Zero History

85. TO GET A HANDLE ON IT
Cornwall’s okay,” said Heidi, on Hollis’s iPhone. “Haven’t found a place to spread Mom
’n’ Jimmy yet, but it’s a good excuse for driving.”
“How’s Ajay’s ankle?” Hollis was watching Garreth, on his back on the bed, exercising
Frank with a bright yellow rubber bungee. They had the windows open, admitting
occasional breezes and the sound of afternoon traffic. It was a larger room than the one
she’d had the week before, a double, but it had the same blood-red walls and faux
Chinese nonideograms.
“Fine,” said Heidi, “but he’s still using that trick cane your boyfriend gave him. It’s a
miracle he’s washed his hands.”
“Has he gotten over the rest of it?”
Ajay had been embarrassed over losing Chombo, and frustrated that he hadn’t gotten a
chance to go up against the man with the mullet. Hollis herself, he’d said, could have
taken Foley, who’d looked like he belonged in hospital to begin with. And Milgrim, to
cap things for Ajay, had taken down Gracie, who’d turned up with not just a gun but an
assault rifle. On the upside, Ajay seemed to have bonded with Charlie, and on his return
from Cornwall intended to try to learn to make skilled opponents repeatedly fall down,
seemingly without touching them. Garreth, Hollis gathered, doubted much would come of
this, but didn’t tell Ajay.
“It isn’t like he’s got that long an attention span,” said Heidi. “Where’s Milgrim?”
“Iceland,” Hollis said, “or on his way. With Hubertus, and the Dottirs. He phoned this
morning. I couldn’t understand whether he was on a plane or a boat. He said it was a
plane, but that it had hardly any wings, and barely flew.”
“You happy?”
“Apparently,” said Hollis, watching Frank, now free of dressings, flex repeatedly
against mild Parisian sunlight. “Weirdly. Today.”
“Take care of yourself,” said Heidi. “Gotta go. Ajay’s back.”
“You too. Bye.”
Milgrim and Heidi, Garreth said, had each saved his bacon on the Scrubs. Milgrim by
zapping Gracie, who’d brought the gun that Garreth had hoped he wouldn’t; and Heidi, as
she treated herself to a claustrophobia-reducing jog, by spotting Chombo, headed in the
direction of Islington, and bringing him back, against his will, to the van.
Hollis remembered standing outside the van, with Bobby demanding time for a second
cigarette, the pretty Norwegian driver demanding they be quiet now and get back inside.
Pep had come scooting up then, on his eerily silent bike, running without lights, to hand
Hollis a tattered Waitrose bag, leer at her, then whip away. When she’d renegotiated the
black canvas flies, she’d found Garreth slumped in his chair, his screens blank. “Are you