Katherine Carlyle by Rupert Thomson

Author:Rupert Thomson [Thomson, Rupert]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9781590517390
Publisher: Other Press
Published: 2015-10-05T21:00:00+00:00

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I hear the music as soon as I step out of the taxi. At first, though, I can’t tell where it’s coming from. I let myself into Cheadle’s building. The door to his apartment is open and people lean against the wall outside, drinking and smoking. Among them is a girl in a T-shirt that says NOTHING TO WRITE HOME ABOUT.

“Good T-shirt,’ I tell her.

“Thanks,” she says.

I edge past her, into the room that used to be a garage. Strings of colored bulbs loop through the darkness, and the music is so loud I can’t hear what anyone is saying. Smoke hovers in a flat cloud below the ceiling. Tanzi’s down in The Grave with three other girls.

Cheadle walks over, raincoat flapping, a cigar stub in the corner of his mouth.

“Come and dance,” he roars.

I tell him I need to change.

“You’re fine as you are.” He lurches backwards, then looks me up and down. “Better than fine.”

“You didn’t say you were having a party.”

“I didn’t know!”

Tanzi came home with two friends and a duty-free bottle of Malibu, he tells me, then a DJ from the neighborhood showed up and — Boom — the whole thing just took off. While Cheadle’s talking, I scan the room. I’m looking for Anna and Oleg but the dim lighting and the crush of people make it difficult to see. When I refused to go to Raul’s room with him did I renege on my agreement? Panic surges through me and I’m sweating suddenly. I don’t dare ask Cheadle if he’s expecting the Russians. Apart from anything else I don’t want him to remember what I was doing earlier. When he turns away from me to accept a spliff from a man in a porkpie hat, I seize my chance and sink back into the crowd.

In my room I change out of my clothes, then pack my case. It’s the work of a few minutes. I leave the gold dress and the sandals on the bed. Taking a last look round, I peel my Richter postcards off the wall and push them into my coat pocket, then I open the door and peer out. The girl in the T-shirt is halfway down the corridor, a cigarette between her fingers, bending into the flame of someone’s lighter. There’s no sign of Cheadle or of the Russians. I pick up my bags and make for the front door.

“Going somewhere?” the girl says, smoke emerging from her mouth in little chopped-up clouds.

I smile but don’t stop.

Outside, a fine drizzle veils the buildings. The streetlamps look soft and fuzzy, like dandelion flowers, a whole row of them reaching in a long diminishing straight line, all the way to Ostkreuz. It’s the early hours of Tuesday morning. I’m going to have to leave Berlin as soon as possible. In the next two days for sure. In the meantime I need to disappear.

My first instinct is to check into the hotel near Kluckstrasse, but it might be dangerous to retrace my steps.

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