The Travelling Companion by Ian Rankin Page A

on him in the autumn.”
    â€œBack into academe so soon?”
    â€œI like it there.”
    â€œI can’t imagine why.” And he had fixed me with one of his looks, before opening the till to examine the evening’s scant takings. It was August, and still hot outside. The tourists were sitting at café tables, fanning themselves with menus and ordering cold drinks. Only one or two people my own age were browsing the shelves of our airless shop. There was an original copy of Ulysses in the window, a siren to draw them inside. But this night it was proving ineffectual.
    â€œWas Paris always your destination?” he asked, sliding the drawer closed again.
    â€œI wanted to travel. Stevenson visited France several times.”
    â€œIs that the subject of your PhD?”
    â€œI’m looking at how his health may have affected his writing.”
    â€œSounds fascinating. But it’s hardly living, is it?” I watched him as he turned away and headed for the stairs. Three more hours and I could lock up before heading for bed and the various biting insects who seemed to feast nightly on my ankles and the backs of my knees.
    I had sent postcards—Shakespeare and Company postcards—to friends and family, making sure to add a few centimes to the till in payment. I didn’t mention the bites, but did make sure that my ongoing adventure sounded as exotic as possible. I had actually sent a first postcard home soon after disembarking from the overnight bus at London’s Victoria Coach Station. Another had been purchased and sent from the ferry terminal in Dover. I knew my parents would prefer written communication to an expensive phone call. My father was a Church of Scotland minister, my mother an invaluable member of our local community. I was a rarity of sorts in having stayed at home during the four years of my undergraduate degree. My parents had offered financial assistance towards rent, but my arguments about wasted money had swayed them. Besides, my childhood bedroom suited me, and my mother was the finest cook in the city.
    Before leaving, however, I had promised to phone Charlotte every two days, just so she would know I was safe. There was a public phonebox just along the Seine from the store, with a view towards Notre Dame which made up for its general lack of hygiene. With the receiver wrapped in a clean paper serviette from a café, I would spend a few francs telling Charlotte of any new experiences, in-between listening to her tell me that she loved me and missed me and couldn’t wait until I found a place of my own in time for the start of term back in Edinburgh.
    â€œAbsolutely,” I would agree, my mouth suddenly dry.
    â€œOh, Ronnie,” she would sigh, and I would swallow back the inclination to correct her, since my preference (as she well knew) was for Ronald rather than Ronnie.
    My name is Ronald Hastie. I was born in 1960, making me twenty-two. Twenty-two and three months as I stood on the banks of the Seine, surrounded by heat and traffic fumes and a sense that there was another world being kept hidden from me. A series of worlds, actually, only one of them represented by Charlotte and her cropped red hair and freckled complexion. Cous-cous and a famous bookshop and morning espressos (consumed standing at the bar—the cheapest option)—these were all wonders to me that summer. And, yes, the original plan had been to drift much further south, but plans could change, as could people.
    â€œThe seller’s English,” my employer said, waking me from my reverie. “You’ll be fine, trust me. A five-minute walk …”
    His name was Benjamin Turk and he lived in a sprawling apartment at the top of five winding flights of stairs. When he opened his door to me, I stood there breathless, staring past him at a long hallway filled with groaning bookshelves. I felt light-headed, and it seemed in that moment that the shelves were