Faust didn't like cities and he didn't like busy cafes. Just talking above the general chatter in here felt as if he were pushing his voice box to the limit, and he squirmed uncomfortably whenever one of the teleworkers idly caught his eye. A woman chuckled. He sank in his seat, generating a list of reasons she might be laughing at him.

At least all the cute animals on the walls wouldn't judge him, but some of them didn't half stare.

"You got his number?" said Faust.

Connie nodded, beaming. The light from the chandeliers caught her face in an idyllic way, and even though he'd seen the work she'd put in, he couldn't shake the illusion that she'd stepped out of a masterwork watercolour painting, and he felt inadequate.

She placed her phone — latest model — on the table as it projected a dial tone above the din. Nobody picked up. She rocked back and forth in her chair impatiently, and then:

"You've reached the mailbox of Alan MacCain. Leave a message at yer peril!"

"Man," she said. "Yeah, this is Connie from Barden Fleet, you've booked me for eleven and there's a problem, could you call me back? Uh, also, your life is in great danger so you probably want to do it sooner rather than—"

"Thanks for yer message."

Click. Connie immediately redialed.

"You've reached the mailbox of Alan MacCain..."

"For fuck's sake," she said. "I get the feeling this guy isn't going to get back to us."

Faust shrugged. "You'll see him this evening, right? We can bombard him with all the questions you like after you pick him up."

"If this is the day he dies, and I meet him at eleven... do you reckon that leaves us much time for a chat? Hell no. The guy's gonna have to try a lot harder if he wants to throw ME off his trail."

She dug an impossibly small, impossibly expensive laptop out of her handbag, propped it up next to the salt shaker, and had it online before Faust could even blink. What was it like to have so much nice stuff? To make matters worse, she opened up her profile and idly pointed at a friend count in the tens of thousands.

He was beginning to feel like a footman, and he berated himself for thinking the two of them could ever have been friends. They came from different worlds.

"The thing about mutual friends," Connie was saying, "Is if you know enough people in Barden City, you can access pretty much anybody's profile anyway. Look, here's Haralda Gunmetal."

Faust blinked at her profile picture. It was... imposing.

Connie said, "Damn, girl. Not many people set the camera on the floor when they take their selfies."

He would have liked to grin and banter around, but even the 'Deputy Head of Barden City Primary School' had 500 friends — mostly family, coworkers, and parents, as well as a handful of people who read her book reviews.

"Let's see if I can't find you, buddy," she said, typing only his first name in. "One result. Nice pic!"

"Thanks," he mumbled, storm clouds growing above his head.

She clicked around a bit, but he'd set pretty much everything — occupation, education, photos — to private. Nobody needed to know he only had 10 friends.

"Aw," she said, leaning in. "I was hoping to see what kinda music you liked."

"I don't know," he said, drawing back. "Niche stuff."

"Try me!"

Some dickhead arrived with a frappuccino and an espresso. Faust jammed the straw in his mouth. While it was refreshingly cool, it tasted about as sweet as licking out an entire jar of honey. He sucked on his teeth, grimacing.

"So," he said, "You were about to use your network of informants to... inform you on Alan MacCain."

"You liked that song I played earlier, right?" she said. "Tin Tin Out? Nineties breakbeat?"

He sighed and nodded. Why did she have to like the same stuff as him? The cooler he found her, the more he resented her.

"Everything But The Girl?" she asked.

He sighed and nodded.

"Artful Dodger?"

He sighed and nodded. "Can we get back to being detectives now?"

She downed her espresso, rippling with energy, and said, "Come on man, this is mad, I've never met anyone who was into anything other than pop, rap or classic rock. Let me have my moment!"

"Even among your legions of friends?"

"Well—"

He reached for the laptop and scrolled down the list of people she knew. It was like being back on the street again, swamped by the crowd. Before she could snatch it back, he typed in Alan MacCain and found the profile. Sure enough, they somehow shared a mutual friend.

