Никогде
Two
Hefumbledonthecouchfortheremotecontrol,whichhadwedgeditselfintothesmallofhisbackduringthenight,andheturnedoffthetelevision.
"Yes,"hesaid."Sortof."
Hewipedawaythesleepfromhiseyesandtookstockofhimself,pleasedtonoticethathehadatleasttakenoffhisshoesandjacketbeforehehadfallenasleep.Hisshirtfrontwascoveredwithdriedbloodandwithdirt.Thehomelessgirldidn’tsayanything.Shelookedbad:pale,beneaththegrimeandbrowndriedblood,andsmall.Shewasdressedinavarietyofclothesthrownovereachother:oddclothes,dirtyvelvets,muddylace,ripsandholesthroughwhichotherlayersandstylescouldbeseen.Shelooked,Richardthought,asifshe’ddoneamidnightraidontheHistoryofFashionsectionoftheVictoriaandAlbertMuseum,andwasstillwearingeverythingshe’dtaken.Hershorthairwasfilthy,butlookedlikeitmighthavebeenadarkreddishcolorunderthedirt.
"You’reawake,"saidRichard.
"Whosebaronyisthis?"askedthegirl."Whosefiefdom?"
"Um.Sorry?"
Shelookedaroundhersuspiciously."WhereamI?"
"NewtonMansions,LittleComdenStreet..."Hestopped.Shehadopenedthecurtains,blinkingatthecolddaylight.ThegirlstaredoutattheratherordinaryviewfromRichard’swindow,astonished,peeringwide-eyedatthecarsandthebusesandthetinysprawlofshops—abakery,adrugstoreandaliquorstore—belowthem.
