I followed Hunter in silence to his office. It was a vast space, transected by enormous cast-iron beams. He took a seat behind a big glass desk that was empty except for a tiny notebook computer and single Post-It note. From somewhere, an ioniser was filling the room with the scent of peppermint. I sat down on a leather couch.

‘The last time we spoke about Jack, you told me he was dead,’ I said.

It seemed that for the time being, Hunter was sticking with his unflappable, emollient manner. ‘I apologise for that. But there are complexities about this situation that you’re better off not knowing,’ he said.

‘For whose benefit?’

‘For yours.’

The sky through the windows was full of low, grey clouds. The outline of Trellick Tower, like a modernist version of one of Lucius’s marble runs, was visible in the distance. A scarlet narrowboat puttered through the khaki water beneath us.

‘I’d like to see him,’ I said.

Hunter opened his palms to the ceiling as if relinquishing his responsibilities to some higher power. ‘That won’t be possible. It’s not what Vera wants. And I think you need to consider her welfare.’

I remember being silent for a long time. The building seemed eerily quiet.

‘Here’s the problem we’ve got now,’ I said. I felt no anger. Instead, there was a strange relief at being able to drop all pretence between us. ‘It’s this: I no longer believe a single word you say.’

‘I’m not sure whose fault that is –’

‘Oh, I am.’

For a moment, I had the gratifying feeling that he was cornered.

‘I’ve really enjoyed getting to know you, Nicholas. I feel we’ve seen the best of each other. I’d like to keep it that way.’

‘I don’t share your good feelings about our relationship.’

‘That’s a pity,’ he said mildly.

‘Who discharged Jack from the hospital?’

‘That was a decision we took jointly.’

‘With Jack’s interests in mind? Last time I saw him, he could barely breathe.’

‘I can assure you the medical care he’s getting now is second to none.’

The narrowboat had disappeared. There was a pair of joggers on the towpath, their unearthly day-glo shorts and vests flashing by like tropical plumage.

‘It may be a fault in me,’ Hunter went on, ‘but I’ve never understood the attraction of the moral high ground. It’s always struck me as an overpriced piece of real estate. For one thing, the neighbours are a pain in the ass. For another, it’s very exposed. It can even be dangerous.’

His mild tone was so far at odds with the tenor of his words that it took a moment for their significance to sink in.

‘That’s a threat?’

Hunter shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t say that, exactly, though you don’t get far in my business without a ruthless streak. I’d say it was more of a plea. Call it a plea with consequences. I’m just really urging you to butt out.’

He got to his feet. My time was up.

‘None of this is personal,’ he said. ‘I am just acting to protect … interests. My interests and your interests. Our common … interests.’

Hunter opened the door to his office. ‘And by the way, I’ll have to ask you if you have any of Jack’s papers. They need to be returned if you do. Legally they’re his property, and I have power of attorney in his affairs.’

‘No,’ I said, ‘I don’t.’

*

He left me to find my own way out. I went back down in the lift and lingered for a while over the bizarre sculpture in the vestibule, Dead Dad. Far from seeming dead, it looked eerily alive. The skin and hair had been rendered with uncanny verisimilitude. I had the feeling that at any moment it might get to its feet and speak.

I tend to have slow-growing academic convictions about things, not lightning flashes. My insights are more vegetable than meteorological. But something had arisen in my chat with Hunter which caught my attention. I had noticed a peculiar awkwardness about his choice of words; an awkwardness all the more surprising because Hunter was such a glib and accomplished liar. And yet, I had had the feeling, even as he was speaking, that something taboo had entered his mind and he was having to step around it carefully. There was something he was trying hard not to say.

I am just acting to protect … interests. My interests and your interests. Our common … interests.

Those hesitations stood out. But why? And after a while, it dawned on me that they recalled a phrase from Jack’s letter. I couldn’t check it there, in the lobby, after the lie I had just told, but as soon as I was on the tube, I took it out of my jacket and reread the phrase that I remembered. It came at the end of the third paragraph, the one in which he had counselled me to be aware of the dangers we faced. This was the sentence: Be forewarned: the common task.

Gradually, this line and Hunter’s hesitation combined in a single equation which solved itself.

My interests and your interests. Our common … interests.

The words became fused with Jack’s exhortation.

That was what Hunter had been trying not to say, the fence he had balked at. Our common task.

And when I understood that, a second meaning emerged from Jack’s sentence. On first reading, it had seemed so straightforward: he was urging me to be vigilant, to accept the need for circumspection as our common task.

But there was a grammatically viable alternative. The common task could be what he was warning me about. You could parse the sentence like this: Beware of the common task.

This was the thread that I followed to the heart of the labyrinth.

23

I had a dream about Dr Webster last night: the multiple ironies of that! – not the smallest being that I failed to present her with a single dream during our work together.

We were sitting in the safe space. ‘It seems that, very early, you abandoned any hope of being understood,’ she was saying.

I disagreed strongly and handed her a book. ‘Look,’ I told her. ‘My biography.’ It was hardbound, quarto, with oxblood cloth boards and my name in gilt letters on the spine.

She glanced at a few pages and then, revolving the book in her hands, showed me the words.

The lines and paragraphs had the irregular look of bona fide text, but on closer inspection this was revealed to be an illusion.

It reminded me of the Latin gobbledegook designers use in mocked-up layouts: placeholder text. It’s not meant to be read. The real content will be inserted later. They call it ‘lorem ipsum’ after the fragment of Cicero it’s taken from: dolorem ipsum, ‘pain itself’.

But here the text was formed of a single, repeated word: mankurt.

I woke up in my narrow pine bed with the sensation that I had fallen from the sky. This heart was thumping in his chest.

One continuous thread between the broken halves of my life is this: my grasp of the secret kinship between insight and despair. Who said, There is no hope without the concomitant capacity for tears? Johnson? Jack? Perhaps I did.

*

I threw myself into my quest. Every now and again, I would leave messages for Vera, trying to make contact and hinting vaguely at the direction of my researches.

They took me back to St James’s Square, to the stacks of the London Library. I wasn’t even sure what I was looking for, but I was confident I would know it when I found it. It was two days before I laid my hand on it, shelved on the open stacks under Religion and Philosophy of Religion: a slim, black volume of two hundred pages which had the immodest and doubtlessly sexist title What Was Man Created For? Its author was an obscure nineteenth-century Russian philosopher called Nikolai Fedorov. Because of the conventions of Russian transliteration, his last name is usually written ‘Fedorov’ in English, but pronounced like this, Fyodorov.