Chris Blackford (Biography)

Since the early 1980s, Chris Blackford (born 1960, England) has contributed to numerous music magazines, including Avant, Brum Beat, Double Bassist, Jazz the Magazine, Notes, Resonance, Variant and The Wire. He has written liner notes for ECM Records, Gott Discs, Leo Records, Potlatch Records and Virgin Records. He has also contributed biographical entries to The Guinness Encyclopedia of Jazz & Popular Music and The Virgin Encyclopedia Of Popular Music.

In 1985, Chris Blackford founded Rubberneck Magazine (ISSN 0952-6609) and was its editor and publisher. The magazine specialised in experimental musics, such as improvised music, free jazz, avant-garde rock and contemporary composition. Between 1985 and 1999, 30 print issues were published, featuring a host of interviews with and essays written by major and upcoming musicians/composers involved in various areas of experimental music: Derek Bailey, Evan Parker, Jan Garbarek, Chris Cutler, Sylvia Hallett, Hans Reichel, David Moss, Pierre Favre, Annick Nozati, Michel Doneda, Peter Hammill, Barry Guy, Howard Riley, Hugh Davies, Hal Rammel, Simon H. Fell, Jin Hi Kim, Emily Bezar, John Butcher, and others. In 2000, the magazine became an online-only ’webzine’ and continued to gain international recognition until it was suspended in 2005. While there are no immediate plans to resume the magazine, an online ’Rubberneck Archive’ is in the process of being established.

Since 2005, Chris Blackford has returned to writing fiction. In 2010, he completed a novel called The Malevich Teapot which he describes as “a seething psychodrama, a savage whimsy, a crass farce.” He is currently working on another novel which he describes as “ludicrously labyrinthine”. In his spare time he likes to potter in the garden, walk the dog, and think the unthinkable.

THE MALEVICH TEAPOT (FILM)

KEY TO THE CHARACTERS

Most (but not all) of the characters in The Malevich Teapot are loosely based on historical figures. Here is a list of those characters with the relevant historical links. I hope this information enhances your enjoyment of the novel.

Prince Carlo (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carlo_Gesualdo)

Bill Waterhouse (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_morris)

Freddie Clayton (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Frederic_Leighton)

Gustave Morose (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gustave_Moreau)

Monty D’Hortense (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_de_Montesquiou)

Johnny Carver (http://www.rcseng.ac.uk/museums/history/johnhunter.html)

Joanesy (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Soane)

Caroline (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Caroline_Crachami)

Giles Ray (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gilles_de_rais)

Harry Fuseli (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henry_Fuseli)

Arcimboldo (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arcimboldo)

Mr Malevich (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kazimir_Malevich)

Billy Burges (http://www.achome.co.uk/williamburges/index.php?page=home)

THE MALEVICH TEAPOT (NOVEL) – Chris Blackford

The Malevich Teapot copyright (c) Chris Blackford, 2010

 

1. WE ALL HAVE TO START SOMEWHERE

We all have to start somewhere. And some of us have to start again somewhere. I had to start again at the William Morris Gallery in Walthamstow; that imposing Georgian edifice on the edge of London with its big bay windows and its landscape gardens. How it dominated the area, and dominated me. Each time I went there I felt like a trespasser sneaking across the threshold with an aching inferiority complex that would not go away. But the place kept calling me, pulling me back time and again into its rarefied atmosphere, seducing me with its promise of elegance and sophistication: things sadly lacking in my own life. Even the bricks and mortar were speaking to me, telling me things that only I could hear, and that only I could act on.

Yes, this was the place to start again. I knew it in my heart of hearts. This was the place that would get things going, reboot the whole mental machinery. This was the place where I could buy that special notebook; a notebook that would record all the thoughts and dreams that were happening to me. For the beauty of transience was not something I cared for at this moment in time as I stood in the entrance hall of this magnificent house. What I told myself I needed was stability. I had to a get a grip on things. Find a purpose. Get things down on paper.

Mercifully, the queue was not long, at least not yet. If it had been otherwise, for instance snaking around the polished floor towards the rear window with its heart-warming view of the lush gardens, I would have been ripped apart by panic. Life’s not easy when your middle name is panic. That’s me: temper one moment, tears the next. For the time being though there were a few others ahead of me and one or two behind as the afternoon sun slanted in through the windows into the face of the man behind the pay desk.

As it happened, I had been watching this man for some time and his mulberry pullover had begun to trouble me as only a mulberry pullover can. Trouble me from the moment I had set foot in this entrance hall. For I knew, while I had been agonizing over there by the books and the coasters and the silk scarves and the rolls of wallpaper and all the other florid merchandise, that he had been trying to influence me, trying somehow to get me to choose a notebook where the foliage on the front cover would be too ornate to suit the clarity of my purpose. But I was having none of it. I was not about to be swayed by him or any other grotesque jobsworth. Even now, as I reconsidered these things, I could see that his bespectacled gaze had settled on me and my little pre-purchase as I stood here in the queue pensively fingering the grain of its page-ends, clutching it to my chest as one does a missal or some such book of personal significance. For this notebook was to be for the skin and skein of my thoughts alone and sometimes lonely.

Then all of a sudden things got on top of me, as they so often do. I made the mistake of looking over my shoulder. And there they were. Several more of them shuffling into place behind me, closing in on me with their weary sighs and their persistent clock-watching. This queue was getting out of hand. Then I realised that difficult questions could be asked by him in that whiny voice of his and have to be answered when I came to face him face-to-face across the pay desk. He would delay me, keep me talking, imprison me here with his pleasantries and with all that heavy sighing going on behind me. But in his mind he would be judging me, interrogating me, ripping me apart piece by piece, and I would have no option but to defend myself by whatever means necessary. Stamp on his spectacles, punch a hole in his chest, kick those pearly teeth down the farthest reaches of that self-satisfied throat. Anything to get away.

I swallowed hard, for my mouth was bone-dry. I tried to think of good things, nice things that I could put in the way of the panic when it hit. I thought of the gardens: their willows and their water features, where the moorhens and the coots came down to nest and the geese gorged on the bread that was thrown out there. But I could not get them into place. All I could think about and feel was the panic starting to surge in my chest as I watched his fingers faff around with a paper bag and a tea towel with birds hiding in dense foliage, fruit crammed in their nasty, greedy beaks. Larks and linnets winked and nudged each other, mocked me. The difficult questions came closer. The heavy sighing got heavier behind me. The heat got hotter under my overcoat and my polka dot shirt. I shifted my rucksack on to the other shoulder. Soon it would be too late and my turn next and I could not take a moment more of this suspense. My temples were pounding. My heart was in my mouth. Tears were in my eyes. I thought my chest would explode. Now I knew I had to get out of this queue, get out of this place as quickly as I could, skedaddle without paying. Pretty soon sweat or piss would come squirting from my feverish body.

 

 

2. PRINCE CARLO’S PET

When I got back to the house with my new notebook carefully concealed in the inside pocket of my overcoat, Prince Carlo was busy composing in the front room. He was wearing his favourite velour dressing gown: an intense gallimaufry of burgundy, emerald, gold and ultramarine that played curvilinear havoc with the central serous chorioretinopathy in my right eye. I could see from the tension in the back of his neck that things were not going well. Even the air in here seemed to be on tenterhooks.

He was singing to himself, lost in a world of his own, while his graceful hands fluttered across the keys of the paino: that loom-like keyboard instrument which he had invented to express the exquisite subtleties of his suffering. To me, however, this monstrosity in mahogany merely symbolised the final phase of a coup d’etat which had taken him but three days to complete. To wit: the transformation of the humble three-bed Edwardian terrace, which my dear parents had left me when they emigrated to Canada, into his own private fiefdom. Nevertheless, I had not allowed myself to be taken over without expectation of a better future. When he informed me that he was a member of the Neapolitan nobility I had naturally anticipated a generous cash stream, not the begrudging trickle that emanated from his mostly inconspicuous wallet and just about covered the basic bills.

With disappointments such as these still simmering inside my head I went over to him and tapped him on the shoulder. He turned round sharply, shouting something at me that was lost in the sudden high-pitch squeal of a bus stopping at the stop outside the front window. His gaunt features had become flushed and in his eyes I saw a curious mixture of intense irritation and fear.

He waited for the bus to move on, then shouted at the top of that formidable rasping voice.

“Don‘t ever creep up on me like that again, you moron!”

The look in his eyes was now cold enough to freeze the shit on a fly’s proboscis. I placed my hand on his shoulder to calm him down but he pushed me away. The selfish prat! The pompous, puffed-up, aristocratic twat! How dare he treat me like this, like a servant, in my own home. Why had he barged his way into my life? What did he want with me? I was tired of tiptoeing around his melodramatic mood swings. Tired of him living here virtually rent-free. Tired of being too weak-willed to do anything about it. Was I really so desperate for his company? Yes, I probably was.

“I know this can’t be easy for you,” I said, my voice trembling, “but in your situation I’d be just the same. Just as shit scared as you are.”

He looked at me sharply with that thin, haunted face: those sunken eyes and hollow cheeks and pitchfork goatee conspiring to make me feel occasional pity for the perilous situation he found himself in.

“What do you know about my situation?” he rasped.

“Well, I’ve been doing some homework.”

“Homework? You should be doing housework, not homework!”

I laughed nervously. “I’ve been reading all about you on the internet.”

“And what are those undereducated cretins saying about my peerless music?”

“Actually they’re more concerned about you and your ex-wife. You come off rather badly, as it happens. No wonder you‘re on the run.”

Yes, he was the fugitive kind. Had fled the south of Italy on a fake passport and was lying low in London. Going unknown and unnoticed in nondescript Walthamstow of all places. Had butchered his unfaithful wife in the most unspeakable ways, or so it was rumoured. Still, my heart and other things went out to him. Maybe it was his musical genius that swayed me (all that decadent chromaticism), or maybe it was just the way his rigid tool fucked my grateful backside of a Tuesday evening after we had gorged on deep-fried pizza from the local takeaway. Anyway, he was living on his wits on the edge of London, but certainly not out of circulation. Had quickly camouflaged himself among fellow travellers: bohemians, progressive thinkers, radicals, aesthetes of peculiar persuasions. And he had dragged me along with him, not exactly kicking and screaming, but still somewhat perplexed and feeling out of my depth to find myself in such venerable company.

Mentioning the sensitive subject of his ex-wife was bound to needle him, but I did not expect the terrible commotion as he stood up and kicked over the paino stool. Next thing I knew he was threatening to ram his fist up my arse if I ever mentioned her name again.

“Fuck you, Fannings, you little fucking cunt!” he bellowed.

He always used my name when he was threatening me. The neighbours must have been sick and tired of hearing his turbocharged expletives. His fist was in my face and he was shaking it. Yes, this had become a physical relationship in more ways than one. I was nodding my head but not listening to a single syllable of this unseemly abuse. I was just weighing up the pros and cons of having his knobbly Neapolitan knuckles, greased and reeking of the finest olive oil, tunnelling inside my cave. This time the cons narrowly and nervously outweighed the others.

Then, suddenly, he was quiet again. He turned over the paino stool as if nothing had happened and sat down.

“Fannings?” he said, pensively stroking his goatee as the twilight came upon us. “When are you going to introduce me to your friends?”

“Friends?” I tried to look surprised. I tried to sound surprised, as if the question had come out of the blue, but knew it had been loitering for a very long time.

“Yes, friends. I mean, you do have friends, don‘t you? Everyone has friends.”

I stood up and walked across the room. Made a big deal of closing the curtains. When I turned round again he was staring at me.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe. Not really.”

“Maybe not really?” he grinned.

“Not really. You see, I didn’t get out much before I met you.”

“Oh I see. Bit of a homebody, eh? You preferred the company of your hi-fi equipment. Is that it?”

“I don’t know. I’m just not very good at making friends, that’s all. Even worse at keeping them. The friends I had just seemed to slip through my fingers.”

“And why do you think that is?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Not sure or won’t say?”

I cleared my throat of the lump that was forming there. “Not sure.”

“That’s not much of an answer, is it?” He was shaking his head. Obviously starting to enjoy this. He seemed to have an insatiable appetite for shit-stirring. “Surely you can do better than that? I mean, you must have asked yourself why it is that you have no friends. Come on, Fannings, furnish me with a decent answer.”

I didn’t like the way this was going. He was starting to twist things. I didn’t like his supercilious tone either. He was always twisting things. Turning up the heat when it suited him. I was feeling restless. I wanted to sit down but just couldn’t seem to get across the room to the empty armchair.

“Back off!” I told him. “Give me a break.”

“Do you think it’s a personality disorder that drives you away from people, or perhaps people away from you?”

“That‘s bollocks!”

“I get the impression that you like to laugh when other people fail.”

“That’s complete bollocks!”

“Would you say your anger is existential, or just bad behaviour?”

“What are you talking about? You’re not a therapist!”

“Therapy!” He laughed loudly. “You need more than therapy, young man. What you need is discipline. All you ever do is duck the difficult questions. You need someone to help you get that addled brain of yours back on track. And I’m just the man for the job.”

Who the hell did he think he was? Interrogating me like this. Patronising me. Acting as though he was my father when he was no more than ten years older than me, no more than forty-five at a guess.

“What about you?” I said. “You’re hardly the model of stability, are you? Who’s going to help you get a grip? You come here with your airs and graces but you’re nothing now but a burnt-out relic from a bygone age. A has-been. No one listens to your music anymore. No one wants a bunch of florid madrigals that reek of morbid self-pity.”

“How dare you speak to me like that. How dare you devalue my oeuvre with your crass ignorance. This conversation has got nothing whatsoever to do with me. You worthless piece of shit!”

He was looking flushed and rattled. He was getting to his feet. I backed away from him, felt the curtains close in behind me. Although a good few inches shorter than me, he was nimble, wiry, an intimidating bastard for his size. But I didn’t care.

“I know what you did to her. Your poor mistreated wife. I read all about it. All the sordid details. Your pathetic excuses.”

He was just a few feet away. Standing there, shaking. His face tense with anger. His body exuding that strange scent that he wore; that fiery blend of chillies, cloves and cinnamon. It filled up the air between us, muscling out all the other molecules. I grabbed a handful of the curtains. Tried to steady myself. Waited for him to make the next move.

Then the doorbell rang. The sweet liberating sound of that doorbell. I breathed one long sigh of relief and let go of the curtains. Thank goodness for the takeaway pizza. Now we could sit down to eat. He was always much calmer after he had eaten. We both were. We could relax a little in front of the television. Slow things down. Enjoy some quiet quality-time together.

“There’s no need for all these arguments,” I told him when we were safely tucked up in bed, his hairy chin resting on my shoulder. “All that arguing does no one any good. I just don’t understand why you have to make such a song and dance about everything.”

“Because I’m a bloody composer,” he whispered in my ear. The mattress shook with our laughter.

In the darkened room, in the suffocating silence, his moist lips were on the nape of my neck. Soon I would be rolling over and he would be forcing his salty cock into my greedy mouth. In the darkened room, where my brain burned like a constellation of unholy desires, I was proud to be Prince Carlo’s pet.

3. THE SILK ROOM BAR

When I returned from the pharmacy I found Prince Carlo’s terse note pinned to the cork noticeboard in the kitchen. He had gone on to Freddie Clayton’s place but had booked me a taxi and left a rolled up bundle of fivers inside his favourite biscuit tin by the kettle: the one adorned with Dufy’s fashion drawings. I was still recovering from this unprecedented act of generosity when there came a mighty hammering on the front door.

“Taxi, yeah?” mumbled the shifty-eyed, football-shirted character loitering awkwardly on the doorstep like some beached turd.

I followed him and his unsavoury tracksuit bottoms to the car and sat uncomfortably in the back seat; for my backside was tender and still playing me up after the rumpy-pumpy with Prince Carlo the other night. Thereafter, for mile after mile, I had to endure his tiresome talk of the ins and outs and ups and downs and swings and roundabouts of the Premier League game. The presumptuousness of this unprepossessing individual was destroying me, and by the time we pulled into Holland Park Road my nerves were as frayed as the collar of his shirt.

“Now just you listen to me!” I bellowed as we halted outside number 2. “Bore me not a moment longer with your fanciful eulogising of these overpaid arseholes. These players, these ignominious journeymen, they know nothing of loyalty to club and country but merely worship the lure of the lucre that piles up in their filthy pay packets. Do you get my point?”

Whereupon I peeled off a succession of fivers and poked the arrowhead into the nearest shifty eye. Amid howls of invective I fled that vehicle. Up the granite steps, past the affable doorman in his neat black uniform, across the staircase hall. Beneath soft lights reflected in aquamarine tiles, I felt the prickly tease of peacock feathers against my pectorals as I climbed onwards and upwards into the maze of corridors.

Some time later I found Prince Carlo in the Silk Room Bar. He was sitting on a barstool with his back to me wearing another of his dolorous suits. I approached cautiously, coughing in advance to alert him of my presence.

“Welcome, my dear Fannings,” he said, turning slowly and greeting me with an ostentatious hug. “What will you have to drink?”

“A Jasmine Pearl, if you don‘t mind.”

I sat on the stool next to him.

“Of course I don’t mind. Make that two.”

He nodded to the barman, who was lounging in a sky blue linen suit. The barman returned his nod and went over to a long line of teapots behind the bar and started sorting things out.

“Where is everybody?” I said, looking around the room at the empty chairs and tables, at the silk hangings, at the mahogany screens of the zenana, at Freddie Clayton’s mythological paintings on the mauve damask wallpaper. “No Freddie tonight?”

Prince Carlo looked perplexed. “Are you completely dense?”

“What?”

“Who do you think served us?“

He glanced across at the barman, who had just put two porcelain teacups on the bar in front of us. The steaming scent of jasmine tickled my nostrils. The barman smiled. I noticed that a few of his front teeth had been besmirched by some darkening agent to give the impression that they no longer existed.

“My word, it is you Freddie! I didn’t recognise you under that saffron beard. Did you pick that up on one of your exotic travels?” I nudged Prince Carlo. “And how’s that pretty young protégé of yours, Freddie? Keeping him busy?”

Freddie Clayton grit his besmirched teeth and looked less than amused. Leaning over the bar he grabbed a handful of my polka dot shirt and whispered in my ear.

“Don’t you get over-familiar with me, young Fannings,” he said in that honeyed voice of his. “If you ever speak of Master Welter in that disrespectful tone again I shall reach inside your shitty underpants and break off your tool. Do you understand?”

My head was nodding profusely but my thoughts were elsewhere, wondering how it might feel to have his dexterous painterly hand clasped firmly around my member.

