He went thataway

Jon remembered little of that morning's conversation with Dr Harris. As his hangover swelled within him, his attention span for incidentals had dispersed like a mist. Thankfully, ingrained behaviour had forced him to memorize every last detail of the dossier Harris had presented him with, in the doctor's office.

The bus and its occupants had soon faded after Jon's internal swoop of emotion and his brief, one-sided conversation with Dr Harris. The cream-coloured metal, studded with rivets, was merely a backdrop to the colours of the few advertisements close to the bus' ceiling. Only they sustained his interest. Thick-lined cartoon animals and brightly smiling, young professionals staked their nonexistent integrity on freephone and local rate telephone numbers. Loud writing in bold red and yellow seemed set to promise the earth, before it was tragically cut short by a tear in the poster. One inch of blank paper, like white noise, followed and then the bare panels of the bus showed through.

Roused by Dr Harris' newspaper (which he wielded like a primary schoolteacher would once have done a ruler) he managed not to miss his stop, and further managed to communicate in polysyllables as far as the office. Idle chit-chat, for Harris' family dimly knew Jon's. The former seemed full of bounce and, when the revolving doors turned off Jon's desire to speak like the handle of a tap, the doctor turned his joviality first on the receptionist, then a colleague and peer, then on the concierge in the lift.

Dr Harris' office, like much of the building that was not generally seen by visitors, was clad in dark wood panels and, despite its cleanliness, suggested dust. The blinds were, as always, pulled two-thirds down the windows, and a few wall lights projected onto the high, white ceiling. Jon had sat down, while Harris paced and occasionally looked out, down at the traffic they could barely hear. Today, Dr Harris was a gleeful mix of Father Brown and an older Stephen Fry as he padded out the story behind Jon's assignment.

Jon only remembered the doctor's big gestures, including a brief grab of his own lapels, looking like a waistcoated capitalist. The words did not register. This was fine, as the important details had been tucked into their beds in the file that Dr Harris bade him study. As Harris maintained a twenty-minute silence punctuated by the rattling of his teacup in its saucer, Jon picked up the dossier and poured its contents into his head. The problem. The plan. Our client's courier - followed. Their courier - followed. And again, and again. Sometimes intercepted, sometimes not. Our client gets fed up with his old service and comes to us instead.

Jon knew, as Dr Harris knew, that he could do much better. No problem.

The rest of the day was taken up by preparation for the trip. Jon's passport was, as always, in the safe, and Dr Harris had a ticket for him on the plane that evening. Nonetheless, Jon had to go home, if only to pack and shower, wash the malaise out of his pores and scalp. He filled a sports bag with three days' good-weather clothes, and left a note for Alan, fast asleep in the flat above. A taxi arrived on cue at two-thirty. As he neared the underpass to Heathrow, it began to rain. the fine drizzle settled well onto Jon's mood, and, shrugging himself into the seat cushions of the taxi, began to have fun in spite of his headache.

Ahead of him lay glass edifices and painted girders, the taxi-ing aeroplanes and the short flight to Madrid. The future held his gaze, and his stomach tightened. He needed a coffee, and not to be noticed. He found a cafe, a table; and sat, and waited.