5. The threshold

The sky over London was grey and the rain kept falling. The wind had blown his hood down so many times that he had given up putting it back up, so he walked through the rain with his head held high, his hair soaked and sticking to his forehead. He looked blankly at each stranger who passed him on the street. They had nothing for him: they couldn't scold him, they couldn't encourage him, they couldn't call him home.

A little pile of small change growing hot and sweaty in his hand, he pushed open the door of a pub and went inside. The pub was small and dingy, little more than a single room, and seemed genuinely ancient. He was glad to finally get out of the rain, which had been falling incessantly for the past hour and had penetrated him right to the bones. He ordered a pint of bitter from a bored girl serving behind the bar and sat down at an empty table, burrowing deeper into his overcoat in search of warmth. As it was early afternoon, there were few customers in the bar, and so he felt less conspicuous.

He sat staring at the little indentations and scratch marks in the ancient table. Somehow, the thought had got into his head to see if anything had been inscribed there on purpose. All he could find were the words Tom's a slag carved in a corner. He sat back on the chair and reached into his coat. After groping around the inside pockets, he pulled out a piece of white paper. He held it unfolded in his hand for a moment, then opened it and straightened out the creases that had appeared around its edges. The page was almost blank, and contained only one sentence:

You can tell me anything.

The message was written in a hand that he could not recognise. The letters were neat and pleasantly shaped. Whenever he looked at them he felt that a girl had written them. He had read the words a thousand times and still he couldn't tell who she was. Someone who cares about me, anyway. He touched the words with his index finger as if to mark his place in the text. Then he folded up the note and carefully put it back in his pocket.

Glancing around the bar, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a bag of crisps, which he proceeded to eat as noiselessly as possible. The crisp packet empty on the table and the pint of bitter half drunk, he took out a worn, almost coverless paperback and began to read.

He had been reading for some time when he began to feel that someone was watching him. He read on, but the feeling that someone's eyes were frequently on him continued to intrude, making him lose the train of the arguments in the text he was reading. Finally he felt that someone was standing before him and looked up.

The man standing too close to him had short-cropped blonde hair and keen grey eyes behind dark-rimmed spectacles. He was young and good looking, in expensive looking jeans and a tailored green jacket, which hung open, half-revealing a black Tool t-shirt. The man shot him a brief sort of smile, then stuck out his hand. He looked at the hand for a moment then shook it with little conviction.

'This seat free?' said the man.

He looked around the bar. There were plenty of seats free elsewhere.

'If you like,' he replied.

'Miserable fucking day, eh?' said the man in a friendly manner.

'What do you expect this time of year?' he replied dolefully.

'Fair enough,' said the man, who took a quick glance around him, then put his hands on the table.

He looked blankly at him.

'I saw you out on the street,' the man began, rather in a matter-of-fact way.

Might as well just have said he saw me in the cafeteria at work.

'You seem to have fallen on hard times.'

He could swear that there was a hint of a smile on the man's face as he spoke. He decided he didn't care.

'As to whether I've fallen on them or not, I couldn't tell you,' He replied flatly. 'I have no memory of anything else.'

'Is that so?' said the man, 'I could have sworn you used to be much more … illustrious.'

What is he talking about?

'Do you know me or something?' he asked.

'I know of you,' said the man, his eyes scrutinising him through the glass of his spectacles. 'Or at least I think I might.'

He was getting a little tired of the man and his riddles.

'Who am I then?' he asked brusquely.

The man exhaled heavily, as if he had been slightly hurt by his tone. He looked him up and down again with his cold eyes.

'Is your name James Black by any chance?' he said finally.

James Black. That was the name that had come to him when he had first looked at his reflection in a shop window, when the numbness had begun to subside, when he began to feel like a human being again, not some empty vessel. He didn't know how long he had been waiting for someone to recognise him, to tell him something about him, how he had ended up on the street.

Now someone was sitting in front of him, actually saying that they knew him. But there was no euphoria. He didn't even recognise the bloke. Not in the slightest. And it occurred to him that he didn't even want to recognise him. All of a sudden he wanted to scuttle back into anonymity.

'I told you,' he said. 'I have amnesia.'