Hardly had he let go of my shirt when we were distracted by a commotion coming from a room on the opposite side of the corridor. A door had swung open and amidst a roar of laughter an individual rolled out on the carpet. It was the cabbie who had brought me here earlier. He looked in a bad way. Judging by the dreadful smell that wafted towards us as he struggled to his feet I guessed that he had crapped his pants. He gazed across at us momentarily. I clocked his pale unshaven face and the look of terror in his bloodshot eyes. Seconds later two others appeared in the corridor behind him: the doorman in his black uniform and another whom I did not recognise; older, mid-sixties probably, a tall, stocky gent with curly white hair and a red velvet suit to match his face. Holding up a long knife, he winked at us before going back inside.

By now the cabbie had managed to get more or less upright and was leaning against a wall, coughing up the black ones. The doorman looked at him in disgust, then kneed him in the balls. The cabbie fell flat on his face with a dull thud. When the doorman hauled him up by his straggly hair there was blood streaming from his nose. I watched it drop down over his garish football shirt on to the carpet. The doorman shook his head, barely able to control his anger. There were streaks of blood on the sleeve of his uniform and on the backs of his black leather gloves.

“Sorry about the mess, Mr Clayton,” he said, glancing across at Freddie. “I’ll make sure it’s cleaned up satisfactorily.”

Freddie nodded to him, but he didn’t say anything. The doorman shoved the cabbie back into the room and closed the door behind them. Soon after there was a shout. A piercing scream. Then it all went quiet.

We sat there in the Silk Room Bar, each one of us dwelling in our own thoughts. After a time I plucked up the courage to say something.

“What was all that fuss about earlier?”

Freddie looked over the bar at me, his long fingers were fiddling with his saffron beard.

“I caught that little wanker in the back garden treading on my tulips.”

“Poor Queen of the Night,” Prince Carlo sighed.

“I see. I suppose he deserves a good kicking,” I said half-heartedly.

Freddie shook his head and the candlelight flickered on the chrome of the one-armed bandit.

“No, a good kicking is too good for him. Leave him to Johnny. He’ll take care of him.”

“Johnny who?”

“Johnny Carver, that’s who,” Freddie grinned.

“Top surgeon in town,” Prince Carlo added.

Some grisly thoughts crawled bloodily across the sticky carpet of my mind. I tried to blot them out by distracting myself, by looking down at the bar at the richly decorated towel that was spread across its polished mahogany surface. Not much larger than a table mat, it was one of those twee Pre-Raphaelite things. A familiar bucolic scene with a svelte nymph undressing in a woodland glade. The early morning sun falling through the trees caressed her youthful breasts. Nearby a shepherd boy watched from behind a mighty oak tree, his blue eyes ablaze with wonder and excitement. I looked away at the teacup in front of me and took a quick sip. On my tongue the jasmine was cold and dry. It left a bitter taste.

4. CRUSTACEOUS

I had a dream last night. I wrote it down in my notebook.

A devil’s coach-horse had scuttled into my small Walthamstow front room, intruding on our privacy as we sat there in our armchairs savouring the parts of the television we could make out above the tumult and the noise. It reared up and opened its jaws when I tried to rush it. Prince Carlo, who seemed to know how best to pacify the creature, encouraged it up on his lap. Thereafter, he, then I, rocked it in our arms until it snored and snoozed like an infant. Eventually, when the creature was sound asleep, Prince Carlo laid it before us on the coffee table.

“Don’t ever confuse one of these things with a sleeping child,” he whispered as he broke the creature’s will with a rolled up copy of the local newspaper.

Thereafter, we handsomely dined on its innards for as many days as our constitutions could keep down its pulpy sustenance. When finally the dam broke and all hell came loose we spewed and shat until our turds came out crustaceous.

5. THE STRAWBERRY THIEF BAR

The door to the Strawberry Thief Bar burst open and Monty d’Hortense fell forward over the threshold. Huge silk tapestries crowded with speckled thrushes rippled in the sudden breeze, and the candlelight flickered on the chrome of the one-armed bandit.

Bill Waterhouse, whose place it was, spoke first.

“For pity’s sake, Monty, what is it?” His big fruity voice rang out across the room as he served us another round of Hougicha. Then he pulled out a fob from his Hooker’s green waistcoat and examined it. “What brings you here at this late hour and in such poor shape?”

Monty d’Hortense picked up his skinny frame off the polished floorboards and breathlessly made his way to the empty bar stool beside Prince Carlo and me. I had never seen this peerless dandy look so dishevelled. He was doing his best to speak, trying to prise open his lips which had become fastened by milky-white solidified saliva. He looked at me anxiously as I reluctantly held out my porcelain teacup for him to sip and separate his lips hastily.

“It’s gone!” he cried, his light tenor rising to a fractured falsetto, his silk glove tracing dust trails on the thighs of his heron grey suit.

“What’s gone?” said Bill, looking bemused.

“The teapot. It’s been stolen.”

“What teapot?” I asked him.

“The Malevich Teapot,” he replied gloomily.

“What’s that?”

“The most mysterious and misunderstood item in the history of tableware,” Bill Waterhouse said pensively.

“What’s it doing in Walthamstow?” I asked.

“Don’t you keep up with the news?” He scowled at me.

“No, not much.”

“It was about to be exhibited up the road at the town hall,” Monty said. “It’s pandemonium up there. They’ve had to cancel the exhibition. Hundreds and hundreds of people who bought tickets are trying to get their money back. I was nearly crushed in the crowd.”

“The papers are full of it.“ Prince Carlo added.

He opened out the newspaper that was resting on the knee of his extraordinary new suit and pointed to the big headline: THE MALEVICH TEAPOT COMES TO WALTHAMSTOW.

“That’s what brought me here from Paris,” said Monty. “It’s the exhibition every aficionado has been waiting for. Even that old homebody Gustave Morose has come over.”

“You mean the visionary painter?” I asked excitedly. “The one they describe as a hermit locked up in the heart of Paris?” Monty nodded and took another sip from my cup. “I’ve heard he lives with his mother and hardly ever goes out.”

“Well, he’s a hermit who knows what time the trains leave,” Bill said. “He caught the Eurostar a few days ago and now he’s here, renting the Brother Rabbit Room.”

“You mean now, at this very moment, along the corridor?”

“No, he’s out now,” Bill laughed. “Out on the town. He likes to roll in late from the local watering holes. Making up for lost time, I presume.”

“Anyway, what’s so special about this teapot?” I asked them. “What‘s all the fuss about?”

“It’s the only one of its kind left in the world,” Monty explained. “A long time ago in St Petersburg, during one of its freezing winters, eleven teapots were sent for firing at the Imperial Porcelain Factory. Of the eleven that were sent only ten were returned to the authorities.”

“Nothing unusual about that,” Bill interjected. “Porcelain items often suffer damage during firing.”

“Quite so,” Monty nodded. “But the Malevich teapots were no ordinary teapots.”

“Ah, a revolutionary design for revolutionary times,” Bill said dreamily.

“Yes, I’ve seen the photograph. It looks more like a tank, a gun, than a teapot,” said Prince Carlo.

“Indeed,” said Monty. “But these teapots were not designed to be trendy tableware for affluent revolutionaries, champagne socialists and the like. Far from it. They were the creation of Kasimir Malevich, an inspirational artist of the highest order, whose probing intellect had begun to ponder the mysteries of the unfathomable and the infinite. These teapots were the physical manifestation of a feeling, a force, something that Malevich called cosmic excitation.”

“They were displayed for a short time, then a ruthless dictator stepped in and smashed them to smithereens,” Bill said despondently.

“Yes, I‘m afraid so,” said Monty. “It was claimed by those who saw them that they possessed the power to influence minds, to liberate minds, to make minds think the unthinkable. Therefore the teapots became charmed objects, feared objects. So they were destroyed by the authorities, and their destruction was made public and eventually their former existence became little more than a fanciful idea to conjure with.”

“Until the eleventh one turned up in Walthamstow the other day,” Prince Carlo laughed.

“Precisely,” said Monty, ignoring his flippancy. “Fearing the worst, Malevich showed great sagacity by fooling the authorities into thinking that all of his teapots had been destroyed. But one remained intact. The one that was reported damaged during the firing process. The one that was never returned to the authorities. Over the years its existence would become a closely-guarded secret. The last Malevich Teapot would pass from safe house to safe house until the time was ripe for its reappearance.”

“Why now?” I asked him. “Why Walthamstow?”

He shrugged his slim shoulders. “There are various schools of thought on that subject. But I do not have the definitive answer to your question.”

“You spin a fine yarn, Monty,” Prince Carlo said, patting him on the back. “But surely you don’t believe all that bollocks. This object that you wax lyrical about. This teapot that turned up in Walthamstow. It’s just a cheap imitation like everything else in this rubbish world. A myth to fire men’s minds and steal their money at the town hall. I don’t suppose there was even a robbery. Just a hoax of the highest order!”

“No, that‘s not so,” said Bill, looking disappointedly at Prince Carlo. “This teapot is definitely the real McCoy.”

“The one true teapot,” Prince Carlo chuckled.

“Yes, I have it on good authority.”

“Whose good authority?”

“Mr Malevich’s good authority.”

“Then perhaps Mr Malevich is a joker, a trickster of the highest order.”

Bill Waterhouse shook his head angrily. “Prince Carlo, how dare you speak about Mr Malevich in that tone. I am in the process of setting up a small show of his paintings here in my gallery. A teapot tie-in show with the main exhibition up at the town hall. It has been a pleasure to work with him on this project.”

“Yes, I’m sure this hoax has been very lucrative for you both,” Prince Carlo grinned.

“Does this mean Mr Malevich is here?” I asked. “Is he also renting a room in this house?”

“No, not here in Walthamstow,” said Prince Carlo, amused by my excitement. “He’s holing up in an old hotel on the road to Leytonstone. That’s where I picked up this outfit. He designed it especially for me.”

“Yes, I was going to ask you about that. What exactly is it?”

“A Suprematist shell suit,” he said proudly. “What do you think?”

I squinted at the swarm of black circles and red squares in front of me, but before I could answer him Bill Waterhouse had cleared his throat noisily and was looking solemnly at each one of us.

“Gentlemen, I hope you realise the theft of this teapot is a matter of the utmost importance.”

“It’s the one thing we did not want to happen,” Monty d’Hortense added.

“Monty, do they know who took this teapot?” I asked. “Do they have any clues?”

“No, the police are fucking clueless!” a Scottish voice bellowed behind us.

The three of us sitting at the bar looked over our shoulders. A tall, stocky gent wearing a red velvet suit was striding towards us. He seemed to have come out of nowhere. He was smiling, holding a pipe in one hand and smoothing back his curly white hair with the other. His brown brogues squeaked like a mouse in a microwave as he came closer.

“Glad you could join us, Johnny,“ said Bill, beaming over the bar. “I think you know everyone.” He glanced at me sharply. “Perhaps not. This is Fannings. Prince Carlo’s little helper.”

Little helper! I was about to lose my rag there and then, but discretion got the better of me.

“Johnny Carver’s the name,” he said, eyeing me intently. His large hand came at me like a heat-seeking missile. His grip was firm, though the texture of the skin surprisingly soft. “Actually, I believe we‘ve already clapped eyes on each other.”

“Yes, that’s right, over at Freddie Clayton’s house.”

My voice was trembling as I looked up into his ruddy, drinker’s face. I thought he was going to let go of my hand but he kept hold of it, ran his fingertips over my knuckles, probed the valleys in between, gently stroked my fingernails with his big thumbs. Then he picked up the other hand which was resting on my knee and gazed into my eyes.

“You have a fine pair of hands, Fannings,” he sighed. His hot peaty breath wafted into my face. “Strong and supple hands like the hands of a surgeon.”

“Or like the hands of a butcher,” said Bill Waterhouse.

Monty d’Hortense giggled behind his silk glove. He reached out to the bar and took another sip from my teacup. There were milky-white flakes clinging to the rim when he moved his lips away.

6. BREEDING MACHINE

I had a dream last night. I wrote it down in my notebook.

I was in the Strawberry Thief Bar surrounded by all those huge tapestries crowded with greedy feathery things. There were so many of them that I knew there had to be a skin-covered breeding machine on the other side of the wall. Most of them were half-hidden in foliage, while the others shamelessly flaunted the fruit that was crammed in their nasty, greedy beaks.

Prince Carlo and me were sitting on bar stools. Bill Waterhouse was further away behind the bar, lounging in a Prussian blue silk waistcoat. We were looking at a decorative bar towel that was spread out in front of us. It was like the one I had seen in the Silk Room Bar at Freddie Clayton’s place. Prince Carlo asked me what I thought of it and I told him that it was twee Pre-Raphaelite shite. He seemed surprised, disappointed even. He told me to keep my voice down because Bill and Freddie had designed it together. He told me to be careful because Bill was on a short fuse. He told me to be careful because Bill had just found out that his beautiful young wife was being fucked by someone else. He told me to look closer, much closer. He moved our teacups out of the way, pulled the corners of the towel and smoothed out the middle. The yellows, golds, russets, crimsons, and all the other autumnal shades jumped out at me.

“Now, what do you see?” he asked.

I looked at it again, at the voluptuous girl and the shepherd boy behind the tree wallowing in all that naked nubile flesh. I was about to tell him that I couldn’t see anything else when I suddenly noticed something new. Up there in the tree, cunningly half-hidden by leaves and branches was a third figure; a hooded man, mouth twisted into a leering grin, legs dangling over a bough. In one hand he clutched a mobile phone, in the other a bundle of banknotes.

“Now I see him,” I breathed.

Prince Carlo patted me on the back. “Nothing is quite what it seems around here, Fannings.”

“What’s it called, this thing?”

He shouted to Bill Waterhouse. “Fannings would like to know what you call this composition?”

Bill came back up the bar, putting on a brave face. He stood in front of me and winked at Prince Carlo.

“Nymph and Pimp,” he said loudly.

Laughter filled the room. It seemed to take on a life of its own. On and on it went until I thought the walls were breeding laughter. And in the middle of this noise I heard a voice. Indistinct at first, hissing, crackling with phlegm. Gradually it moved into the foreground, wheedling its way into my brain. It was coming from in front of me, down below on the bar. I could not believe my eyes, let alone my ears. That repulsive creature up there in the treetops on that towel was moving its mouth. Those leering lips were telling me something. The same thing. Over and over again it spoke to me. I tried to block it out but the sound of its voice was burning my ears.

“Fannings,” it was saying, “this is all your fault.”

7. THROUGH KEYLESS KEYHOLES

Thereafter and some time later we went our separate ways into the night air. But before that, while I was still crossing the shadows in the entrance hall to his gallery, Bill Waterhouse called me back.

“I want a word with you, Fannings,” he said gruffly.

My mouth went bone dry.

“What about, Bill?”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

“Do I?” I was eyeing him nervously.

“Terry Rodgers told me all about it.”

“Who’s Terry Rodgers?”

“The man who works behind my pay desk. The man in the mulberry pullover.”

I swallowed hard. “What did he tell you?”

“He told me about your little non-purchase. That notebook. How you made off with my merchandise. How you skedaddled without paying.”

“I couldn’t help it, Bill. I have a thing about queues. I can’t cope with them. The panic gets too much for me.”

He fingered his fob momentarily. Now there was a smile on his lips, but it was not of the generous variety.

“What’s more, you threatened him.”

“Bill, I didn’t say anything to him.”

“Mr Rodgers told me you threatened him.”

“I didn’t.”

“He said he was physically sick after that shift because of the threats you made. Now look here, Fannings. I will not tolerate threats of any kind against my staff. Do you understand?”

“Honestly, Bill. I did not lay a finger on him.”

“But you thought about it, didn‘t you?” His bearded face came closer to mine. I sensed the intensity behind those wily green eyes. “I know what you’re like, Fannings. Given half a chance you would have punched his heart out.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Bill. I’m not a violent man.”

He laughed loudly. I felt his hot breath all over my face. And that other smell too. The smell of the green scent that he wore. It was like being trapped in a forest full of pines and cedars and mossy undergrowth. Clammy and closing in on me they were.

“Don’t kid yourself, Fannings. Everyone knows about that bad temper of yours.”

“I get upset sometimes, it’s true. And sometimes I go to pieces. But I can’t help myself. It’s my condition.”

“Well, take your condition somewhere else!”

He raised his eyebrows imperiously, looked away across the shadowy entrance hall at the merchandise stands and walnut bookshelves. There were many notebooks over there and tea towels and rolls of wallpaper with birds pretending to be fast asleep, but I knew they were wide awake and listening to us.

“I’m starting again, Bill. Please give me a chance to get things right. I‘m starting a new life because the last one ended in a mess.”

“You could have chosen some other place to start again. Why choose my place?”

“You’re not listening to me, Bill. These things don’t happen like that. You have to seize the opportunity wherever it is. Anyway,” I said, trying another tack, “I like that bar towel you and Freddie Clayton designed.”

His eyes widened. “You do?”

“Yes, I do. Very much so.” It was sickening to see how susceptible he was to flattery. “By the way, how’s business?”

“Booming!”

His big fruity voice echoed around the hall, bouncing off the pea green walls and the gilded mirrors and the ceiling rose, gradually getting smaller and thinner and fainter and finally slipping away through the keyless keyholes.

At which point we were silent for awhile, still standing in the pale patch of light created by the lamp outside one of the big bay windows. When I looked past his ears I could make out the jagged silhouette of the large mahonia on the lawn, and beyond that the curve of the gravel drive as it made its way down to the huge gateposts with their stone wyverns.

I thought I had distracted him. I began to inch away, but he caught hold of my arm with fingers that were quick and strong and slightly stained around the nails: the fingers of a craftsman.

“Listen,” he whispered. “Can you hear that?”

In the distance I could hear the ubiquitous drone of the traffic, but I had a feeling that this was not what he was he referring to.

“Hear what, Bill?”

“It’s very subtle,” he said, cupping a hand to his ear. “Few can hear it. For this is the special hour and it has come upon us almost imperceptibly. These are the moments when kindred spirits feel the very movement of the universe. The all-embracing membrane in which we have our being.” His eyes were moving from side to side in their sockets like antennae searching for signals. He sighed. “That perfect construction. That gentle pulsation. That low drone. We hear it move and stretch. We feel the friction, and what touches our souls…”

“Arseholes?” I interjected.

There was a moment, not a very long one, when he was speechless and seemed rooted to the spot. After that he went ballistic. Moving in and out of the light. Gesticulating wildly. Mop of grey hair going this way and that. He called me all manner of things to humble and humiliate me. A manipulative bastard. A cunning, manipulative bastard. A vengeful, nasty, manipulative bastard. Finally, just when I thought he was going to shut up, he pulled a revolver from his tweed jacket. It was an extravagant gesture, an extraordinary gesture. The gesture of a man nearing the end of his tether.

“Don’t think for one moment that I don’t know how to use this!” he roared. It was an ornate, pearl-handled antique that he was pointing at me; more like a cigarette lighter than a weapon of war. But the fierce look in his eyes told me that he might just be foolish enough to squeeze the trigger. “Let’s get one thing straight, Fannings. People round here are getting very tired of you.”

