The Pure

father? Had Nehama even told the boy about him? Or had she remarried – replaced Uzi seamlessly with another man? Not that it mattered. Uzi had known what he was getting into, that joining the Office would spell the end of his family life, such as it was. The secrets, the long operations away from home, the dedication the job required. He had wanted that. But his son – his son. The innocent victim. Might he have ended up with Uzi’s hair? His broad, square-ended thumbs? His quick eyes, his forehead, his temperament? And was there a gap in the boy’s life, too? Did Noam feel the absence of his father as keenly as Uzi felt the absence of his son?
    Suddenly he knew who to visit. It was too dangerous to call the man on the phone. He knew how the Office worked. They would be tapping every phone line connected to Uzi. But they wouldn’t be expecting Uzi to return to his old flat, to put his head into the mouth of the lion. It was reckless, perhaps, foolhardy even. But before he disappeared to his new life with Liberty, something in Uzi – this newly emotional man – needed to find out if Squeal had been to see his mother in Ghana. He needed to know that either she had made a recovery, or that Squeal had been at her bedside for her death. This was the reason he gave himself as he directed his Porsche towards Kilburn. But something else, some unfathomable instinct, was also driving him on.
    When he arrived he parked around the corner and contemplated lighting a spliff. But he talked himself out of it; the most dangerous part would be entering the flat, and for that he would need his wits about him. He consoled himself with the thought that once he was inside, and had established that all was safe, he could share a joint with Squeal and play a round of pudding wars. One more round, for old time’s sake, before he vanished. Before he became somebody else for the rest of his days.
    He approached the apartment building on foot, blending into the street, allowing his hands to hang casually by his sides, in easy reach of his R9. The street was quiet, and no different to how he remembered; the graffiti, the litter, the oversized buses roaring past. Fate seemed to be smiling upon him. As he approached the door a woman with a baby was making her way out, and he held it open for her as she manoeuvred the buggy down the steps. She didn’t seem to notice as he slipped inside.
    Uzi padded silently up the stairs, his hand straying to his weapon. First floor, second floor. And then he arrived – his old flat. Or was it? Gone was the worn door with peeling paint and a bell that didn’t work. In its place was a gleaming white door of a plastic/metal composite, the brass numbers shining in the half-light. Of course, the landlady may have taken the opportunity to carry out some renovations. But something didn’t feel right. He went to the peephole and peered through. Even with the warping effect of the lens, he could see that the whole interior had been replaced. No trace remained of the flat he used to live in. Everything was immaculately tidy, like a show flat, but somebody had been there recently. There was a newspaper open on the table, and through the half-open bathroom door a fresh towel could be seen on the rack. It didn’t feel right. It was as if his old flat had been extracted like a tooth, and a new one implanted in its place. What did it mean? His mind began to grip the situation, piecing together theories, scraps of information, possibilities. Then he heard a noise behind him.
    Squeal had caught sight of his old friend and stopped completely still, half in and half out of his apartment, a pile of letters in his hands. It took Uzi a few seconds to recognise him. The dreadlocks were gone; in their place was a neat crew cut. Gone also were the scruffy clothes; the man was dressed in a way that could only be described as smart but casual. He looked at Uzi blankly, and Uzi stared blankly at him.
    ‘Tommy,’ he said at last. ‘Tommy, I thought you were . . .’
    ‘You thought I was what?’
    Squeal said nothing.
    ‘You look different,’ said Uzi.
    ‘Yeah. Different.’
    A bad feeling crept up Uzi’s body like a rash. His unconscious was connecting the pieces of the puzzle; something uncomfortable was emerging.
    ‘What happened to the hair, man?’ he said.
    ‘The hair? Oh you know. Time for a change.’
    ‘Your mum?’
    ‘Ah, she’s fine.’
    ‘Fine?’
    ‘Full