.
She didn’t know I had a temper like that. I think it frightened her, a little. I wonder if it made her think of my gun. I wonder if she feels unsafe now.
That’s terrible.
I would never hurt her. I wouldn’t. Not even in a rage. I was just angry. I was frustrated. I was annoyingly excited, it was too much. This makes no sense, who is calling to me through the newspapers? Who would do that? It’s my worst fear and my greatest desire; it’s unfair. Cruel.
I wasn’t paying any attention to her, and now she’s annoyed with me. Disappointed in me, too. I skipped lunch with the editors, I didn’t answer my phone, I didn’t read my email. I didn’t respond to her texts. I couldn’t: I was busy. I was finding codes. She doesn’t know about that. How do I explain?
Codes in the classifieds that line up with the dates and locations of a series of arrests, codes that translate into invitations. I could have been there all this time; I should have been. Watching. Helping, maybe, like I used to. Maybe I’d have met my benefactor by now. I’d know more, I’d have seen so much. But that would have been worse, in the end. She would have dumped me before now.
There was one arrest I didn’t know was related: I had to dig it up. Military police. I saw it at the time, I just didn’t think that was one of mine. But it is, it must be. Because here it is, in code. To JHW, in the classifieds. I was invited. “Bolt gate, long walk. Fair little sanctuary east.”
Someone’s been trying to get my attention.
Who?
Greg holds his pint in one hand and the paper in the other, he squints a little at it. He’s like me, he’s starting to need glasses in order to read that tiny print. We get older, we fall apart. It’s in the nature of people to disintegrate slowly, if you let us. If you don’t exit early. Some of us don’t die young, we just fall to pieces and mourn ourselves. And that’s the best case scenario.
Mary won’t die young, either. She’ll grow old with someone, drink tea, do crosswords. She’ll grow old with someone, but I don’t think it will be me. No: it certainly won’t be.
God: that chap has a voice on him. His mate must have said something very funny, because the whole lot of them are hooting. Some after work crowd, tech support, accountants, or something. I can’t tell. They’ve loosened their ties, they’re drinking too much. They talk too loudly, but it’s all right. They’re drowning us out. No one will hear us. They’re a good cover.
Not that anyone’s watching us, of course. But someone might be. Have I grown so paranoid? All the CCTV cameras used to turn and follow us as we stomped around London in the wee hours, I remember. It wasn’t paranoia then. It was just workaday reality.
“There’s more?” He seems incredulous.
“Yes.” I pull out the rest of them. “See? Here. There’s a dozen of them that I’ve found, though some of them are just repeats. I’m not done digging for them, though. These are from three different newspapers, I haven’t checked the rest of them yet.” I’m excited: I wonder how many more I’ll find. Excited and filled with regret at all these lost opportunities.
Mary won’t stand for it. She’s getting on me about the wall again. She’s started paying more attention to it. She wants to know why I want so many murderers on the wall. She says I’m becoming obsessed. She’s demanding more from me, too; she wants to see my manuscript. It’s blank; it’s a blank file. I haven’t started yet. I have nothing to show her; I have nothing to show the editors. This is more important, but I can’t tell her that. She won’t agree.
“This is...” He shakes his head. “I mean, I should be concerned because there’s clearly a leak somewhere, but I’m not sure where to start looking for it.” He hands the paper back to me like it’s precious. I appreciate that: I do. Because it is. “There are so many moving parts, and so much I don’t know about. We don’t get warning for these arrests, we just get the call. None of us would even know anything in enough time to put an ad in the papers like this. Our orders are coming straight from the government.”
When he says the government I know who he means: Mycroft, of course. His orders are coming from Mycroft. I don’t ask. I know he can’t tell me. He shouldn’t tell me any of it, by rights. He should tell me to piss off. He should confiscate the papers and swear me to secrecy. He should shut down the classifieds in all the papers, or track all their incoming calls and find their mole. But he just shakes his head at me.
“I have to be honest with you,” he says. He draws his pint up to his lips, as if it will cover over what he’s about to say. He looks uncomfortable. “There’s only one person I can think of who might do something like this.”
I know. I know what he means. I’ve been avoiding thinking about it, but he’s right.
There’s only one person who would ever do something like this to me. I can’t let myself imagine that, though: that’s a dangerous thought. Even taking comfort from it is dangerous, and I know that. It keeps me on edge, the push and pull between delight and frustration, joy and terrible anger, because who would toy with me like this? Who would be so cruel to remind me, to make me feel like you're still in the world, taunting me a little, inviting me out to crime scenes with you again? Who would do that to me?
You would. Sherlock, you would, wouldn’t you. If you could. I know you would; I know you.
That’s what makes this so wonderful, and so horrible.
