Dorian Read online

  —And yet I feel so empty, Dorian whispered to Wystan, I who actually knew her. But Wystan didn’t respond, because he didn’t properly belong in this context, having been Binky Narborough’s dog all along.

  —She had to die… because her name was Di, Henry Wotton said, but your dog was a badly-drawn touch – no one would’ve believed that you had one; you aren’t the faithful type. And as for the Gray Organisation, frankly, Dorian, your fantasy of business prowess is – well – laughable.

  —You – you look so different, Henry, Dorian said, staring in wonder.

  —Do I? Oh well, needs must. In his new incarnation Henry Wotton stood about five foot eight inches. He was wearing light-blue jeans turned up over shiny, sixteen-hole Doc Marten boots, and a bright-red Harrington jacket. He was entirely bald save for a light ginger furze at the back of his pudgy head. Walk with me, he said to Dorian, offering his arm, and they strolled off together.

  Back down the Broad Walk and then left along the Flower Walk, between the formal gardens and shrubbery. It was comfortable, walking arm in arm with Henry, now that they were a similar height. What’s it like being dead? Dorian asked, but Henry merely smiled and placed a fat finger to his plump lips.

  At the West Carriage Drive they passed straight over and took the Serpentine side of Rotten Row. I expect, Henry said, shifting his grip to the back of Dorian’s neck, you never thought you’d be riding with the quality under such circumstances.

  No no, was all Dorian could bleat in reply. It was awkward making their way over the damp sand of the ride, and if he missed his footing, or slid in a pile of horse droppings, Henry had a way of helping him to his feet with a solicitous cuff round the head, or toecap in the ribs, that Dorian found painful as well as intimidating.

  They passed up the side of the lake towards the asymmetrical bulk of the Dell Restaurant. There was no one about – they had the park to themselves. I need to take a leak, Henry said; there’s a place over here.

  —It’ll be locked, won’t it? Dorian clutched at this wisp of a straw.

  —So what if it is? Henry replied, opening a switchblade with a rasping click. He used it to force the door to the public toilet and dragged Dorian inside.

  Standing in the piss-filled runnel of the urinal, his cheek rammed hard against wall, Dorian realised that Henry had metamorphosed back into being Ginger, and that the walk over from Kensington Palace, far from being an amiable stroll, had been more in the manner of a forcible abduction. But by now he was also coming to terms with the fact that the beautiful new tie Ginger had just given him with his knife was a warm, sticky, fluid thing, and hardly likely to remain fashionable for very long at all.