ALAN MACCAIN

SYSTEMS ADMINISTRATOR AT BARDEN IT SOLUTIONS

MARRIED TO LISA MACCAIN

LIVES IN BARDEN CITY

Faust scrolled through a few photos. MacCain certainly looked like he worked in IT, with the balding middle-aged chubbiness, poorly ironed shirts, insistence on wearing jeans and cargo shorts, and the fact that even in pictures with his wife he was hover-handing. This was someone he felt more comfortable comparing himself to.

"This is the guy that's trying to kill us?" he asked. "He looks a bit... meek."

"Faust, you're also trying to kill us," she said, smile evaporating. "Alright, I'll try to write him a message."

While she was writing, the dickhead returned to place two steaming plates of food in front of them. Faust's eyes widened at what he'd got himself into — the plate was wider than his stomach, and absolutely stacked with beans, mushrooms, eggs, sausages, bacon, hash browns, toast...

"The fullest English breakfast we provide, sir," said the waiter, bowing.

"Who do you think you are? Jesus?" asked Faust. "Trying to feed the 5,000, are we?"

"No, sir," said the waiter. "Just you."

The waiter harrumphed and added, "Does sir not find this amenable? Would he prefer a larger portion?"

In reply, Faust brandished a fork, pierced a sausage, making the juices spill out and over, and then he shoved the whole thing in his mouth. His taste buds exploded with salty, fatty, gristly goodness. He speared another, smeared it around in the bean sauce, and made it disappear.

"Very good, sir," said the waiter, and left.

"Damn, MacCain's not got his read receipts on," said Connie, distractedly hoovering up some egg. "You'd think someone who works in IT would be more connected."

Something popped up on his timeline, and after being overwhelmed by the greasy umami of a mushroom, Faust pointed it out.

"What's that?" he asked. "Some kind of update?"

"Oh my god," she said. "I didn't even see that. Man, this is brilliant! The guy checks in everywhere he goes."

Indeed, scrolling down was a near endless procession of places that Alan MacCain had visited. Looked like it updated every hour, and it had started years ago.

Connie stood up, ramming her chair into the man behind her.

"We've gotta go, now! He's just checked into the public library. Let's go and catch him."

In response, Faust fished the remote out of his pocket and pressed the pause button.

The cafe grew silent. The patrons froze in mid sip; the waiters got stuck where they were walking between the tables. Outside, the cars stopped in the street; birds hung in the air. Forget about the animals on the walls — this moment on this day, 10:59, had been taxidermied. For Faust, this was absolute heaven.

"Oh yeah," said Connie, waving a hand in front of a waitress' face.

"Fuck, that's cool," said Faust. He held down the button on the communication tile, and said, "Eirlys, the remote is fucking cool."

Eirlys' flat voice resonated from the speakers: "Thanks."

If she were proud, she didn't sound it.

Faust motioned for Connie to sit back down, and then spooned a platoon of beans onto a slice of toast before crunching down on it. She joined him and they ate in tense silence — while she seemed completely hyped up, he felt like trying to find further points they had in common would amount to self-flagellation.

Time ceased to have meaning. There was only the monumental task of shovelling as much food into his face as possible while trying not to get any of it in his beard. At one point, he looked up, and Connie had finished, watching him with her arms folded and mouth agape.

After eons, he cleaned his plate. He patted his belly, feeling as if he had suddenly become eight months pregnant.

"Are you," said Connie, "Are you okay?"

He wiped his mouth with his hand. "The last thing I ate was a handful of peanuts. Before that it was a sandwich for lunch yesterday."

Connie went through the man-behind-her's wallet and took out £40 to put on the table before she slipped it back into his pocket.

When he shook his head, she said, "What?"

"You could literally become a land baron, and you're pickpocketing?"

"Yeah, but this guy was on the phone to his accountant asking how he could dodge more tax. I’m Robin Hood here, Faust," she said, as if that were a sufficient explanation.

He shrugged. Far be it from him to judge.

They stepped out into the dead, frozen city, and headed for the library.