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It’s somewhere between Knowing and feeling that finds them outside the Tate Britain. The white columns are darkening as the sun sinks below the skyline. Even though the museum itself is closed, tourists still snap pictures and consult maps on their way past, to the tube or to the river. There are students too, hanging around from evening classes or working late at the arts college, and the steady stream of other London locals: office workers, baristas, hotel employees, taxi drivers, all moving moving moving in an endless dance, stepping this way and that, avoiding the gazes and the stationary bodies of those clutching their maps, cameras and phones.
The first breath Jon takes is sweet, fresh, clear. The air in the Lonely came as if through a filter, distant and false.
The second, more real, tastes like petrol, and high above a seagull shrieks and for a moment Jon laughs, incredulous, and hears a gasp from Martin.
They’re here.
He doesn’t need to turn his head but he can see it all in full colour in his mind. No tragedy of Orpheus and Eurydice this, for all that Martin stands behind him, shuffled close. Martin’s hand is in his. Jon hasn’t let go since they Saw each other, since they started walking. Martin’s hand is warmly real at last, and the shape of it is familiar from a hundred late nights working, watching it clutching a pencil or a statement, or bringing a mug of tea. There might have been a brush of fingers, as mugs or files are passed over, accidental and easy to dismiss, but noted and remembered and turned over and over in the spinning cogwheels of his mind for reasons that at the time were elusive. Now his fingers curve around Martin’s, their palms pressed against each other, and he knows it was absurd to think an accidental touch was anything compared to this. Their hands fit together so perfectly. Why haven’t they done this before?
Martin’s eyes dart around wildly to the London scene that the two of them face, drinking in people and cars and buildings and birds that are both endlessly familiar and with crisper, sharper edges and bolder, brighter colours than they’ve ever had before. Jon had hoped for the same relief and elation that he feels to shine in Martin’s eyes, but what he Sees seems more like fear. Martin’s eyes then fix on the back of Jon’s head, an anchor point amidst the chaos, although possibly he does not realise Jon Knows this. Jon swallows, waits as long as he dares, allowing Martin to readjust to the world.
A siren sounds in the distance. It’s not for them, but it is a reminder.
‘We need to find Basira,’ says Jon.
They do.
Or rather, Jon does, and Martin follows.
She’s waiting in an alley beside the Institute building, far enough outside the police cordon that they won’t be spotted. The machinery of the law at work around the corner makes itself known through the muffled noises of radio chatter, moving feet, and car doors. Flickering shadows from blue lights illuminate the rapidly darkening bricks behind them, sending bins and an old, twisted bicycle frame still locked to a signpost into sharp relief and creating strange, strobing shadows.
Basira has a bag, hurriedly packed from their things at the Archives. Jon does not ask how she knew where to wait. It’s too late now to caution her against knowing too much, after all.
‘Lukas?’ she asks.
‘Dead,’ says Jon.
‘One less problem,’ observes Basira.
There isn’t the time for a discussion of morality, but when Jon thinks of Martin, grey and distant, the anger that coils in his belly makes agreeing with Basira all the easier.
‘Daisy?’ he asks.
A muscle in Basira’s jaw tightens. ‘I’m going to find her,’ she says.
‘And then?’ The words are out before he can stop himself. Luckily, he’s enough control of his tone, because Basira doesn’t answer him.
‘You need to get somewhere safe,’ she says. ‘I know a place you can go-’
‘Yes, you’ve got the key,’ says Jon, holding out his hand.
Basira’s eyes narrow, but she digs into her jacket pocket and hands it over.
‘We need to get away quickly,’ says Jon rapidly, coming to his own defense. ‘Even if Daisy has contained and dealt with Julia Montauk, Trevor Herbert, and… the other creature-’
‘You mean you don’t Know?’ demands Basira.
‘Do you want me to or don’t you?’ he retorts. ‘Look a lot’s happened. I can’t possibly Know everything, but I have a plan to get to- where we need to.’ He glances about the alley, suddenly wary of listeners, but they are alone.
