Neverwhere(19)

Richard walked back to his flat, upset and confused and angry. Sometimes he would wave at taxis, but never with any real hope that they would stop, and none of them did. His feet hurt, and his eyes stung, and he knew that soon enough he would wake up from today and a proper Monday, a sensible Monday, a decent, honest Monday would begin.

When he reached the apartment, he filled the bathtub with hot water, abandoned his clothes on the bed, and, naked, walked through the hall and climbed into the relaxing waters. He had almost dozed off when he heard a key turn, a door open and close, and a smooth male voice say, “Of course, you’re the first I’ve shown around today, but I’ve got a list of people as long as your arm who are interested.”

“It’s not as large as I imagined, from the details your office sent us,” said a woman.

“It’s compact, yes. But I like to think of that as a virtue.”

Richard had not bothered locking the bathroom door. He was, after all, the only person there.

A gruffer, rougher male voice said, “Thought you said it was an unfurnished apartment. Looks pretty damned furnished to me.”

“The previous tenant must have left some of his accoutrements behind. Funny. They never told me anything about that.”

Richard stood up in the bathtub. Then, because he was naked, and the people could walk in at any moment, he sat back down. Rather desperately, he looked around the bathroom for a towel. “Oh look, George,” said the woman in the hallway. “Someone’s left a towel on this chair.”

Richard inspected and rejected as poor towel substitutes a loofah, a half-empty bottle of shampoo, and a small yellow rubber duck. “What’s the bathroom like?” asked the woman. Richard grabbed a washcloth and draped it in front of his crotch. Then he stood up, with his back to the wall, and prepared to be mortified. The door was pushed open. Three people walked into the bathroom: a young man in a camel-hair coat, and a middle-aged couple. Richard wondered if they were as embarrassed as he was.

“It’s a bit small,” said the woman.

“Compact,” corrected the camel-hair coat, smoothly. “Easy to take care of.” The woman ran her finger along the side of the sink and wrinkled her nose. “I think we’ve seen it all,” said the middle-aged man. They walked out of the bathroom.

“It would be very convenient for everything,” said the woman. A conversation continued in lower tones. Richard climbed out of the bath and edged over to the door. He spotted the towel on the chair in the hall, and he leaned out and grabbed it. “We’ll take it,” said the woman.

“You will?” said the camel-hair coat.

“It’s just what we want,” she explained. “Or it will be, once we’ve made it homey. Could it be ready for Wednesday?”

“Of course. We’ll have all of this rubbish cleaned out of here tomorrow, no problem.”

Richard, cold and dripping and wrapped in his towel, glared at them from the doorway. “It’s not rubbish,” he said. “It’s my stuff.”

“We’ll pick up the keys from your office, then.”

“Excuse me,” said Richard, plaintively. “I live here.”

They pushed past Richard on their way to the front door. “Pleasure doing business with you,” said the camel-hair coat.

“Can you . . . can any of you hear me? This is my apartment. I live here.”

“If you fax contract details to my office—” said the gruff man, then the door slammed behind them and Richard stood in the hallway of what used to be his apartment. He shivered, in the silence, from the cold. “This,” announced Richard to the world, in direct defiance of the evidence of his senses, “is not happening.” The Batphone shrilled, and its headlights flashed. Richard picked it up, warily. “Hello?”

The line hissed and crackled as if the call were coming from a long way away. The voice at the other end of the phone was unfamiliar. “Mister Mayhew?” it said. “Mister Richard Mayhew?”

“Yes,” he said. And then, delighted, “You can hear me. Oh thank God. Who is this?”

“My associate and I met you on Saturday, Mister Mayhew. I was enquiring as to the whereabouts of a certain young lady. Do you remember?” The tones were oily, nasty, foxy.

“Oh. Yes. It’s you.”

“Mister Mayhew. You said Door wasn’t with you. We have reason to believe that you were embroidering the truth more than perhaps a little.”

“Well, you said you were her brother.”

“All men are brothers, Mister Mayhew.”

“She’s not here anymore. And I don’t know where she is.”