A figure emerges from the bushes and, pointing a shotgun, looks down at him. And so it is that, just before the final gunshot, Rob Kenna finally gets to look François Loubet in the eye.
93
Rosie had thought it was the boy from room service. She hadn’t actually ordered anything from room service, but she had winked at him in the hotel lobby earlier, so when she’d heard the knock at the door, she just assumed.
She had forgotten, however, that she has recently entered a world where knocks at hotel doors are not always lovers. Sometimes they are assassins.
Rosie invites Eddie Flood in, because what other option does she have? Perhaps she can talk him round? And, if not, well, what a story. She doesn’t know where Steve is, but he’ll piece together what’s happened here.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Rosie,” says Eddie.
“Bit late for that, Eddie,” says Rosie.
“I wanted to be ready,” says Eddie. “Before we met.”
Eddie reaches into his bag for a gun. Rosie reasons that her time may be up. Not for the first time today.
“You’ll answer one question, I hope?” says Rosie.
“A question,” says Eddie. “Of course.”
“Who hired you to kill me?”
“Kill you?” says Eddie, hand in his bag, looking genuinely perplexed.
“You’re a hitman?”
“No,” says Eddie. “Well, I mean, yes, but define ‘hitman,’ you know?”
“You tried to shoot my friend Amy,” says Rosie. “You were working for Rob Kenna?”
“Rob?” says Eddie. “I mean, I suppose so. I took his money.”
“And you kill people?” says Rosie, not unreasonably, in her view.
“Used to,” says Eddie. “Even then only once or twice, and only if they deserved it.”
“So if you’re not a hitman,” says Rosie, “what are you?”
Eddie looks embarrassed.
“You’ve been following us around the world, so you must have a reason,” says Rosie.
“I wanted to talk to you, you see,” says Eddie. “As soon as I heard your name, I knew it was my chance to meet you.”
“So you’re a crazed fan?” Rosie asks.
“I’m not a hitman, and I’m not a crazed fan.” Eddie pulls his laptop out of his bag. “I’m so sorry I worried you. I’m a writer.”
Rosie stares at him.
“I’ve used the last couple of days, you know, on the planes and what have you, to finish a book I’ve been working on.”
“Uh huh,” says Rosie.
“So it’s all good,” says Eddie, smiling. “I’m not here to kill you. I just want you to read my book.”
“Oh, God, Eddie,” says Rosie, putting her hand on his arm, “that’s so much worse.”
94
Steve is in a contemplative mood, as he walks along the quayside of Dubai Marina. Here he is, 3,000 miles from home, from the sofa that’s been molded into the shape of his backside, from the creak on the third step of the stairs, and the picture of Debbie that smiles at him from the bedside table.
He yearns for all this, physically aches. To be able to shut his own front door, to shut out the world. To get out of the sun.
The Irish Pub is up ahead. It will have British sport and British beer, but it won’t be The Brass Monkey with Tony and Jyoti and John. There probably won’t even be a quiz.
It’s a small life, Steve realizes, that he has wrapped himself up in. Small, and getting smaller.
A man in a suit on a yacht shouts at a woman in a dress on a night out.
Has he enjoyed himself, wonders Steve, as he enters the Irish Pub? Enjoyed this race across the world?
The pub is very noisy, but then everywhere seems to be noisy now. He supposes that Axley is noisy too, but it’s his noise, so he doesn’t notice it. What Steve doesn’t like, increasingly as he gets older, is the noise of other people.
So has he enjoyed himself? Answer the question, Steve. Has he enjoyed seeing new things, meeting new people, buying new shorts?
“Enjoy” is the wrong word. Steve scans the busy bar. There are large flashing signs everywhere saying Enjoy the Craic and Irish Eyes Are Smiling. Steve has very recently been in a couple of actual Irish pubs, and he doesn’t remember any neon signs. He doesn’t remember a barman rolling a diamond-encrusted, golden bottle of vodka up his arm and across his shoulder either.