She sighs. ‘All right,’ she says. ‘But the police will be looking for you too, don’t forget. Once they’ve figured out that you’re not among the bodies or in the tunnels, anyway. And once they’ve figured out that a prominent member of the Lukas family and head of the Magnus Institute has vanished without a trace. Unless there’s a body somewhere?’
‘There’s not… a body,’ says Jon through gritted teeth.
‘Well don’t forget you’re known to them,’ says Basira. ‘Even without the other… hunters. Go cash only. Get some new mobile phones. Keep your heads down. And call me when you get settled.’
For a moment Jon looks at her, and then he sighs, and swallows thickly. ‘Thanks, Basira. And… sorry.’
‘Yeah.’ She nods. Then she turns to Martin, who hasn’t said a word, but has been watching the whole exchange, watching Jon mostly, or watching their joined hands. ‘Glad you made it out.’
Martin blinks, momentarily, his mouth forming shapes before any words come out. ‘Yeah,’ he says at last. ‘Thanks, Basira.’
‘Look after each other,’ she says, turning.
‘Look after yourself,’ retorts Jon.
She answers with a flash of teeth that isn’t a smile.
They walk.
They’ve time, after all, more than enough, and for all that Jon is tired, it’s not physical exhaustion that lays thickly over him. He suspects the same for Martin. There’s something about the hardness of the pavement under their shoes that gives a satisfaction to it. It’s real. It’s real and solid and as undeniable as the rest of the city they’re in.
It’s a Tuesday but London never truly slows down. Even now the sky is fully dark, and bars and pubs light up, and the patrons in their sharp suits and shiny dresses grow louder as they spill out onto the streets, their conversations encroaching on the rest of the world, a gaudy bauble of friendship made all the more grating by having to fight through it, apart and alone-
Jon tightens his grip on Martin’s hand. ‘Still with me?’
‘Yeah,’ comes the reply. It’s faint, and Martin is grey, shrinking back in a way that he shouldn’t be, avoiding this bright world of others.
Jon, fed up with leading while Martin follows, waits for him to pull level so they’re walking, two astride, down the road, and adjusts their hands to interlace their fingers properly.
They are, of course, immediately buffeted by others - both the bar patrons and those trying to walk in the opposite direction - pushed and elbowed until Jon very nearly ends up in front of a taxi on the road.
‘You can’t walk two people next to each other in this city,’ protests Martin faintly, but there’s a bit of a quirk in his lips. ‘There’s not enough space.’
‘There’s not enough space for half the city to be out drinking on the streets and yet they’re doing it,’ says Jon, allowing himself to sound more irritated than he is, pulling Martin in, he hopes, by the prospect of a good rant. ‘Can’t they sit indoors? And don’t tell me they’re smokers because I don’t care. It’s not safe. I’m a pedestrian, and the pavement is for me to walk on, not for a crowd of pub-goers to hang around on taking up space!’
It’s not much, but the almost-smile remains.
Martin doesn’t ask where they’re going, nor even question it when Jon leads them into a branch of his bank. His hand is still in Jon’s, but something in his eyes seems to be almost phasing out, backing away. Whenever anyone who is not Jon gets too close, he shrinks back into himself, makes himself smaller, and Jon inwardly curses that person a thousand times over for daring to approach.
It does, at least, get a frown from Martin - and from the bank teller - when Jon puts on his politest voice, creaking from disuse, and asks to withdraw two thousand pounds in cash. His driver’s license and bank card are furiously scrutinised by both cashier and her manager, but other than the fact that he’s scruffier and more scarred than the picture on his license, the bank staff can’t seem to find any actual objection, so the money is counted and handed over. There’s an ATM just outside of the bank door, and this he also uses, getting another five hundred, the maximum it'll allow in one day. He hadn’t meant to Know quite this level of minutiae, but he has decided he needs to get Martin to safety, and thus far his brain - and the knowledge that washes up against the edges of it - is delivering. His recent meal won’t last forever, but if it gets them where they need to be, then that’s enough.
As they stand in the bank’s overhang, Martin is blinking, flinching back into the wall as a particularly rowdy group pass and someone calls out a drunken greeting.
