Secret Thing

I follow him along the street, watched him disappear into Caf?
Pushka. I am always following but he does not see me. I melt into the
shadows, keeping close into the wall. The glow from the caf? is warm
and inviting, spills out onto the street, making pools of light on the
wet pavement. I crouch in a dark place and peer at him through the
steamed-up caf? windows. He goes to the bar and orders something. His
usual. I flick through an abandoned newspaper. The place is crowded so
I go in, push my way to the bar and order a beer, catching his eye, not
smiling. He is gazing at a framed photograph on the wall, dreaming
perhaps. I wonder about his next move.

He leaves at around midnight. His face is flushed from the booze, rosy
like the caf? walls. I feel the rush of cold exterior air as he opens
the door and heads out into the night. I wait for a minute, gulp the
last of my wine, then go after him. His crosses the street, walking
quickly towards the church. A fine rain falls through the cold air. I
see a glimmer of lights in the churchyard near the pyramid, a
whispering as I approach. From behind a broken tomb I watch him talking
to someone. A figure lost in the deeper shadow. A match is struck and
fades, briefly illuminating their faces. Their eyes shine like a
bat's.

I am told to meet my immediate superior in the Bluecoat bookshop. The
place is empty, dispiriting. The air smells of paper, the sadness of
libraries. A hole in my shoe lets the rain in and my sock is wet.
No-one speaks to me. There was no meeting and I felt angry, let down.
Strange then that my mind should turn to my mission, that I should feel
my interest growing. I stare at my hands and notice how pale my skin
has become, how the blood moving beneath the surface looks blue.

My head aches in the morning, a dull echo of last night's wine. I go to
file my report and find a letter waiting for me in my pigeon-hole. The
envelope is creamy. There are tickets inside. The afternoon passes
slowly and I watch the rain, change into my suit and leave for the
theatre. The playhouse is crowded, the foyer alive with laughter and
the soft buzz of conversation. I see him immediately. He is talking to
a young girl, someone I've seen before. An actress.

She works at 'Quiggans' to make extra cash, selling jewellery, cheap
things that glitter more brightly than diamonds. She takes money from
people like a raven takes food. Her eyes glitter. I wonder if I should
watch her too, find out about her life for my records. But I find I
don't need to. He meets her after work and they eat something in a caf?
at the end of Bold Street. Then he walks with her to the Playhouse. I
am always following, watching. They kiss outside the theatre and she
disappears inside.

I know that something is happening. A secret thing. I take shelter from
the rain in Caf? Magnet. The dim light is soothing. People talk in loud
voices about artistic things. I drink my coffee then order wine, lulled
by the cheap music, the superficial interchange of life at night. My
breath catches in my throat as he walks in. He looks tired. Paler than
usual. I notice a mark on his neck, a dark bruise. I pull my coat more
closely around myself and study him. He orders a glass of red wine but
leaves it untouched.

I follow him out of the Tabac. He glances back a few times and I feel
sure then that he knows I am there, just behind him. He crosses Berry
Street and clambers over the railing. The ruined gothic masonry
glowers, tall windows like unseeing eyes. I'm wrong-footed, not sure of
things now. But my training tells me to persist. And I do. I am drawn
closer. There's a hole in fence and a slither through it. I hear low
voices from the shadows, see the flickering of lights. Like flames.
Little flames. Then I see them. They're moving closer. Touching me.