Page 6 of We Chase Shadows

Amy feels an intense rush of protectiveness towards Rosie.

She leans in to the poet and gestures towards the man. ‘Left trouser pocket, wedding ring, just to let you know.’

Amy turns heel and leaves the group. So she does know how to make conversation sometimes.

Where has Rosie got to though? Seriously? Not Amy’s professional responsibility any more, but she continues to take a keen amateur interest. This afternoon, for example, Rosie was adamant that she wanted to travel down to a housing estate in South London to buy weed, and Amy felt duty-bound to accompany her. But these days Amy does such things as a friend, rather than an employee. As it turned out, the local dealers could not have been more charmed by Rosie, and Amy had been able to keep her military-issue taser in her handbag throughout.

Amy spies a fire door left ajar. Beyond the fire door Amy sees there is an alley, and she knows Rosie well enough by now to know that if there is an alley nearby, Rosie will make a beeline for it.

Pressing down on the metal bar, Amy scrapes the door open a few more inches and squeezes through into the cooling air of a Soho evening. The thick fog of high-grade skunk tells her she has found her friend. Rosie is mid-conversation. But when is she not?

‘You must know someone who’s been murdered?’ says Rosie. ‘For goodness’ sake, Lionel. Hello, Amy.’

‘Rosie,’ Amy nods. ‘I’ve missed you.’

In the tight and damp little alley behind the bookshop, Rosie D’Antonio is smoking a fairly giant spliff through an elegant silver cigarette holder. Her elbow rests on a large purple recycling bin, as if it’s a grand piano in a country-house drawing room.

Rosie hands the spliff to the man named Lionel. He must be in his mid-sixties, nice suit. Just Rosie’s type. Amy recognizes him, but can’t remember from where. He takes a drag and stifles a cough.

‘Jesus,’ says Lionel. ‘This stuff is lethal.’

‘The best,’ agrees Rosie.

Lionel takes another drag, more prepared this time, then passes the spliff back to Rosie. ‘And why would I know anyone who’s been murdered?’

‘Because you’re the Foreign Secretary,’ says Rosie. ‘You hear about all sorts of things. Russian billionaires bumping people off.’

That’s where Amy recognizes him from. She tries to avoid the news when she can, but, even so, some of it gets through, doesn’t it? One minute you’re looking at a video of a dog playing the piano on TikTok, the next minute, Ukraine.

‘I mean, I have the entirety of the security forces at my disposal,’ says Lionel. ‘Protocol says I let them deal with murders.’

‘We only need the one,’ says Rosie. ‘Be a pal. Otherwise Amy will get bored and leave me.’

Rosie is quite right. It’s been fun, these last few months. Quietly escorting Rosie around the world to book launches, from Rio to Reykjavík, waiting for somebody to need them. But Amy is beginning to think that nobody needs them. Even Rosie doesn’t really need her. She suspects that the visit to South London was for her benefit. A bit of jeopardy to make Amy feel useful. But even on the South London estate, everybody loved Rosie.

At least it means she can see more of Adam. He’s been in the Middle East for the past few months, and she thinks she might head out and join him for a couple of days. Their wedding anniversary is coming up, and she’d like to surprise him. They don’t need to be in each other’s pockets, but it does get to the point when they miss each other. Or she misses him, at least. Does he miss her?

‘Don’t smoke too much of that,’ says Amy. ‘You’re on Graham Norton tonight.’

‘Okay, Mum,’ says Rosie, and rolls her eyes at Lionel. However, she does stub the spliff out. She motions for Amy and Lionel to follow her back inside.

Lionel indicates that she should go first and Amy nods her thanks, then stops.

‘Where are your close-protection officers?’ Amy asks.

‘Gave them the slip,’ says Lionel.

Amy doubts that very much. Sometimes you let your principal think they’ve given you the slip. Everyone needs privacy. But you’re always there somewhere.

She looks over to the large purple recycling bin and sees the lid rise by an inch. A pair of eyes meets hers. She nods, and the eyes blink in response. Amy has hidden in many recycling bins over the years. Recycling bins, storm drains, portable toilets, air vents. She once spent four hours dug into a mound of manure while a rock star she was protecting was having sex with a weather presenter in an abandoned barn. You had to admire their stamina, but really.

Amy walks back into the party with a smile. What she wouldn’t give to be in that recycling bin right now, instead of in this bookshop.

All she needs is for someone to get murdered. Otherwise she is in danger of having to live a normal life.

‘Normal.’ Is there any more depressing word in the English language?

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