‘Stay with me, Martin,’ murmurs Jon, because he can’t hold onto him now. He begins to divide the bulky stack of notes, putting some into each of his pockets, some into each shoe, and into the various pockets of the bag. Then, without quite knowing what’s the matter with him, he begins to shove currency into Martin’s pockets too.
That gets Martin’s focus.
‘Erm.’
‘If I get mugged we need to have some of this left,’ says Jon shortly. He shoves five twenties into Martin’s jeans, another five into one of the pockets on his hoodie, and zips it. Then he helps himself to Martin’s wallet, fills it, and then puts it back without ceremony. It’s cheating a little, to touch like this, but it’s an excuse that he’s got, and Martin lets him.
‘Should I- is there a branch of my bank open somewhere-?’ he asks when Jon’s finished.
‘Two blocks over,’ says Jon automatically, then he frowns. He hadn’t looked at Martin’s bankcards. It really would have been better to ask the question, and then to use his phone to check. ‘If you can spare some, it’d be helpful. I don’t know how long we’ll be.’
Martin snorts. ‘I think we might be some of the only people who live in London and save money, Jon,’ he says. ‘Yes, I can spare it. It’s not like I’ve been spending it on my social life lately.’
There’s a bitterness in his voice, but bitterness sounds better than emptiness, and Jon reaches forward to take his hand again. Martin doesn’t hesitate, and his grip is warmer still, his fingers soft against Jon’s. At some point or another, this has become how they’re making this journey, and it’s a relief not to have to justify it, or to ask if it’s all right.
Martin receives the same suspicious glances on making a large withdrawal that Jon did. For all that he usually has a good manner with strangers, it seems to be deserting him as he stumbles through his conversation with the cashier. Jon can see him - can feel his grip on Jon’s hand tightening to the point of pain - and his desire to suddenly hide. The world is so very full after the Lonely, and after the months of isolation before. It hadn’t occurred to Jon until this evening that to Martin that might not be a good thing.
He runs his thumb soothingly over Martin’s and silently promises never to leave while Martin stutters through his phrases, sounding a little like a child who’s being coached through a hated performance by an overbearing parent. Still, they get the cash, and then they go to another ATM just outside the door to withdraw another maximum amount from Martin’s account and make sure they’ve got as much as possible. They don’t know how long they’ll need to support themselves, after all.
And that’s when it goes a bit wrong.
Jon doesn’t mean to look.
He’s just glancing around, trying not to look like a man who both would break in two if you elbow him, and one who’s carrying several thousand pounds in cash stuffed in his pockets.
And he glances at the ATM screen, quite by chance.
‘Martin, what the fuck?’
‘What? Oh. Yeah. That.’
Martin’s bank balance, displaying prominently on screen, is nearly £300,000. And Martin doesn’t even blink.
‘That isn’t… what happens when you give up your flat and live at the office,’ says Jon. He knows that, because that’s what he’s done too, and he doesn’t really eat much food, nor does he socialise, or go on holiday, and there was a six month period where he had no expenses at all, and his bank balance still is nowhere near Martin’s. Plus he’s pretty sure his salary is higher, unless Martin’s been seriously skimming off the top as Peter Lukas’s assistant.
A muscle in Martin’s jaw clenches, and he finishes the transaction, and begins to distribute his own wad of notes into their increasingly desperate hiding places.
‘No, it’s not,’ he says shortly.
Jon stares at him.
Martin huffs out a breath. ‘It’s a life insurance payout, all right, Jon.’
‘Wh- Oh. Oh. I’m sorry. Your mother. We never talked-’
‘No. Not my mother.’ His words are whip sharp and Jon suddenly feels slow and desperate to know what he’s missing, but the Watcher’s tide has turned and left him stupid and empty. ‘My mother died up to her neck in care home and private nursing bills. I was lucky she didn’t leave me in debt.’
‘But if not your mother then…?’
‘For Christ’s sake, Jon!’ Martin snaps. ‘None of this is ringing any bells? No memory at all, of Elias sending you some paperwork, saying maybe you should update your company provided life insurance policy and next of kin documents, and everything else, in case the Unknowing goes badly? No memory of writing my name and not telling me?’