The man's face was expressionless, completely unreadable.

'That must be a bummer,' he said at last.

The obvious lack of anything like sympathy was almost refreshing.

'I'm not complaining. I've no fall from grace to regret. I'm just quietly going about my business. Perhaps you should do the same. I have nothing for you. I don't need saving or rehabilitation.'

'Oh, I'm not involved in anything like that,' the man replied, apparently amused at the idea. 'I just want to ask for your help with a task I have to accomplish.'

'My help?'

'That's all, I promise. Straight up, cards on the table, no hidden agenda.'

'And what is it I can do for you then?'

'I want to show you something I think you might be able to help me with. It's not far from here. It's worth a hot meal.'

James Black looked at him.

'Why should I trust you?'

The man peered at him curiously.

'What has happened to you?'

'What are you talking about?'

'It doesn't matter. To be honest, I can't think of any reason why you should trust me. Perhaps you can't help me after all.'

The man stood up as if to leave and offered his hand again. He shook it without much conviction. As the man began to walk away he suddenly felt a pang of regret. I'm sick of being alone. He started to stand up in his seat.

'Let me finish my drink first,' he called out. The man stopped, halfway across the bar. He shot him what looked like a rather odd expression, then returned to the table, watching as he downed the rest of his pint.

The rain had left off somewhat and the streets seemed less cold. They made their way along streets thronged with office workers and down lanes lined with a mixture of forgotten old brick buildings and the brutalist backs of glass and concrete office blocks.

They stopped for a moment before an inconspicuous door. The door was unmarked, but swinging by its side was a metal sign that bore the image of a witch and broomstick. The man pointed to the door.

'Know this place?' he said.

'No.'.

'If you say so,' said the man, and they went on quickly, following a circuitous route through a tangle of back streets that seemed to get more dilapidated as they went further on. But James didn't seem to mind. He felt no sense of foreboding. He actually felt sure that he wasn't being led into a trap. There was no sense of being judged like there was when you were walking on your own.

Finally the man led them down a narrow passageway with a high brick wall on one side and a series of boarded up shop fronts on the other. At the end of the alleyway they stopped before a shop that seemed to have remained derelict for years. Above the soot-blackened window the words 'Leftwich and Co' could still be read through the dust. The man peered at the bricked-up doorway to the premises of Leftwich and Co as if he was looking for something. Then he turned to James.

'This is the backdoor,' he said. He took out a little stick and ran it over the pitted bricks. 'They've changed the combination. I knew the old one, but now it's sealed up again. Here, take this.' He gave him the stick and nudged him. 'You try.'

Without thinking James passed the stick over the brick wall in front of him. Nothing happened.

'Try again.'

Again nothing happened. The man looked at him disappointedly. He grabbed him by the sleeve and stared intently into his haggard, unshaven face.

'Can't you sense it?' he demanded. 'We're so close here. Just the other side of the doorway.'

'Sense what?'

They looked at each other. The man let go of James's arm.

'You really can't feel anything,' he said.

They heard footsteps in the alleyway and turned around. A young woman was walking quickly towards them. She had red hair tied up in a severe bun and was fixing them with a harsh, piercing look through steel-rimmed glasses. The girl's red hair had a bad vibe about it: dwelling too long on it would force him onto a rat run in his mind to somewhere he didn't want to go. Not to a memory, such thoughts never led anywhere real. Instead they lead to places of clammy, anonymous fear and panic, the blind traumas of a caged animal.

In her smart, dark green tunic, dark cardigan, black leggings and heeled boots, the girl looked like some sort of City worker. Strange that she should be striding so purposefully towards them down a dark alley, like she was a teacher who'd just caught some boys smoking on school grounds.

'What are you doing here?' she said in a suspicious voice. Up close she looked much younger than she had from down the other end of the alley, barely out of her teens. James glanced down at his hand, wondering how he would explain the fact that he was holding such a ridiculous object. But the stick was gone.

'Sightseeing,' said the man.

'Sightseeing,' the red-haired girl repeated with deadpan irony.

'You know it's fascinating what you can find down the back alleys of London,' the man continued. He pointed at the decrepit brick wall. 'You can walk into an alleyway like this and step back into another era. Even in London there are forgotten places, places that have been abandoned to the passing of time.'

