The Outside Man

“You in there, greyhound?”

The voice is a shade deeper than mine, unmistakably masculine, and yet another that I haven’t heard in twenty long years. I rush to the door, only pausing for a second to check through the eyehole that I’m not being duped. It’s really him.

I throw open the door and welcome in a broad-shouldered man wearing an unassuming grey suit. He looks a few years older than me, somewhere in his mid-forties, but not in an out-of-shape kind of way; his age shows in the faint creases lining his vaulted cheekbones, and in the way he holds himself. He has a composure that only comes with experience and a certain kind of world-weariness. Despite the late hour, he’s still got on a pair of sunglasses, ones that he neatly folds up and places into his breast pocket as he greets me with a wide bearhug.

“It’s been too long. I’ve missed ya,” he says, clapping me on the back.

“Then why didn’t you reach out, Mr. Samuel?” I ask.

He breaks the hug, closing the door quietly behind him.

“Why didn’t you, greyhound?” he counters.

Fair point. It would have been hard for me, for a variety of reasons, and it would have been twice as hard for him. I catch him looking around the room, taking in everything with two quick, sharp turns of his head.

“Room’s clear?” he asks.

“Wouldn’t have invited you in otherwise,” I say. “I haven’t forgotten everything you’ve taught me.”

“Never get yourself into a fight you can’t win,” Mr. Samuel says, pointing at the bruises that line my face.

“About that—”

“Is it a long story?”

“It’s a bit of one,” I say.

“Then save it for later. I don’t have much time before I’m expected somewhere. And dachshund has his hackles up,” he says, sighing slightly. Then, he reaches into his inner pocket and withdraws an envelope. It is bulging, thick with the world’s most powerful thing—money.

“Scarlet’s regards,” he says, passing the envelope to me. This was the first thing I demanded from her.

I open it up, checking its contents. Hundred dollar bills, all the way through. Holy shit. I don’t know exactly how much is in there—I just asked for enough to tide me over the next few days—but I guess this really is what they spend in a day or two. I’d forgotten what it’s like, to be rich.

“Thanks,” I say, trying to show my appreciation to this man. He, too, could have fucked me over if he’d chosen to, and gotten more than just a pat on the head from his boss if he had. “It means a lot, that you’d… do this for me.”

“You’re not in the clear yet. He’s called in both Jessica and Scarlet to dinner today, you know?”

I look up at Mr. Samuel in surprise.

“How could Father know already?” I ask, frantically wondering if either of them might have betrayed me… but no, I saw their scores, they went up…

“Basset tipped him off,” Mr. Samuel says, holding up his phone for me to see. It’s a group chat on Signal, filled with the Outsiders that are in Father’s direct and indirect employ. He scrolls up, until he reaches a message sent from Inspector Vidocq a few hours ago.

Found an app tracking family with scores. Don’t know its purpose. Scores for Jessica and Scarlet are moving.

“I wouldn’t normally pry, but it sounds like the walls might be closing in on you,” Mr. Samuel says. He fishes out a cigarette from a box in his pocket, and lights it up. “You got anything you’d like to tell me? I’m here to help, you can trust me.”

I think it over in my head for a second, considering whether to tell him about the Affection Multiplier. I decide against it. Mr. Samuel’s had my back since I was a kid, but this… some things are better left unsaid.

“I need a favour,” I say, instead.

“What can I do?” Mr. Samuel asks. There’s no hesitation, just the offer.

“I need an identity. Your tightest one, one that would stand up to His scrutiny, and all that that entails. And, it needs to be one that I can adopt, not just for an event or two, but one that I can live as,” I say. I see an expression flash across his brow, and I quickly follow-up: “I know it’s a big ask. But I also don’t have much time. The sooner you can put it together, the better. I know you’ll probably have to burn one that you’ve been saving for something else, but…”

A wide, wide smile crosses Mr. Samuel’s face, and he lets out a low laugh, snubbing his cigarette out on the side of my bed.

“I’ve been waiting for this day for twenty years, greyhound,” he says. “I’d always hoped you’d come back into the fold one day, you know. Of course, daschund would never allow it, but I thought, if there was ever a way…”

He pulls out his phone again, and spends a good half-minute rebooting it into an alternate mode and navigating through hidden subdirectories, before he finally shows me a photo. It’s an American passport, but not one that I’ve ever seen before.

The face looking back at me bears a strong resemblance to mine, but it’s as if somebody has Hollywoodified it—there’s a certain movie star dashingness to this man’s features, higher cheekbones and bolder features. It’s me, but… better.

“Meet Claude Ashworth,” Mr. Samuels says, more than a hint of pride infecting his voice. “I’ve got bank accounts, government IDs, work references… the whole gamut, ready for you to slip in. I think he’ll serve nicely for whatever it is you’re planning on doing.”

“Claude Ashworth,” I repeat, letting the weight of the name roll around my mouth. I like its feel.

“It’s to your liking?” Mr. Samuel asks, but he knows the answer already—my shit-eating grin gives it away.

“How did I ever make it without you,” I say, riffling through the other photos in the album, taking in this masterpiece of a man that Mr. Samuel has constructed.

“You didn’t,” Mr. Samuel says, looking meaningfully at the mess that is my room again. Right. “You’ll get a phone in your mailbox tomorrow. Daschund and all of his men won’t be able to trace it. I’ll send you the rest of the information over the next few days, alongside the documents you’ll need.”

“It’s much appreciated,” I say.

“I’ve got to run now,” Mr. Samuels nods. “You have no idea how hard it was to get into this place without basset noticing. The Frenchman’s got this place locked down tighter than a virgin’s pussy.”

And with those unceremonious words, Mr. Samuels makes his exit, the door soundlessly closing shut behind him. I, being a curious son of a bitch, immediately hop onto my laptop and google the name Claude Ashworth.