Free Black Widow by Chris Brookmyre Page B

I was dressing for, what I was trying to say by my choice and whether I was prepared to admit either to myself.
    Peter’s T-shirt was dominated by a logo that said Blue Sun, above some Chinese characters. It was a fashion line I didn’t recognise or a pop-culture reference I didn’t get. Neither category would necessarily indicate great depths of arcana.
    â€˜Sorry I’m late,’ he said. ‘I was coding. Lost track of time. Reached what they call a flow state. Thanks for waiting. I was afraid you’d have bailed on me.’
    He handed over the tickets at the door, the bouncer giving me the most cursory glance. Whatever he was trained to be on the lookout for, I wasn’t it.
    We headed inside. I was anticipating darkness but it was fairly bright, coloured lights playing around the walls and the crew still busy making adjustments on the stage. There was music playing but it wasn’t too loud to speak. I recall being unsure whether that was a good thing.
    â€˜Can I buy you a drink?’ Peter asked.
    The place wasn’t particularly busy: less than a third of capacity, I estimated. I saw two faces I recognised as we approached the bar: a casualty officer called Charlotte and a theatre nurse named Polly. I saw the confusion in their faces as they took a moment to recognise me, thrown by the context with which they normally associated my presence. I guessed that was Monday morning’s gossip sorted, but oddly I didn’t mind. I wasn’t sure what had thrown them more: that I’d be at a Blink-182 tribute show or that I was out with a man, and a younger man at that.
    I had taken the car but on the spur of the moment I decided I would get a cab home and pick it up in the morning. Something told me I was going to need more than a couple of mineral waters to get through this.
    I was about to ask for a white wine then thought that was probably a bad idea on a number of levels.
    â€˜Just a beer, thanks.’
    â€˜Pint?’
    That didn’t sound very me, but I could see that the staff were pouring bottled beers into plastic glasses anyway, so I decided what the hell. I was trying not to be very me that night, wasn’t I?
    â€˜So what were you coding, that caused you to enter this “flow state”?’
    â€˜It’s a project I’ve been working on. Rather technical to explain. It’s going okay, but…’
    He shrugged, a rather wistful smile playing across his face.
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜Ach, just been over this ground a few too many times. I think I’m getting somewhere and then it, well, I think “peters out” is a particularly appropriate expression. That’s why I’m in awe of the application it must take to reach where you are.’
    â€˜It helps if you’re a boring swot with a one-track mind and a pathological stubbornness.’
    â€˜Seriously, don’t under-estimate it. It takes passion to have a dream and then do what is necessary to really live it. The follow-through, that’s my weakness. A lot of grand vision and enthusiasm at the inception, but my past is littered with the debris of abandoned ideas that turned out not to be as clever or as viable as they seemed. I lack your dedication. Guess that’s why I can only get a gig in hospital IT.’
    He took a sip of beer as he said this, eyeing me over the rim with a mixture of mischief and curiosity.
    The part of me that had recently been afraid of an elaborate revenge prank was suddenly on alert, but I didn’t have the sense that there was anything malicious going on. More like a gentle dig to see how I took it.
    â€˜So you knew all along,’ I said, neutrally.
    â€˜No, not at all. I googled you when I got home. Had to: I got the vibe that there was something they weren’t telling me.’
    â€˜I’m not going to apologise to every IT person I ever meet, and I don’t need to justify myself over what I wrote,’ I told