ed away at me as I lay in the darkness。 I just couldn’t erase the memory of how bleak he had looked on the plane at the very end。
“Mrs。 Bly wonders if Mr。 Lang didn’t actually recognize his assassin and deliberately head toward him； knowing that something like this might happen…”
“Yes；” I said to Rick。 “Yes； I did like him。”
“Well； there you go。 You owe it to him。 And besides； there’s another consideration。”
“Which is what？”
“Sid Kroll says that if you don’t fulfill your contractual obligations and finish the book； they’ll sue
your ass off。”
AND SO I RETURNEDto London； and for the next six weeks I barely emerged from my flat； except once； early on； to go out for dinner with Kate。 We met in a restaurant in Notting Hill Gate； midway between our homes—territory as neutral as Switzerland and about as expensive。 The manner of Adam Lang’s death seemed to have silenced even her hostility； and I suppose a kind of glamour attached to me as an eyewitness。 I had turned down a score of requests to give interviews； so that she was the first person； apart from the FBI and MI5； to whom I described what had happened。 I desperately wanted to tell her about my final conversation with Lang。 I would have done； too。 But in the way of these things； just as I was about to broach it； the waiter came over to discuss dessert； and when he left she announced she had something she wanted to tell me； first。
She was engaged to be married。
I confess it was a shock。 I didn’t like the other man。 You’d know him if I mentioned his name： craggy； handsome； soulful。 He specializes in flying briefly into the world’s worst trouble spots and flying out again with moving descriptions of human suffering； usually his own。
“Congratulations；” I said。
We skipped dessert。 Our affair； our relationship—ourthing —whatever it was—ended ten minutes later with a peck on the cheek on the pavement outside the restaurant。
“You were going to tell me something；” she said； just before she got into her taxi。 “I’m sorry I cut you off。 I only didn’t want you to say anything； you know…too personal…without telling you first about how things were with me and—”
“It doesn’t matter；” I said。
“Are you sure you’re all right？ You seem…different。”
“I’m fine。”
“If you ever need me； I’ll always be there for you。”
“There？” I said。 “I don’t know about you； but I’m here。 Where’s there？”
I held open the door of her cab for her。 I couldn’t help overhearing that the address she gave the driver wasn’t hers。
After that； I withdrew from the world。 I spent my every waking hour with Lang； and now that he was dead； I found I suddenly had his voice。 It was more a Ouija board than a keyboard that I sat down to every morning。 If my fingers typed out a sentence that sounded wrong； I could almost physically feel them being drawn to the Delete key。 I was like a screenwriter producing lines with a particularly demanding star in mind： I knew he might say this； but not that； might do this scene； never that。
The basic structure of the story remained McAra’s sixteen chapters。 My method was to work always with his manuscript on my left； to retype it completely； and in the process of passing it through my brain and fingers and on to my computer； to strain it of my predecessor’s lumpy clichés。 I made no mention of Emmett； of course； cutting even the anodyne quote of his that had opened the final chapter。 The image of Adam Lang that I presented to the world was very much the character he’d always chosen to play： the regular guy who fell into politics almost by accident and who rose to power because he was neither tribal nor ideological。 I reconciled this with the chronology by taking up Ruth’s suggestion that Lang had turned to politics as solace for his depression when he first arrived in London。 I didn’t really need to play up the misery here。 Lang was dead； after all； his whole memoir suffused by the reader’s knowledge of what was to come。 That ought to be sufficient； I reckoned； to keep the ghouls happy。 But it was still useful to have a page or two of heroic struggle against inner demons； etc。； etc。
In the superficially tedious business of politics I found solace for my hurt。 I found activity； companionship； an outlet for my love of meeting new people。 I found a cause that was bigger than myself。 Most of all； I found Ruth…
In my telling of his story； Lang’s political involvement really got going only when Ruth came knocking at his door two years later。 It sounded plausible。 Who knows？ It might even have been true。
