The Pure

the Maybach and the small convoy roared away. After they had travelled in silence for a few minutes, Liberty leaned over and kissed him hard on the mouth. ‘Soon we’ll be out of this game,’ she whispered. ‘Soon it’ll just be you and me.’ Emotion rose up in him, and for the first time he realised the pressure he had been under. He was alive. For the rest of the journey back to Home House, their hands were firmly clasped, their fingers probing each other’s palms as if seeking out the truth.

 
33
    Uzi’s trainers slapped against the pavement. He was out of condition. Gone were the days he could jog through the night, weighed down by a stretcher, weapon and full kit. His breath was rasping unhealthily as he exhaled. Fighting the irrational urge to stop for a cigarette, he made his way along New Oxford Street, trying to plot a clear course through clumps of pedestrians. It was evening now, and the crowds of the day had thinned, but the streets were far from empty. His black woollen hat was pulled low, and sweat was seeping down his forehead. He clenched his fists and, panting, forced himself on, a deep oval stain spreading down from his neck towards his belly.
    Two factors had led to Uzi’s renewed commitment to fitness. The first was his performance in the operations he had been carrying out for Liberty. When all went according to plan, of course, his speed and agility made no difference; he had the advantage of many years in the field, and that counted for a lot. But when the unexpected happened – unavoidable, even in the best-planned operations – he found himself reacting a split second later, moving a split second slower, and he knew that if the wrong set of circumstances came together, that split second could cost him his life. Especially now.
    In addition, there was Liberty herself. Uzi had never been overly concerned about his appearance, but when he lay beside her in bed, his hand resting on her taut stomach or slipping down her sculpted legs, he found himself becoming self-conscious about his own body, which looked and felt like a melting version of the one from several years before. Liberty was committed to her fitness; she knew how important it was. Every day she worked out in the gym, every day without fail; even when they had been awake for most of the night fucking and drinking, even when they had been smoking dope. Many times Uzi would wake up, hungover and groggy, to find Liberty returning from her workout, her hair slicked back from the shower, purged of all toxins, fresh-faced and ready for the day. And if they were going to spend the rest of their lives together, he would need to keep up.
    Struggling to remind his body of what it meant to run, he cut across a car park and wound his way towards Exmouth Market, his feet pounding on the black pavement, his heart pounding faster. A helicopter throbbed in the air overhead; automatically Uzi stuck to the shadows, not behaving erratically but not making himself a visible target, until it passed. Believe in yourself. Spy syndrome.
    The market dozed in an evening stagnancy. Outside a dingy-looking doorway he stopped, rested his hands on his knees and tried to catch his breath. He knew he was bright red, he could feel the heat in his face and his eyes were itchy and bloodshot. His R9 was digging uncomfortably into his back. He took out a cigarette – it would be silly, after all, to give up overnight – and lit up, inhaling greedily. This calmed his nerves and he slid to the ground, resting against the wall, watching the cars passing by. When the cigarette was finished he smoked another, then got awkwardly to his feet. He took off his hat and wiped his face and head on his T-shirt, stretching it up from his belly. Then he passed a hand over his face, composed himself, and rang the third-floor bell.
    ‘Yeah?’ came a tinny voice.
    ‘It’s me.’
    The door buzzed and Uzi entered, making sure it closed properly behind him. It was quiet in the stairwell, and it smelled of old carpets and piss. He climbed the stairs with heavy feet; when he got to the third floor, the door of the flat was open and the sound of a television could be heard. He went in.
    ‘Uzi, my brother. What the fuck happened to you?’ said Avner, approaching him with twin bottles of beer. Uzi made no reply but grabbed one and took a long draught. ‘Has there been trouble?’ said Avner, and it was unclear whether or not he was joking.
    Uzi checked the curtains were