won’t be responsible for my actions…’
‘I’ll fucking well kill her,’ cried paleface, diving into some murky confluence by the doors.
Jippy gave a small gentle smile at this and touched Lindsay’s arm. The crowds parted like the Red Sea before Moses, and she and Jippy surged through. Outside, in the peace and darkness of the streets, Jippy and Markov escorted Lindsay back to her car. They walked, footsteps echoing, along narrow cobbled roads, with the dark walls, the rusting winches and traps of abandoned warehouse machinery, rising up on either side. Just audible on the breeze came the slithering sound of river water against mud; Lindsay could sense that Jippy still wished to speak and was still struggling to voice words.
Nearly half a mile from Lulu’s loft-palace, they finally found Lindsay’s little car, parked outside a ruinous, boarded-up church, with one of its wheels—Lindsay was impetuous at parking—on the pavement. From the deserted streets, from nowhere, the taxi Markov had been demanding of the air some seconds earlier, now appeared. No-one was too surprised by this phenomenon; such things tended to happen when Jippy was around.
‘Greece, tomorrow.’ Markov kissed Lindsay. ‘Blue skies, sun, pagan temples, divine hotels. Enjoy Oxford. Enjoy New York. See you when we get back, my dearest. We leave at dawn!’
He then began to argue with the taxi driver—he always argued with taxi drivers on principle—about the route he should take to Markov’s London apartment, which, like the other bolt-holes Markov maintained around the world, was enviably situated, utterly practical, and very small.
‘Goodbye, Jippy,’ Lindsay said, kissing him. ‘I hope you have a wonderful holiday. Send me a card…’
‘I w-w-will. I…’ There came a lengthy, choking pause. Knowing that Jippy was finally about to volunteer the statement she had sensed was imminent when they were in the garden, Lindsay waited quietly while he fought consonants.
‘Y-y-y-yaw…’ Jippy stuck painfully; his brown eyes beseeched her. Lindsay did not prompt, for she knew that could make him seize up completely; she shivered as the wind gusted.
‘Y-y-y-York…’ he managed finally. Lindsay stared at him. Drops of sweat now beaded his forehead; his face was pale. Gently, she took his hand.
‘ York ? Do you mean Yorkshire, Jippy? I was thinking of Yorkshire, earlier. When we were in that garden. Did you know?’
Jippy nodded, then shook his head. He gripped her hand tightly; his own felt deathly cold.
‘Ch-ch…’ This word, also, would not be said. Lindsay glanced over her shoulder at the desolate, semi-ruined building, with its forlorn boarded eyes. Church? Was Jippy trying to say church?
‘Are you all right, Jippy?’ she began. ‘You look…’ She hesitated; ‘afraid’ was the word that sprang to mind, but she was reluctant to use it. She could sense some alarm, some skin-chilling anxiety; it was being communicated to her from Jippy’s cold hand. His lips were now trembling with the effort of words; his eyes rested on hers with a dog-like fidelity; she could not tell for sure, she realized, whether his expression was happy or sad. He gave a small convulsive jerk of the head and suddenly the word, the phrase, burst through its restrictions.
‘Ch-check your machine.’
Lindsay looked at him blankly. She had been expecting a less mundane statement; according to Markov, Jippy’s words often carried a secondary, hidden meaning, but this suggestion seemed to defy all but the most obvious of interpretations.
‘My machine, Jippy? You mean my answering machine? When? Tonight? But I always check it anyway…’
Jippy’s burst of eloquence was over. This time, he did not shake his head or nod; he bestowed on her instead one of his heartening, benevolent smiles—a smile Lindsay would remember, many months later, when she came to consider the results of this evening, and of Jippy’s advice. He pressed her hand,
‘I’ll fucking well kill her,’ cried paleface, diving into some murky confluence by the doors.
Jippy gave a small gentle smile at this and touched Lindsay’s arm. The crowds parted like the Red Sea before Moses, and she and Jippy surged through. Outside, in the peace and darkness of the streets, Jippy and Markov escorted Lindsay back to her car. They walked, footsteps echoing, along narrow cobbled roads, with the dark walls, the rusting winches and traps of abandoned warehouse machinery, rising up on either side. Just audible on the breeze came the slithering sound of river water against mud; Lindsay could sense that Jippy still wished to speak and was still struggling to voice words.
Nearly half a mile from Lulu’s loft-palace, they finally found Lindsay’s little car, parked outside a ruinous, boarded-up church, with one of its wheels—Lindsay was impetuous at parking—on the pavement. From the deserted streets, from nowhere, the taxi Markov had been demanding of the air some seconds earlier, now appeared. No-one was too surprised by this phenomenon; such things tended to happen when Jippy was around.
‘Greece, tomorrow.’ Markov kissed Lindsay. ‘Blue skies, sun, pagan temples, divine hotels. Enjoy Oxford. Enjoy New York. See you when we get back, my dearest. We leave at dawn!’
He then began to argue with the taxi driver—he always argued with taxi drivers on principle—about the route he should take to Markov’s London apartment, which, like the other bolt-holes Markov maintained around the world, was enviably situated, utterly practical, and very small.
‘Goodbye, Jippy,’ Lindsay said, kissing him. ‘I hope you have a wonderful holiday. Send me a card…’
‘I w-w-will. I…’ There came a lengthy, choking pause. Knowing that Jippy was finally about to volunteer the statement she had sensed was imminent when they were in the garden, Lindsay waited quietly while he fought consonants.
‘Y-y-y-yaw…’ Jippy stuck painfully; his brown eyes beseeched her. Lindsay did not prompt, for she knew that could make him seize up completely; she shivered as the wind gusted.
‘Y-y-y-York…’ he managed finally. Lindsay stared at him. Drops of sweat now beaded his forehead; his face was pale. Gently, she took his hand.
‘ York ? Do you mean Yorkshire, Jippy? I was thinking of Yorkshire, earlier. When we were in that garden. Did you know?’
Jippy nodded, then shook his head. He gripped her hand tightly; his own felt deathly cold.
‘Ch-ch…’ This word, also, would not be said. Lindsay glanced over her shoulder at the desolate, semi-ruined building, with its forlorn boarded eyes. Church? Was Jippy trying to say church?
‘Are you all right, Jippy?’ she began. ‘You look…’ She hesitated; ‘afraid’ was the word that sprang to mind, but she was reluctant to use it. She could sense some alarm, some skin-chilling anxiety; it was being communicated to her from Jippy’s cold hand. His lips were now trembling with the effort of words; his eyes rested on hers with a dog-like fidelity; she could not tell for sure, she realized, whether his expression was happy or sad. He gave a small convulsive jerk of the head and suddenly the word, the phrase, burst through its restrictions.
‘Ch-check your machine.’
Lindsay looked at him blankly. She had been expecting a less mundane statement; according to Markov, Jippy’s words often carried a secondary, hidden meaning, but this suggestion seemed to defy all but the most obvious of interpretations.
‘My machine, Jippy? You mean my answering machine? When? Tonight? But I always check it anyway…’
Jippy’s burst of eloquence was over. This time, he did not shake his head or nod; he bestowed on her instead one of his heartening, benevolent smiles—a smile Lindsay would remember, many months later, when she came to consider the results of this evening, and of Jippy’s advice. He pressed her hand,
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