But you can’t; you're gone. So who would stand in your place and reel me in like this? Who would extend these most exquisite invitations, who would let me watch from a distance, twisting in the wind and cursing? It’s tantalizing, it’s cruel. It’s stirring up all the parts of me that need to stay quiet. But I don’t want them to; I like being stirred up, that’s the terrible thing about it. It’s wonderful; it’s like going back in time. It’s like you’re alive again. It’s the best thing that’s happened to me in years. It’s agony. So who do I thank for it?
I don’t know.
I wouldn’t thank him outright, though, whoever he is. Never. I’d chin him first, for teasing me like this. For making it feel so familiar to me, as if you're talking to me again. As if you're alive. I’d chin him for that, and then I thank him. In that order, not any other. Then I have to ask: why are you doing this to me?
“I know,” I tell Greg. I know. It’s mimicry on a level I can’t fathom. It’s like poking a miserable animal in a cage. Too easy, and too cruel. “I know. It’s got to be his brother, then, doesn’t it?” Who else? No one else knows you well enough to even try something like this. Except for me.
But Mycroft wouldn’t take a risk like this. He absolutely wouldn’t. He doesn’t play games, he’s the consummate adult in the Holmes family. He wouldn’t want me involved, not even peripherally; he won’t even admit to me that he is involved, for god’s sake. “Or he’s got a fan at MI5. Or I do. I don’t know.”
He sighs. “Then it’s Mycroft’s problem.”
Only if he finds out about it. “I’m not going to tell him.”
“I think he probably already knows.” Greg leans back with his pint and tilts his head to the left. “You’re being tailed, John.”
Tailed? I look over; it’s my neighbour. The one with the dog, all in black. The one I thought was ex-military; maybe not ex. He’s sitting at a table with a laptop, minding his own business. He’s wearing earphones. He’s got a pint beside him, but he’s not drinking it. We’re miles from home, why would he be here?
Greg leans forward. “I noticed him the last time we met up too, but I wasn’t sure. Now I am.”
I’ve only seen him a few times; in the lift, mostly. Once at the Tesco, but we didn’t speak. But I don’t look behind me that often, not anymore. Has he been following me? Reporting back on my activities? For how long? I don’t even do anything very interesting. Was he with me Friday morning when I was pressed against that fence? I didn’t see him. Was he watching? Did I slip outside of his field of vision that time?
Earphones. Am I bugged? Is my flat bugged? Did he hear that row? Christ.
“Is he listening to us now?”
What the hell? Does Mary know? Did Mary approve, knowing I was going off the rails? Did she hire him, or my publisher, knowing Moriarty’s death would probably set me off?
Greg shakes his head. “No, he’s not. He’s not that kind of tail, I don’t think.” He glances behind him for a moment, then turns back. “He’s been on you for a while. Don’t worry, he’s just security.”
“Security?”
“Someone’s concerned about your safety.”
Mycroft. Of course. He’s paying someone to keep an eye on me? What am I, a child? Moriarty is dead, and I’m only a writer. I’m a writer, dammit! My days of being in the line of fire are long gone. Does one little isolated pistol-whipping demand that I have my own security detail now? Christ. Mind your own business, Mycroft. Leave me alone. I’m not yours to take care of.
Why would I need security, anyway? If he wants to keep me away from his precious arrests, he shouldn’t put code in the classifieds for me to find, for god’s sake. If it weren’t for the ad I wouldn’t be anywhere near his secret operations. I’d have been at home, in bed, with my girlfriend. Like I’m meant to be.
No bedbugs at all, then. Well, of course not. Only an idiot would believe they’d evacuate flats over bedbugs. What the hell is going on? Does Mary know? Who would bother spending this much time and effort on me? I’m useless. I’m finished, I’ve got nothing left. Without you, I’m nothing: I just repeat the words you said to me. Over and over, in different order, in different places, in my head and on paper. I’m just a myna bird, I just repeat and repeat and repeat.
“I’m just a fucking writer.”
Greg smiles at me. He smiles, like I’ve said something funny. “You weren’t always just a fucking writer, were you.”
What does that matter? What does that bloody matter?
“What do I do?”
“Nothing.” He smiles. “Nothing at all. Just go on as normal.”
There’s nothing normal about this.
“How’s Mary?” he asks. Oh, great. Changing the subject, fantastic. I’d rather talk about being shot.
“Fine,” I tell him.
I could just apologise, I know that. I’m sorry that I avoided your calls. I’m sorry that I’d rather stare at the newspapers than talk to you. I’m sorry that I’ve been lying to you since we met. You don’t deserve that, but I was only doing the best I could. I’m sorry. I’d love to tell you that I’ll do better, but I won’t. I’m only going to get worse.
“Yeah, she’s fine.”