I am in no mood to go home after I leave the refuge, and so I keep walking, turning right onto Delancey Street and through the doors of the nearest pub. Ordering a double whisky, I seat myself at the furthest table, positioned so that it is impossible to catch anyone’s eye.
Soon, I feel a numbness like an anaesthetic taking hold, less to do with the whisky than the relief of finally talking. Now that I have spoken at last, my words breaking the walls I had built around me, I feel strangely calm. There is no sudden surge of guilt or trauma or anxiety. I am not cleansed exactly, but for the first time in as long as I can remember I realise I am no longer clenching my stomach.
Knocking back the last drop of whisky, I stand to leave, the breeze on my cheeks reinvigorating me as I head back to the flat.
Once I am ensconced in front of my laptop, a cup of coffee by my side, I pull out the envelope and once again type Goran Petrović into Google, along with the company name PKI Ltd, to which the address near Tottenham Court Road is registered.
When nothing comes up, I click on the website of Companies House and press on the link to ‘Get information about a company’, ordering the registration details and accounts.
These won’t arrive in my inbox until the following day, but when they do they will provide me with the names of the nominated directors, and that expectation bolsters me.
I have barely pressed Send on my request when the phone rings on the table next to me. I recognise the number at once.
The voice at the other end of the line is laced with a sense of urgency. ‘I have someone here who might be able to help you … could you come now?’