“People?” I dared to sneer. “What people?”

“That’s it. That’s exactly what I’m talking about.”

“You what?”

“That sneer in your voice. I suppose you think it’s cool.” He himself sneered as he italicised the word. “Well, people are talking and people round here are sick and tired of your sneering attitude. Your bad temper and your bad vibes are ruining this town.”

“Bad vibes? What would an old buffer like you know about bad vibes?”

I tried to laugh it off, but I knew he had detected the worry in my voice.

“More than you realise, young man. Up here in the big house I get to hear everything in this town and Walthamstow wants to see the back of you, PDQ.”

“Me? Why should I be the one to go? Why not Prince Carlo? He’s the one who barged his way in. He’s the difficult customer, the one with the bad attitude, not me.”

He was shaking his head and waving the gun and moving back towards me into the centre of the light. His green silk waistcoat shimmered before my eyes.

“That’s typical of you!” he shouted. “People like you always blame someone else, never take responsibility for what happens.”

“I can’t believe you’re saying this, Bill. To me of all people. It’s not me who deserves your anger.”

“What?”

“There’s no need to look surprised. No need to look apologetic.”

“I’m not apologising for anything,” he said fiercely, his finger twitching on the trigger.

“Good. I’m relieved to hear that. It’s not your fault. It’s you I feel sorry for.”

“What are you saying? What the hell are you suggesting?”

“I’m suggesting that you talk to Prince Carlo. He will know the best way of doing this. He has the relevant experience.”

“Are you completely mad?”

“No, Bill. It has to be done. I can see it in your eyes.”

“See what?”

“The pain. The sadness. The frustration. Deep down you know you must punish her. Your beautiful young wife. She is a bitch, a whore, a cunt. She must come to know the error of her infidelity. History will not judge you harshly for disposing of her. History will always look kindly on your wallpapers.”

8. THERE WERE THINGS IN THAT ROOM

There were things in that room that I hadn’t touched for a very long time. Years, probably. Those that I had touched and perhaps moved slightly had been put back as near as I could get them into their former resting places. It doesn’t do to move things about much once they have become accustomed to staying still. An equilibrium of sorts had descended upon that room and it didn’t do to go disturbing it for no apparent reason. Those things that I hadn’t touched had become moored to the larger fabric and I didn’t dare to even dream of disturbing them for fear of upsetting forces that I couldn’t hope to understand. In actual fact, though, I did understand these forces but couldn’t bring myself, for reasons best known to myself, to admit to understanding their importance. To have admitted to understanding the reason why these things had become moored in this way may have undermined the very fabric itself and left it in tatters. It was enough for the time being to merely notice that over time other things had developed special affinities and precise spatial relationships to them. This was when I realised that some things are best left alone and to their own devices.

9. PHANTOM FUNDAMENTALS

The afternoon sun slanted in through the windows of the Silk Room Bar and fell across the shins of his Suprematist shell suit. He was sitting on his own in the zenana with a teacup pressed to his lips and a book balanced on his knee. There was a white teapot and another teacup on the low table in front of him. The room was heavy with the toasted fragrance of Hougicha. Freddie Clayton and young Master Welter, who were perched on stools at the bar, looked across momentarily from their game of cribbage. I was pleased to see that Freddie had ditched his saffron beard and hopefully the darkened teeth too. I nodded to them both as I passed by, but they didn’t say anything.

“What are you reading?” I asked him as I took off my overcoat.

Prince Carlo looked up and put down his teacup.

“Nothing you’d be interested in,” he mumbled.

He picked up the white spiral-bound book off his knee and began flicking through its pages. Diagrams and drawings and screenshots and long sequences of numbers and musical notes flashed before my eyes.

“That looks complicated. What’s it about?”

I sat down next to him and poured myself some tea.

“Well, if you must know, I’m replacing my paino.” He sighed forlornly and glanced at his watch. “It’s far too big for the modern world. I need a smaller instrument.”

“Really? I thought you already had a small organ.”

He shook his head at me. “Fannings, your crassitude is alarming.”

“So does that mean we can finally be rid of that monstrosity in my front room?”

“No!” he snapped. “Not until I’ve found a suitable home for it. Until that moment arrives it stays where it is.”

I put my nose over my teacup and inhaled its toasted fumes, tried to picture a time when my small front room would look a lot larger without his prized possession.

“How long will it take to find a suitable home?”

“One or two private collectors have shown some interest, but a paino does not come cheap. As you know, it is a unique and extraordinarily expressive instrument with a multitude of possible tunings. It was made for me one summer in Naples by a blind craftsman, sadly now departed. The man was a genius. The plans were drawn up in Braille and he executed them down to the tiniest detail with his numerous woodworking tools. Hour after hour I watched his fleet fingertips in that cluttered workshop, while the scent of lavender wafted in from the fields. After he had finished, I offered to play for him but he declined my offer, telling me there was nothing he did not know, that he had quite literally felt the instrument’s enormous capabilities during its construction.”

“That sounds like an unlikely story.”

“It is,” he laughed. “Complete bollocks. But, seriously, I’m currently transferring and multiplying the paino’s sonic complexities on a digital instrument no larger than a paperback book.”

“A laptop computer?”

“Yes, I believe that‘s what it’s called. You see, I need the freedom to be able to compose on the hoof.”

“You mean, while you’re on the run?”

It was my turn to laugh now, but not for long. He gripped my arm quite suddenly, squeezing it for all he was worth.

“Don’t make jokes like that,” he rasped. His cheeks were turning crimson. “I’ll rip your balls off if you ever make light of my perilous situation again. Do you understand?”

I was nodding like mad, doing my best not to cry out, though the pain was coursing through my veins. The strength in his arm was terrifying.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I won’t do it again. I promise.”

He let go of my arm, leaving it numb and lifeless to the touch.

“Anyway, where was I before you callously interrupted me?”

“You were talking about your small instrument.”

He glared at me. I moved my arm away, flexed my fingers until some of the blood flowed back.

“Oh, yes, well, that’s where this book comes in,” he said, proudly waving it in front of my face. “This is a working paper, a feasibility study, a rigorous investigation into the psychoacoustic complexities of the paino in the digital domain.”

“Psycho-what?”

He sighed again and slammed the book down on the table. “Sometimes I wonder what kind of intellect I’m dealing with here. Is there any brain activity going on inside your skull? I thought you were supposed to be a college lecturer.”

“I am. I was. Until things changed. But I don’t want to talk about my breakdown.”

“Which one?” he grinned.

“That’s not funny. It depresses me too much.”

“That’s typical of you. You just won’t get to grips with this panic problem of yours. You put things off and let things slide and before you know it you’ll hit rock bottom. I’ve offered to help, but all you do is turn me down.”

“You’re not a trained therapist. How can you help me?”

“What you fail to realise, young man, is how much I understand about the workings of the human mind.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. Now start pulling yourself together before it’s too late.”

“That’s easy for you to say. Do you realise what you’ve put me through to get here this afternoon? I’ve had to take umpteen buses and fight my way through crowds of people.”

“Well take the tube then,” he said, glancing at his watch. “It‘s much quicker.”

“Take the tube? The very thought of going down into that claustrophobic hell-hole fills me with panic.”

There were tears in my eyes, tears of frustration and regret. I only had to talk about these things to feel myself sliding into a deep depression. Suddenly I wished I was at home with my feet up and my headphones on listening to something quiet and soothing, or in bed under the duvet hiding from this rubbish world.

“Just think about it, anyway,” he said, patting my numb arm. “The offer stands.”

“OK, you’ve made your point. Now, what’s this psychobabble you were telling me about? I‘m all ears.”

“Psychoacoustics.” He scowled at me, then glanced anxiously at his watch. “Right, in a nutshell, psychoacoustics is concerned with how the human nervous system perceives sounds and how it processes them in different contexts. I won’t confuse you with all the detailed science. Take it from me, ears are complicated things. So complicated, in fact, they can hear things that aren’t actually there.”

“Is this another one of your silly stories?”

“No, it certainly is not. Now pay attention. These things are called phantom fundamentals. Very low pitches that the ears can sometimes detect but that aren’t actually physically present. They’re sparked off, as it were, by the sounding of other low but slightly higher frequencies.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

“How mysterious.”

“However, not everyone can detect these phantom fundamentals. Some people simply aren’t equipped with the right kind of ears.”

“I see.”

“No you don‘t, that’s only the half of it. At the other end of the spectrum you get a thing called the hypersonic effect. Now these are very high frequencies that the human ears can‘t detect but that have a measurable effect on brain activity. Which begs the question: if we can’t hear these high frequencies through our ears, how does the brain know they’re there? Of course, Monty‘s greyhound would have no trouble hearing these kind of frequencies. A dog‘s hearing is much more acute and extensive than our own.”

“I didn’t know Monty had a greyhound.”

“Yes, he’s sponsoring one up at the dog track, at Walthamstow Stadium. It’s running this afternoon.” He glanced at his watch yet again. “Running now, in fact.”

“This greyhound. What’s it called?”

“Violet Streak.”

“Any good?”

He smiled sheepishly. “I‘ve got a hundred quid on the nose.”

“A hundred quid! No wonder you’re always strapped for cash. By the way, how is Monty? Haven’t seen him for ages. What’s he up to these days?”

“Probably searching for Malevich’s missing teapot.”

“What’s the latest on that? Are they any closer to finding it?”

“No, the police are still fucking clueless!”

We laughed. Sipped our tea and fell silent for awhile.

A tiny spider dangling from the zenana lowered itself into my hand. I watched it wander up and down the lines of my palm like a lost traveller. Then I squashed it.

“So, anyway,” I said, wiping my hand on my jeans, “surely you haven‘t dragged me across London just to baffle me with this psychoacoustic bullshit?”

“Bullshit?” He leaned across and squeezed my kneecap affectionately. “This, young Fannings, is where it starts to get interesting.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really interesting. You see, as a composer I’m interested in the musical application of these fascinating phenomena. I mean, what kind of emotional responses can one produce in the listener by harnessing the power of these psychoacoustic phenomena?”

“Is that a rhetorical question?”

“This is where all this stuff comes in,” he said, picking up that spiral-bound book off the table. “It’s all in here. Hours and hours of painstaking research. Of course, I’m still in the early stages, but I’m getting there. Eventually I intend to produce the ultimate music.”

“The ultimate music?” I had to laugh. His arrogance could be so amusing. “What kind of music is that?”

“Silent music,” he whispered.

“Silent music!”

He threw up his hands to quieten me down. “Keep your voice down, for goodness sake. We don’t want to broadcast this to everyone.”

I glanced over my shoulder towards the bar where Freddie and Master Welter were happily engrossed in their game of cribbage. The sun was still slanting in through the windows and the Silk Room Bar and all its exotic furnishings were bathed in its golden glow. The tea sparkled in our teacups and the afternoon stretched its lazy limbs like a big cat with a full stomach.

“What on earth is silent music?” I asked him.

“Music that cannot be heard. Music that is there but not there. Phantom music.”

“Are you serious?”

“Believe me, I have experienced the dynamic silence,” he said, looking very pleased with himself. “And so have you. Actually, Fannings, I have a confession to make. The reason for my dragging you across London, with all its attendant inconveniences, was to get you to participate in a little experiment.”

“What kind of experiment?”

“I burnt to CD a sequence of music that I’ve been working on.”

“A sequence of silent music?” I laughed.

“Yes, silent music. I brought it here and gave it to Freddie. I asked him to put it in his CD player behind the bar and switch it on discreetly when you arrived.”

“Hold on a minute. You mean to say you’ve been using me as a guinea pig to satisfy your insane curiosity?”

“It’s not insane, I can assure you. Quite the opposite, in fact. I’ve been observing your emotional responses throughout our conversation, and I must say the results have been truly remarkable. The fluctuations have been dramatic, to say the least.”

“Well, sorry to disappoint you, Mr Composer, but actually I was aware of some music being played in the background while we‘ve been talking.”

“That’s impossible.” He shook his head emphatically. “There was no audible music being played here. You’re quite mistaken.”

“No, I’m not. I distinctly heard it. A low drone. Like a cello being slowly bowed. To tell you the truth it was starting to get on my tits.”

“No, what you heard was a phantom cello. It was probably caused by the air conditioning unit in here.”

“Air conditioning?”

“Yes, listen.”

We cocked our heads. He was right. There was a low drone, a low mechanical drone, but I could no longer hear the dolorous drone of a cello or any other instrument of that nature. I looked back at him.

“I don’t believe it.”

He smiled smugly. “Yes, it is hard to believe how our ears can play tricks on us like that. It goes back to what I was saying about phantom fundamentals. You thought you heard something that actually wasn’t there, but the affect it had on your nervous system raised your levels of anxiety. Absolutely fascinating.”

“That’s not fascinating. It’s worrying. It’s nothing short of mind control!”

“Mind control?” He laughed to himself. “My dear Fannings, you worry about everything. You’ve been reading too many science fiction novels. What I’m talking about here is science fact, not teenage mumbo-jumbo. Let me tell you something else.” He moved closer to me along the long silk cushion that we were sitting on. “You were not the only one to be affected by my silent music.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I was also under its influence. I composed some passages of very high-pitch frequencies and put them on that CD. In orchestral terms they could be likened to agitated violins or squealing trumpets, extreme timbres like that.”

“Well, I didn’t hear them.”

“Of course not. They were too high for your ears to hear, but your nervous system, your autonomic nervous system perhaps, picked them up and translated them into changes in heart rate and blood pressure. Quite dramatic changes in my case. You may remember the moment when I gripped your arm?”

“How could I forget,” I said, flexing my fingers.

“Sorry about that. I didn’t mean to hurt you. It was quite spontaneous. Obviously that incident was connected to the changes occurring in the music. Now, I knew those elements were in the music but there was nothing I could do about it because I couldn‘t hear them. They were acting on me at a different level. I was simply responding emotionally to all those agitated high frequencies sparking off somewhere in my cerebral cortex. In layman‘s terms, I was at the mercy of my brainbox.”

“So it is mind control. There’s no getting away from it. This is dangerous stuff you’re working on and if it gets into the wrong hands the consequences could be far-reaching. Promise me, you won’t continue with this work.”

He was shaking his head. I knew he wasn’t listening to a word I was saying.

“No, I can’t give you that promise, Fannings. I’m not some kind of mad professor, you know. I’m a serious composer involved in serious research. I’ve come too far to abandon this work now.”

“Then I want nothing to do with it. Don’t involve me in anymore of your experiments.”

I reached down and felt the side of the teapot. It was lukewarm, unlike my blood which was beginning to boil. I took a few deep breaths and looked away at the swirling patterns on the mauve damask wallpaper.

“Yes, we could do with some more tea,” Prince Carlo muttered. He called out to Freddie. “Any chance of some more Hougicha?”

Freddie glanced up from the game. He took his hand off Master Welter’s knee, got down off the stool and wandered over to us. “Sure,” he said.

“You can turn that CD off now, if you like,” Prince Carlo told him.

Freddie seemed puzzled. “Oh, you mean this one?” he said in that honeyed voice of his. He took a disc from the pocket of his tobacco linen jacket. The mirrored surface flashed its myriad rainbows at us in the sunlight. He looked at Prince Carlo and laughed. “Sorry, I forgot. Would you like me to put it on for you now?”

10. FAMOUS FUNDAMENTS

I had a dream last night. I wrote it down in my notebook.

I was sitting in the Silk Room Bar gazing at Freddie Clayton’s mythological paintings hanging on the mauve damask wallpaper; at all those sun-kissed nymphs in woodland glades, and all those slippery sirens bathing in sheltered coves. In my mind I was troubled about the time, wondering if it was night or day, if I was too early or too late, if I had missed Prince Carlo, or he was still to come. To make matters worse, I had forgotten my watch. And there were no clocks on any of the walls because Freddie did not believe in clocks. What I wanted to ask him as he sat there in his olive linen suit was whether it was just clocks he did not believe in, or time itself. But I did not ask him because he and Master Welter were too engrossed in their game of cribbage at the bar.

Eventually Prince Carlo arrived. He nodded to Freddie and young Master Welter on his way in and they nodded back. He was carrying something in a supermarket shopping bag. I knew it wasn’t shopping because shopping was beneath him. He made that achingly clear the moment he barged his way into my life. So I did all the shopping. Suffered the nightmare of long queues and crowded aisles to fetch him his fresh sprats and Neapolitan delicacies.

“I have something I would like you to see,” he said, as he took off his coat. “But first we must find somewhere more private.”

He looked around and then moved away towards the zenana. I got up and followed him. When we were seated, he opened the bag and took out a book. A beautifully bound book. I think he was about to pass it to me when he was suddenly distracted. He looked down.

“Have you been digging?” he asked.

“Digging?” I said defensively.

He balanced the book on his knee and took hold of my hands.

“Your fingernails are a disgrace, young man. Whatever you do don’t get any dirt on this book and for goodness sake don’t shout out the moment you see its contents. We don’t want to broadcast this to everyone. Do you understand?”

I nodded expectantly. He handed me the book. I feasted my eyes on its richly mottled colour, felt the exceptional quality of the binding with my eager fingertips.

“CELEBRITIES CAUGHT WIPING THEIR ARSES,” I muttered in amazement as I read the big bold letters on the title-page. I started flicking through the pages, looking at the photographs. My eyeballs quivered in their sockets as I perused the parade of pert posteriors, squatting and squelching in sumptuous and harmonious colour.

“I didn’t know you were a photographer,” I said, almost breathlessly. “I thought you composed silent music for psychos?”

“I’m a polymath,” he said scornfully, “and we polymaths have our fingers in all kinds of things.”

“This is extraordinary,” I said excitedly. “I’ve never seen the like of it. Is there much demand for this material?”

“Huge.”

“Will you be able to satisfy demand on that scale?”

“Of course not.” He laughed mirthlessly. “I have no intention of satisfying demand of any kind. To publish this book in countless numbers would be crass, not to say downright dangerous. Even the merest rumour of its existence would be sufficient to send multitudes into transports of futile longing and lusting. Many would spend their entire adult lives seeking this book and many more die struggling to comprehend its implications. Fathers would betray sons, daughters betray mothers. Friendships would be torn apart and scattered to the winds for a single ocular whiff of its contents.”

“Then who’s it for?”

“I’m not at liberty to tell you.”

“A private collector? A connoisseur of curiosa, perhaps?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t furnish you with that information. Now don’t ask again.”

“I’ve never seen so many famous faces and their faeces,” I sighed. “What made them pose like this?”

“A celebrity is a strange creature,” he explained. “Vainglorious and vulnerable. It isn’t easy living with all that fame and fortune, you know. Sometimes a creature like this needs to let off a little steam. I’m merely helping in that process.”