I started writingMemoirs by Adam Lang on February the tenth and promised Maddox I’d have the whole thing done； all one hundred and sixty thousand words； by the end of March。 That meant I had to produce thirty…four hundred words a day； every day。 I had a chart on the wall and marked it up each morning。 I was like Captain Scott returning from the South Pole： I had to make those daily distances； or I’d fall irrevocably behind and perish in a white wilderness of blank pages。 It was a hard slog； especially as almost no lines of McAra’s were salvageable； except； curiously； the very last one in the manuscript； which had made me groan aloud when I read it on Martha’s Vineyard：“Ruth and I look forward to the future； whatever it may hold。” Read that； you bastards； I thought； as I typed it in on the evening of the
thirtieth of March： read that； and close this book without a catch in your throat。 I added “The End” and then； I guess； I had a kind of nervous breakdown。
I DISPATCHED ONE COPYof the manuscript to New York and another to the office of the Adam Lang Foundation in London； for the personal attention of Mrs。 Ruth Lang—or； as I should more properly have styled her by then； Baroness Lang of Calder…thorpe； the government having just given her a seat in the House of Lords as a mark of the nation’s respect。
I hadn’t heard anything from Ruth since the assassination。 I’d written to her while I was still in hospital； one of more than a hundred thousand correspondents who were reported to have sent their condolences； so I wasn’t surprised that all I got back was a standard printed reply。 But a week after she received the manuscript； a handwritten message arrived on the red…embossed notepaper of the House of Lords：
You have done all that I ever hoped you wd do—and more！ You have caught his tone beautifully & brought him back to life—all his wonderful humor & compassion & energy。 Pls。 come & see me here in the HoL when you have a spare moment。 It wd be great to catch up。 Martha’s V。 seems a v long time ago； & a long way away！ Bless you again for yr talent。 And it is aproper book ！！
Much love；
R。
Maddox was equally effusive； but without the love。 The first printing was to be four hundred thousand copies。 The publication date was the end of May。
So that was that。 The job was done。
It didn’t take me long to realize I was in a bad state。 I’d been kept going； I suppose； by Lang’s “wonderful humor & compassion & energy；” but once he was written out of me； I collapsed like an empty suit of clothes。 For years I had survived by inhabiting one life after another。 But Rick had insisted we wait until the Lang memoirs were published—my “breakthrough book；” he called it—before negotiating new and better contracts； with the result that； for the first time I could remember； I had no work to go to。 I was afflicted by a horrible combination of lethargy and panic。 I could barely summon the energy to get out of bed before noon； and when I did I moped on the sofa in my dressing gown； watching daytime television。 I didn’t eat much。 I stopped opening my letters or answering the phone。 I didn’t shave。 I left the flat for any length of time only on Mondays and Thursdays； to avoid seeing my cleaner—I wanted to fire her； but I didn’t have the nerve—and then I either sat in a park； if it was fine； or in a nearby greasy café； if it wasn’t； and this being England； it mostly wasn’t。
And yet； paradoxically； at the same time as being sunk in a stupor I was also permanently agitated。 Nothing was in proportion。 I fretted absurdly about trivialities—where I’d put a pair of shoes； or if it was wise to keep all my money with the same bank。 This nerviness made me feel physically shaky； often breathless； and it was in this spirit； late one night； about two months after I finished the book； that I made what to me； in my condition； was a calamitous discovery。
I’d run out of whiskey and knew I had about ten minutes to get to the little supermarket on Ladbroke Grove before it closed。 It was toward the end of May； dark and raining。 I grabbed the nearest jacket and was halfway down the stairs when I realized it was the one I’d been wearing when Lang was killed。 It was torn at the front and stained with blood。 In one pocket was the recording of my final interview with Adam； and in the other the keys to the Ford Escape SUV。
The car！ I had forgotten all about it。 It was still parked at Logan Airport！ It was costing eighteen dollars a day！ I must