The Pure

Home House and nobody seemed to notice. He would have expected nothing else. Old habits kicked in, and Uzi too became grey, anonymous. She took his arm again and led him down the street, ghosting away from the underground car park.
    ‘We’re not walking, are we?’ he said.
    ‘Are you kidding? It’s much too far.’
    They stopped in front of a long line of municipal bicycles, known as ‘Boris Bikes’ – after the city’s mayor.
    ‘You’re not serious?’ said Uzi as Liberty inserted her key fob into the docking station.
    ‘No, I’m not,’ she said, ‘and I’m trying to make you less so.’
    The bicycles were released from the docking station, Liberty adjusted her seat, and suddenly Uzi was pedalling, struggling to keep up. Liberty wound ahead through the rush-hour traffic, exhaust rising in plumes around her.
    ‘Come on,’ she called, looking over her shoulder, ‘you can do better than that.’
    ‘I haven’t ridden a bike for years,’ he shouted in response, and coughed. He stood on the pedals and the distance closed between them; he found that he was laughing. The bike was heavy, cumbersome, with a string of flashing white lights on the front. For a moment he saw himself on a donkey.
    The ride was longer than he had expected, and with each rotation of the pedals a burden seemed to lift, something constrictive loosened, and his mind seemed to clear. He was still coughing. He had left his cigarettes in his room but he didn’t seem to care. Liberty jinked through the traffic and he was impressed by her agility; from time to time she glanced back over her shoulder and grinned. They climbed a hill, his lungs ballooning, and freewheeled down the other side. Still she was ahead. Other people on Boris Bikes occasionally caught their eyes, acknowledging a bond of solidarity: us against the traffic, us against the world. Us and our ugly grey machines, our flashing headlights. Uzi liked that. Still he could see nobody following him or Liberty, no bodyguards. And then – for the first time in a long while – he stopped assessing everything for danger.
    Eventually Liberty swung her leg over the bike, bounced it up on to the kerb and slotted it into a rack. Uzi followed, looking about him, trying to catch his breath. This part of the city was vibrant, dirty, teeming with life. East London. Brick Lane.
    ‘Do you like curry?’ said Liberty as they strolled through the hubbub like tourists.
    ‘Doesn’t everybody like curry.’
    ‘Spoken like a true curry lover.’
    Uzi smiled. He felt as if he had stepped into a dream, become a brand new person. He could be walking to his death, he knew that. Liberty took his arm and they wound their way along the pavements, ignoring the suggestions from men in doorways to step inside their restaurants. Liberty was huddling up against his shoulder like a teenager on a date. He could feel the swell of her breast against his biceps, and occasionally the jab of the gun in her pocket.
    ‘You’ve got nobody protecting you, do you?’ he said.
    ‘I have you,’ Liberty replied. A tingling sensation passed across his scalp as he felt the weight of her breast against his arm. His R9 felt hard and hot against his lower back. His mind had begun to send him warnings: stay strong, stay centred. There has to be more to this than meets the eye. There must be. Don’t get drawn in. Stay ready. But his gut was telling him something different. This was exactly what he wanted. Something in him had wanted it for a long time.
    Liberty drew him into a doorway and he followed her up a narrow flight of stairs. There was a strong smell of spices. And then they were in a restaurant, being seated. Pink napkins perched like origami birds in uniform patterns on the tables. Uzi was reminded of something he’d read once about origami – something about a paper bird foretelling a violent death.
    ‘Why here?’ said Uzi as they sat down.
    ‘It’s quiet, out of the way,’ Liberty replied. ‘Nobody would expect us to come here. No prying eyes. And they do a great Lamb Biryani.’ She ran her fingers through her hair. Uzi glanced, as casually as he could, around the room. Only one entrance; only one exit. The windows might be used in an emergency, but they were fairly high up. Risky. The waiting staff looked lethargic, unmotivated. He didn’t think they were hiding anything. Nevertheless, Liberty had led him into a situation known in the Office as a ‘bottle’.
    They drank Cobra and ordered