Thereafter, he proceeded to tell me of the strange process of this book’s photographic making and compilation. How these vainglorious and vulnerable individuals had posed privately for him. And, as he did so, my tool bristled instinctively inside my jeans at the sight of that illustrious host of ripe and tacky fundaments, positioned as they were to incite and excite. Oh how they beckoned me to relieve and release my sticky sex juice upon their glossy exits!

Knowing this, and the urgency of my need, Prince Carlo held out his hand.

“I think you’d better give it back before things go too far,” he said firmly. Reluctantly I gave it back. “Try to erase from your mind what you have just seen. It does not do to dwell on such things.”

I watched his fingertips caress the luxurious cover as he studied the photographs with a cool eye.

“So sumptuous to the touch,” I told him. “What animal is this that so exquisitely upholsters these plates?”

Prince Carlo eyed me cautiously, looked around into the corners of an almost empty Silk Room Bar. His mouth came closer to my ear.

“Homo sapiens,” he whispered, and the candlelight flickered on the chrome of the one-armed bandit.

“Homo sapiens?”

He nodded pensively. “The cabbie.”

“You mean that football-shirted fool who trod on Freddie‘s tulips?”

“Indeed,” he grinned. “The binding was fashioned from the very fabric of his appendage.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Believe me, he was a big boy. Johnny said so and he should know.”

“Johnny who?”

“Johnny Carver, that’s who. Top surgeon in town. You heard the shout?”

“I did.”

“You heard the scream?”

“Yes.”

“That was the moment when Johnny hacked it off with his big knife, left him lying there still breathing with terror blazing in his eyes.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Believe me, Johnny likes you. He likes your hands. He likes your mind. He wants you to work with him.”

“No, never!”

I shook my head. I did not want to think that I had held that awful book, that cabbie’s thing, in my hands. I could not take it in that such barbaric things should occur in this day and age in decent society. I looked away. Found myself staring at a painting on the nearby wall. A coastal scene, a gentle scene: a sheltered cove with fluffy clouds and wheeling gulls. I wandered away to examine it more closely, hoping to soothe my tortured thoughts.

“What do you see there?” Prince Carlo asked.

I glanced back over my shoulder. Saw him grinning at me.

“Fluffy clouds and wheeling gulls and bits of old rope,” I told him.

“Look closer and tell me what you see.”

I looked closer. I told him what I saw. That what I thought was weathered rope with bits of seaweed was a chain of shipwrecked sailors with bronzed skin and straggly hair, fellating each other. Mouth to member, member to mouth, mouth to member. On and on it went, over rock and sand, stretching as far as the eye could see. Then I looked longer. I looked harder. No, they were not fellating each other. They were eating each other. Gorging on each other‘s groins. The blood from all those masticated members was trickling down their ravenous mouths into the golden sand, turning it red. My nose, pressed against the canvas, breathed salty air and the spicy stench of unwashed loins. The bright sun and the sparkling sea dazzled my eyes.

Dazed and appalled, I pulled myself away from this grotesque spectacle. I glanced back over my other shoulder. Saw Master Welter watching me. He was always watching me, weighing me up. He was wearing a yellow jumpsuit, blonde hair pulled back into a pony tail. How young, I asked myself, was this kid who was always hanging around older men, inflaming their passions? I didn’t know. I didn’t care. It was none of my business what he got up to in his own time. None of my business if Freddie stroked his hair. I just knew that I was staring at him and couldn’t take my eyes off him. He was smiling at me with soft red lips and teeth as white as milk. I smiled back. I knew I needed to get close to him. The sooner the better. I knew he had something to give me, and I wanted it.

11. THE BROTHER RABBIT ROOM

“First of all there’s a smudgy streak that runs along it,” I told him. “A kind of inky blue which gives way to a lighter blue. A cerulean blue, perhaps?”

“Perhaps.”

“And that blue goes into a white or whitish area, and then after a time there’s a thin black strip like the icing on a cake, or maybe the top layer of a coastal shelf revealed?”

“Possibly.”

“Well, after the black comes a red strip, then a yellow and then a very thin light blue, which is followed by a grubby orange and a thin black strip and some more of that grubby orange.” At this point I angled the torch away from the canvas and aimed it straight at him. “Did it ever occur to you, sir, that you might be working with dirty brushes?”

There was a sharp intake of breath as he pulled himself upright. He had a serious pensive face and a tense jaw which was growing tenser by the moment.

“Mr Fannings, do you have any idea at all who you’re addressing?” he said sternly.

“Yes, I do, Mr Malevich. And I would like to thank you for this opportunity to preview your forthcoming exhibition.”

He took a step closer and a floorboard creaked involuntarily in the sleepy stillness of the Brother Rabbit Room. A body shifted beneath blankets. We looked across.

“Get that damn thing out of my eyes,“ he said, grabbing the torch from me. The beam zigzagged around the dark room, briefly revealing a single bed over in the corner. He sighed irritably. “This is a ridiculous place to house my exhibition.”

Not half as ridiculous as your outfit, is what I wanted to say, but discretion got the better of me. For it was a hideous patchwork thing made up of reds, greens, browns and blacks. It looked like it had been stitched together by some half-witted peasant.

“Mr Waterhouse has done his best to accommodate your often difficult work in difficult circumstances,” I reminded him.

“You understand nothing of my work or the meaning of difficult circumstances. Mr Fannings, your aesthetic awareness is naïve in the extreme. You even neglect to mention the main focus of the painting in question.”

“I was coming to that after I’d worked my way down to that shit brown layer at the bottom,” I whispered loudly.

At which point he stepped even closer and held the torch under my chin.

“Are you accusing me of dipping my sable in excrement?”

I caught a whiff of his peculiar cologne, like gasoline and violets, as he hissed out the unfortunate words.

“I’m not accusing you of anything of the kind,” I said defensively. I grabbed the torch back off him and angled it down at the floor. “I was merely describing the various layers of your composition before focusing upon the issue and direction of its red riders.”

“I see,” he said, repositioning his red beret. “Anyway, I think I shall withdraw this particular work from the exhibition.”

“Why, is there something you wish to hide, Mr Malevich?” I shone the beam back on the canvas. “Where precisely are your horsemen headed?”

“You know perfectly well where they’re going and what it is they seek.”

“Do I?”

I glanced at him quickly and saw his gaze move from right to left in pursuit of the riders. The distant horizon across which they were galloping glowed palely in the beam. I thought I saw a further red blotch show its head above the black strip, but was too wary to ask him if it was another horseman or merely a slip of the sable.

“Men seek many things,” he said. “Many things they wish they had never sought. Many costly thoughts they wish they had never entertained and now cannot be rid of.”

“Is it the same for dreams? Are dreams dangerous?”

“They are not without their consequences.”

A body scratched itself in the catarrhal gloom. We looked across. The movement stopped. The moment passed. We went on staring at the canvas.

“Can a man be held accountable for his thoughts and dreams?” I asked him.

“What makes you ask such a question?”

“Because you have pondered the complexities of the unfathomable and the infinite, Mr Malevich.”

He nodded. “It is true. I have gone beyond the limits of objective junk. Freed myself from its mundane constraints and felt the rhythm of the cosmic excitation. I have experienced the dynamic silence.”

“What are you doing here, Mr Malevich? You’re such a long way from home.”

“We all are.”

“What are your red riders after, Mr Malevich? What are they hoping to find?”

He was shifting from one foot to the other, eyeing me intently.

“A missing teapot and all it represents,” was all he would say.

Later I let myself out and went outside into the open air, trudged down the drive. The gravel popped and crackled like a querulous breakfast cereal. Beyond the stone wyverns at the front gates I stared upwards into a Walthamstow sky which had become the colour of blood. The blazing star which had appeared three nights ago was still high in the heavens. I watched it for a little while. I like to watch things in the sky. In the distance the church clock was striking the hour. I pulled up the collar of my overcoat and moved on. I did not count the chimes.

12. BURGERS AND HASHISH

I did not know where he was taking us, but it was Monty d’Hortense who had hold of my hand. Down the noisy High Street in Walthamstow we were going, that much I knew, treading over the uneven cobbles, squeezing our way between all those horrible market stalls. And I was holding my nose for the air down here was heavy and hot and reeking of cheap food and a million foolish fripperies to buy.

“I am not a people person,” I told him. “I hate these crowds and all they stand for.”

In my mind I was worried that Monty’s dapper dove grey suit and silk gloves would be damaged by all this jockeying and jostling for position.

“Keep a cool head,” Monty advised. “See everything with a cool eye and see it for what it is, no more, no less. For time has taught me to think not the foulest of thoughts.”

This was sage advice coming from a gent who was intoxicatingly imperious when his shoulders were back and his beardless chin thrust forward. Gracefully he whipped out a lovely lacquered snuff box from the pocket of his silk vermilion waistcoat and took a generous pinch. For a few seconds I watched his eyes blaze with a new intensity.

“Amuse yourself with this while I’m away,” he said, handing me the snuff box.

Before I had time to ask him where he was going he had nipped into a small café off the High Street, leaving me leaning against the front window in a cinnamon daze with my nostrils burning.

The afternoon sun was so strong that I had to shield my eyes to see inside the place, past all that swirling Formica and bright red seating. There was a scattering of people in there hanging on to coffee mugs and hiding behind burgers, but it was not busy. Monty was leaning at the counter chatting to a young man wearing a yellow baseball cap and a red polo shirt. From time to time their conversation was interrupted by someone waiting to be served. The young man would wander over to the till and leave Monty standing there pinching the tips of his waxed moustache while he watched him. On one occasion I saw Monty remove an envelope from his jacket pocket and place it on the counter. When the young man returned he pushed it towards him. In an instant he snatched it up and dropped it down inside his polo shirt. Monty looked around to see if anyone had noticed and then giggled behind his glove.

Not long after he came out of the café looking rather pleased with himself.

“Sorry to keep you,” he said, tapping me lightly on the lapel with his badine. “Just taking care of a little business. Are we ready for the off?”

“Was that young Master Welter under that yellow baseball cap?” I asked him.

“What?” He looked at me in amazement.

“Was that a wad of cash you gave him concealed in that brown envelope?”

I thought he was going to choke. Coughing and spluttering he snatched the snuff box out of my hand, took two generous pinches and waited for that fiery cinnamon stuff to blaze a trail to his brain. When he had regained his composure he confronted me.

“Do not breathe a word of this to anyone,” he said, his light tenor descending to a dark baritone. He shoved the top of his badine under my chin. Pushed it so hard that my head jerked back. “In future, keep your snotty bugle out of my business. Do you understand?”

I nodded, or at I least tried to. I had never seen him like this before, this menacing. He took away the badine suddenly and my head fell forward.

“Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to be nosy.”

“We don‘t want to fall out now, do we?” he said.

“No. No, of course not.”

“Good.” He pinched me on the chin with his civet-scented glove. “Good boy. Come on, let’s get out of this dump.”

We set off at a swift pace, mercifully moving away from the market and its disgusting aroma. For a visitor, Monty had a remarkable knowledge of the town‘s backstreets. Terrace after terrace he took me down, many blighted by misguided attempts at home improvement. I could barely bring myself to look at the hideous stone cladding, the garishly-painted brickwork, and all those tacky gold-tipped railings were simply unforgivable. Pretty soon, however, he brought us out on Blackhorse Road. It was long and straight and sloped down to a crossroads. In the distance I could see the cars queuing up at the traffic lights. Beyond that the road went on to places I did not wish to think about.

We wandered along the litter-strewn pavement, dodging the traces of gob and vomit, side-stepping the rotting mattresses and the assortment of broken electrical appliances and shelving units that had been dumped there. About halfway down we succumbed to the tumult of a car radio: a throbbing bass rhythm driven to distortion. The disturbance was coming from a parked black convertible with darkened windows. As we drew alongside, the window on the passenger side was briefly lowered and we were greeted by a hail of homophobic abuse coated with spittle.

“Leave it,” I said to Monty. “It’s not worth it.”

“No, you leave this to me,” he replied with a confidence that was shocking.

As he approached the car, the window was lowered once again. More of that pounding din escaped, followed by the stench of burgers and hashish. Inside, in the dim light, two hooded figures were jeering at us; one of them, the nearest, the black one, was holding a semi-automatic pistol.

“Back off, Monty,” I urged him. “I don’t have the stomach for this.”

But Monty did not back off. As he went closer, the one with the firearm hurled another insult and took aim. But before he had a chance to do anything else Monty had leaped aside. Then, with the speed and precision of a fencing master, he plunged the tip of his feather-light badine into the nearest bleary eye. It all happened so quickly. There was an agonized shriek and a spurt of blood that arched out on to the pavement covering Monty’s shoes. At the same time the weapon went off, firing several shots through the roof of the car.

“This simply won’t do,” Monty said looking down at his lovely Italian moccasins.

With another shrewdly calculated lunge he skewered the other eyeball. I watched the river of blood splash against the windscreen and its numerous tributaries run down the dashboard.

Inside the car the atmosphere was chaotic: the deafening music, the hysterical screams, the fingers feverishly clutching at bleeding sockets. Now the driver, the white one, whose hood had fallen down during all the desperate commotion, whose shaved head was as smooth as baby’s backside, was trying to get the engine started after stalling it. As casual as you like, Monty thrust the tip of the badine through the epicentre of a tattooed star on the side of that helplessly hairless white dome. The star burst open noiselessly and Monty fell forward as the badine tore through the spongy layers underneath. From behind a misty red rain I watched the mouth foam and the body shake itself into a delirious, slumberous stillness.

When Monty pulled out the badine I noticed a slim, serrated blade.

“A discreet trigger mechanism releases the blade,” he explained. He touched something near the top of the badine and the brain-spattered blade disappeared. He touched it again and it came back looking more lethal than ever. “Anyway,” he sighed, “no time to admire my handiwork. These chaps deserve a decent send-off.”

Grabbing hold of the jacket belonging to the blind one with the bleeding sockets, who was begging for mercy, he cut away the hood. I followed him round the other side of the car, watched him unscrew the fuel cap and stuff most of the material into the tank. The petrol fumes went straight to my head.

“Stand back,” he told me. He took out a cheap lighter from his trouser pocket and set the hood alight. We dashed to the other side of the road and waited on the pavement. Soon after, there was a tremendous explosion. The car went up in flames. The heat was so intense we felt it on our foreheads. A few times I thought of all that burning flesh, but I tried not to let it bother me. Monty looked on with grim satisfaction. Some people who had been watching from their front gardens came over to us and shook our hands, gave us damp cloths to wipe our red faces. They told us that these gangs were ruining their neighbourhood and they supported any action that reduced their numbers. One of them with dark eyes and a broad smile said it was a necessary cull. We said our goodbyes and set off down a side street.

Before long the air was filled with wailing sirens. Nervously I looked over my shoulder.

“Those people back there, will they say anything to the police?” I asked him.

Monty giggled behind his glove. “No, they won’t say anything. Their silence will be as stony as the cladding on their houses.”

13. ROSES AND SWEAT

Some time later we arrived at a bunch of warehouses on a small industrial estate. The bright sun had clouded over. Now there was a slate grey sky. It looked like it was going to rain.

“The weather’s always shitty round here,” I said. “That afternoon sun was a fluke.”

Monty didn’t answer. He obviously had other things on his mind. We were pacing around from one concrete warehouse to another, back and forth across the tarmac, avoiding the glances of the forklift drivers. Finally he was satisfied that we had come to the right place. He stood slightly in front of me and tapped on the green wooden door with his silken knuckles. I felt some spits and spots of moisture on the top of my head. I looked up again. It was definitely going to rain.

We waited and waited.

“Of course, police line-ups are notoriously unreliable,” he was saying. “But if those people back there do talk and we have to stand in a line-up then distinguishing marks are all-important.”

“Are they?”

“Very much so. For instance, a gentleman with genital warts is more likely to be remembered than a gentleman with a purple helmet.”

I blinked my eyes. “What was that about that warts?”

“What?” He looked at me sharply.

“Sorry Monty. I must have dozed off.”

We continued to wait. The rain came down steadily. Monty sighed heavily. He looked at me but he didn’t say anything. Like my spirits his waxed moustache began to droop. I counted the raindrops that rolled off his nose. He turned away and hammered on the door while I examined its smooth green surface for the umpteenth time. There was nothing much to look at, except towards the top a tiny spyhole about the size of a sixpence. More than once while we were waiting it had occurred to me that someone inside might be standing there watching us, watching us get wet.

“Gus!” he cried at the top of his tenor voice.

One of the forklift drivers looked across. Almost immediately the door opened and a short, bearded gent in a paint-spattered smock stood before us.

“For goodness sake, come in out of the rain,” he said casually, mournfully.

He ushered us inside, greeting Monty with a big hug and a kiss on both cheeks. Mercifully none of the paint transferred on to Monty’s wet suit, but I couldn‘t help hearing the prickle of his facial hair against Monty’s pellucid profile.

“Nice shoes,” he said glancing down. “Shame about the blood.”

“And rain,” Monty grumbled.

“Yes.” He smiled ruefully. “You certainly are the dampest dandy I’ve seen for a very long time.”

They both laughed. Then Monty turned to me.

“Fannings, I would like to introduce you to the great Gustave Morose.”

I coughed nervously and offered him my hand. We shook hands warmly, but I couldn’t help noticing that he was sniffing quite a lot.

“Fannings, I have heard so much about you,” he said.

“You have?”

“Yes, Prince Carlo speaks very highly of you.”

“He does?”

“Yes, he says you are the best manservant he has ever had.”

“Manservant?” I released his ink-stained fingers. “Well, Mr Morose,” I said, trying hard to hide my irritation, “it is true that we share the same house, and I do all of the shopping, but I prefer to think of myself as an amanuensis. His muse, even.”

“I see,” he said, glancing at Monty.

“Actually, Mr Morose, I’ve been desperate to meet you.”

“Desperate?”

I noticed how he winced at the word.

“I have seen so many of your historical and mythological paintings on the internet.”

“Any good?”

A lump was forming itself in my throat. My eyes going lachrymose.

“All those tragic faces with their faraway eyes. All those piercing cries of ecstasy and terror. Mr Morose, your morbidity enchants me.”

“I’m relieved to hear it.”

“And now it gives me the greatest pleasure to finally meet you in the flesh.”

Monty giggled behind his wet glove.

“Anyway.” He coughed almost bashfully. “Call me Gus.”

“Thank you.”

He gestured for us to follow him, and so we left that sparsely furnished reception room with its uncluttered desk and pink swivel chair, and went through to his studio. It was big and draughty with polystyrene tiles half-hanging off the ceiling. I looked around and shook my head in disbelief.

“Is this the best that Walthamstow can offer a man of your stature?”

“I’m afraid so,” he shrugged. He had put on a pair of pince-nez and was leaning on the large workbench in the middle of the room. “Have you met my Salome?”

I gazed at the lovely lady who was lying naked on the workbench in front of him.

“I have met her many times in your oils and watercolours but never in this form. Gus, I had no idea you worked in latex.”

