Chapter 2 Update

 Darkness swallows everything.

Not the gentle velvet of sleep, nor the drifting haze of a half‑remembered dream, but a heavy, suffocating blackness that clings like wet cloth and presses against the skull. “Darkness swallows everything.”

Time loses its edges. Sound becomes distant. Thought scatters.

Then — slowly — the world returns.

A low hum. A vibration. The faint, rhythmic throb of tyres on tarmac. Rain streaks across a window in diagonal silver lines, illuminated by passing lamps. The city outside is blurred, sliding past in streaks of amber and grey.

I try to lift my hands. They do not move.

My wrists are bound.

A voice drifts from the front — male, irritated, familiar.

“Should’ve kept him under longer. He’s stirring.”

Another voice, deeper, gravelled: “Doesn’t matter. We’re nearly there.”

My vision steadies. Black leather seats. Tinted windows. The stale tang of cigarettes and cheap aftershave. Roger sits in the passenger seat, glancing back with a look that is half triumph, half annoyance. The driver is the brute who struck me earlier.

Susie is nowhere.

My throat is dry. “Where… where are you taking me?”

Roger smirks. “Somewhere you should’ve been last night, Dave.”

The car turns sharply, entering a narrow street lined with shuttered shops. Rain drums impatiently on the roof. A sign flashes by:

ANDERSON & CO. — PRIVATE STORAGE & LOGISTICS

My pulse quickens.

The vehicle rolls into a gated yard watched by a swivelling security camera. A tall figure stands beneath a canopy — broad‑shouldered, charcoal overcoat, posture rigid as iron.

The car stops. Silence.

Roger and the driver haul me upright. The tall man approaches, his pale eyes carrying the calm menace of someone who has never needed to raise his voice.

“Good morning, Dave,” he says.

“I’m not Dave.”

He studies me, then smiles — thin, chilling.

“Whether you are Dave… or whether you are not… is no longer the question.” “The question… is what you did with the item.”

Roger produces my phone — cracked, damaged, its screen flickering with a distorted photograph.

“Found this in her bag,” he says. “She didn’t get far.”

My stomach drops.

The tall man gestures toward a warehouse door. “Bring him inside.”

The darkness beyond is deeper than the one I woke from.

When my senses return, I find myself seated in a gentleman’s study — bookcases rising like sentinels, leather volumes cracked with age, an oriental rug sprawling beneath a green Chesterfield chair.

A man sits in that chair.

Early sixties. Impeccably dressed. Composed. His presence carries the quiet authority of someone accustomed to obedience.

“Welcome, Dave,” he says. “I must apologise for the manner of your arrival. It makes for bad business.”

He dismisses Len and Roger with a single command.

I clear my throat. “Mr Anderson, I take it?”

He smiles faintly. “Yes, Dave. I am ‘Mr Anderson’. My full name is Alberto Abategiovanni. Tuscany born. I simplified my name for business.”

He pours himself a whisky — a 1984 Karuizawa — and offers me one. I decline.

“You look at me with a puzzled eye,” he says.

“You remind me of someone I can’t place.”

He laughs. “People say I look like Marlon Brando — The Godfather.”

The humour fades.

“Joking aside, Dave, my learned friends claim you didn’t have the stuff when they arrived earlier today.”

A knot tightens in my stomach.

“There’s been a terrible mistake,” I say. “I woke up in someone else’s bed. A woman — Susie — and then your men arrived demanding ‘Dave’. They didn’t give me time to explain.”

Mr Anderson retrieves a wallet, finds an ID card, and tosses it to me.

My photograph. The name: Dave Green — Diamond Expert.

Cold dread washes through me.

“My name is not Dave Green,” I say. “I’m Archibald Winterbottom. A genealogist.”

He raises a hand. “I am not interested in where you are from. I am interested in where my diamonds have gone.”

He explains: Dave Green vanished. I appeared in his place. Susie stole my wallet. My suit is not mine. My belongings are gone.

A phone rings. Anderson answers — his son, Roman.

When he finishes, he regards me anew.

“Roman suggests that if you insist you are not Dave Green, then you will work for us. You will use your skills to find this man — and uncover his background.”

I nod eagerly. “Yes. I can do that.”

“Good. The first place you must go is the bar from last night. But first — we eat.”

The scent of butter, garlic, rosemary precedes the opening of a door. A dining room styled like a Tuscan villa awaits — terracotta tiles, wrought iron chandelier, long oak table.

A servant places tagliata di manzo before me. A glass of Chianti is poured.

“Eat,” Anderson says. “A man cannot think on an empty stomach.”

As I eat, he explains:

His diamonds — worth a considerable sum — were entrusted to Dave Green. Green vanished. Susie is clever, connected to Roman, and possibly to Green. I was used — placed in Green’s suit, drugged, robbed, substituted.

He places a cheap pay‑as‑you‑go phone beside my plate.

“This is for you. Roman will contact you. You will find Susie. You will discover her connection to Green. And you will report everything.”

He pauses.

“And Archibald… if you attempt to run, my men will find you. If you attempt to lie, they will know. If you attempt to deceive me…” He smiles. “…you will not enjoy the consequences.”

He leaves.

I sit alone, the plate cooling, the cheap phone resting like a threat beside my wine glass.

Outside, a car engine starts.