Zero History

14. YELLOW HELMET
In Shaftsbury Avenue, on the way back to Milgrim’s hotel, through light rain, a dispatch
rider on a dirty gray motorcycle caught up with the Hilux at a pedestrian crossing. Aldous
powered down the window on the passenger side, squeegeeing raindrops from the
bulletproof glass, as the helmeted rider took an envelope from his jacket and passed it to
Milgrim, his glove like a Kevlar-armored robot hand. The window slid back up as the
bike pulled away between the lanes of traffic ahead of them, the rider’s yellow helmet
dwindling steadily. The back of it was marred, as if mauled by the swipe of some great
paw, revealing a white substrate.
He looked down at the envelope. MILGRIM, centered, in a cartoonist’s loose caps, pm lower
right. Pamela. It felt empty, or almost so, as he opened it. A limp transparent ring-binder
sleeve, containing the inkjet image of his cop from Caffè Nero. Though not in Caffè
Nero, here. Behind her, nicely in focus, Gay Dolphin Gift Cove’s dog-headed angels. And
there the sweatshirt had been red, though he could make out the same white moon-andpalm
logo. A different colorway. Had Sleight taken this? It appeared to be a candid shot.
He imagined her sleeping, back in the coach compartment of his British Midlands flight.
The cab filled with the opening chords of Toots and the Maytals’ “Draw Your Brakes.”
“Aldous,” said Aldous, to his iPhone. “Certainly.” He passed it to Milgrim.
“You see,” said Bigend.
“That’s her,” said Milgrim. “When I was there?”
Remembering Bigend’s advice about telephones, he didn’t ask where the image had
been found, or how. “More or less,” said Bigend, and hung up, Milgrim returning the
iPhone to Aldous’s large, waiting, beautifully manicured hand.