“I don’t. I work in this cotton smock,” he said, laughing uproariously.

One of the loose tiles dropped off the ceiling in the commotion.

“So is this a new medium for you?” I asked him, once he had regained his equilibrium.

“Indeed it is. And a very enjoyable one.”

“All the loving craftsmanship that goes into a fine figure of a woman,” I mused aloud, marvelling at the verisimilitude of the nipples. “Do you have a foot pump or is she filled with your own breath?”

“I have filled her myself many times,” he said, looking over the pince-nez.

At that point he picked up a polished metal instrument which hummed contentedly as it secreted its dark ink. I watched as lilies bloomed around the dimpled dell of her navel, followed the filigree of an intricate necklace, an ingenious bracelet, an impossible amulet. My warm breath hovered in the air above her breasts, while the tool in my jeans bristled, longed, ached to be within her soft synthetic body.

“Careful, don‘t smudge her,” Gus warned. “She’s very wet.”

Monty d’Hortense giggled behind his civet-scented glove.

“Is this a private commission?” I swiftly asked. “For a special collector, a connoisseur of curiosa?”

“Much more than that,” Gus said sternly. “I mean to test the limits of men’s minds.”

His lips broke out into a broad grin, and then for a moment or more he looked and laughed a lot like a salty and seedy old seadog. Soon after he fell silent and for awhile we listened to the draught toying with the loose tiles.

Then, when the ink had dried, he took my hand and navigated it towards the lovely lady’s pudendum.

“Would you like to inspect the cove?” he asked me.

I nodded until the words dropped out.

“Would she mind?”

Monty giggled again behind his glove.

“I know she’d love it if you would,” Gus said.

“Then I will. I will only do as she wishes. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“Quite so,” he said, easing my fingers inside.

“Oh Salome!” I breathed as I closed my eyes and played with the bits and bobs that Gus had so exquisitely put in place.

Time seemed to stretch like a piece of chewing gum while my fingers were in there, and then fall apart suddenly when the tool in my jeans gave up the ghost of all modesty and secretly secreted its sticky sex juice.

“I could tell she loved you for it by the look on both your faces,” Gus whispered to me.

“Can I use your bathroom?”

“Of course.”

I pushed past him quickly as the warm liquid dribbled down my leg.

“Oh, by the way, Fannings!” he called after me. I stopped and turned. He was looking at me over his pince-nez. “Are you a virgin?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I said, are you still a virgin?”

“What kind of question is that?”

He looked at Monty, as if seeking reassurance, and then back at me. “You see, it’s the smell.”

“The smell?”

He seemed to be on the verge of smiling. “The smell that you give off.”

“What smell?”

He thought for a moment, took the pince-nez off his nose. “The smell of roses and sweat. It has a lot to do with sexual tension and virginity in particular.”

Monty nodded in agreement.

“Is this a joke?” They were both looking at me, but they didn’t say anything. “I’ve never heard such bollocks in all my life!” I told them and stormed off to the bathroom.

When I came back they were sitting at a computer in a corner of the room. I went across to them and looked over their shoulders. At first I thought it was a computer game they were playing, but it turned out to be a short film that someone had uploaded to a website. A few individuals dressed from head to toe in combat gear, faces hidden by black balaclavas, came on carrying pistols and saluted to the camera. They went off and reappeared with about half a dozen young men wearing hooded jackets and baggy jeans; their wrists and ankles had been tied with some kind of flex.

What came next was hard to believe. Those in hooded jackets were lined up and made to bend over. Suddenly their jeans were pulled down. I stared at the line of muscular thighs and bare buttocks as one of the individuals dressed in combat gear went along the line and cut off all the hoods. Then, with an efficiency that suggested routine procedure, he went back along the line stuffing all the hoods up those tightly scrunched sphincters. When he had finished, he stepped back out of the way while the other two poured the contents of several jerrycans over the bodies. I could almost smell the petrol. The makeshift wicks dangled down somewhat ridiculously. Once they were lit it was a matter of seconds before the bodies went up in flames; each one twisting violently and then falling to the floor.

“Sorry, I forgot the sound,” Gus said, pushing up the volume. “It takes a bit of getting used to.”

The density of the screaming was overwhelming and went on and on until Gus muted the sound. From time to time I’d had to look away, but I noticed from the stats that the film had been viewed thousands and thousands of times. Eventually the screen went black and a caption came up in big bold letters: YOU HAVE BEEN WATCHING PAYBACK TIME.

“Nobody should have to suffer like that,” I heard myself say. “Not even those bastards.”

Those horrible images were still flickering inside my head. Going round and round like one of those old-fashioned zoetrope things.

“Suffer what?” I heard Gus say in that mournful tone of his. He said it again. “Suffer what?”

Slowly the images began to fade. My eyes blinked open. There was a ceiling up above me. A white wilderness of polystyrene.

“Where am I?”

“In my studio,” Gus said.

He was standing over me because I was lying on my back staring up at him. I looked down and realised I was on top of a wooden workbench.

“What am I doing here? Where’s Salome?”

“Salome? There‘s no one here called Salome.”

“What do you mean? What have you done with her? You evil genius!”

Gus looked at Monty and raised his eyebrows. Monty came closer. His vermilion waistcoat shimmered before my eyes.

“Take it easy, Fannings. There’s a good chap.”

He offered me his snuff box.

“No, Monty. You’re as bad as he is. You’ve got a violent streak. I bet the pair of you masturbate all day long to those bare arses and burning bodies. You sick bastards!”

Gus slapped me hard across the face. The pain shot through my head. I tried to get up but he pushed me back down.

“What burning bodies?” he asked.

“The ones in that line-up. The ones you keep watching on your computer.”

“I don’t have a computer.”

“What do you mean?” I propped myself up on my elbows and looked around. I could not see it in any of the corners. “You’ve hidden it. You’re both lying to me. You didn‘t come here from Paris just to see a teapot. You came from hell! What do you want with me?”

“We’re not hiding anything from you,” said Gus calmly. “Now just relax.”

“How can I relax when I know what Prince Carlo wants to do.”

“What does he want to do?” said Gus.

“He wants to control people through music. Through silent music.”

I heard them laugh. They were both laughing at me. Their faces were screwed up with laughter. The laughter got louder and louder. Another one of the loose tiles dropped off the ceiling in the commotion.

I laid back down. The laughter faded. Monty took hold of my hand. He started patting it.

“I don’t understand what’s happening, Monty. Where‘s Salome? I need her now!”

The images were coming back. Flashing up in front of my eyes. The white ceiling was like a screen. The bare bodies and the burning bodies. Twisting and screaming. Firm and muscular. Spewing up their guts and shitting on the floor.

“Just relax,” said Monty. “You’ve had a bit of a turn, that’s all.”

Gus looked at me. He sniffed the air as he looked down at me. Now he was smiling to himself, rubbing his beard with his fingertips. I tried but I could not see the ink stains. Somewhere in that tangled mess inside my head I heard his voice.

“Fannings,” he was saying, “what you need is a nice cup of tea.”

14. THE AFRICAN MARIGOLD DRAWING ROOM

“Oh, it’s you,” he muttered.

He seemed somewhat out of breath, a tad dishevelled, and enormously irritated to find me standing on his doorstep in the dark.

“Yes,” I replied. “It’s me. I thought I’d just pop round.”

Bill Waterhouse lowered the candle until the saucer it was stuck to was level with his bearded chin. A De Morgan dragon breathing crimson fire chased its tail around the circumference.

“I suppose you’d better come in then.”

I stepped over the threshold and he closed the door behind me. I followed him across the shadows in the entrance hall, involuntarily glancing at the merchandise stands, sensing that though many larks’ tongues were moist over there, tired eyes were fast asleep in the foliage.

We climbed the thickly carpeted staircase, trampling over thickets of thistles and throstles. On we went, along a dimly lit corridor with oak panelling, passing the stillness of the Brother Rabbit Room and the emptiness of the Strawberry Thief Bar, until we reached a door at the far end. He turned the acorn-shaped knob.

“Welcome to the African Marigold Drawing Room,” he said quietly, yet triumphantly.

He went ahead of me and I watched him cross the room and rest the saucer on a small octagonal table next to the yawning sofa.

“Would you excuse me, please,” he said half-turning, almost bowing. “There‘s something I must attend to.” He blew out the candle.

“Yes, of course,” I replied.

He exited swiftly, leaving me standing there feeling rather surprised to be left alone this soon. For a time I gazed around the room at the elegant furnishings; at the rush-seated chairs, the oak bureau and bookcases, and that charming sideboard with its bottle glazed doors and copper strap hinges: all of it so beautifully made. But there was something about that wallpaper. The swirling garlands, the fanfares of sepia stamens, the teeming grey petalwork, perhaps; something about it that was making me feel queasy, not cosy. Finally, after not much thought, I decided to go. I had to get out of here while I could. Before Bill came back.

I had noticed another door on the other side of the room. I turned the knob. Found myself in a very small space with the light already on. I closed the door behind me. Sniffed the air. It was piny and mossy and generally the smell of Bill. There was a small white cabinet on one of the white walls, nothing else. I opened its door. Saw all manner of paraphernalia pertaining to shaving and the brushing of teeth. Behind these things was a mirror; at least I thought it was a mirror. But when I cleared a space large enough to look into, it was not my face that I saw. What I saw in that glass was the top of a head; a mass of blonde hair moving this way and that, as if swaying to an inaudible rhythm. And beneath the blonde hair, a body, a young body. I glimpsed it at an angle. Could not take my eyes off it. My body ached for more. My mind could not keep up. Robed in glistening soap bubbles it moved to the rhythm. I swallowed hard. A jet of water washed away some of the bubbles. Shoulders, smooth and tanned, rose up before my eyes, moved to the rhythm. Another jet of water came and went, sent bubbles scrambling down a back, an arm, a hip, a leg, all moving to the rhythm.

Suddenly there was a loud knock on the door. I closed the cabinet. The part of my brain nearing take-off ran out of runway, crashed and burned up in an instant.

“What are you doing in there?” said a voice.

I stood still, staring at the cabinet, at its matt white surface, hardly daring to breathe. Any moment now I knew the door would fly open, and I knew who I would see standing there. Sure enough it did. I turned quickly and there was Bill Waterhouse in his tweed jacket and his old gold waistcoat. He was eyeing me intently.

“Hello Bill,” I said as casually as I could.

“I didn‘t say you could go in there. What were you up to in there?”

“Getting a drink of water. I’m feeling unwell.”

He leaned forward and cast his eyes around the small room as if he had never seen it before. Sniffed the air. Then looked straight at me.

“You won’t find any water in there. No sink or taps, you see.”

“I know. But I was wondering whether there might be some bottled water in the cabinet.”

His eyes sharpened. “Did you touch that cabinet?”

“No,” I said backing away. “I didn‘t.”

“Good. Good boy.” His tone was softer now, less menacing. He forced a smile. “It doesn’t do to go messing around with other people’s things, does it?”

“No, of course not.”

He lowered his gaze and stepped aside. After I was out of the way he switched off the light and locked the door. Something metallic dangling on the end of his keyring momentarily caught my eye before it disappeared in his waistcoat pocket. It was more like a tank, a gun, than a teapot; a silver thing about the size of a shilling. He looked across at me. I think he was about to say something else when his attention shifted elsewhere.

A young man dressed in a red silk shirt and black jeans had just wandered into the room, whistling loudly. He was carrying a tray with three cups and saucers and a teapot in the shape of a fabulous beast. I racked my brains but I could not think which one.

“Oh, there you are!” Bill said, glancing over his shoulder.

Suddenly he looked bright and breezy. He sped across the room and cleared some things off an oval table. The young man watched him fuss around, then put down the tray noisily.

“I don’t think you’ve met Master Welter, have you?” he said turning to me.

“No, not officially.”

“We’ve seen each other around though,” Master Welter drawled.

He blew a bubble with the chewing gum that was rotating in his mouth. I watched it swell and then disappear as he sucked it back inside.

“I’ve told you about that before,” Bill said, shaking his head, pretending to be angry. “You know perfectly well it kills the taste of the tea.” He looked across at me. “Sometimes it’s like talking to a brick wall, you know.” He looked back at Master Welter and touched his forearm. I saw the dreamy look that Bill gave him and sensed that intercrural activities were on the agenda now that he had said goodbye to his beautiful unfaithful wife. “Come on, let’s have it.” Bill laughed. Master Welter opened his mouth and let the blob of chewing gum fall into Bill’s palm. “Right, then. I shall toddle off and get two glasses of water. One for you to rinse your mouth and the other for Fannings here,“ he glanced at me sharply, “who apparently is unwell.”

I felt a strong sense of relief when he had gone, as if windows had been thrown open and a gust of fresh air had blown into the room. Even the wallpaper seemed renewed, much friendlier, more inviting. I like to think that Master Welter felt the same way, but you can never really tell what other people are thinking. One thing was certain though, he was not shy in coming forward. Before, when I had seen him cosying up to Bill or Freddie Clayton, he seemed boyish, foppish even; a pretty foil for all their arty-farty faffing around. Now, here in this situation, one-to-one with me, it was hard to believe he was the same person. Now, he was youthful, yet somehow older and more manly.

Instinctively, it seemed, we moved closer. It was the first time we had been alone together. And as we approached from opposite sides of the room, even before a word was said, it dawned on me that he was the handsomest fellow I had ever clapped eyes on. Tall, tanned, trim in his close-fitting shirt, striking to behold. The self-confidence oozed out of him, and I stood there eager to lap it up. No, this was not love at first sight. This was beyond that. This was adoration. Charisma, magnetism, call it what you will, this kid had it, and he knew it, and he knew how to use it. Fortunately, the fool inside me did not rush in. I kept my cool, kept my distance. At least I tried to.

“Fannings, your flies are undone,” was the first thing he said to me in that lovely lazy drawl. No, he was certainly not shy in coming forward.

“Really?”

“Yeah, really,” he drawled.

I looked down. Saw part of my polka dot shirt sticking out. I poked it back in and zipped up.

“Thanks. I like your hat. I bet you didn’t get that off Walthamstow market.”

It was a pork pie. Neat, stylish, dark brown, really suited him. He laughed. I liked his teeth too. White and even. Fresh.

“No, Bill bought it for me.”

“I see. Does he buy you lots of things, Master Welter?”

“Ricky,” he corrected me. “Call me Ricky.” Ricky Welter leaned forward, jerked his head. The hat somersaulted into his hand. A mass of blonde hair cascaded down. “Bill says I should get it cut. What do you think?”

He looked up at me through the hair. I swallowed hard. Frot was on my mind.

“Depends what style you’re going for.”

“Guess so,” he drawled. He brought his head upright, gathered up the hair and pulled it back behind his ears. Turned to profile. “What style do you reckon I should go for, man?”

“A bob, maybe,” I said, admiring the sleek jaw.

“Holy shit! No way, man. That’s for chicks.”  He let the hair go, let it fall around his shoulders.

“An Eton crop then.”

“What’s that?”

“Shorter. Shorter at the back with more on top, I think.”

He looked doubtful. He scrunched his eyes and furrowed his brow like a film star. I sensed that his attention might be wandering. He was gazing around. When he blinked even his eyelids were tanned.

“This wallpaper gives me the creeps,” he said, putting the hat back on, pushing the hair up inside.

“I know what you mean. A bit too busy.”

“Yeah, right. That’s exactly right. Too busy. You’re good with words, Fannings. I’ve heard you use them before. Long ones that I don’t understand. Anyway, I don’t like Bill’s wallpapers or his tapestries. All those birds with beady eyes. It’s like they’re looking at you all the time. Checking you out. Scary, man.”

He laughed. I saw those teeth again, those lovely white teeth. I wanted teeth like that. Teeth to be proud of. Teeth you could take anywhere. A set of shiny teeth for all occasions and all eventualities. You have a great mouth, is what I wanted to say, but discretion got the better of me.

“You have a great imagination, Ricky.”

“Really?”

I nodded my head. “I like that shirt.”

“Cheers. It’s real silk.”

“Did Bill buy it?”

“Nah, he made it.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really. He’s a brilliant craftsman. So good with his hands.”

He paused; and it was as though I could see the cogs and wheels of his young mind turning over, processing a thought which had just popped into his head, and now he was wondering whether to pick it up and run with it, or put it back down and leave it in the lumber-room where the old thoughts go. The moment he smiled to himself I knew he was going to run with it.

“You see that door over there?” He was looking across the room. I twisted round. “Have you ever been through there?”

“No, I haven‘t.”

“Well, there’s a small room through there. Really small. Bill keeps the door locked all the time.”

“Does he?”

“Yeah. But there was one time when he didn’t. He left the key in the door by mistake and I went through there. You know, just to see what was on the other side.”

“Right.”

“Well, there’s just a cabinet in that room, and when I looked in the cabinet it was like looking into a mirror, except it wasn’t a mirror.” He stopped and reconsidered what he had just said. “No, actually it is a mirror but it’s kind of like a trick with mirrors, if you know what I mean?”

“I think so.”

“Anyway, when I looked into the mirror I didn’t see me. I saw someone else.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really.”

“Who did you see?”

“Bill.”

“Bill?” I tried to sound surprised.

“Yeah.”

“What was he doing?”

“Taking a shower.”

I tried to stop myself but I couldn’t help laughing.

“What’s so funny?” he asked.

“Sorry. I was just thinking. You know, Bill taking a shower. The mop of grey hair and the pot belly.”

“Yeah, well it gets worse,” he said, lowering his voice. “He was giving it a tug.”

He made a circle with his thumb and forefinger and moved it up and down against his flies.

“Did you watch him, you know.” I could hardly bring myself to say it, but knew I had to, now that I could picture a pot belly smothered in soap suds and semen. “Did you watch him blow his load?”

“Holy shit! No way, man! Are you serious?” He backed away from me. “I was out of there in no time. What do you take me for?”

I didn’t know what I took him for. I didn’t know what game he was playing here, or why he was teasing me like this. But I wanted to find out. Knew I needed to follow him further down the road he was taking us.

“Sorry. No offence meant. But, you know, some folks like to watch, don’t they?”

“Hey, what are you accusing me of?”

“I’m not accusing you of anything,” I said defensively. “You’re a good-looking guy and maybe Bill likes to watch you in the shower.”

“Me in the shower? Hey, hang on a minute, man. I said it was him in the shower, not me.”

“Well, you stay over sometimes, don’t you?”

He nodded hesitantly. “Well, sometimes, I guess. Yeah.”

“Well, maybe you like to freshen up when you stay over. Push the soap suds around. So old Bill thought he’d leave the door unlocked once in awhile. He watches you, you watch him. You know, a little bit of reciprocation.”

“Whoa! Whoa!” He raised his hands in the air. He was looking flushed. “I don’t much like the way this conversation’s going. I thought you were a cool guy, Fannings.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really. I thought you were a man of substance. I thought we were getting something going here.”

