By one o’clock I was pissed off. By two, I was still pissed but also starting to panic. After that I cycled between anger and escalating anxiety, spiked with rage whenever I thought of Dagney Ahlstrand. Had Quinn ditched me and returned to Reykjavík to be with her? Had she come to London in search of him, me, or her stolen passport? Was all that shit about going to Greece just a lie to keep me in line?
But in line for what? It didn’t make sense that Quinn would track me down in London just to fuck me—or fuck me over—then take off. He was in too much danger himself if he got nabbed by Interpol or the TSA or the Metropolitan Police. Which raised the possibility that he had, indeed, gotten caught.
The thought made me sick.
I finished the Scotch and started in on the Sapphire gin, pacing the apartment as my brain raced through every disaster I could imagine. The fact that Quinn knew Mallo Dunfries meant I could come up with an endless stream of scenarios, each one worse than the one before.
Quinn set up in some kind of sting; Quinn busted on the street right outside this building; Quinn in a bar fight where the cops were called in; Quinn breaking his decades-old resolve to score smack and ODing like Poppy Teasel. When I ran through those, I started in on scenes where Quinn met Dagney at Heathrow and they took off together for the South of France, or simply checked into some local hotel where they were even now fucking their brains out. Then I’d start back on visions of Quinn strung up or strung out or lying somewhere with his throat cut.
I was so wasted I eventually slumped on the couch and stared out at the vertical lines of sleet, a flickering test pattern. From my clenched fist dangled a length of rawhide with its carven eye. As I gazed at it, the eye winked at me.
I staggered to my feet, raced to the bathroom, and vomited. I hung my head over the sink, my face raw from crying. At last I undressed and stepped into the shower. I stood there until my skin puckered, stumbled out, and leaned against the bathroom counter.
My eyes ached as though I’d been staring into the sun. Everything I touched, including my own skin, felt coated with a layer of finely ground glass. Blood-red specks floated across my vision: The room looked like a frame from Leith Carlisle’s film. I felt the numb dread that follows a blackout drunk: I’d lost the ability to map the line between nightmare and everyday life, or even recognize that a boundary existed between them.
I took a deep breath, wrapped myself in a towel, got my satchel, and removed the scissors and hair dye I’d bought at Super Drug. Beneath the kitchen sink, I found a plastic bag and a container of bleach. I returned to the bathroom, stood in front of the mirror, and began to cut my hair.
In my twenties, I’d wear my hair in a ragged Johnny Lydon crop, dye it black or orange or red or platinum blond, then after a few months or a year, grow it out again.
But that had been years ago, before I retreated to the stockroom of the Strand and the decades-long, speed- and alcohol-fueled aftermath of my brief life as a working artist. After a few minutes I put down the scissors and ran my fingers through the few inches of hair that remained on my scalp, carefully swept what I’d cut into the plastic bag. I wiped the floor and counter with a washcloth soaked in bleach, dumped that into the bag as well. Then I opened the box I’d bought at the Super Drug and squeezed the dye through my hair.
After half an hour I stepped back into the shower, watching the dye swirl and disappear down the drain like blood in a black-and-white film. When the water ran clear I got out and toweled myself off. Only after I dressed did I look in the mirror.
A ghost’s face had been superimposed upon my own.Or, maybe for the last thirty-odd years, I’d been the ghost. The halo of ragged black hair made me appear younger and even more gaunt, my gray eyes no longer bloodshot but wolf-pale and piercingly alert. Close inspection might prove me to be the same woman in my passport or the photo that Mallo had taken. But if you passed me on the street, you wouldn’t recognize me; not unless you’d known me thirty years earlier.
The leather jacket and cowboy boots might be more of a giveaway. I rifled Bruno’s bedroom, opening drawers and rummaging through his closet. Dries van Noten, Raf Simons, The Elder Statesman. I grabbed a black sweater and a black henley and several pairs of socks, all cashmere, then spent a few minutes examining overcoats before choosing a long, drapey black cashmere coat with a leather hood, big enough to wear loosely over my leather jacket.
His shoes were too small, which was a moot point. There was no way I’d be giving up my Tony Lamas.
I went to the kitchen and drank a liter of Pellegrino from the fridge, filled the empty bottle with tap water and drank that as well. Then I found my camera bag and returned to the bathroom.
I did one more sweep through the bathroom cabinets. No medications except for a bottle of ibuprofen. I popped four capsules and kept the rest, wiped everything down again with the bleach, and made a final circuit of the kitchen.
I’d drunk everything except the mini of Polish vodka, which I pocketed. I ate the last can of tuna, then inspected Bruno’s cutlery and selected a paring knife as a shiv. I returned to the living room and switched on the TV to check the time.
Wednesday, 7:37 P.M. Quinn had been gone for almost thirty-six hours. I’d lost an entire day. I flipped through channels, searching for mention of Poppy’s death, anything that might relate to Quinn or myself. There was nothing but the now-familiar litany of bad weather, airport and road and train closures, automobile pileups, flooded roads, and reports of scattered looting.
Maybe Quinn had just gotten stuck somewhere. Maybe, maybe I could find him.
I switched off the TV. In the kitchen I found a pen and some scrap paper, wrote down the time and date and set the note on the counter. Then I stuffed the bag filled with my hair clippings and bleach-soaked rags into my satchel. I dropped the paring knife into the pocket of Bruno’s cashmere overcoat, along with a cigarette lighter that Quinn had left on the counter, then slid my hand into the pocket of my leather jacket and withdrew Poppy’s mobile phone.
Do not under any circumstances use that fucking mobile.
There was no landline in the flat. I’d memorized Quinn’s mobile number but had never used it. I stared at the mobile, and turned it on.
Cartoon-colored icons fizzed across the screen, the Disney version of the blobs in Thanatrope. I tapped in Quinn’s number, after a few seconds heard an electronic bleat, followed by silence and then Quinn’s voice.
You’ve reached Eskimo Vinyl in Reykjavík. Leave a message, I’ll get back to you.
I disconnected and slipped the phone back into my pocket, picked up my bag and walked out of the flat. As the door shut behind me I had the dreamlike apprehension that my skin had dissolved, leaving no barrier between me and the cool recycled air.
Both hall and elevator were empty and silent. I saw no one until I reached the lobby, where the same security guard sat behind the desk. He looked up as I approached, betraying no recognition whatsoever.
“Mr. Bogart,” I said. “Have you seen him?”
“Not today.” He glanced at his laptop. “Would you like to leave a message?”
I shook my head and left.