A Thousand and One English Nights (Book Three of The Powder Trail)

Chapter Forty Two: The Alhambra

The basement canteen of the Alhambra was a long room, with a bar running down its entire length. It had plain, whitewashed walls, but the simplicity of decoration was more than made up for by the exotic clientele. Both performers and spectators drank there in the interval, so you saw jugglers, magicians and clowns, and strong men towering over the heads of the crowd, still dressed in leopard-skins and glistening with sweat.

James Whittaker had come down to the bar, but the red-head had lingered in the lobby, as though she was waiting for someone before she could make another attempt on his life. Ellini had persuaded Robin that Mr Whittaker was the important one, and they had left the red-head to her own devices and dived into the thick, smoky air of the canteen.

The man was sitting by himself at the bar, flashing bank-notes and drinking champagne. He would probably not be by himself for long.

"Let me talk to him first," she said to Robin as they elbowed their way through the throng. Her stomach heaved at the thought of being alone with someone in the same position as Jack had been in, not so long ago, but she wouldn't find out much with Robin in tow.

There wasn't much space beside James Whittaker at the bar, but she squeezed into what little there was, and widened it with gentle shoving.

She tried to remind herself that men like James Whittaker were the ones she was, in theory, trying to save – that the Wylies were the real villains, tricking lovers into a game they could never win, turning the confidence of young love against itself. The thought did nothing to ease her nausea.

She had no idea how to begin a conversation – she wondered now if she had ever sought one in her life – but, fortunately, he was taking out a cigarette when she joined him. He looked up, assessed her for the barest skin of a second, and then offered her one.

"No, thank you," said Ellini, trying to fight down all the nauseous memories she associated with cigarettes. "I never really caught the habit."

"I wish I hadn't either," he said, assessing her again while he took out his matches.

She wondered whether he was trying to decide if she was pretty. Was her curse working on him already? And did he smoke for the same reason Jack had smoked? Was it a displaced longing for his dead fiancée?

"Well, how about a drink then, if I can't tempt you with a cigarette? Do you like champagne? I never met a girl who didn't."

Ellini forced herself to smile. "Yes. Thank you. I'm Ellie."

"James Whittaker," said the young man – and then winced, as though he'd said too much. "I suppose you've read about me in the papers?"

"I have a bit," Ellini confessed. "It was an extraordinary case."

"I'd sooner it had been less extraordinary," said Mr Whittaker, motioning to the barman for two champagnes. "In fact, I'd sooner there'd been no case at all, and no poor dead girl dragged out of the river." 

He hesitated, and then went on. "They took me to see her body, you know, to make certain I didn't know her. I can't get it out of my head. Whatever the truth of it – whatever her parents hoped to achieve by claiming I was engaged to her – no girl deserved to end her days on that slab."

Ellini blinked. She had been afraid he wouldn't want to talk about it, but the details were dripping from him like river-water. He did look very troubled. And there was a hint of desperation in the way he knocked back his champagne.

Of course, he was not trying to forget, because he'd already forgotten, but it was as though he felt an absence within himself, and was frantically trying to fill it with something.