I swallowed hard. Frot was on my mind again. “What kind of thing?”

“Something meaningful, maybe. But now it seems you’re just like those sleazy jerks who write to me on the net. I thought you were different to the others.”

“What others?”

“My fans, of course!”

“Your fans?”

The words had hardly left my startled lips when Bill Waterhouse came back into the room looking like a man transformed. He was wearing a white robe with a huge maroon lily embossed on the front. He had even back-combed his hair and plaited his beard. In his hands he carried a tray with two glasses of water, three cups and saucers and a teapot in the shape of a satyr.

“Holy shit!“ Ricky gasped. “What’s with the robe, Bill?”

Bill ignored him and put down the tray. “Boys, boys, come to me, my boys!” he exclaimed, throwing wide his arms like some medieval magus.

Slowly we walked towards him.

“Is this some kind of joke?” Ricky laughed.

But Bill was not laughing. Far from it. He brought his hands together solemnly and the room went dark. Then out of darkness a thousand glowing marigolds shed their soft light. It was like the wallpaper had come to life and we were standing in the middle of a meadow in the dawn light with birdsong all around us. We sat down on the sofa. We watched him pick up the tail of the teapot. Slowly, carefully, he poured the tawny liquid through the flared nostrils of that grotesque, grinning creature. When he stepped back the steam hovered about the cups like a jewelled mist.

“Now,” he said, turning to us. His face was calm and composed. “Let us explore the mysteries of Oolong.”

15. SHOOTING THE BREEZE

I had a dream last night. I wrote it down in my notebook.

I was in an aeroplane flying round and round over Bill Waterhouse’s landscape gardens. The aeroplane was one of those old biplanes from the early days of flying. But it wasn’t a full-size plane. It was like one of those children’s fairground amusements that go round and round on a track. Needless to say, I was awfully cramped in there. My knees were up under my chin and I was hunched over in the small cockpit. But I had my helmet and my goggles on, so I felt reasonably safe. Down I would swoop in a nosedive towards all those people; for there were thousands of them waving and cheering below. Then, when I could see the whites of their eyes, I would pull a lever and the plane would shoot back up into the sky. Higher and higher it went, slicing through the clouds. From time to time I did a barrel roll and the whole thing flipped over. That was the scariest part; when the sick gushed out of my mouth and the shit slopped over the sides of the cockpit. I watched it fall like rain on to the upturned faces of the crowd. But they didn’t seem to mind because they were having such fun.

But I was not there to have fun. No, I had a job to do. Attached to the back of my plane was a banner that unfurled in the wind. In big bold letters it said: RICKY WELTER & SOMETHING BIG. For there he was, down there on the temporary stage with his backing band, singing in his black silk shirt and his black jeans. Each time he shook his hips the crowd went crazy. He was like someone from the early days of rock ‘n roll.

Once, when I swooped down, he told me we could chat. So I hovered to the side.

“It’s the middle eight,” he drawled as the saxes honked behind. “Let’s shoot the breeze.”

I was ashamed of my sick-encrusted lips but he didn’t seem to mind.

“You look fantastic!” I shouted, not really knowing what to say. “The band‘s so tight tonight!”

“Yeah, but we need to make some changes.”

“Personnel?”

“No, tax. Too many rich folks getting off lightly. We need to tighten loopholes tightly. By the way, love your fragrance, Fannings. What is it?”

“I forget. I don‘t remember.” My head was in a muddle. I could not cope with his compliment.

“Something floral.” He shook his hips. “Something spicy.” The crowd went crazy. “Man, that juice of yours is yummy!”

“Is there much time left?” I asked him, almost in a panic.

“One bar, I think. You see that?” He pointed to the blood red sky.

“Yeah, I see it, Ricky.”

“That’s my lucky star, my destiny. There’s no time left. I gotta go!”

He moved away and I shot upwards, bursting through the clouds.

16. THROUGH A GLASS FROSTILY

One morning when I was alone in the house, upstairs in the bathroom taking a shower, pushing the soap suds around, there came an almighty bang on the window. The whole bathroom seemed to shake with the force of it. That part of my brain pondering the contours and complexities of Ricky Welter froze over in an instant. I glanced sideways. A mulberry-coloured lump with pale extremities had fallen against the frosted glass.

“What the hell is going on?” I screamed, instinctively going into a crouch.

Something thin and rubbery was rapidly moving up and down before my eyes, squeaking as it went.

“I’m cleaning your filthy windows, that‘s what,“ a whiny voice replied. “Prince Carlo’s hired me.”

I recognised the voice immediately, though I hadn’t heard it for a long time. But who could forget a bespectacled bastard like Terry Rodgers?

“How dare you look in on my ablutions!” I was shaking with rage. The water beating down on my back like some biblical rain.

“Don’t you take that tone with me,” he said. His nose and lips were now horribly squashed against the pane. “From where I’m standing I’d say you had a short fuse.”

I lowered my hands quickly and the soap slipped out and slalomed down the other end of the bath.

“I thought you belonged to Bill Waterhouse. Behind his pay desk. Sod off Rodgers and flog some tea towels!”

“I don’t belong to anyone anymore,” he replied. “I’m my own man now and I’m juggling two part-time jobs. You’ve got to be flexible these days.” That thin rubbery thing squeaked again as he scraped it from side to side. “And if you want my honest opinion, this frosted glass is barely adequate. You need to wax those hairy shoulders before Ricky Welter sees them.”

“Ricky Welter?” I gasped. “What do you know about Ricky Welter?”

“More than you, obviously. I‘ve seen the way you look at him when you‘re over at Bill‘s place.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I said stepping out of the bath and grabbing a towel.

“Ricky’s trouble. He’s a manipulator. He’s not what you think he is. Stay away from him, Fannings.”

“Bollocks!”

“It’s not bollocks,” he said shifting sideways on his ladder to wipe down a corner. “Believe me, that kid has Bill Waterhouse eating out of his hand. Poor Bill has been handing over obscene amounts of money to bankroll his pathetic pop career. That’s why he had to let me go.”

“Let you go? You mean he sacked you for being incompetent. I’ve seen the way you faff around while the queue builds up.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” he said, his mouth opening and closing behind the glass like some demented goldfish. “Ricky Welter is fuelled by hate.”

“No, Ricky is fuelled by ambition. One day he’ll be the brightest star in the heavens. His fans adore him because he has so much positive energy. Ricky boosts my confidence. He respects me. All the other people I know laugh at me behind my back.”

“Well I’m laughing at you in front of your face,” he said and his vile laughter vibrated against the window. “I bet he hasn’t told you about his hidden agenda?”

“What agenda?”

“All those dangerous ideas he has and how he plans to get his gullible fans to execute them.”

“What dangerous ideas?”

“You’ll find out soon enough,” he whined. “Did he tell you about his drug habit? The kid’s up to his eyebrows in Quaaludes. And I bet you didn’t know we used to be lovers?”

“Lovers!” The man was clearly crazy. “What would Ricky Welter want with a turd like you?”

“I had him every night when we shared the single bed in the Brother Rabbit Room.” His yellowy tongue rolled out and licked those slavering lips. “That was back in the good old days when we were an item. Before that meathead got too big for his Chelsea boots.”

“You’re just jealous, Rodgers. You’re just trying to bring him down because he’s a somebody and you’re a nobody. Now sling your hook, loser!”

I’d had enough of this. I wanted rid of him and his repulsive talk. All those poisonous lies he was feeding me about Ricky were turning my stomach. And the very sight of him out there pressed against the window was doing my head in. An idea suddenly surfaced in my mind that was so glaringly obvious that I almost rejected it. I offered him my body. Slowly I removed the towel and walked towards the window. “Come on, Terry,” I said. “Cop a load of that!” I stood there, showing him everything, rubbing my tool, telling him that he could have me as many times as he wanted under the shower with the water beating down on our feverish bodies. I thrust my hips at him. He licked his lips. I thrust my hips again and a wave of excited obscenities gushed out of that disgusting mouth. Then I did the one thing that he did not expect to happen. I opened the window, and with such speed that it caught him unawares.

Pale fingers scrabbling at the edges of the window framed a look of fading excitement now burning up with anger. It was riveting to behold. I kept on shaking the window. I kept on beating the backs of his hands with my knuckles. Again and again until his fingers finally fell away and the whole mulberry-coloured edifice collapsed. Down and down he went, hitting the concrete with a dull thud. The wooden ladder crashed on top of him and broke apart.

For awhile I stood there trembling, watching through a narrow gap in the open window, gathering my thoughts, listening to the drone of the traffic. No pedestrian passed by. No neighbouring curtain twitched. The only movement down there was a puddle of blood that was slowly spreading out from underneath his head.

In my own head I had it all worked out. I would go back to bed and sleep it off. Pretend I had no knowledge of it. Eventually someone would find him and decide it was one big sad accident waiting to happen. It goes with the territory. It’s an occupational hazard. Window cleaners fall off ladders every day with death in their eyes.

I went back to bed. But in my dreams I was still struggling with him. Two figures trapped in a world of our own. Leaping across rooftops. Chasing down deserted streets and alleyways. Climbing pylons. The humid air buzzing with manic electricity. Heavy boots crushing fruit on the cobblestones. Huge black cloaks casting shadows under sodium lamps. Sometimes it would be him falling from the top of the tower, sometimes me. Always, our voices filling the blood red sky with cries of triumph and terror.

The next face I saw was Prince Carlo’s. He was standing over me, shaking me, waking me up.

“Have you seen this?” he was shouting in that rasping voice of his.

“What time is it?”

He had a newspaper in his hand.

“Have you seen this?” he shouted again.

“Feels like I’ve been asleep for ages.”

“What do you know about this?”

“Stop shouting, for goodness sake.”

Now he was pointing to something in the newspaper.

“What about this window cleaner?”

“What window cleaner?”

“The one I hired. The one who fell off a ladder outside our house this morning.”

“It’s my house.” I yawned loudly. Plumped up the pillow under my head. “Well, he should have been more careful.”

“There’s a lot of blood out there on the concrete. Did you know that?”

He was stroking his goatee, eyeing me intently. I knew the kind of thoughts that were going through his head as he looked at me. I could see the cogs and wheels spinning inside his hyperactive brain.

“Well, it’s got nothing to do with me. I’ve been asleep. I haven’t been outside the house today. Anyway, it’s an occupational hazard. A well-known fact.”

“What is?”

“That window cleaners fall to their deaths every day.”

“Who said anything about death?”

“I see.” I swallowed hard. “So he’s still alive then?”

“Just about. Thanks to Ricky Welter.”

“Ricky Welter?” I looked at him in amazement.

“You know, that talentless teenager who Bill and Freddie are pumping money into. Fancies himself as a pop singer.”

I bet that’s not all they’re pumping into him, is what I wanted to say, but discretion got the better of me.

“What‘s this got to do with Ricky Welter?”

“It says here in the evening paper that he was out jogging and found this window cleaner in our front yard and gave him a snog.”

“What?”

“The kiss of life.”

“Right, I see.”

“They’ve got him on a life-support machine in the local hospital.”

“Who, Ricky?”

“The window cleaner, you idiot.”

“How sad.”

“Didn’t you hear the ambulance arrive?”

“I told you I’ve been asleep.”

“Didn’t you hear the police ringing the doorbell?”

“Have they’ve been here?”

“They caught me outside the front door not long ago. Two plainclothes detectives. A bloke and a woman. They wanted to know if I knew anything about it.”

“About what?”

“This window cleaner!”

“What did you tell them?”

“I told them that I didn‘t know anything, that I‘d just got back from Gus Morose‘s studio.”

“I see.”

“They wanted to know if anyone else lived here.”

I swallowed hard. “What did you say?”

“I said you lived here, but that you were staying with your parents in Canada.”

“What did you tell them that for?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “It was the first thing that came into my head. I wanted to get rid of them.”

“I was only upstairs asleep. You could have called me. I would have come down.”

“How did I know you were upstairs pretending to be asleep?”

“I wasn’t pretending.”

“Anyway, we don’t want the police sniffing around here, poking their snouts into our affairs. Not with my perilous situation.”

“No, of course not. Do you think they‘ll come back?”

“I very much doubt it. They seemed to think it was a terrible accident. The stupid prick was using an old wooden ladder.”

“I guess he had to learn the hard way. Well, thanks, anyway.”

“Thanks for what?” he grinned.

“Thanks for taking care of that.”

“Yes, I reckon you owe me one.”

“Do I?”

“Yes,” he said, stepping out of his Suprematist shell suit.

Some time later, after I had licked him clean as a whistle, and he had done the same for me, he wandered over to the bedroom window and gazed out. The last rays of daylight glimmering through the net curtain made polka dot shadows on the Anaglypta.

“There are some strange things going on in Walthamstow,” he said pensively.

“Really? What kind of things?”

“Have you met Mr Malevich yet?”

“Who, the artist?” I shook my head. “No, never clapped eyes on him.”

“I saw him today while I was at the market.”

“I thought you hated Walthamstow market.”

“I do, but some interesting things have started to appear there recently.”

“Really? What kind of things?”

“Second-hand things.”

“What kind of second-hand things?”

“Specialist second-hand things. Anyway, Malevich was in one of the cafés over there with a bunch of his chums who have just arrived in Walthamstow. A very odd bunch indeed.”

“Well, you know artists. An eccentric lot at the best of times.”

“No, they weren’t artists.” He gave me a troubled glance. “I didn’t much like the look of them. So I kept away. Dressed all in red they were. Red masks and riding boots.”

17. ROSES AND SEAWEED

Freddie Clayton had clapped his well-kept hands and the air between them was still smarting from the collision.

“Ladies and gentlemen, your attention, please!” he called out in that honeyed voice of his.

“Ladies?” I whispered to Prince Carlo as I looked around the Silk Room Bar. “I can’t see any ladies.”

Lounging on silk cushions on a sumptuous Persian rug within the cosy screens of the zenana, we were to one side of the main gathering. For there were many faces there that night; most of whom I did not know, at least not yet. Some there I did recognise like Bill Waterhouse, Monty d’Hortense, Gus Morose; even Johnny Carver acknowledged me with a slow nod of his curly white head. He was sitting next to an elderly gent in a corduroy suit. Behind them a frieze of dolphins frolicked in a glittering sea of azure, grey and gold.

Prince Carlo did not reply. He ignored me. He was busy peering through a small telescope, down through the mahogany lattice-work of the zenana into the Oriental Hall. Meanwhile, Freddie went on peregrinating and perorating. He was standing in the spotlight in a caramel-striped linen suit in the middle of the small stage.

“Please welcome to my dream house someone who needs no introduction!” he announced with a sudden dramatic gesture towards the wings.

He stepped aside. The spotlight went out, leaving the stage dark and empty. There was a brief ripple of applause, then everything went quiet. Suddenly the spotlight came on again, shone down on to the middle of the stage. For a time dust particles danced in the beam like fireflies. Then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, a figure appeared, wrapped in a hooded garment, shuffling, dragging itself out of the shadows. When, finally, it reached the beam of light there was an explosion of colour.

Colours, too many and too vivid to take in at one time. Yellows, orange, violet, emerald, silver, reds, always the strongest and deepest of reds, zigzagging and criss-crossing the silken surface of some kind of kimono, iridescent in the light. I held my breath. Toyed with the oily olives in the turquoise bowl at my fingertips. The figure stopped, stood before us, the hood hanging down over its face. From within the garment it produced a darkly mottled bamboo flute. Held it out, almost at arms length, and in the hooded darkness pressed it to its lips.

Sounds, cold but beautiful, escaped into the air, eerie and ethereal in the manner of their meandering. Windswept we were. Drenched in a spray of split tones. Shivering, spilling over. Beached. Out of reach. Falling down the back of our desires.

Prince Carlo nudged me in the ribs. I looked across. He handed me the small telescope, discreetly pointing to the wooden screen behind us. Twisting round I pressed the thing to my eye. Saw her standing there below in the marble fountain: full and firm, pendulous, a melodrama of auburn hair abandoned over fleshy shoulders.

“Who is she?” I breathed. “Give me a name to conjure with.”

Prince Carlo took away the telescope.

“Lust is perilous if it cannot be sated,” he whispered, noticing the swelling in my jeans. “Sexual tension is the second most potent force on the planet.”

“What’s the most potent?” I dared to ask.

“That‘s for me to know and you to find out,” he grinned.

We stood up and together we slipped away from the cosiness of the Silk Room Bar. We drifted down a marble staircase, passing the potted palms and peacock feathers and Freddie’s abundant artwork. Halfway down a strange smell came floating up towards us. Partly seaweed, partly roses. We let it lead us by our noses.

“What fragrance is this?” I asked him feeling heady.

For we had entered the Oriental Hall. I gazed up into the dizzying expanse of the golden dome and my senses shifted sideways.

“Ambergris.”

“Ambergris?”

We kept to the edge, hugged the ruby tiled wall: its blooms, its fruits, its feathered creatures, its unfathomable patterns.

“From the intestinal tract of the sperm whale,” he explained.

One of the brass pomanders winked at me as I approached it in the amber light. I peered inside, saw the strange stuff smouldering on gimbals.

“I should like to spend the rest of my days inside a brass pomander balanced on gimbals,” I told him whimsically.

He was shaking his head in the region of disbelief.

“Enough of this flimflammery. Behave yourself in the presence of a lady.”

“What lady?”

I had clean forgotten, such was the headiness of that sticky secretion. And there, of course, she was, crouching naked in the marble fountain, its water jet tickling her pink petals. I moved towards her but Prince Carlo caught my arm.

“No, not now, not with her,” he cautioned. He ushered me away to a nearby divan exquisitely embroidered with irises and narcissi: velvety purples and creamy yellows dreamily interlaced with delicate blues and deep oranges. “Behold, the future is curvilinear.”

Whereupon there came a frothing between the lovely lady’s ankles. Wavelets rose up as she stooped to greet the visitors. Hard to believe they had slipped in through the tiniest of holes. Two of them there were. Arms and lots of them. Eight each. And so intelligent.

“The most intelligent invertebrate on the planet,” Prince Carlo whispered. “Their intelligence is legendary.”

“I had no idea.”

“And lovemaking.”

“Legendary?”

“The most sensitive invertebrate on the planet,” he confided. “They mate once, then they’re pretty much flotsam.”

Oh how sensitive they were, those octopuses! Working together as if their liquid lives depended on it. Swept her off her feet you might say. Cradled she was in all those arms with all those suction cups so delicately placed.

“The rim of the cups is especially sensitive,” he sighed.

Nipples loved it. You could see and sense that. How they hardened to the gentlest of the fondling. And their horny beaks were so…Horny! They were in the thick of it. Opened her wide. Every orifice catered to and all that radular activity up inside. We thought she’d burst asunder from the probing and the stroking. It was riveting to behold.

