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Alexia De Vere was gone. But she would be back.
There was nothing for it but to wait.
Simon Butler was furious. Social Services was about as much use as a water pistol in a forest fire.
“We’ve got some leaflets,” the bored moron on the so-called help line informed him, unhelpfully. “Or you can go on our Web site for details of your nearest local drop-in center.”
Simon remembered this same, not-my-problem attitude from when his brother Matty had been ill. “What’s your Web site,” he asked tersely. “Www-dot-I-don’t-give-a-shit-dot-com?”
“I understand your frustration, sir—”
Simon Butler hung up. There had to be a better way.
Billy Hamlin was feeling better.
The sun had come out, and London no longer looked like a study in gray. Women put their short skirts back on, people smiled at one another in the street, and the pub crowd had spilled onto the pavements, people perched on picnic tables smoking and laughing and enjoying the novelty of having their evening tipple “alfresco.”
Parliament reconvened in nine days but Alexia De Vere was due back in six.
It was almost over.
He usually went to the Old Lion on Baker Street. It was busy and anonymous, with more passing trade than regulars, and Billy liked the barman there. He was friendly but not intrusive, and he slipped Billy chips and peanuts for free. But the Old Lion had outdoor seating, so today Billy made an exception and went to the Rose and Crown in Marylebone instead.
For the first two beers he was fine. But as the afternoon turned to evening and he kept on drinking, his mood darkened.
“She was going to marry me, you know.”
“Who was?”
A group of young men sat next to him at the bar, smartly dressed City types. How long have they been there? Billy wondered. He hadn’t noticed them before.
“Toni. Toni Gilletti.”
“Right. Okay.” The young men turned away.
For some reason, Billy felt slighted. He grabbed one of them by the arm. “I know things, you know. I know things about the home secretary. I could bring the British government down. That’s why they’re after me.”
“What’s your problem, asshole?” The trader shook his arm free, accidentally pushing Billy back off his bar stool in the process. Losing his footing, Billy crashed into a nearby table of diners, sending plates and cutlery flying. Somebody screamed.
The next thing Billy knew he was on his feet. Someone, one of the diners, had thrown a punch. Panicked, he lashed out wildly, kicking and shouting as the bar staff manhandled him onto the street.
“Come back and I’ll call the police,” the landlord shouted after him. “Fucking loon.”
It wasn’t until he started walking home, weaving his way through unfamiliar streets, that Billy realized how drunk he was. His lip was split, he felt nauseous and dizzy, and
one of his eyes appeared to be starting to close. Worse, he had no real idea where he was. The smiles he’d seen on the streets earlier had all gone now. People he passed glared at him, their expressions ranging from distaste to outright hostility.
They’re afraid of me.
The thought made him sad.
By the time he made it back to his guesthouse, one of a row of nondescript Victorian houses along the Edgeware Road, it was close to midnight. Wearily, he tramped up the stairs. A stranger was standing outside his door.
“Billy Hamlin?”
Like a trapped rat, Billy looked from left to right, hunting for an escape, but there was none. “Who are you? What do you want?”
“Don’t worry, Billy.” The stranger smiled. “I’m not from the police. You’re not in any trouble. I’m here to help.”