'Is that right?' The red-haired girl glanced at the ancient shop front and then back at them. 'Why don't you just walk in the front door?'

'The front door to what?' The man's tone was slightly mocking.

'Why are you playing games?'

'What do you mean, games?' said the man, a trace of annoyance entering his voice. 'I'm genuinely interested in the history of London. The London that most people have forgotten. Who are you anyway? As far as I know we're not trespassing here.'

A flicker of doubt passed across the girl's face. She looked hard at the man.

'Yes, who are you?' said James, echoing the question. She turned to look at him for the first time, her eyes widening as she did.

'Just someone whose business it is to know when someone comes wandering down here,' she replied coolly, not taking her eyes off him.

'Are you who I think you are?' she said at last.

Why does everyone seem to know me today? It's sort of annoying when I don't even know myself.

'His name's James Black,' said his companion. Again she looked closely at him. Her eyes were green, a similar shade to his.

'Is that right?' she asked.

'Yeah, that's right.'

Still not taking her eyes off him, the girl reached into her bag, took out a mobile phone and made a call.

'It's me,' she said when a voice answered the phone, 'I'm at Leftwich's. Can you get here quickly?'

'Leftwich's?' said a disembodied male voice at the other end of the line. 'I'll be right there.'

'What's this all about?' said the man. 'This cloak and dagger stuff is getting a bit tiring.'

The red-haired girl said nothing in return.

'If you're from the police or something, you should show us some ID,' said the man.

'Who said I was from the police?'

'In that case, you've got no authority to keep us here.'

'That's true,' said James.

She glanced quickly back down the alleyway. There was no one there.

James Black's companion turned to him.

'Come on, let's go,' he said.

The girl shifted her position so that she was blocking the way out.

'Why don't you stay a bit longer, soak up a bit more history?' she said in a cool, but slightly menacing tone. The man started to push past her but she caught him by the arm. He tried to pull free with a violent wrench of his arm but she didn't let go. Her strength was surprising. She leaned a little towards him, seemingly whispering something under her breath, like she was reciting something to herself. The man tried again to pull himself free. This time the girl stepped away and let him pass. He turned back and looked at James.

'You coming?' he said.

James looked at the red-haired girl, trying not to think about the fact that her hair was red. She looked back at him strangely.

'I don't know what your problem is,' he said finally.

'Don't you?' she said, her eyes wide and doubtful. 'Don't you know what this is all about?'

'Haven't the foggiest,' he replied and walked past her, following his companion back towards the road. She took a step towards him then decided against it at the last minute.

As they reached the end of the alley, another man stepped in front of the entrance, blocking their way out. He was about forty, dressed in a thick grey sweater and dark corduroys. His face was pleasant, but tired and lined, his dark brown hair flecked with grey.

'Not another one,' said James's companion. The newcomer looked at him with a kind of bleak curiosity.

'They're not here by accident,' called out the red-haired girl from the other end of the alleyway.

'What are your names, lads?' said the newcomer.

'None of your business,' said James's companion.

'That one's called James Black apparently,' said the girl, who had now come back to the entrance. 'This one didn't give a name.'

'What's your name?' said the newcomer, eyeing James's companion, a cold and keen expression on his face.

'Joel Green,' came the reply after a few moments' silence.

'Green and Black,' said the older man. 'How complementary.'

'Is that enough information for you?' said the man apparently called Joel Green.

'It'll have to do for now.'

Joel Green looked at James Black then looked at the man in the grey sweater, who stepped aside, leaving the way clear. He seemed to shiver, then walked past the man and out of the alley altogether, without a word.

As the older man scrutinised James, the girl came and whispered something in his ear.

'What do you think?' she said in a lower, but audible voice.

'Looks like him all right,' said the man.

'Are you talking about me?' said James with a hint of defiance.

The man took a step nearer to him, his brow furrowed even deeper. Like the girl before him, he too seemed to whisper something under his breath. He turned his head towards her.

'There's no trace.'

'That's what I thought,' said the girl. 'Scarcely over the line.'

'And Mr Green?'

