The Travelling Companion Read Free

its spine seemed to be a jumble of letters or hieroglyphs of some kind.
    â€œMy boy?”
    And then a darkening tunnel.
    â€œWait, let me …”
    And then sleep.
    I awoke laid out on a bed. My shirt had been unbuttoned and Benjamin Turk was dabbing at my chest with a damp towel. I sat bolt upright, a hangover pulsing behind my eyes.
    It was quite obviously his bedroom. My jacket had been placed on a hook on the back of the door, but below it I could see a long red satin bath-robe. There was also a wardrobe whose doors wouldn’t quite shut and a bedside table bearing a basin half-filled with water. When I angled my feet off the bed on to the floor, I made contact with several hardcover books lying there.
    â€œCareful you don’t faint again,” Turk cautioned as I started to rebutton my shirt.
    â€œI just need some air,” I muttered.
    â€œOf course. Can I help you negotiate the stairs?”
    â€œI’ll be fine.”
    â€œI’m relieved to hear it—I had the devil’s own job bringing you this far …”
    I wasn’t sure what he meant until I grabbed my jacket and pulled open the door. We were just inside the front door of the apartment. I must have missed the bedroom on arrival. I stared at Turk, who shrugged.
    â€œIt wasn’t easy—those steps from the attic are treacherous.” He was holding something out for me to take. I unfolded the piece of paper. “A list of the books,” he explained, “so that your employer can be kept in blissful ignorance—if that’s what you would like.”
    â€œThank you,” I said, pocketing the note. He had unlocked the door. The stairwell was a few degrees cooler, but I could still feel sweat clinging to my hair.
    â€œSafe descent,” Benjamin Turk said, giving a little wave of one hand before disappearing behind the closing door. Holding on to the banister, I made my way slowly to the street, pausing outside and filling my lungs with air. A young woman on the pavement opposite seemed to be watching me. She wore a full-length floral-print dress, almost identical to one Charlotte owned. I did a double-take and my jacket slid to the ground. By the time I’d picked it up, she had gone. I began walking back to the shop, aware that my headache was going nowhere. Passing a bar, I headed in and ordered a Perrier with plenty of ice and lemon. Having finished it in two long draughts, I ordered another. I doubted the place would sell painkillers, but then remembered the old saying about the hair of the dog. Kill or cure, I thought to myself, adding a glass of red wine to my order.
    And it worked—I could feel the pain easing after just one small measure. It was thin, vinegary stuff, too, the very antithesis of the contents of Turk’s decanter, but I felt better for it, and ordered one final glass. While sipping this, I removed the list of books from my pocket and went through it. A solid line had been drawn across the sheet two thirds of the way down. Underneath was a message from Turk:
    Not for sale, but possibly of interest: The Travelling Companion
    I blinked a few times and furrowed my brow. I knew that title, but couldn’t immediately place it. The books listed above it could probably find buyers. Historical non-fiction and philosophy titles mostly, with Balzac, Zola and Mann thrown in. Turk omitted to say whether they were first editions, or what condition they were in, and I had only the most fleeting memory of opening the first box. I felt I had let Mr. Whitman down somehow—not that he need ever know, unless Turk decided to tell him. But that didn’t stop me feeling bad. Preoccupied, I was halfway to the doorway before the barman reminded me I hadn’t yet paid. I mumbled an apology and rooted in my pockets for change. Curiously, there seemed a couple of hundred-franc notes there that I thought I’d spent earlier in the week. There would be cous-cous again that