Then came the shout going out. Joyously up and up it went. We thought the roof would come away. The colours she changed them when her commotion ricocheted inside the dome. The two of them, startled somewhat, their supple skins shimmering manganese purple, then bole red and greyish green.

Next came quiet and stillness. Auburn strands and limp limbs floating like seaweed. The two of them, so still, we thought she’d broken their hearts.

“An octopus has three hearts,” Prince Carlo said pensively. “That’s an awful lot of broken hearts.”

We left the divan and wandered over, stared into those sentient octopus eyes.

“What do you see there?” he asked me.

I looked long and hard into filmy eyes that were looking back at me but could not find an answer.

Meanwhile, upstairs, where they were sipping chrysanthemum tea, the shakuhachi player played on and the silk trembled in the Silk Room Bar.

18. HIGH UP ON HIGH HOLBORN

Edges. He was all edges that night. I’d never seen him look so edgy. Where were we when it all went wrong? High up on High Holborn. All that way away from my humble Walthamstow abode. How we got there, I don’t remember. But there we were with the distant drone of the West End traffic further up ahead of us. Stuck in a pea-souper so thick and yellowy that I could barely see Prince Carlo’s face staring up at me. I think we were about to cut through Great Turnstile, an august name for an insignificant little passage off the long main road. A place to shelter from the cold wind that was blowing. A narrow place between office blocks to cower like a frightened child.

The lady in black. She was the cause of it. When she turned up unexpectedly like that he went to pieces. Fell apart in front of my eyes. Before, he had been buoyant. His usual flamboyant self. I had never known anyone to be so intriguing and so fatiguing at one and the same time. When he walked into a room a whirlwind was waiting to happen. It was a pleasure and a pain to be caught up in it. Always the same. Never one without the other.

When that lady suddenly stepped out of the fog she was like a spectre. In fact she was a spectre. The only real thing about her was the effect she had on both of us. Moving like a catwalk model across the pavement with her classy coiffured hair and her stylish leather coat and her tight black skirt showing off those endlessly long legs. The sublime stilettos upon which all this loveliness was so seductively poised pushed me over the edge. My head was in such a spin and the tool in my jeans as upright as the lamppost I was leaning on. Prince Carlo, well, he was facing the other way, having stopped to tie a shoelace. He didn’t see her coming, though he heard her soon enough. When she spoke it was a different scenario altogether. My tool went as limp as his laces.

I had never heard authority emanate from such pretty lips. She called out his name in all its historical floridity, intoning it like one long accusation. Reminded him of his atrocious crime and the punishment awaiting him, crushing any hope of redemption that still nestled inside him. The cruel part of me loved every second of it; watching him lying on his back like some wretched, wriggling insect looking up at her in fear and desperation. That part of me wanted to see him suffer, piss himself out of abject misery to make up for all the times he’d made me feel worthless and scared shitless. The other part of me felt pity for him, as one does for a truculent friend in need, or for a crawling insect the moment before one squashes it.

Nothing could have prepared Prince Carlo for that terrifying encounter.

“You will speak of this to no one!” he rasped at me when she had vanished back into the fog.

“That was your wife, wasn’t it? I mean, the ghost of your wife. What a beautiful woman. I would do anything to have a beautiful woman like that.”

I was almost breathless with admiration, and he was lying on the pavement looking pale and haggard like someone whose past has caught up with them. Then he went to pieces, sobbing like a child. I held him in my arms, did my best to comfort him. But there was nothing I could say to alleviate his fear of eternal damnation, so I fellated him there in that dingy alley as the fog enveloped us: urged him to spew his bitter lava into my grateful mouth. And when he reached his pinnacle, his trembling voice cried out: “Dolor meus!” And the walls of Great Turnstile resounded with his despair.

“It’s cold. I think we should get a move on,” I said eventually.

“Yes, we need to get to Joanesy’s place.”

Joanesy’s place. Yes, that was why we were high up on High Holborn on that inclement foggy night. Prince Carlo had mentioned his name many times; sought his advice and sung his praises for his wisdom and good nature, but I had never been introduced to Joanesy. Needless to say, I was keen to make his acquaintance.

Slowly, arm-in-arm, we made our way down to the end of Great Turnstile and came out opposite the large square. I shuddered as we beheld the trees in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Dark and dense and full of saturnine suspense. We did not hang around to see what might be in store for us but moved off along the pavement in front of the grand buildings. We halted when we came to the steps of number 13.

I had not realised that triskaidekaphobia was among my many ailments, but the implications of that unlucky number were still heavy on my mind when the front door finally opened.

“Joanesy! Joanesy!” he cried and fell into his corduroy arms.

“My dear Prince Carlo. At last you are here, albeit not in good shape,“ said Joansey struggling to support him. He had the poshest voice I had ever heard. “And you must be Fannings?”

“Yes,” I said, shaking hands with him over Prince Carlo’s shoulder. “I have been eager to meet you.”

“Thank you so much for accommodating him in your home.” He gave me a sympathetic smile. “It is much appreciated.”

Together we manoeuvred Prince Carlo huffing and puffing up the narrow hallway. Then Joanesy left us sitting either side of a tall moon phase clock while he went back to close the front door. I watched him standing there, gazing out across the dark square in his baggy corduroy suit. Moments passed in porphyry light. The cold air came in, followed by the fog. Above our heads, saintly faces glowed in stained glass and plaster roses clung to the walls. High up on a plinth, like some gigantic trophy, a girl’s beautiful torso proffered melons most memorable.

Eventually Joanesy shut the door. The smell of fish wafted in from some other room. He stood on the doormat facing us: elderly, thin-featured, kindly, yet troubled.

“Voices,” he said abstractedly.

“What voices?” I asked him.

“Vengeful voices.”

“Where?”

“Coming through the trees from that place over there.”

“What place?”

“Only when it is dark.”

Tell me more, is what I wanted to say, but discretion got the better of me. He walked towards us, suddenly forcing a smile as if to break the suspense that was becoming native to the house.

“You,” he said, playfully poking Prince Carlo in the ribs. “The birthday boy, follow me. There are people here to meet and greet.”

With all these troubles going on I had forgotten it was his birthday. I didn’t dare ask him how old he was. Anyway, somehow he seemed beyond age, and beyond caring. He looked up and straightened up suddenly. The colour had returned to his cheeks. He gave me a self-satisfied smile as he sniffed the air.

“I smell sprats,” he sighed.

19. IN PORPHYRY LIGHT

“I’m sure there must be, Johnny,” I said as I poured another ladleful of steaming cream of sprat soup into my bowl.

Johnny Carver pensively fingered the tip of his stubbly chin.

“Yes, one imagines there should be, young Fannings. Damned if I can think of it though.” He waved his hand at Prince Carlo who wandered over towards us. “You’re the expert in these matters PC.”

“PC?” I gasped.

I had never heard such informality. Johnny Carver gave me a puzzled look and recommenced.

“What’s the collective noun for a group of sprats?” he asked him.

Prince Carlo eyed Johnny warily, suspecting tomfoolery. He was sporting the first of many birthday presents: a marvellous silk waistcoat courtesy of Bill Waterhouse, shimmering with interwoven herons and sprats and heron beaks stuffed with sprats, swimming and feeding in a gallimaufry of frothy blues, translucent silvers, steely greys and pupillar blacks.

“Do you toy with me, sir?” he replied with a wink.

Johnny Carver guffawed volcanically, jogging my arm as I sipped another spoonful. I watched it descend creamily on to the sleeve of his red velvet suit.

Several of those nearby heard the laughter and turned their heads towards us. Joanesy came over and we gave him the gen.

“Anyone know the collective noun for a group of sprats?” he called out.

There was much shrugging of shoulders and shaking of heads in the dining room where we were gathered. Finally a bold voice bellowed: “A surfeit of sprats!”

It was Harry Fuseli, who else, posing in one of his sharp Italian suits with his shock of blonde hair liberally gelled. Clutching a pint pot of Hougicha to a burgundy silk shirt, he was obviously having a whale of a time. Prince Carlo had told me all about him. Said he was a cocky little fucker who courted controversy by painting sensationalist shite: weird shite, kinky shite. It was rumoured that he did a lot of work for private collectors; even Bill Waterhouse had one of his exquisite pencil drawings tucked away in an oak bureau: a gentleman with three ladies ingeniously arranged. It was also rumoured that he ate raw meat and hunks of Stilton before going to bed so that his fertile brain would be ravaged by nightmares. Anyway, when Harry Fuseli opened his big gob we all looked at each other in amazement, knowing this was no way to talk about Prince Carlo’s favourite fish. However, Harry did have a point. For many sprats had made their way to Joanesy’s place that night. Some smoked ones had come well-oiled from the Baltic, others were dusted with the finest flour and fried or dipped in mayonnaise, while the choicest few had been marinated in sage and tarragon and red wine vinegar, then served with caper sauce.

Sensing trouble, Joanesy looked across at Monty d’Hortense, who quickly stepped forward with his and Gus Morose’s present. Conceived of by the former, sculpted by the latter, two intertwined figures lay upon a plinth: Prince Carlo and that flame-haired woman, whose name still escaped me, the seductress of the cephalopods. How we marvelled at the verisimilitude of the features and the audacity of their depiction: merman and mermaid, fine-boned and sprat-tailed. Prince Carlo held them aloft and the tears ran down his cheeks as the smooth Kashgar jade sparkled in the candlelight.

“A toast!” cried Billy Burges raising his jewelled prick glass.

“A toast to Prince Carlo!” cried Freddie Clayton. “To the greatest composer of them all!”

Thereafter, and many pints of Hougicha later, Joanesy clapped his hands and we fell silent in anticipation.

“Follow me, if you will,” he announced.

Follow him, we did. For there was more than a tad of mystery in his voice and not to be resisted. I had never known a crocodile line of so many minds this memorable; a confraternity of so many sumptuously scented dandies. Even Arcimboldo and his lawyer, who had been fart-arsing around with the stripagram in the breakfast parlour, joined us as we went down.

Levels. I had never seen such a complicated place with so many staircases and passages and recesses and chambers. So many shelves and alcoves groaning with antiquities: Greek vases and Roman urns, Egyptian scarabs and Napoleonic medals, Peruvian pottery and Chinese ceramics. Dear old Joanesy, he was such a hoarder. A wise collector too, but so much dusty trash among the good things.

Prince Carlo, he was up ahead with Joanesy, closely followed by Harry Fuseli and Gus Morose. Me, I grabbed hold of Monty d’Hortense’s arm, because I could not think of a better arm to have hold of in such circumstances.

“Where’s Ricky Welter?” I whispered to him cautiously.

“How should I know?” he said, eyeing me intently.

“Well, everyone else is here.”

His face broke into a smile. “I’ve heard he’s working on a new song.”

“Really?”

“Something special. Something big.”

“What’s it about?”

He tapped his nose with his civet-scented glove. “It’s a closely-guarded secret.”

Where were we now? We had been walking for quite some time, or so it seemed. Had journeyed in a most circuitous fashion from the dining room to the picture room. We stood in a semicircle, the whole lot of us, some of us still holding our pint pots. I gazed up at the floral carvings on the arched canopies of the ceiling; at all the paintings that Joanesy had crammed on the grey panels; all that Hogarthian stuff he was so proud of. Monty told me that behind these panels there were other hinged panels. Layer upon layer of cleverly concealed paintings that were rarely seen. But I did not know whether to believe him. And there, to one side, almost in a corner you might say, on an easel in front of the mahogany and ebony dwarf bookcases, was a canvas covered by an old striped antimacassar. The reason for us being here.

To my surprise, it was Harry Fuseli who stepped forward. He stood before us, now the focus of our semicircular attention. Full of confidence, he waxed long and lyrical about the bizarre nature of his latest works. I did my best to concentrate but could not help thinking about that saucy stripagram who gave me the eye. I do like to see a pretty woman in a police uniform. Oh I could have bent that babe over the kitchen table and drilled her crack and cunny all day long!

Eventually Bill Waterhouse could stand no more, his patience stretched thin and to the breaking point.

“For pity’s sake!” he boomed. “Cut the crap Harry and cut to the chase!”

Harry grinned, only slightly perturbed by the savagery of the interruption. His lithe fingers skipped backwards through his uncompromising shock of blonde hair. Suddenly the main lights went out and a spotlight fell on that covered canvas. Harry shuffled to one side of it.

“Gentleman, my humble offering to His Excellency Prince Carlo on the occasion of his birthday,” he said with much solemnity. Then he tugged the corner of the antimacassar.

The room went quiet, deathly quiet. Even Johnny Carver’s brogues stopped squeaking. None there, not even Joansey, I later discovered, expected to see the face that glowered at us from that unfortunate canvas and its tragic composition. How we gazed forlornly at the blood-soaked girl stretched out along a scarlet robe at the feet of her grim destroyer, and his blood-spattered blade propped up against the wall behind them.

Eventually, Billy Burges, who had been nervously sipping from his prick glass, piped up.

“Does this conceit have a name, Mr Fuseli?”

“Indeed it does, sir,” said Harry unabashed. It had a very long name. “The Italian Count, or Ezzelier, Count of Ravenna musing over the Body of his Wife Meduna, Slain by him for her Infidelity During his Absence on the Crusades.”

What was he thinking of? What made Harry do such a foolish thing? Was it rivalry of some kind? Or did he simply wish to shame Prince Carlo in front of all these illustrious guests? The parallels between Prince Carlo’s gory past and Harry’s painting were all too clear and all too terrible to contemplate.

In the moment that he glanced at me I saw something of the real Prince Carlo that no biographical study or internet blog could capture. I saw something of the raw individual: confused, lonely, at his wits end, with nothing to lose, and capable of anything.

Harry also saw it but was too slow to do anything about it. In an instant Prince Carlo was on him, forcing him to the ground. His hands closed tightly around Harry’s throat. The strength in his arms was terrifying. Eventually the two of them were prised apart, though not before Harry’s bloated face had turned an ugly purple and his last breath had been squeezed from his limp body.

The place was in uproar. Bodies moving, bodies shouting. Paintings falling to the floor. Prince Carlo staggered to his feet, pushing aside those who dared to block his path.

“Burn in hell, you bastard!” someone shouted after him.

Out through the winding passages he bolted. I hurried after him, hearing the crash of busts and torsos tumbling from the plinths and pedestals in his wake. On the front steps I halted. Caught my breath in the cold night air as I looked this way and that. The fog was as deep and as dense as it had ever been, and Prince Carlo nowhere to be seen.

When I went back into the house there was some kind of argument going on. I could hear raised voices from where I was hesitating at the end of the hallway. They were coming from downstairs, from a long way downstairs in the Sepulchral Chamber. When I got there I saw a huddle of them gathered in the candlelight around the old sarcophagus that Joanesy had positioned in the centre of the room. The air was damp and chilly. I felt decidedly out of my depth and uncomfortable to be hearing great men like this arguing so vociferously. So I kept my distance. I pulled up the collar of my polka dot shirt, hid myself behind a Roman bust under one of the arches, and listened.

They were arguing about Harry Fuseli’s cadaver or, more precisely, what to do with it. Johnny Carver had offered to take care of things: in the interest of scientific progress, of course. Bill Waterhouse accused him of being nothing more than a Smithfield butcher. Things were turning nasty. At this point Joansey intervened.

“Gentlemen, please,” he said, sounding somewhat flustered. “We need to reach a settlement. Let us agree to disagree but above all let us be practical. We have a body on our hands and the sooner we dispose of it the better.”

“The better for whom, exactly?” Bill boomed.

“The better for us all,” Joanesy replied. “None of us wants the whiff of scandal to enter his premises.”

“Right,” Bill grumbled.

“Absolutely right,” Freddie Clayton declared.

“So I think it best we take Johnny up on his generous offer,” Joanesy said.

“My dear friend Joanesy is right,” Johnny Carver interjected. “I can accommodate Harry comfortably and anonymously within my research institute across the square. He will be well looked after there.”

“Research institute?” Bill sneered. “You mean The Carvery.” Monty d’Hortense giggled. “It’s no more than a cabinet of curiosities.”

“What you fail to realise is that progress is a never-ending process,” said Johnny, barely able to control his anger. “If you want medical progress then we need bodies to take apart and study. Bodies mean breakthroughs.”

“Progress at any price and to hell with the morality. Is that what you mean?” Bill snarled.

“How’s your beautiful young wife, Bill?” Johnny laughed. “Haven’t seen her for a long time.”

There was a scuffle of feet and more raised voices.

“Gentlemen, please!” Joanesy shouted. “The issue is decided. Harry will go to live with Johnny and we can let the matter rest there.”

“A very fine final resting place it is too,” said a voice.

I peered out cautiously from behind the bust and saw all heads turned towards the artist Arcimboldo. He was standing there in a dinner jacket, lightly-bearded, tanned, upright and confident, a handsome man with an earnest face and keen eyes.

“Your kind words and perspicacity are much appreciated, sir,” Johnny Carver replied.

Arcimboldo nodded graciously. “We should very much like to purchase one of your exhibits on behalf of His Royal Highness Rudolph II, Holy Roman Emperor.”

Amid all the gasps and startled mutterings I heard Johnny Carver laugh.

“A shopping spree. So that’s what brings you to this great metropolis, gentlemen. Which particular item did you have in mind?”

Arcimboldo glanced quickly at his lawyer who was standing beside him; an imposing figure clad in a magnificent fur cloak, whose unsightly face, we had observed, had been eaten by the French disease.

“The Emperor had the pleasure of her company during her short-lived residency at New Bond Street,” the lawyer lisped at him. “He was most distressed to learn of her sudden demise and now wishes to place her remains at the heart of his Wonder Chamber.”

Johnny Carver cleared his throat and his brogues squeaked uneasily.

“No, sir, I’m afraid I cannot part with that particular one of the large smalls.”

The lawyer moved closer to him, almost toe to toe with him.

“Name your price!” he said brusquely, spraying Johnny Carver’s face with spittle. He brought out a cheque book from the inside of his cloak and waved it before Johnny’s bewildered eyes. “We will not take no for an answer.”

Johnny Carver shifted nervously and excitedly from one foot to the other in his red velvet suit while the others watched him.

“No, sir, it would be quite improper for me to discuss individual cases in circumstances such as these.”

“You mean the contents of individual cases,” Bill Waterhouse sneered.

At which point Joanesy saw fit to intervene yet again, gently upbraiding those who had steered things off at this unprepossessing tangent.

“I think it best that you gentlemen discuss your private business in private,” he said diplomatically. He clapped his hands and forced a smile. “Come, let us relax and drink some more Hougicha, and banish dark thoughts from our minds.”

I watched them file past me in the candlelight as I hid behind that Roman bust. What kind of world was this that I was getting into? Where a murderer could run free and his friends spirit away the corpse. I waited until they had gone, until their lively voices were no more than faint echoes in that vast building. By twists and turns and numerous dark passages I came to the front door. Caught my breath in the cold air. I looked back only once at the unlucky number on that house, then stepped out into the fog.