‘Oh. Oh.’ Jon raises one hand to his hair. ‘Right. That.’
‘Yes. That.’
‘Hang on. I didn’t… die.’
‘You weren’t breathing. Your heart had stopped. You were medically dead.'
'Right,' says Jon, for lack of anything else to say.
'But do you know what the best part was?’
‘Er,’ says Jon, with a sinking feeling that he’s about to be told.
‘Somehow all the paperwork came through - a month or two later - with a personally signed note of condolence from Elias,’ says Martin. His lip curls. ‘From- from Magnus. Must have been one of the last things he did before he got arrested, and he- I don’t know, hid it in a drawer, to be delivered later, just when I’d need reminding. He just really wanted to- to- make sure I knew, I really knew.’
‘You could have… I don’t know, spent it on something?’ suggests Jon helplessly.
The look Martin shoots him is as incredulous as it is angry. ‘On what, Jon?’ he says, voice rising. ‘A big party? A nice house in the country? A fancy car? What is it you think I wanted to buy to grieve you with?’ A couple of passers-by look over at them and frown before hurrying away.
‘Er,’ says Jon.
Then, just as quickly as it’s come, Martin’s anger leaves him and he deflates, decolours, and becomes small, and this is so, so much worse. ‘What does it matter,’ he says. His voice is toneless, through the fog. ‘We should- go, I guess.’ He shrugs at Jon, because he’s not the one who knows where they’re going, after all.
And they should, because there’s a specific train that they need to catch.
‘Martin-’
‘Please. I don’t- want- to fight-’ His voice is so small. Jon immediately wants to cry.
Instead he snatches Martin’s hand again, and the very fact that Martin doesn’t even object is somehow the worst part of it. He lets himself be led through the streets, once more shrinking from the passers-by. Still towards Jon, but fainter somehow, like he isn’t quite sure.
There’s a heavy, frantic pounding beat in Jon’s ears that he’s done it again. Again and again and again. It’s not enough just to love someone, or even to be there. He can’t- He doesn’t know how to- He always does- this. There’s always a this. Except now the consequences aren’t a petty fight or a break up. The consequences are bigger and realer and yet none of the tools in his arsenal have prepared him for this. He doesn’t know what to say.
The route they take - up past first Downing Street, then Westminster, Big Ben, and Trafalgar Square would put even the cheesiest of guidebooks to shame, and is crawling with people, tourists and locals alike. Their feet pound, walking faster and faster now, a heavy drumbeat to keep out the silence that stretches on. All around them people walk and push and shout and laugh. The public in London are not quiet: crowding around pubs and bars, jostling in theatre queues, trying on oversized novelty sunglasses and buying postcards and overpriced t-shirts. It’s a tourist shop Jon and Martin duck into to buy new mobile phones, Martin still silent and shrinking, Jon still silent and cursing himself. They’re surrounded by the happy babble of visitors and families wherever they go.
As they approach the West End and Leicester Square, the crowds of tourists are thicker still, spilling onto the roads and swirling around and about, their laughing, shouting faces rising up and then vanishing abruptly into the night, a part of Jon’s world for only seconds. All around him, however, their fears sparkle in the air like candlelight, and he a moth called to it. Most of them are quiet, small things, but every now and again he feels that tantalising spark of someone touched by something bigger, something other. Someone who would make a meal for him, if he could. Peter Lukas is still fresh in his mind and he’s not hungry, but… he’d forgotten how much better, how much more real, more palpable, how much more it quenched that need, to speak to one who was-
‘Jon?’
He only now realises his pace has slowed as he takes in the crowds, and already he’s begun to curve their route to one side as he can feel that someone, over there, has a story to tell him.
And Martin has noticed. How could he not?
Jon flinches, curls in on himself, tries to withdraw, but daren’t let go all the same.
