Necropolis

wondered if she might somehow have been to blame.

    It was the first story on the news that night. A restaurant called the Happy Garden had been the target of a lethal attack. Three people had been killed and a dozen more had been injured by a bomb that had been concealed under one of the tables. According to the police, this wasn't a terrorist incident. They put the blame on Chinese gangs that had been operating in the West End.
    "Police today are speculating that the attack is the result of rising tension within the Chinese community," the newscaster said.
    Scarlett watched the broadcast with Mrs. Murdoch. The housekeeper was knitting. "Weren't you in Soho today, Scarlett?" she asked.
    "No," Scarlett lied. "I was on the other side of the town. I was nowhere near."
    "This is the most serious attack so far," the report went on. "It follows other incidents involving gangs in Peckham and Mile End. Any witnesses are urged to come forward. Scotland Yard has set up a special phone line for anyone with any information that might help."
    Scarlett texted Aidan that night before she went to bed, and he texted back. They both agreed that it was just a coincidence. Despite what they had thought earlier, it would be absurd to suggest that a restaurant in the middle of London had been blown up just to stop them from meeting someone there.
    But as she turned out the lights and tried to get to sleep, Scarlett knew that it wasn't. The newscaster had been lying. The police were lying. There were no gangs…just an enemy who was still playing with her and who wouldn't stop until she was completely in their control.
    TWELVE
    Mart's Diary
    [2]
    Sunday
    A bomb has gone off in London. I've just been watching it on the television news, and I wonder if it might have something to do with Scarlett. Richard thinks it's unlikely. According to the reports, the bomb had been hidden in a restaurant in Chinatown. It was something to do with Chinese gang warfare.
    Three people have been killed.
    I saw the images on the big plasma screen TV in my hotel room. Dead people, ambulances, screaming relatives, smoke, and broken glass… it was hard to believe that it was all happening in the middle of Soho. You just don't expect it there. It made me feel even farther away than I actually was.

    Miami. I've never been here before and I certainly never dreamed that I'd wind up in a five-star hotel overlooking the beach, surrounded by Cadillacs, Cuban music, and palm trees. The Nexus has certainly put us up in style while we wait for my new passport to arrive. The only trouble is, it's taking longer than we had hoped. We're now booked onto a flight leaving on Monday evening and we'll have to cool our heels until then. Scarlett will just have to manage without us for a couple more days. We'll be with her soon enough.
    It feels strange, being back in a big city after spending so much time in a backwater like Nazca. Miami is full of rich people and expensive houses. It's too cold to swim at this time of the year, but a lot of life still seems to be happening in the street. We didn't do much today. I bought myself some new clothes, replacing the stuff that got lost in the fire. We walked. And tonight we ate on Ocean Drive, a long strip of fancy caf and bars with bright pink neon lights, cocktails, and live bands. It was good to be able to enjoy ourselves, sitting there, watching the crowds go past.
    Nobody noticed us. For a few hours we could pretend we were normal.

    ***
    Monday afternoon
    This morning, the passport finally arrived, delivered in a brown, sealed envelope by a motorbike rider who didn't say a word. Terrible photograph. The Nexus have sent Jamie a new passport too, and they've decided that we should both travel under false names, for extra security. So now I'm Martin Hopkins. He is Nicholas Helsey. Richard is going to stay as himself, but then, as far as we know, nobody is trying to kill him.
    We have economy tickets. The Nexus could have flown us first class, but they didn't want us to stand out.
    We had our final meal on Ocean Drive. A huge plate of nachos and two Cokes. Richard had a beer. I wondered what the waiter must have made of us: Richard in a gaudy, Hawaiian shirt, sitting between two teenagers, the two of us wearing sunglasses even though there wasn't a lot of sun. We'd bought them the day before and hadn't gotten round to taking them off. We liked them because they kept us anonymous. If anyone had asked, we were going to say that he was