The Travelling Companion (3 page)

“I have to go, Charlotte. There are customers …” I looked around the empty upstairs room.

“Soon, Ronnie, soon. Just remember.”

“I will. I'll call you tonight.”

I put the phone down and stared at it, then took the note from my pocket and tore across it. Downstairs, my employer was manning the till.

“You look like hell, by the way,” he said as I handed him the list. “Did Ben ply you with booze?”

“Do you know much about him?”

“He comes from money. Pitched up here for want of anywhere better—not unlike my good self. Drinks fine wines, buys books he wants to own but not necessarily read.” He was scanning the list. “He'd probably give these to us for free, you know. I think he just needs space for more of the same.” He paused, fixing me with a look. “What did
you
think of him?”

“Pleasant enough. Maybe a bit eccentric …” I suppressed a shiver as I remembered waking on Turk's bed, shirt open, and him dabbing at my chest. “Is he …” I tried to think how to phrase the question. “A ladies' man?”

Mr. Whitman hooted. “Listen to you,” he said. “Remind me—which century is this?” After his laughter had subsided, he fixed his eyes on mine again. “Ladies, gents, fish and fowl and the beasts of field and wood,” he said. “Now off you go and find yourself some breakfast. I'll manage these heaving crowds somehow.” He waved his arm in the direction of the deserted shop.

It was warm outside, and noisy with tourists and traffic. I slung my jacket over my shoulder as I walked to my usual café, only four shop-fronts away. Benjamin Turk was seated at an outdoor table, finishing a
cafe au lait
and reading
Le Monde
. A silver-topped walking-stick rested against the rim of the table. He gestured for me to join him, so I dragged out the spare metal chair and sat down, slipping my jacket over the back of my chair.

“It was the local prostitutes who called Stevenson ‘Velvet Jacket,' you know,” Turk said.

The liveried waiter stood ready. I ordered a coffee of my own.

“And an orange juice,” Turk added.

The waiter gave a little bow and headed back inside. Turk folded the newspaper and laid it next to his cup.

“I was coming to check on you,” he said. “But the lure of caffeine was too strong.”

“I'm fine,” I assured him.

“And you've looked at the list, I presume?”

I took the scrap of paper from my pocket and placed it between us. He gave an indulgent smile.

“It's a book Stevenson wrote,” I said. “Never quite completed. His publisher liked it well enough but considered the contents too sordid.”

“It concerned a prostitute,” Turk agreed.

“Set in Italy, I think.”

“Some of it.” Turk's eyes were gleaming.

“Fanny made Stevenson put it on the fire,” I said quietly.

“Ah, the formidable Fanny Osbourne. He met her in France, you know. He was visiting Grez. I suppose he became infatuated.” He paused, playing with his cup, moving it in circles around its saucer. “It wasn't the only book of his she persuaded him to sacrifice …”

“
Jekyll and Hyde
,” I said, as my own coffee arrived, and with it the glass of juice. “The first draft, written in three days.”

“Yes.”

“Though some commentators say three days is impossible.”

“Despite the author's Presbyterian work ethic. But then he was taking drugs, wasn't he?”

“Ergotine, and possibly cocaine.”

“Quite the cocktail for a writer whose imagination was already inflamed. You know why he consigned it to the flames?”

“Fanny persuaded him. She thought it would ruin his reputation.”

“Because it was too raw, too shocking.” He watched me as I finished the orange juice in two long gulps, watched as I poured hot milk into the viscous black coffee.

“Nobody really knows, though,” I eventually said. “Because only Stevenson and Fanny saw that first version. Same goes for
The Travelling Companion
.”

“Not quite.”

“Yes, his publisher read that,” I corrected myself.

“Not quite,” Turk repeated, almost in a whisper.

“You're not seriously telling me you have that manuscript?”

“Do you really think any author could burn the only copy of a work they considered worthwhile?”

“Didn't Fanny see it burn in the grate?”

“She saw
something
burn. She saw paper. I'm guessing there would have been plenty of paper in the vicinity.”