‘Sorry, I, er.’ He runs a hand through his hair, scratches the back of his neck. He pulls the hair at the roots sharply, then digs his nails in, and the bite at his scalp pulls him out of his own head and back to himself. They’ve still got time. They’re fine. Without explanation, he plunges into an alley away from the relentless, enticing promise of fear, to adjust their route into the roads less travelled where he’s less likely to be so distracted. ‘I won’t let it happen again.’ Does he need to explain? Please don’t make him explain.
‘It’s all right,’ says Martin. Something in his voice isn’t quite so distant any more, and it’s all Jon can do to keep from crying with relief. ‘It’s hard, when they get you. To escape.’
‘It is,’ agrees Jon. For a moment they exchange a glance, mutual, mute understanding. Their fight earlier hangs between them, unresolved, but they are not alone. They can’t be. ‘Thank you.’
‘Any time,’ says Martin.
Then, abruptly, a spark of knowledge flits into Jon’s mind, and he can’t help the slight smile that escapes him.
‘What?’ says Martin.
‘This street is St Martin’s Close,’ says Jon. ‘Leading to St Martin’s Lane. Just what I needed.’
Martin’s look is repressive. ‘Funny, Jon,’ he says.
‘There’s a church, actually,’ says Jon. ‘St Martin-in-the-fields. We passed it on our way up, although I didn’t notice it then. Wasn’t looking, I suppose.’
‘Going to give me the Jon-apedia download?’ asks Martin, voice light. A distraction offered up by Jon, and now agreed and accepted with open arms by Martin. An easy end to their disagreement, if he keeps it going, he thinks.
‘Do we have to call it that?’ grumbles Jon.
‘It’s better than a lot of the other names I came up with,’ says Martin. ‘Be-hoogling it? Wik-Eye-pedia.’
‘That is- we are- No.’
He must look outraged, because Martin laughs, really laughs, not out of terror or relief or anything other than simple fun. ‘Your- face!’ he says, and at last Jon laughs too, using it as an excuse to lean into Martin’s shoulder, into the warm, solid bulk of him. He memorises it, as he knows it can’t last: the rough press of the zip on his cheek; the hand still in his now tugging a little; the head that rests, just for a second, against his, soft curls tickling the edge of Jon’s forehead; and the brief smell that isn’t really of anything, apart from whatever body wash and deodorant he uses and the warm, human undertone, but somehow can’t be anything but Martin.
Then, too soon, he has to pull back, straighten, and they walk again. Hand in hand again.
Jon does not give Martin the history of the church. He doesn’t know it and he doesn’t care to. Instead he finds a route with as few people as possible. The silence is for now companionable, but break it he must.
‘Martin,’ he says at last.
Martin must recognise something in his tone. ‘You don’t have to-’ he says, haltingly.
‘Don’t I?’ says Jon bewildered.
Martin’s almost-smile is tired. ‘It’s been a long day. I don’t- I really don’t want to fight. Not now. Not with you. I can’t-’ He shakes his head.
‘I- don’t want to fight either, but you deserve- you shouldn’t just- please let me explain,’ he says at last.
‘Explain?’ says Martin. His tone has taken on a slightly wry tone.
Jon grimaces at himself. ‘A...pologise?’ he says. Because that is, after all, what he wants to do.
They walk a few more steps, Martin considering. ‘All right,’ he says at last.
‘Right,’ says Jon. ‘Yes. Well. Right.’ He scowls at himself again. ‘I… apologise.’ A beat.
‘All right,’ says Martin, resigned.
‘I’m not done yet,’ snips Jon. ‘I apologise unreservedly and wholeheartedly for…’ he hesitates, trying to get it right, and as he does, he sees something in Martin’s shoulders sink and he jumps back in hurriedly, ‘I do know what I’m saying sorry for!’ His voice is suddenly urgent. ‘I do! It’s just… I’m not very… good… with words, Martin.’ He sighs and pulls a hand over his face. ‘I talk so much. Sometimes I feel like all I do is talk. Thousands upon thousands of words into an infinite series of blank tapes, listing a cavalcade of horrors. I fade into the background and the statement speaks and the Watcher drinks its fill. Then the statement ends and there I am again. And my mouth is dry and my head is sore and the day is gone and still the world is ending. And I can remember the talking and talking and the endless, endless words, but none of them were mine.’
