Gunner had been up and about relatively late that morning, thundering down the stairs past Adam’s room to the kitchen, the smell of bacon cooking and coffee wafting upwards about twenty minutes later. Just after ten, Adam heard him galloping back upstairs. Five minutes later the old pipes, which ran down the back of the house, started shuddering and clunking away as Gunner took a bath and, no doubt, emptied the entire contents of the small hot-water tank. He would have to wait to have his shower later. Every so often, he heard the sound of water being run again, as though the bath was being topped up. He imagined Gunner wallowing in the water, no doubt smoking one of his foul cigarettes as he listened to Kit’s radio. It wasn’t until nearly an hour later that he heard the sound of the bath being emptied. He got dressed quickly and waited. Eventually he heard Gunner come back down the stairs, thud along the hall, then bang the front door shut. Careful to make sure that he locked the bedroom door behind him, Adam put on his jacket, shouldered the small rucksack he carried everywhere with him during the day, and followed Gunner out into the street.
Dressed casually in a leather jacket and jeans, Gunner marched towards Kensington Church Street, then turned left towards Notting Hill Gate. At that time of day there were enough people around to make it easy to blend in, but there was no need to worry; Gunner didn’t look back once. He walked with the easy, purposeful stride of somebody who knew where he was going and wasn’t particularly bothered by his surroundings. He seemed oblivious to the fact he was being followed.
He crossed over Notting Hill Gate and headed north along Pembridge Villas, then turned down the Portobello Road. It was market day and the street was thronged with tourists milling around the antiques and bric-a-brac stalls. It was difficult to walk through the crowd, but Adam had no problem keeping track of Gunner. He was a head taller than most of those around him. He headed downhill, pausing at a food stall to buy a cup of coffee, then at another to buy a pastry, as though he had no plan. Adam was beginning to feel he was wasting his time and he felt hungry. Unlike Gunner, he had had no breakfast, let alone anything extra. The smell of coffee wafted from one of the stands, followed by the fresh, doughy smell of pancakes. Someone else was selling roasted chestnuts, something that reminded him of his childhood, when his witch of a grandmother used to cook them on a shovel over the fire. He could see Gunner a little way in front, stopped again in front of a second-hand bookstall. He was deep in conversation with the owner and looked as though he would be there for a while. Unable to resist any longer, he dug his wallet out of his rucksack and bought a bag of chestnuts. When he looked up again, Gunner had gone.
He stood eating the chestnuts, watching the road in front, but Gunner was nowhere to be seen. The chestnuts had barely made a dent in his hunger and he decided he needed a proper breakfast. He went into one of the antique markets, followed the signs up the stairs to a little café on the first floor, and sat down and ordered a full English breakfast. It was only when he came to pay that he realised his wallet, with two hundred pounds in cash and a couple of Kit’s credit cards, was gone.