To Indigo by Tanith Lee (read along books txt) 📕

of inner London. Witnesses, even help, might be forthcoming.

I started to walk on and as I’d anticipated, he fell at once into step with me.

“I had a fascinating journey down,” he said.

I said nothing.

He went on airily, striding, the bag swinging on his shoulder full of God knew what. “The train broke down near Lewisham. We sat there for about half an hour. Then crawled. Or I’d have been here much sooner.”

I couldn’t contain it. I said, “But you were here last night.”

“Was I?” He turned the charming smile on me again, I felt it beamed against the side of my face. “Are you sure?” I hadn’t been. Now I was. “Of course, despite the slow train, I was here quite early. Did you like the dustbin, by the way?’

“I have a dustbin.” I thought, Shut up, don’t respond.

“Well I reckoned you did. But I needed something to put the beer in.”

No, I had to speak. I sounded flat and level. “How did you know where I lived?”

He laughed. It was a spontaneous, melodious laugh. “How’d you think?”

And how did I think?

For a moment I considered the Web. After all I had a website, Harris had arranged it. And you can find the address of almost anyone now, seemingly, by a strategic search in hyperspace. But he didn’t know my name. Or did he?

“I haven’t any idea.”

“Well, try to guess. I shouldn’t make it too easy for you. I don’t think I should.”

We passed the last house in the Crescent. Here was the wide road with its cars and bikes, and people on the pavements by the frontages of shops. The crossing twenty feet further on was making its fretful hurry-up beeping, and women with children and shopping crossed both ways at once, in an unwieldy dance.

I halted again. “Mr Traskul…”

Predictably: “Joseph. Not Joe, if possible. We’ll come to nicknames later, maybe.”

“Mr Traskul, why have you followed me here? Why are you here? What do you want?”

Making my stand in the busy street reminded me immediately of my father meeting me unexpectedly from Chaults, of suddenly extricating myself from the attentions of the bullies with a “Leave me alone!” and hurrying to the shelter of a parent. Later when I explained to him the bullying, he said, regarding me with kindly seriousness, “Now, Roy, I can’t always be there. You must learn to stand up for yourself. If they think you’re afraid, it won’t stop.” I was twelve.

He faced me, seeming slightly puzzled.

“I followed you because I got on the train. I’m here to see you. What do I want? Same as former answer: To see you.”

“Why?”

“It’s a surprise when someone wants to see you, then?”

“A complete stranger. Yes.”

“Haven’t you ever met a complete stranger who wanted to see you again? That’s a shame. But there’s always a first time.”

A police car drove by. I wondered if I should hail it. I didn’t. It was gone. No doubt they’d have ignored me in any case.

“I’m not gay,” I said. I detest this label, although not the fact of homosexuality.

“Well nor am I, if you’re asking. At least I don’t think so. You can always get a surprise,” he said, (that word surprise again). “Mate of mine, couple of years ago, plenty of women, and then one day he finds himself going mad about a guy in the Stock Exchange. I think they’re in the South of France, now.”

I tried to keep my bearings.

I said quietly and firmly, “I think you should go back to town, Mr Traskul. Thank you for the dustbin and the beer. If I owe you any money for them…”

Now he burst out laughing. “That’ll look good. You slipping me twenty pound notes.”

“I’m not rich. This really won’t be worth your efforts to…”

“Well I didn’t think you were rich. I’m sorry but you don’t look rich. I’m not rich either. So, right. Where are we going?”

A woman barging past with a pushchair jarred into me. Joseph Traskul looked at her mildly.

I said, “I can give you the contents of my wallet. And my mobile phone. But it isn’t new and probably not your kind of thing.”

“But I like all kinds of things,” he reassuringly told me. I therefore reached into my jacket and he said, “No, I don’t want your phone. I have a phone – regardez-la!” And he flipped out of his shoulder bag a steel-blue mobile that might have come on the market that morning. “Tell you what, let’s go into that cafe over there. I’m bloody starving. I’ll buy you a coffee. We can discuss this. Will that do?”

Something in me gave way. He must have seen it. I said, “If that means we get this sorted out.”

“Course we will.”

Together we crossed at the shrilly belligerent crossing.

The cafe, which is situated in the bakers and serves fresh-baked bread and every type of English breakfast, welcomed me with the normal cheery “Good morning!” They seemed pleased I was with this nice young man, be he nephew, long-lost son, or rent-boy.

We sat down at the far end beyond the coffee-maker.

The girl came over at once.

“Two coffees,” he said. He smiled one of his endless variety of smiles, charming her, or playing he charmed her while she, perhaps used to it all, played at being charmed. “And can I have the full English, with wholemeal toast, no butter, and extra fries.”

I thought sullenly, I’ll be paying for that, whatever he has said.

Through my mind, influenced by so many of my plots, flitted the idea I might poison, or at least drug him. But I had nothing suitable on me, the aspirin were at home.

We sat in silence, his companionable, until she put the coffees before us.

“Well,” he said then, “what do I call you? If you’re nervous just make up a name. But you do know mine.”

Is it only that I had been in some ways so rigorously brought up? I remember Lynda once telling me she had often given invented names to unwanted men who pursued