November 18, 2004
16: Pete
Standing in the hallway, Pete found himself a little uncertain what to do next. Kicking the door in had been much easier than he expected; he hadn't really thought much beyond that.Steve and Jez cowered behind him; Jez was shaking and Steve looked like he was about to burst into tears. Pete collected himself; stepped around them; pushed the door shut. It swung open again, slightly, but not enough to notice from outside. Not unless you were looking. Pete knew nobody would be.
"Fuck."
"Yes."
"Fuck."
They giggled nervously, relieving the tension just a little.
"Steve, go look in the living room. Not the TV, too heavy, but anything you can carry easily. Anything that looks posh. Jez, come with me."
Steve still looked like a frightened child -- his lower lip was quivering and his face seemed to have no blood in it -- but he did as he was told. Pete tiptoed up the stairs, Jez in tow.
At the top, he nudged the door immediately ahead with his toe. It swung silently open. It was clear even in the dim light that it was a bathroom. Nothing of value in there.
A crash sounded downstairs. Jez yelped, and even Pete jumped, a tiny bit.
"For fuck's sake, be careful!"
"Sorry!"
"Jesus."
He turned onto the landing, another door at his side. Again, he pushed it open. Some kind of study: much more promising.
The walls were lined with shelves of books and files; boring. But there was a laptop on the desk and, at the other end of an umbilical wire, an iPod.
Paydirt.
"Jez. Grab those."
That was enough to make this little adventure worthwhile. There probably wasn't anything of value in the bedroom anyway. For a moment, Pete considered not bothering to look. What was going to be in there but clothes and sheets and aftershave?
Jewellery, perhaps? Or cash? Who knows?
Not Pete, that was certain. He didn't even know where those thoughts had come from. They didn't feel like his own.
But that was nothing new. All too often he found thoughts in his head that he didn't remember putting there himself. Sometimes he felt like a puppet, a pawn; he didn't mind that feeling in the least. It was like having a purpose, like being for something. It was reassuring. The certainty, the control, the direction; the brilliance. None of it felt like his own, but it made him real and strong. It put things in perspective.
He kicked open the bedroom door.
There was the bed, of course. A wardrobe, a chest of drawers. A bedside table. There was a clock radio there, but it was just cheap plastic trash, worth nothing. Shoes were jumbled on the floor. A movie poster on the wall. Andy Warhol: Querelle. It meant nothing to Pete. There was nothing here.
But he opened the wardrobe anyway.
Three suits on hangers. A dozen shirts. Ties. Pete pulled them all out, dumped them on the floor. Behind him, laptop in one hand, iPod in the other, Jez flinched as the clothes piled up.
"Pete..."
"Just a fucking minute! One minute's not going to make any fucking difference, is it?"
Jez mumbled that no, it wasn't.
The wardrobe was empty now, Pete standing in a jumble of clothing. Or... wait. Not quite empty. There was something still there, hanging at the back. Pete reached in.
"What the fuck?"
The leather strap was cracked, even worn through in places. The silver filigree dull and tarnished. There were endless fine cracks and scratches in its varnished surface. Still, it was a thing of beauty. Pete held it up to the light from the window.
Yes. Oh yes. The thoughts were, once again, unbidden. That's it, oh yes.
Yes. Pete was more certain than he could remember ever being about anything. This was the thing. This was what he'd come for. It rested in his hand with a solidity unlike any object he'd ever held. It was, despite the wear and tear, beautiful.
"Pete? What is it, Pete?"
Pete turned to show Jez the horn.
"What the fuck is that?"
Pete felt no need to reply.
"Look, can we get out of here? For fuck's sake, can we just go?"
"Yes. Let's go."
Yes.