Lifting the coffee towards my mouth, I realized my hand was shaking. He waited until I'd taken a first sip.

“I have
both
manuscripts,” he then announced, causing me to splutter. I rubbed the back of my hand across my lips.

“I'm not sure I believe you,” I eventually said.

“Why not?”

“Because they'd be worth a small fortune. Besides, the world would know. It's been almost a century—impossible to have kept them a secret.”

“Nothing is impossible.”

“Then you'll show me them?”

“It can be arranged. But tell me—what would it mean for your doctoral thesis?”

I thought for a moment. “They'd probably move me from student to full professor.” I laughed at the absurdity of it. Yet I almost believed … almost.

“My understanding,” Turk went on airily, “is that he entrusted both to his good friend Henley. They found their way into my family because my grandfather bought many of Henley's possessions on his death—they were friends of a sort. There are notations in what seems to be Henley's handwriting. They add … well, you'd need to read them to find out.”

That smile again. I wanted to grab him and shake him.

“I'm not very good at keeping secrets,” I told him.

“Maybe it's time for the truth to be told,” he retorted. “Wouldn't you say you're as good a vessel as any?” He had taken some coins from his pocket and was counting them on to the table-top as payment for the drinks. “I should imagine most Stevenson scholars would be on their knees right now, begging to be shown even a few pages.” He paused, reaching into his jacket. “Pages like these.”

He held them out towards me. Half a dozen sheets.

“Copies rather than the originals, you understand.”

Handwritten on unlined paper.

“The openings to both books,” Turk was saying as my head swam and my eyes strained to retain their focus. “You'll notice something from the off …”

“Edinburgh,” I mouthed, near-silently.

“The setting for both,” he agreed. “Well, there
are
some French scenes in
The Travelling Companion
, but our harlot heroine hails from your own fair city, Ronald. And since Jekyll is reputed to be a conflation between Deacon Brodie and the Scottish physician John Hunter, I suppose Edinburgh makes sense—too much sense for Fanny to bear, as it transpired.”

I glanced up at him, seeking his meaning.

“There's too much of Stevenson himself in both works,” he obliged, rising to his feet.

“You could be the victim of a hoax,” I blurted out. “I mean to say, forgeries maybe.” I held the pages up in front of me, my heart racing.

“Handwriting analysis comes later on in the story,” Turk said, adjusting the cuffs of his pale linen jacket and seeming to sniff the mid-morning air. “I expect you'll be paying me a visit later—if only to collect those boxes of books.”

“This is insane,” I managed to say, holding the pages by both trembling hands.

“Nevertheless, you'll want to read them. I'm out most of the day, but should be home later this evening.”

He turned and walked away, leaning lightly on his walking-stick. I watched him. He seemed to belong to a different age or culture. It was something about his gait as well as his clothes. I could imagine him with a top hat propped on his head, horse-drawn carriages passing him as he tip-tapped his way down the boulevard. The waiter said “
mercí
” as he scooped up the coins and cleared the table, but I was in no rush to leave. I read and reread the excerpts. They revealed little by way of plot, but it was true that Edinburgh was the setting for both, Stevenson's descriptions of his “precipitous city” as trenchant as ever. It was a place he seemed to have loved and hated in equal measure. I recalled something I'd read about his student years—how he spent his time yoyoing between the strict rationalism of the family home in Heriot Row and the drunken stews of the chaotic Old Town—moving, in other words, between the worlds of Henry Jekyll and Edward Hyde.

When the waiter cleared his throat, alerting me to the fact my premium table was needed by a wealthy American couple, I rolled the sheets of paper into a tube and carried them back to the shop. My employer had ceded his place behind the till to a new arrival, an English woman called Tessa with long brown hair, round glasses, and a prominent nose.

“I'll be upstairs if you need me,” I told her. The curtain had been drawn closed across my alcove. Pulling it back revealed Mike and one of his female friends, both naked from the waist up and sharing slugs from a cheap bottle of wine. The young woman apologized in French-accented English and slipped a t-shirt over her head.