‘Jon…’ Martin’s voice is softer now, but not in a way that’s fading, just in a way that’s understanding, and it’s enough that Jon can’t stand it and he shuts his eyes. He doesn’t need them to keep walking onwards at the moment.
‘I wanted- with the life insurance- I was trying- to say something- but I didn’t know what, or how-’ he manages at last.
Martin lets out a huff of breath that’s almost a laugh, although with an edge of bitterness. It doesn’t quite have the anger nor the despair of earlier though, so Jon turns to him, opens his eyes again.
‘Look, I’m not saying it’s not… you definitely said… something,’ says Martin, ‘but you know, for the record, there are better ways to do that, than me receiving a six figure cheque, signed by our evil murdering boss, two months after your death.’
‘Your feedback is noted,’ mutters Jon. And then, because he hadn’t meant to sound cross, and because he still hasn’t done it properly, ‘I’m sorry, Martin. I am. I didn’t think about- the reality of what it might mean. For you. I was just thinking of… grand stupid gestures, I suppose.’
‘Yeah, I sort of worked that out,’ says Martin, resignation clear in his voice. Jon winces. ‘Look, also for the record?’
‘Yes?’
‘Today? Earlier? Pretty good sort of grand, stupid gesture, it turns out.’ His voice shakes a little, but it’s warm all over again, and Jon trips up on the gaps between paving stones.
‘Oh,’ says Jon faintly, trying not to puff up in any visible sense. ‘I… suppose I hoped it was fairly clear.’
There’s something small and fond and just for Jon in Martin’s smile, and he relishes it like a cat in a sunbeam.
They walk on, quietly comfortable now, anchored to each other by the hand.
After a minute or so, Jon can’t help but speak again, break the peace. ‘I can’t believe they paid it out,’ he says. ‘Every time I asked Elias for some office furniture or new computers he’d start talking about financial hardships and our duty to our donors.’
Martin snorts. ‘I’m telling you, Jon, once you get behind the curtain of that place, it’s just old men donating dodgy money for tax reasons. The only difference from any other institution is that I don’t think the British Museum donors are all trying to prove they’ve got the spookiest cult. Maybe Elias did it as one last middle finger up to Peter before Peter took over. Maybe they both agreed it to push me along. Maybe a tax rebate for the Lukas family. Maybe it really is a policy that’s written to cover the Archivist being undead. I don’t know, and I don’t care.’
‘Yes, but my desk chair had that lump in the seat for months-’
‘Jon!’ Martin looks like he’s torn between laughing and pure exasperation.
‘Look, it’s been a long year, Martin,’ said Jon. He pushes his hair back from his face and scowls. ‘The news that our boss is actually the… eyeballs of a two hundred year old maniac is just another day at the office. The news that the same man wouldn’t give me a hundred pounds to save me a backache, but would hand you two hundred and fifty thousand when I wasn’t even dead just to rub it in, is a bit much.’
Martin shakes his head. ‘Evil bosses,’ he says, with something like a shrug. ‘I reckon I’m starting to get an idea of what to do with all that money though.’
Jon frowns. ‘Yes?’
‘If we survive all of this, I’m going to throw the absolute party of the century on top of El- Jonah Magnus’s grave.’
‘Martin!’ He can’t help but be shocked, for all that there’s something absurdly appealing about the rosy defiance in Martin’s face. Jon’s visited by a sudden and unaccountable urge to swoop in and kiss him and he doesn’t know what to do with that at all. ‘I thought you were going to say, I don’t know, invest in some property or something.’
Martin scoffs faintly. ‘On your insurance policy? In London?’ he says, and he’s solid and real and smiling just a little and Jon aches. When he tightens his fingers around Martin’s hand, it’s less the desperate, clinging pull against the storm and more a simple warm desire.
‘Come on, Martin,’ he says at last. ‘We’ve got a train to catch.’
As always, it’s not quite the words he means to say, but for now it’ll have to do.