Zero History

50. BANK-MONUMENT
Milgrim had never liked the City. It had always seemed too monolithic, though to some
older scale of monolith. Too few hiding places. A lack of spaces in between. It had been
turning its back on people like himself for centuries, and made him feel like a rat running
along a baseboard devoid of holes. He felt that now, very strongly, though they weren’t
running. Walking, but briskly, owing to Heidi’s long legs.
He was wearing a black “Sonny” jacket that Heidi had purchased off the back of an
agreeable Turkish-looking office cleaner, here in Lombard Street, paying with a fold of
bills. Or at least that was what it had embroidered on the left breast, in white, in an
otherwise very good approximation of the Sony logo. His own jacket was stuffed into his
bag, on top of his laptop. The transaction had also yielded a gray knit acrylic hat, which
Heidi wore pulled very low, her black hair tucked completely out of sight. She’d turned
her jacket inside out, revealing an impressive scarlet silk lining. The fringed epaulets had
become padding, exaggerating her already formidable shoulders. This would be out of
concern, Milgrim assumed, with being recognized, either by any remaining associates of
Foley’s or by the ever-watchful cameras, which Milgrim now noticed everywhere.
Immediately he regretted thinking of Foley. That had been very bad, the business with
the truck and the two cars, and he couldn’t help but believe it to have been his fault. That
had definitely been a bandage on Foley’s head, under the cap, and Milgrim could only
assume that it had had something to do with that young Russian mother’s bodyguard, in
Paris. If Sleight had sent Foley after the Neo, as Milgrim had intended, he would in fact
have sent him after that ominous-looking pram. And it had happened because he,
Milgrim, had given in to some unfamiliar impulse to rebellion. He’d done it out of anger,
really, resentment, and because he could.
Now Heidi produced her iPhone. Thumbed the screen once. Listened, then held the
phone away, as if to ignore a message she’d heard before. When she put it to her mouth,
she said: “Listen up, Garreth. Hollis Henry’s in deep shit now. Kidnap attempt, looked to
me. Call her.” She tapped the phone again.
“Who was that?”
“Hollis’s ex,” said Heidi, “voice mail. I hope.”
“The one who jumps off buildings?”
“The one who doesn’t return his fucking calls,” said Heidi, putting her phone away.
“Why don’t we get a cab?” He’d seen several pass.
“Because they can’t stop a train.”
In the canyon of King William now, more traffic, more cabs, the strap of his bag
digging into his shoulder, the Sonny jacket scented faintly and not unpleasantly with
cooking spices, perhaps from a recent meal. He was hungry now, in spite of the