'Much stronger. He's one all right.'

'Yes, I thought so.'

'What on earth are you talking about?' James exclaimed.

The man looked him up and down again, a quizzical expression on his face.

'Is this all really a complete mystery to you?' he said.

'Isn't that obvious?' James exclaimed. 'What is this place anyway? Why is this mouldy old alleyway so interesting to all of you?'

'Just out of curiosity,' said the man, adopting a friendlier tone. 'Why did your Mr Green bring you here? I take it you're not actually friends.'

'Never seen him before today,' James replied.

'He said he was interested in the history of this place,' added the red-haired girl.

'Ah, is that right?' said the man.

'If you must know,' said James, shrugging his shoulder, 'he got me to tap on some bricks here with a little stick. Looked a bit like a kind of joke shop magic wand if you ask me. Nothing happened, unsurprisingly. Now you turn up here acting like we were trying to break into a government ministry or something.'

The man in the grey sweater looked at him, rubbing his chin. He seemed vaguely amused at this, although his expression was largely inscrutable.

'James Black, that's what you said your name was?'

'That's right. Are you going to take my details or something?'

'Yes, but it's nothing to worry about. I'm more concerned about your friend Mr Green.'

'He's not my friend, I told you.'

'So you did. And that's probably for the better.'

He paused for a moment.

'Can I ask you one last question?'

Harry shrugged.

'I suppose so.'

'Does the name Harry Potter mean anything to you?'

'No, never heard of him.'

'Fair enough.'

'Isaac, is this just a coincidence?' said the red-haired girl.

The man called Isaac gave her an equally inscrutable look then looked down at his watch.

'Maybe,' he replied. 'But this isn't the sort of thing I would know much about.'

'I understand,' said the girl. 'But even you know something about…'

'I do,' he replied. 'But I try not to involve myself too much in internal stuff.'

'But still, what do you think? Is it him?'

'It sort of looks like him. But then again, I only know the picture in the papers from several years ago.'

'I don't understand why there's no trace.'

'That is odd. It is possible that it's all a case of mistaken identity.'

The girl nodded.

'But say it is who you think it is? What can you do?'

'I don't know. I don't know if anyone is actually looking for him. He left of his own accord, as far as I know. And I don't really know anything about it. It's not my business anyway. Which only leaves contacting the press.'

'Oh I'm not going to do that,' replied the girl with a shiver.

They turned back to James. He looked pityingly back at them and their obscure and rather uninteresting dilemma. It didn't concern him anyway.

'Well, Mr Black,' said the man called Isaac. 'Sorry to have bothered you. I don't suppose there's any reason for our paths to cross again in a place like this.'

'Probably not. Can I go now?'

'Of course. But before you go let me give you my card. If Mr Green gets in contact with you again, and asks you to help him with anything else, would you call me?'

He reached into his pocket and handed James a business card. The card was blank apart from the name Isaac Edwards and a mobile phone number.

'Is there any way we can get in contact with you?' said the girl, reaching into her bag and taking out a business card of her own. 'A phone number, an email address?'

She handed him the card. It was similarly sparse, bearing just a mobile number and the name Argenta Coyle.

He put the two cards together and put them carefully into his pocket.

'No,' he said, looking bleakly at the pair of them. 'I don't have anything like that.'

He felt Isaac Edwards scrutinising him again. The man's expression was grim, but there was a keen light in his eyes.

'Is there anything we can do to help you?'

He shook his head firmly.

'No. No thanks. There's nothing at all.'

He walked out of the alley and out onto the street. He glanced back for a moment: Isaac Edwards and Argenta Coyle were standing in front of the disused shop down the far end of the alley. With a final shrug of his shoulders he walked away.

The street he found himself on was unfamiliar to him, and he didn't know which direction to take. The rain was starting to come down harder again. What happened to that hot meal you promised, eh? He pulled his hood up and set off on a route of his own devising back through the streets. At times he found himself tempted to go back to the alleyway and the disused shop, as if he might meet Argenta Coyle, or Isaac Edwards, or even Joel Green, or as if there might be some way of seeing what lay behind the blocked up door. But as he left the neighbourhood behind him, none of them accosted him again.