Page 77 of The Angel Maker

But then, as the day died, the nighttime world took over. Theotherpeople came out, reclaiming and repurposing the city’s streets and spaces. He thought of it like a map being turned over. You might still be able to see an impression of the roads and landmarks through the paper, but the more precise geography of the city disappeared. There was potential there to sketch your own designs and begin to make the map your own.

Those two worlds blurred into each other twice a day. Dawn had its pleasures, of course. There had been times sleeping rough when he had watched the first pink thatches of cloud glowing above the jagged black tops of the buildings, and there was even an odd sort of magic in saluting the first buses as they appeared. But dusk had always suited him best. The bright lights of the shops and offices flicking off. The darkness settlingdown. The drop in temperature, as though the world was falling asleep without a blanket and had begun shivering slightly.

All of that had appealed to him more. He wasn’t sure why.

Maybe it was just that he had always felt more like a nighttime person.

But as he sat in the café now, the day dying outside the window, his nerves were singing. It felt like a world was arriving in which he no longer quite belonged. The apprehension he’d felt while packing away the tent earlier was stronger now, and it was taking all his resolve not to walk out of here without looking back.

Because he couldn’t do that. For one thing, it didn’t feel like there were many other courses of action open to him. This was something he had to do; he and James had no choice. And for another, the phrasing itself didn’t work.Not looking backmight be a luxury available to some, but it had never felt like an option for Chris. People like him always had to keep looking around them.

He checked his phone.

Five minutes until the man was due.

No messages from James.

He put the phone away, then looked out past the pale reflection beside him in the glass. The sidewalk and road outside were illuminated intermittently by the faltering streetlights. He wondered if, from across the street, the café window might look a little like that painting,Nighthawks, by Hopper—but then again, perhaps not. There was some kind of romance there, whereas there was none to be found here.

The café was one of the few properties still open on this street, and he suspected it wouldn’t be for very much longer. It was little more than a harshly lit rectangular room full of folding tables. A rudimentary counter at the side. Back in the day, Chris remembered this place had attracted its fair share of nighttime people, and that was why he had suggested it for the meeting. In his memory it wassafe. But now that he was here, it appeared even the old addicts had abandoned this place, and it no longer felt quite so safe.

He was the only customer.

But not the only person. In the reflection, Chris could see the owner behind the counter. He was in his sixties, with a shaved head and built like a bull. Right now he was drying a cup with a ragged cloth. But he kept looking at Chris, a conflicted expression on his face.

Chris turned and called over.

“Another black coffee, please.”

The man stared back at him for a moment, then nodded and put down the cup and cloth before turning away. Chris heard the rasp of the machine, like something clearing its throat, and a minute later, the man brought the cup over and put it down on the table in front of Chris.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He paused. “What are you doing in here, kid?”

“Business.”

“Really?”

“Notthatkind of business,” Chris said. “You don’t need to worry.”

But the man stood there, looking down at him, and his expression remained conflicted. He was clearly uneasy about Chris being here.

He took a deep breath and seemed to be about to say something.

But then he looked over Chris’s shoulder as the bell rang. Chris turned in his seat to see the door opening. A man walked in, moving slowly and awkwardly. He was clearly very old, and his legs seemed stiff. The overhead lights gleamed on a skull from which all traces of hair had long since vanished. He was dressed in an immaculate suit with a bright red rose tucked into the lapel, and he was carrying a briefcase.

Chris held his breath.

Because—just for a moment—it might have been Alan Hobbes he was looking at. There was afamiliaritythere. But then he saw the man’s face, and the sensation evaporated. Despite his eccentricities, Alan had always been kind. But there was nothing resembling kindness in this man’s expression.

In fact, there was nothing to see there at all.

“Your business?” the man said quietly.

“I think so.”

The old man used his free hand to brush off the shoulders of his suit as though it had been snowing outside. First one side. Then the other.

---