The Peripheral

60

Don’t be pettish,” said this Wu, whose name was the only thing Netherton seemed to recall about him. He appeared to be dressed for a cosplay zone, one Netherton was mercifully unfamiliar with. Something to do with the Blitz perhaps. “I hope you aren’t going to be sick.”

That was a possibility, Netherton thought, as this small windowless room did seem to be moving, though mercifully in a single direction, and smoothly. “You’re that actor,” he said. He knew that, though not which actor he meant. One of them.

“I’m not Wu,” said Wu. “There happened to be one available here. I’d seen your former colleague in one earlier. You must try not to drink so quickly, Mr. Netherton. It impairs your memory of events. I need to discuss your conversation with her, since I only have access to what I could see you say.”

Netherton sat up slightly, in his own little armchair, his role in any of this now somewhat identified, if still largely unclear. He remembered being led through narrow, absurdly tidy subterranean corridors of brick. Under squidlight, not the least fleck of dust. That deadening cleanliness of the assemblers, London’s microscopic caretakers. “Who?” he asked.

“Daedra West.”

Netherton remembered her voice mail then, the oppressive height of it. “We’re in your car,” he said. “Where are we going?”

“Notting Hill.”

“We’ll be invited,” Netherton said. He remembered hoping that, at any rate.

“It did seem to me that you set the hook. Assuming, that is, that she’s so self-centered as to be literally impaired. I don’t feel I can afford to be quite so readily convinced of that. Perhaps you shouldn’t either, Mr. Netherton.”

So deliberately difficult, actors.