Chapter Fourteen

A park.

It was in the middle of the city, and nobody's idea of a destination: just one of the center's few remaining squares of something approximating greenery. There were no flower beds here, and the trees were arranged in ugly, unplanned bunches, the grass between them dotted with fallen leaves. The paths crisscrossing the area could be walked in half a minute or less, and most people kept to the sidewalks outside instead.

Not a special place to anyone.

Except them.

Chris and James were sitting on an old bench, their backpacks on the ground in front of them. They had spent most of the day so far aimlessly walking the streets of the city. It was something to do. Now they were sitting quietly, drinking coffee in silence—or a sort of silence, Chris thought. Because it was that awkward kind of quiet where it felt like a lot was being said without it being spoken.

He looked up. The sky above was a shade of gray that couldn't even bring itself to promise rain. It was just a blank, featureless expanse, entirely uninterested in the world below it. For many years, that was how he had thought of the city in general. Other people saw it as home, but sleeping rough on its streets had given him a different perspective. Everywhere you looked—if you looked—you saw shuttered windows, boarded-up doorways, unfriendly faces. Even the shops seemed to stare at you suspiciously. And the message you received if you could bring yourself to listen was loud and insistent. You don't belong here. You're not welcome.

And for a long time, he had believed that was true.

He didn't anymore, but that made him think about Alan Hobbes, and he wasn't ready to do that just yet. The question came anyway. The one that was hanging unspoken between him and James right now.

What the fuck are we going to do?

A different memory.

This was a year and a half ago—maybe a month or so after he'd gotten clean, and at a point when he had still been unaccustomed to the freedoms available to him. During his time in the clinic, the rules had been strict and his routine rigorously regimented. When he emerged on the last day, blinking at the harsh light, it had been as though he were experiencing the world for the first time, like a newborn child. A month after that, it had still felt alien to him that he could leave his apartment—his own apartment!—at will and go wherever he wanted. By that point he was working for Alan Hobbes, but the requirements of the job were far from arduous or time-consuming. There had been nothing much demanded of him at all, beyond basic household tasks, being available on call to attend to the occasional request, and—this most of all—sitting and listening to the old man when he was taken by the desire to talk.

On a day off, he had wandered into the city center one lunchtime and found himself here, sitting on this bench, eating a sandwich from a plastic package, with a takeaway carton of hot coffee beside him.

Soaking in the silence.

Minding his own business.

Chris had seen the man from the back to begin with, his attention caught first by his long hair and the large waterproof coat he was wearing, and then by his behavior. The man was taking photographs of the cluster of trees across from them both. He kept squatting and holding his camera to his face, standing and checking the screen, then shifting position and crouching down again.

The whole time, he was moving gradually backward in Chris's direction, like a chess piece slowly maneuvering itself into position. Chris might have mistaken it for a deliberate approach if the man hadn't been so clearly unaware of his presence.

In the month or so he had been out, he'd barely spoken to anyone. There had been Hobbes, and a couple of the other workers at the house when their paths crossed, but nothing really initiated by him. And there was no reason to speak to this stranger now, of course, beyond their growing proximity.

But a part of him wanted to.

A little, at least. But it was also stupid. If he'd had a die with him, he might have rolled it. Ten or below, say, and he would speak; anything above and he would mind his own business. Leave it up to chance, in other words—albeit heavily weighted toward maintaining the status quo.

But the thought reminded him of a conversation he'd had with Hobbes a couple of nights before. The old man had been intrigued that Chris had enjoyed role-playing games when he was younger. Chris wasn't sure how the subject had come up, but Hobbes had a way of doing that—of steering the conversation round to whatever he wanted to talk about—and they'd ended up talking about what it meant to leave decisions and repercussions to the rolls of dice.

It's just chance, isn't it?Chris said. That's what makes it fair.

Hobbes had inclined his head, as though only considering the matter for the very first time. He had a way of doing that too. It could have been annoying, but Chris quite liked it. The old man would have made a good father, he thought.

But is it chance?Hobbes said thoughtfully. And does it really make it fair? Because the number you roll was the number you were always going to roll. And it's still you making the decision, isn't it? The angle of your arm. The flick of your wrist.

Chris couldn't think of an answer to that.

It just seems to me, Hobbes said, that you'd be better off making the decision with your head instead. Or trying to.

And so.

"What are you doing?" Chris said.

"Jesus!"

By that point, the man was crouched down barely a foot away, and the surprise made him wobble off-balance; he had to put one palm on the grass to steady himself. When he'd recovered and looked around, Chris held his hands up.

"Sorry," he said. "Didn't mean to startle you."

"I didn't realize there was anyone else here."

"Yeah, clearly. What are you doing?"

The man gestured across the park with the camera, as though the device was his primary means of communication.

"I'm taking photos of the trees."

"Yeah, I know." The trees didn't appear to be anything special to Chris. "I was just wondering why."

The man looked at him curiously. Up close, he was much younger than Chris had been expecting. He wasn't sure why—maybe it had been the coat. But now, he registered the jeans the man was wearing, along with what looked like a waistcoat over a… was that a band T-shirt of some kind? He had grandfather glasses that should have been ridiculously uncool on someone their age but actually suited his face. All in all, there was something out of time about the man, Chris thought. It was as though he'd traveled hurriedly through different periods of history and fashion, grabbing a single item at random from each to dress in, and somehow gotten lucky.

