what to do now than he did. They all turned to Joe again.
‘Come on, then; where are we going?’ Joe prompted them. ‘Fire and hot water obligatory.’
Kite hesitated. ‘My sister has some rooms by the docks, in Leith.’ He looked at the marines again. ‘There’d be room for four.’
‘Good,’ Joe said. ‘Let’s find a cab.’
‘I don’t have any money.’
‘Then I’ll stop someone.’
‘Joe, no one’s going to …’
‘Shut up,’ Joe told him, starting to feel angry. He couldn’t tell who with or why exactly. It was a boiling of a lot of things: the chaos at the dock, Lawrence, the way it was impossible to just hate Kite. He even felt angry about the thing with the women’s wages. He wanted to shake Kite and demand he was just good or just a bastard, not this infuriating mix of both.
Joe stopped the first carriage that went past. It was black and sheening with fresh polish. Where the snow motes settled on its sides, they slid and formed perfect gemstone droplets. The horses huffed in the cold.
‘What in the world,’ the gentleman inside said, quite mildly. He was wearing an idiotic wig, just like Lawrence’s.
‘I really am sorry,’ Joe said, ‘but this is navy business and it’s vital I get these three men to Leith as soon as I possibly can. It’s a terrible imposition, but would you mind?’
The man laughed. ‘Well, aren’t you charming.’
Joe smiled his charming smile, which was less broad than his real one. Kite was so immune that Joe had forgotten how well it worked on everyone else. He wondered if anybody had ever been brave enough to flirt with Kite, and which ditch they’d ended up in.
‘Oh, go on then,’ the gentleman said. ‘All aboard.’
Even in a carriage, it was a long way. Kite fell still and silent. The gentleman was studying them with frank, pleased curiosity, and he asked silly questions about sailing. Joe watched the buildings glide by. The torches were burning at what the gentleman said was Holyrood Palace, where the Queen lived, and then there was a long expanse of darkness that was its broad park. Beyond that was a strange steep hill, more of a mountain, with one light burning at the top. He closed his eyes after a while. Because the carriage was small, they were all pressed together, knees bumping. Kite’s weight against Joe’s left side was warm and solid, and he managed not to have any awkward angles.
Now they were safe, something in Joe’s brain unwound too quickly and he got the shakes. He had to lock his teeth to keep them from chattering. All his muscles felt weak. He wanted to lean forward against his knees, but there was no room; he’d have been in the gentleman’s lap. He wondered exactly how close he’d been to staying in that prison. He could still hear the snick of the men picking up straws. And God, but he could still feel other people’s blood dried on to his skin.
And, just to put a cherry on the whole thing, it turned out he was incapable of running away.
What a knickerbocker glory of a day.
‘We’re here,’ the gentleman said. It seemed unnecessarily loud and Joe jumped.
Kite leaned across him to open the door. There was another awkward round of thank yous and don’t mention its, and then the carriage was on its way again, the horses white in the gloom. There were no street lamps here, just the lights from windows.
‘Thank you,’ Kite said when the carriage had gone.
‘You’d rather collapse than ask for help, wouldn’t you?’ Joe said.
‘No. I just didn’t think anyone would help if I asked.’
‘Sometimes people are all right,’ Joe said, trying not to sound too dismayed.
30
Agatha’s flat was not in the least what Joe had expected. Downstairs, the place was a novelty bar, full of cigar smoke, music, and men dressed spectacularly as rich ladies. Mounted on the wall was a beautiful sniper rifle and a sign which said DOE NOT BOTHER THE SERVATRICES. From somewhere close came the glorious sizzle of meat on a grill. The furniture was all upholstered in velvet. Joe approved. So, he thought, did the marines; they were looking longingly at the armchairs.
Kite went to the bar and spoke to the man behind it, who was dressed in a gown that must have cost as much as all the furniture put together. The man frowned at him.
‘I don’t know you from Adam, mate.’
‘The lady who owns the rooms upstairs, I’m her brother,’