As it was, she’d had to invent a workout accident.
“A collision, was it? On one of those stationary bicycles?” Her father’s amusement alternated with a litigious glint. “Your uncle Sanjeev, did you forget he is a solicitor? This accident, there should be compensation.”
Compensation, no, thought Ashley.
Payback, though. That was something else.
And if a certain type of onlooker could have seen Ashley Khan’s smile through her face-mask, they’d have made sure to socially distance themselves the length of a carriage or two, and possibly adopted the brace position while doing so.
An incoming text roused Lech and he surfaced abruptly, every inch of him feeling like he’d Sumo-wrestled a walrus. This wasn’t quite normal service. The post-Sumo effect was recent—a souvenir from Wimbledon—and sleeping through the night was rare too. Insomnia was one of the few traits he still had in common with the Lech Wicinski of old, who had been on an upward trajectory: a good job—analyst at Regent’s Park—a nice flat he shared with his fiancée; walks by the river on Sunday; meals out with friends once a week. Insomnia, yes, but he’d learned to accept it, treating it as extra space, a quiet time when he had nothing but his own thoughts to attend to. Often he walked it off, striding through the city after dark, paying attention to details that were invisible by day, as if haunting a cinema after the audience had gone: here were the empty seats, the abandoned popcorn containers and takeaway cups; all the signs indicating that life went on here, just not at the moment.
And while this still happened—one night out of three he’d be roaming the streets; blowing this way and that, like litter—the rest was change. He no longer had a job at the Park, or a nice flat, and Sara had emailed yesterday to let him know—she wouldn’t want him to find out any other way—that she was seeing someone else. So was Lech, but only in the mirror. The scarred face there was a whole new chapter in a different story; most of the damage self-inflicted, to conceal the original message carved by a bad actor. PAEDO. A lie, but what difference did that make? Had it been true, he’d have obliterated it just the same.
The scars he’d made to hide that lie had hardened to a mask. Something he could hide behind, and others shy away from.
And his days were no longer spent at Regent’s Park but at Slough House, where the Park’s cast-offs laboured. Their tasks were of the boulder-rolling kind: they never came to an end, they just felt like they might, right up to the moment when they began all over again. To be assigned to Slough House meant you’d committed some egregious error; had endangered lives, or caused embarrassment, or invited the wrong sort of attention, all of which were among the seven deadlies on Spook Street. Lech’s own mistake had been to do someone a favour, and the only consolation he’d devised for himself since had been the promise that he’d never do that again; that from here on in, he was his only trusted friend. Being at Slough House actually helped in that regard. It was a place that encouraged you to remain behind your mask, and focus on rolling that boulder. Either you’d get it to the top of the hill despite yourself, or you’d come to your senses and give up.
But the resumption of normal service wasn’t something you could guarantee against, and nor did a mask protect you from yourself. Or perhaps all this meant was, you couldn’t hide from history; it would always roll round again and perform its favourite damage. He should know that by now. His Polish blood should have sung him the song. But that same blood had the tendency to remind him that he was involved in humanity, like it or not, which in turn meant he’d repeated the same stupid error and done somebody a favour. The same somebody, in fact, that he’d done a favour for first time round. Which was why, lying in bed, he had the not-unfamiliar sense of having kick-started something he’d regret.
To cheer himself up, he read the text that had woken him. It was from his landlord: the rent hadn’t been paid. Which meant his bank had screwed up again—the second direct debit to have gone awry this week.
His alarm clock chirruped. Limbs and body bruised and stiff, Lech showered and dressed, drank a cup of black tea, and set off for work.
Normal service, being resumed.
Talk about not learning from your mistakes.
Spend enough time shadow-boxing and your shadow starts to hit back. Shirley should offer that at the morning session as a “learning.” They were big on learnings, here in the San, especially when they came wrapped in metaphor. So, yeah: shadow-boxing. But when you’re off the ground, she could add, your shadow can’t lay a finger on you. Very good reason for getting high.