"To sketch from," the man said. "I need something to use as a study."

"A study for what?"

"A painting I'm working on."

The man explained he was an art student at the university and that he often took photographs to use as the basis for parts of his paintings. Chris had a hard time wrapping his head around the idea. Surely art was meant to come from your own imagination? James—Chris learned his name quickly—disagreed with him, arguing that most artists worked from models or reference material.

It felt like a cheat to Chris, but he wasn't sure why. He stared across at the drab little cluster of trees. If you based a painting on a photograph, surely that meant everything was there already? You weren't creating anything in the present; it was all just snapshots of the past arranged in different formations.

James took the points well but grew exasperated with him nevertheless.

"Everything builds on what's come before."

"Does it really though?"

"Yes." James sighed. "Do you want to go for a coffee? I'll try to explain a bit better. We can even talk about something else if you like. You maybe?"

Chris sensed the shutters coming down inside him.

"I'm not interesting," he said. "And I've already got a drink."

"Okay."

James looked disappointed. He took a step back. Chris found himself fighting a familiar sensation in his chest. He was so used to protecting himself—pushing people away. Keeping safe. But that wasn't how he had to be, was it? He could be free to make choices with his head. And when he looked at James, he realized what he wanted to do was talk to this person some more.

So Chris held out the carton of coffee.

"But I'm happy to share," he said, "if you are?"

This had become something of a joke between them after that.

Whenever Chris made coffee in his apartment, he made only one and they had to pass it between them. Takeout from cafés always consisted of just a single order to share. It was ridiculous on one level—not to mention impractical—but it had become a part of their life together. A ritual neither of them were willing to break.

Chris sipped his coffee now, weighed what was left, then held it out to James.

"You finish it," he said.

"You sure?"

"Yeah. It's pretty much gone anyway."

James took it.

Chris looked across at the stand of trees. At that moment, the clouds broke a little and a flood of sunshine passed over the park. The light caught the edges of the branches, creating a glistening web of complexity. And just for a moment, it was as though he could see a pattern there. The leaves drifting down became black notes fluttering through a mesh of broken musical staves, and as he tried to follow them, there were a few seconds when he could almost hear the music they made.

"What are you thinking?" he said.

James frowned.

"I'm thinking I'm tired," he said slowly. "I'm thinking that my back hurts."

"Yeah, mine does too."

They had been sleeping on the floor of James's art studio for a few days now. Out of the handful of places available to them, it was the only one that felt safe—the only one where it felt like they wouldn't be found by whoever was hunting them. It wasn't great, but he was used to sleeping rough. You were cold and uncomfortable, but you knew you would be and so you accepted it. It was an endurance test. Chris had lived with the mentality that required for a long time, and the mindset had come back to him easily, like an old T-shirt that still fit when he tried it on.

But the fit was far from a welcome one.

Since leaving the clinic, he'd become accustomed to the luxury of having a roof over his head. A hot shower first thing. A comfortable bed. He had even started to take those things for granted. And there was a small, unwelcome voice in his head now—one that had been with him to some extent his whole life—that was telling him he had never deserved any of it.

That a happy life was not for the likes of him.

James passed the coffee back to him.

"Here."

"I said you could finish it," Chris told him.

"Yeah, I know. But there's still enough left for both of us."

Chris smiled and accepted the carton.

Rituals were important. You had no choice but to go along with them.

That made him think of Alan Hobbes again. The old man had always liked to talk, but in recent months his thoughts had become increasingly detached from reality. There had been more and more moments when he was barely lucid.

It feels like a journey at the time. Step by step.

Oh?

Yes, Hobbes said. But the reality is that all the steps are there at once. Beginning, middle and end—they're all the same. From above, the whole journey is there.

That had been inscrutable but other occasions had been worse. A few weeks ago, Hobbes had sat up suddenly and grabbed Chris's wrist, all but screaming into his face.

Oh God, it's under the bed.

It's under the fucking bed!

Then he had collapsed back down and started to cry.

I miss you so much, Joshua.

So much.

Beside Chris, James sighed now.

"What the fuck are we going to do?" he said.

Chris didn't answer. He just sipped the coffee carefully. Because while there wasn't much left of it now—and the dregs were almost too cool to drink—he thought there was still just enough to pass back to James. And that was the deal. They might not have much, the two of them, and it might not be great. But it was theirs. And the reassurance of that had been right there in James's question.

What were they going to do?

"I don't know," Chris said. "But it's going to be okay."

"Is it?"

"Yeah," he said. "Of course."

He smiled at James, wanting to believe his own words, but then he looked down at the backpack on the ground in front of him. It was packed well and tied tightly—another old habit—but he could sense it inside there.

The book he had taken from Alan's private room.

It might have been out of sight right now, but he could feel the throb of it anyway—it was as though the thing had a pulse or was somehow breathing. It seemed like the thought of it made the sun disappear behind the clouds.

What are we going to do?

He didn't know.

And then the phone Alan Hobbes had given him began to ring.