“Ronnie doesn't mind a bit of tit,” Mike told her with a grin. She punched his arm and snatched the bottle from him, offering it to me. I settled on the corner of the bed and took a mouthful.

“What's that you've got?” Mike asked.

“Nothing important,” I lied, stuffing the sheets of paper into my jacket pocket. There was something else in there, and I fished it out. It was the lump of dope.

“That what I think it is?” Mike said, his grin widening. “Well, now we've got us a proper party!” He leapt up, returning a minute or two later with everything he needed. Crosslegged, he began to assemble the joint. “You're a dark horse, mate,” he told me. “Never would have thought you indulged.”

“Then you don't know me very well.” His friend had moved closer, her leg touching mine. I could make out the soft down on her face. When she passed me the lit joint, it was as intimate as any kiss.

“It's not the best I've had,” Mike said, when his turn came. “But it'll do,
n'est ce pas, cherie
?”

“It'll do,” his friend echoed.

It was not ergotine, nor yet cocaine, but I found my imagination heightened. I was with Stevenson and his student allies, touring the taverns of Edinburgh, rubbing shoulders with slatterns and sophisticates. I was adrift in France, and sailing to Samoa, and roughing it in Silverado, having survived yet another near-fatal illness. I was weak in body but strong in spirit, and a woman loved me. I was writing
Jekyll and Hyde
as an exorcism of sorts, my demons vanquished, allowing me the less dangerous pleasures
Kidnapped
of less than a year later. External as well as internal adventures were my mainstay—I had to keep moving, ever further from the Edinburgh of my birth and formation. I had to remake myself, renew myself, heal myself, even as mortality drew close. I had to survive.

“What's that?” Mike asked. He was slumped on the bed with his head against the wall.

“I didn't say anything.”

“Something about survival.”

“No.”

He turned to his friend. She had moved next to him so that only her bare unwashed feet now rested near me. “You heard him,” he nudged her.

“Survival,” she echoed.

“What it's all about,” Mike agreed, nodding slowly, before pulling himself together, the better to roll another joint.

Though I was stoned, I agreed to take over from Tessa while she headed out for food. Mike and Maryse—she had eventually told me her name—decided to go with her. They had the decency to ask if I wanted anything, but I shook my head. I gulped some water from the tap and took up position. A few customers came and went. One or two regulars got comfortable with books they would never buy. Later, a writing group would hold its weekly meeting upstairs. And there she was again. Not just a glimpse this time, but a solidity in the open doorway, in the same floral dress. A willowy figure topped with long blond hair. Her eyes were on mine, but when I signaled for her to approach, she shook her head, so I walked towards her.

“I've seen you before,” I said.

“You're Ronald,” she stated.

“How do you know my name?”

“Ben told me.”

“You know Benjamin Turk?”

She nodded slowly. “You mustn't trust him. He likes playing games with people.”

“I've only met him twice.”

“Yet he's already got beneath your skin—don't try to deny it.”

“Who
are
you?”

“I'm Alice.”

“How do you know Mr. Turk?”

“Services rendered.”

“I'm not sure I follow.”

“I run errands for him sometimes. I copied those pages he gave you.”

“You know about those?”

“You've already read them, I suppose?”

“Of course.”

“And you need to read more, meaning you'll visit him again?”

“I think so.”

She had lifted her hand and was running the tips of her fingers down my cheek, as if human contact was something new and strange. I leaned back a little, but she took a step forward and pressed her lips against mine, kissing me, her eyes squeezed shut. When she opened them again, I sensed a vast lake of sadness behind them. Tears were forming as she turned and fled down the street. I stood like a statue, shocked to my very core, wondering if I should go after her, but one of the loiterers had decided to break the habit of a lifetime and pay for the book in his hands, so I shrugged off the incident and headed back to the till, not in the least surprised to find that the book being purchased was the copy of
Heart of Darkness
I'd taken with me to the cous-cous restaurant …