Babel : Or the Necessity of Violence: an Arcane History of the Oxford Translators' Revolution (9780063021440)

‘He’ll never admit it,’ said Griffin. ‘But he won’t with you either, will he? Do you know he’s got a wife and children?’

Robin choked. ‘What?’

‘It’s true. A girl and a boy, seven and three. Darling Philippa and little Dick. The wife’s name is Johanna. He’s got them squirrelled away in a lovely estate in Yorkshire. It’s partly how he gets funding for voyages abroad – he came from nothing, but she’s terribly rich. Five hundred pounds a year, I’m told.’

‘But then does—?’

‘Does she know about us? Absolutely not. Though I don’t think she’d care if she did, apart from the obvious reputational problems. There’s no love lost in that marriage. He wanted an estate and she wanted bragging rights. They see each other about twice a year, and the rest of his time he lives here, or in Hampstead. We’re the children he spends the most time with, funnily enough.’ Griffin cocked his head. ‘At least, you are.’

‘Am I dreaming?’ Robin mumbled.

‘You wish. You look ghastly. Drink.’

Robin reached mechanically for his glass. He was no longer trembling, but his head felt very fuzzy. Drinking didn’t help, but it at least gave him something to do with his hands.

‘I’m sure you’ve got loads of questions,’ said Griffin. ‘I’ll try to answer them, but you’ll have to be patient. I’ve got questions too. What do you call yourself?’

‘Robin Swift,’ said Robin, puzzled. ‘You know that.’

‘But that’s the name you prefer?’

Robin was not sure what he meant by this. ‘I mean, there’s my first – I mean, my Chinese name, but no one – I don’t—’

‘Fine,’ said Griffin. ‘Swift. Nice name. How’d you come up with that?’

‘Gulliver’s Travels,’ Robin admitted. It sounded very silly when he said it out loud. Everything about Griffin made him feel like a child in contrast. ‘It – it’s one of my favourite books. Professor Lovell said to pick whatever I liked, and that was the first name that came to mind.’

Griffin’s lip curled. ‘He’s softened a bit, then. Me, he took to a street corner before we signed the papers and told me foundlings were often named after the places they’d been abandoned. Said I could walk the city until I found a word that didn’t sound too ridiculous.’

‘Did you?’

‘Sure. Harley. Nowhere special in particular, I just saw it above a shop and I liked the way it sounded. The shapes your mouth has to make, the release of the second syllable. But I’m no Harley, I’m a Lovell, just as you’re no Swift.’

‘So we’re—’

‘Half-brothers,’ said Griffin. ‘Hello, brother. It’s lovely to meet you.’

Robin set down his glass. ‘I’d like to have the full story now.’

‘Fair enough.’ Griffin leaned forward. At dinnertime the Twisted Root was just crowded enough that the hubbub cast a shroud of noise over any individual conversation, but still Griffin lowered his voice to such a quiet murmur that Robin had to strain to hear. ‘Here’s the long and short of it. I’m a criminal. My colleagues and I regularly steal silver, manuscripts, and engraving materials from Babel and funnel them across England to our associates throughout the world. What you did last night was treason, and if anyone found out, you’d be locked up in Newgate for twenty years at least, but only after they’d tortured you in an attempt to get to us.’ All this he uttered very quickly, with hardly any change in tone or volume. When finished, he leaned back, looking satisfied.

Robin did the only thing he could think to do, which was take another heady gulp of ale. When he set the glass down, temples throbbing, the only word he managed was ‘Why?’

‘Easy,’ said Griffin. ‘There’s people who need silver more than wealthy Londoners.’

‘But – I mean, who?’

Griffin didn’t respond at once. He looked Robin up and down for several seconds, examining his face as if searching for something – some further resemblance, some crucial, innate quality. Then he asked, ‘Why did your mother die?’

‘Cholera,’ Robin said after a pause. ‘There was an outbreak—’

‘I didn’t ask how,’ said Griffin. ‘I asked why.’

I don’t know why, Robin wanted to say, but he did. He’d always known, he’d just forced himself not to dwell on it. In all this time, he had never let himself ask this particular formulation of the question.

Oh, two weeks and some change, said Mrs Piper. They’d been in China for over two weeks.

His eyes stung. He blinked. ‘How do you know about my mother?’

Griffin leaned back, arms folded behind his head. ‘Why don’t you finish that drink?’

Outside, Griffin set off briskly down Harrow Lane, tossing rapid-fire questions from out of the side of his mouth. ‘So where are you from?’

‘Canton.’

‘I was born in Macau. I don’t remember if I ever went to Canton. So when did he bring you over?’

‘To London?’

‘No, you dolt, to Manila. Yes, London.’

His brother, Robin thought, could be quite an ass. ‘Six – no, seven years ago now.’

‘Incredible.’ Griffin turned left onto Banbury Road without warning; Robin hastened to follow. ‘No wonder he never went looking for me. Had something better to focus on, didn’t he?’