20. DOLDRUMS

I took out my notebook and wrote: The patterns in the skies grow ever more complicated. I know they are telling me something but I cannot read the signs. As usual, breakfasted alone in the kitchen sans dressing gown. One day seems much like another now. I try to feel the friction between the minutes and the seconds too. But the heart of this house has been ripped out. I am adrift. Becalmed. Numbed. I cannot find the energy to do anything. I sense the stillness that lies in the depths of everything. This is the loneliest season since records began.

I put away the notebook and went back to bed.

Hardly had my head touched the pillow when another dream flashed up before my inner eyes.

This time I saw Joanesy alone on his doorstep in his baggy corduroy suit. Muttering softly to himself as he stood there looking out. He and his house were all ears. Waiting and waiting. Listening for the slightest sound. Then in the darkness they came drifting across the square. Through the damp air and the rustling trees of Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Hundreds and hundreds of them. Joanesy put up his hands to stop them. But they kept coming. He shouted. But they would not be silenced. Voice after vengeful voice mouthing its own story. Like a choir going haywire. And Joanesy and his house were shaking. Objects rattling and bumping against each other as objects do when fearing for their lives. Some would shatter, some survive.

The next time I woke it was to go to the bathroom and wash again. This time perfunctorily for fear of conceding too much to the forces of repetition. I dressed myself in one of Prince Carlo’s Suprematist shell suits: the one with red circles and black squares. Foodwise, I nibbled sparingly. A dry biscuit that clung to the rim of my lips required washing down with more of that earthy Zulu tea. Thereafter followed feelings of intense yearning for the minutiae of dust on skirting boards, scruffy toothbrushes, stained mouse mats, peeling paint, the sound of sipping from Melaware mugs, wintry sun on muddy footpaths, drawings of unbuilt cities, and so on until I had reached the front door by stratagems numerical and directional.

When I opened the front door and looked out I could not bring myself to go outside. I closed the door and went back upstairs to bed.

Later, how much later, I don‘t remember. Some time in the afternoon. I was woken by the sound of the doorbell. I got out of bed and hurried downstairs, hoping that he had finally returned, now that I was ready to forgive him. Men do extreme things in extreme circumstances, I had told myself. But it was not Prince Carlo that I saw standing there. It was a middle-aged man in a beige mackintosh; dark hair, obviously dyed, thick sideburns and thin lips, deep-set eyes and square jaw: wearing the kind of mean expression that you don’t want to find waiting for you on your doorstep.

“DCI Harding,” he said, holding up his police ID. “Mr Fannings?” I nodded. “I’d like to ask you some questions.”

I swallowed hard. “What about?”

“Well, if you’ll let me come inside you‘ll find out.”

I didn’t much like his cocksure tone but I held open the door and stepped to one side. I saw him smile at the shell suit I was wearing before following me into the small front room. He sat down, without invitation, in one of the armchairs. I sat down in the other. A couple of minutes later he had extracted the basics: that I was a 35-year old former college lecturer, living in a house which I had been given by my parents, living off scraps of freelance writing, living in dignified poverty.

“Anyway, I presume you know the reason for my visit?” he said matter-of-factly.

For the briefest of moments the memory of a black convertible bursting into flames flashed up before my eyes. Could Monty d’Hortense have been wrong about those bystanders? Had they talked?

“Actually, I’m not sure that I do,” I replied.

He had begun scribbling in a small notepad balanced on his knee even before I had said anything. He stopped now and looked across at me.

“Actually, I think that you do. In fact, I think you might be able to shed some light on a serious incident that took place not a million miles from here.”

“Really?”

He nodded his head, bounced his silver ballpoint on the notepad. I watched him gaze around the walls at the drawings that Gus Morose had given me after one of our late-night drinking sessions in the Strawberry Thief Bar. I’d had them framed in simple black frames. They looked fantastic.

“You have an unusual taste in art, Mr Fannings. Now, I’d like you to tell me about your encounter with Terry Rodgers.”

“Who?”

“The gentleman who very nearly fell to his death on these premises.”

Somehow I felt relieved that this was not about those burning bodies, that this was just about an idiotic window cleaner. Then the reality of that hit home.

“You mean the window cleaner?”

“Why, did you have someone else in mind?” He was so irritated he almost laughed.

“Well, what do you expect me to say?”

He bounced the ballpoint on his pad a few more times.

“I expect you to tell me what happened, Mr Fannings. A man is lying in a hospital bed attached to a life-support machine having sustained injuries from which he is unlikely to recover. I want you to tell me what part you played in that sorry state of affairs.”

“I only know what I read in the local newspaper.”

“Do you expect me to believe that?”

“I don’t know what I expect you to believe. Anyway, I thought this was all sorted out.”

“Sorted out?” He pulled out a packet of cigarettes from the inside of his mackintosh. “Mind if I smoke?”

I minded intensely but I thought I’d better let him get on with it. He popped one in his mouth and held out the packet. When I saw they were Gauloises he went up in my estimation. I was mightily tempted. But, no. I had kicked the habit years ago. Emphatically, no. I waved them away.

“Yes, I was under the impression that you, or two of your colleagues, had spoken to my friend about this and cleared up the matter.”

He sucked on the glowing cigarette and exhaled slowly, pensively. Memories of the Marais, its bustling narrow streets, its elegant mansions, its stylish cafés, came drifting back to me wreathed in aromatic smoke.

“Your friend?” He sounded very surprised.

“Yes, the Italian gentleman who lodges here with me. He told me that he had spoken to the police and informed you that he was out when this incident is said to have happened. I was not in the country at the time. I was visiting my parents who live in Canada.”

He raised his eyebrows, sucked on the cigarette until his cheeks were gaunt.

“I’m not aware of this. Anyway, I’m not interested in talking to this friend of yours. It‘s you I‘m interested in.”

“Well, I had nothing to do with any window cleaner. I wasn’t here when it happened and that’s all there is to it.”

He took another drag on the cigarette, got up from the chair and stretched his arms. He was a big man, not exactly lean, but in pretty good shape for a man of his age. I could see that he was looking around for an ashtray. I had nothing to offer him except a waste paper basket. He licked his fingertips, pinched the end of the half-smoked cigarette and dropped it in there. Standing next to the paino he sighed heavily and peered at me through the cloud of smoke that hovered between us.

“Mr Fannings, I think you’re telling me a pack of lies. Either we can do this here amicably, or you can accompany me down to the station. Which will it be?”

I didn’t very much like the tone of his voice, the thinly-veiled threat. I didn’t fancy being bounced off the walls of his police station either, but I wasn’t about to be cowed this easily.

“Would you like a cup of tea, DCI Harding?” I said trying another tack.

“Thank you,” he replied. “Black, no sugar. Do you mind if I use your bathroom?”

“Of course not. It’s upstairs on the right.”

He went out into the hall. I followed him, watched him climb the stairs. Black, no sugar. That impressed me. I went off to the kitchen. Made two cups of Darjeeling, first flush.

The smoky haze had almost cleared by the time he returned. I was already sitting in my armchair and had put a cup and saucer on the coffee table next to his. Judging by the time he had taken I assumed he had been nosing around upstairs.

“You have a lovely house, Mr Fannings,” he said as he sat down. He gazed again at the drawings on the walls and over at the paino. “I can see that you and your friend are men of good taste and erudition.”

“Thank you.”

He picked up the cup and saucer and sipped the contents. Smiled to himself.

“This is excellent. Crisp, sweet and a tad dry. Just how I like my Darjeeling.”

“I’m glad you approve,” I said, more than a little surprised by his response. “You are obviously a connoisseur of tea.”

“I like to think so.“ He smiled at me. A broad smile that revealed a gold tooth. “Being a member of the police force does not preclude one from enjoying the finer things in life. Of that you can be sure.” He took another sip and placed the cup back in its saucer with the utmost care. “I think it’s fair to say we speak the same language, Mr Fannings.”

“We do?”

“Yes, we do, and I am disappointed to hear that note of uncertainty in your voice.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, though I was not sure why I was apologising.

“As I said earlier, Mr Rodgers is seriously unwell. Consequently he is unable to press charges himself. However, we may have no option but to do so on his behalf.”

“Press charges?”

I hurriedly put my cup and saucer down on the table. Saw him wince at the clatter they made.

“Perhaps, yes.”

“What on earth for?”

“Mr Fannings, I have been doing this job for more years than I care to remember and I know when a man is lying to me. The police surgeon has informed me that the injuries Mr Rodgers has sustained are not consistent with a man who fell from a ladder accidentally. Therefore it seems obvious to me that he was pushed by an individual from within this house.”

He put down his cup and saucer on the table and stood up. He started to move away from the armchair.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going to strike a deal with you, Mr Fannings.”

“What kind of deal?”

To my amazement he went over to the window and closed the curtains. The daylight disappeared and what took its place was murky and disconcerting.

“A deal that I think you’ll understand,” he said with his back to me.

When he turned round his mackintosh was open. He looked down and unbuckled his trouser belt, yanked the whole thing out. I watched it slide out of its loops. It was a black thing a few inches wide with a large silver buckle. He began to wind it round one of his hands.

“You don’t have to do this,” I said.

He was walking towards me. I knew what was going to happen. I put my hands up in front of my face, peered through my fingers. He knocked them away with one hand and smashed me in the jaw with the other. A sharp pain shot through the side of my head as I fell backwards into the chair. There was blood falling from my mouth when I looked back at him, and there was blood on the belt buckle over his knuckles.

“You can make this easy for me, or you can make it very difficult for yourself,” he said, leaning against the paino. “If you want me to turn a blind eye to this nasty, vicious crime of yours, to write it off as an unfortunate accident, then there has to be something in it for me.”

“You don’t have any proof that I did this thing.”

“Mr Fannings, we already have enough circumstantial evidence to put you behind bars for the foreseeable future. Neighbours who are prepared to testify in court that they heard your voice, raised voices, ugly threats, all the signs of a bitter struggle emanating from this house. Attempted murder is a very serious crime. Do you understand?”

“Yes, I understand. Look, if it’s money you want I have some upstairs. There’s not much but I can get more from the cash machine.”

“Money?” He laughed to himself. “I don’t want money. I can get that anytime. I want you and me to come to a satisfactory arrangement.”

“Yes, anything.”

He was walking back towards me. I put my hands up in front of my face. Hid myself in shame. Waited for him to make the next move.

“OK, you can look now,” he said facetiously.

I can’t say that I was completely shocked by what I saw when I moved my hands away. Somewhere in my mind I guess I had prepared myself for this kind of eventuality. He had unbuttoned the top of his trousers and pulled down his boxer shorts. His thick tool was hanging a few inches from my mouth.

“Go on, give me some satisfaction,” he said, looking down at me. “You know you want to.”

I knew I was no match for him. I knew that I would get seriously injured if I tried to take him on. There was nothing much I could do. I didn’t want to spend years and years behind bars. So I did what he said. I played with his tool. I rubbed him, squeezed him, massaged him until he was long and hard and ready to shove it in my mouth. He grabbed hold of my hair and pushed back my head. Moved his hips back and forth. Again and again he moved them. The tip of his tool rubbed the roof of my mouth. He forced it deeper, hard against my soft palate. I thought I would gag. But he kept it going. Harder and faster. I could sense the tension in him as he gripped my hair. A few thrusts more and I knew he would blow his load, send it swimming down the back of my throat. I waited for him to get there, to the point when he was lost in his own ecstatic frenzy. Then I bit down hard, so hard that my jaws crunched together. My teeth tore through his tool, through the girth and gristly stench of it. My mouth was full of him. I jerked it open, let the thing flop out, let all the masticated flavours of flesh and blood and vomit flow out thick and tarry on to the carpet.

Above me, he was screaming. Eyes and mouth wide open. I had never heard anyone scream like that before. He went on screaming and shaking uncontrollably until his knees gave way and his heart gave out. Then he collapsed on the floor, gashing his head on the coffee table as he went down.

In my own head I thought I had it all worked out. I went back over it many times, over a bottle of red Burgundy, or two. No, I would not spend years and years behind bars. Nor would I be his timid sex slave. Once would never have been enough for a mean-faced, corrupt bastard like him. He would have come back time and again, bolder and more demanding each time with a lust insatiable. In a certain sense I was proud of myself for having done what I needed to do. Fuelled by alcohol I was now invincible. Gunning gown every negative thought that dare raise its head above the parapet. That old famous Fannings temper had come storming through when it mattered.

Later, how much later, I don’t remember. After I had chain-smoked the last of his French fags; after the alcohol had worn off and I was stone-cold sober and desolate. Then I had to face the fact that I had a body on my hands, and the sooner I disposed of it the better. In my heart of hearts I knew there was only one person I could call to get me out of this fucking awful mess. That person was Johnny Carver.

21. ONE MORE RED NIGHTMARE

I had a nightmare. It kept coming back. Night after night. I wrote it down in my notebook.

They were all around me. Singeing the skirting boards and the ceiling wax with their red-hot breath. Fluid mechanics. That came later. All around the bed where I lay intoxicated by fear and self-loathing in Walthamstow. Correction fluid. I could have done with some of that. There’s always room for improvement. What thoughts, I wondered, were searing their torrid minds when they strung me up by my ankles. Left me hanging there, suspended in disbelief.

Flaying is such a horrible business to behold, especially one’s own. A full-length mirror they propped up against the wardrobe so that I could see everything in excruciating detail: upside down, of course. Sliced off the skin with their long blades. Strip after strip. How many does it take to expose the furious heartbeat? Shook their fists with joy when my pulpy substances were revealed. Trashed the place. Trampled my valuables underfoot with their red riding boots. Screamed at the top of their hideous voices until the horses tethered out the front neighed in abject panic. Creatures like that are sensitive to someone else’s pain. Shaggy manes and silky manes I envisaged to keep my mind off other things during the interrogation. Steam rising from their red backs after the long ride. Hoofs kicking at the concrete. Where had these riders come from? What did they want with me? Red masks pressed up close to my face. Red hands bathing in the very visceral juices of me. They filled me with their thick fluids. Bad fluids. Awash I was in every orifice until the body’s sponge could take no more.

“I don‘t have The Malevich Teapot!” I screamed at them. “Don’t make a living breathing teapot out of me,” I begged them. “Drown me, but don’t leave your bitter juices stewing in me.”

At which point I was wide awake in bed, or at least I thought so. But still the nightmare went on.

And now they were gone but she was there crouching on top of my chest with her pointy, birdy features looking down at me.

“Who are you?” I shouted.

I think she smiled; leastways she twisted her mouth into some configuration of amusement. She shifted on my chest. I felt the fabric of her pretty blue dress and other things beneath besides. She turned her pretty head. Touched my forehead with her tiny hand. How cold it was. Like something from the grave. Already my body yearned for her. My mind could not keep up. Then panic hit the roof inside.

“A demon!” I cried. “A succubus sent from hell to suck me off! A ruthless female from a Gothic fantasy to smash my matchless mind!”

“To suck you off?” She burst out laughing. “Your matchless mind?” A raucous noise for one of such small stature. “I do not think so.”

“Then where have you come from? Surely not the darkest den of Walthamstow?”

“From downstairs, as it happens.” Her voice was dreamy, delightfully so. “I drifted in through the front door which was open. You ought to be more careful. I heard you while I was passing.”

“Heard me?”

“You were shouting in your sleep.”

“Did you see them down there?”

“Who?”

“The riders. The red ones fleeing after their foul deeds. Did you see them?”

She shook her head. Ringlets moved and mingled with the daylight coming through the bedroom window.

“No, there were no riders.”

“Were there horses tethered to the gate?”

“No horses, either. The only horsemen are the ones inside your head.”

“No, they’re real enough. Prince Carlo told me he saw them in a café.”

“Do you believe everything he tells you?”

“I don’t know what to believe. Do you know Prince Carlo? Do you know where he is?”

“I didn’t say I knew him.”

“Do you?”

“That doesn’t matter. Now, show me your arms.”

“No.”

“Fannings, please.”

She used my name so unexpectedly, so tenderly, that I could not resist her.

“How do you know my name?”

“That doesn’t matter.”

Reluctantly, shamefully, I brought my arms out from under the duvet, let her see all the lacerations I had made.

“Caroline,” for that was her name, “I saw my sorry life reflected in his bespectacled gaze.”

“Whose bespectacled gaze, darling?” she replied, for she had already begun to darling me this and darling me that.

“Why, the man in the mulberry pullover’s bespectacled gaze, of course. Terry Rodgers.”

“You mean the window cleaner who you pushed off a ladder and who is now at death‘s door?”

“I did not push him. He fell.”

“What about that poor detective? Was that just an accident too?”

“I had no choice. He would have put me behind bars or turned me into a sex slave.”

She nodded calmly and kindly and delicately placed her fingertips on my suppurating wounds. Her touch was warm now and comforting. I had not been touched like that before.

“Let me bathe and bandage them for you,” she said jumping on to the floor.

“You’ll find the bandages in the bathroom cabinet with the antiseptic liquid!” I called out after her.

When she returned she was lovelier than ever. Blue dress with frilly collar, dainty shoes like ballet shoes on her feet, silk socks, hair descending in ringlets. She crouched on my chest again. I tried to clutch her, to gather her up, to kiss and cuddle and fondle her in every way imaginable.

“I’m not your plaything,” she said. “My pussy is not your playground.”

“Caroline, I bet you have the littlest quim in Christendom.”

She slapped my face. “I’m nobody’s plaything anymore. Those days are long gone.”

“Caroline, why are you so small?”

“Fannings, why are you so thick? Now, hold out your arms.”

I held them out and with cotton wool she dabbed them with that pungent-smelling liquid. It filled my nostrils and the room.

When she looked up at me there were tears in her eyes.

“Caroline, you’re crying. What’s the matter?”

“It’s nothing. It’s just the antiseptic,” she said looking away.

I knew she was not telling me the truth. When she looked back at me my head was swarming with sepia memories of old mills and factory yards and seedy fairground shows and ragged children coughing in reeking cellars.

“Are those your sad memories?” I asked her.

“Yes they are. Now let me relax you.”

Slowly, unexpectedly, she reached down and took hold of my tool. How it swelled and stiffened to her touch, to the tender movements of her hand and lips. My body arched, ached to be unburdened.

I was moments away from my ecstasy when the doorbell rang. Caroline let go of me, moved her mouth away, shimmered, dissolved into thin air. The doorbell rang again. Now I was by the window, peering through the net curtain. And they were standing in the front yard. Red coats and riding boots, horses tethered to the gate. I watched them, waiting for the moment when they would break down the door.

I told Joanesy all this one night when he rang up out of the blue. I was so frightened I even told him about the stuff with the succubus. He listened patiently without interrupting, without judging. I pictured his kindly face and it lifted my spirits to know that a sympathetic soul was on the other end of the line.

“How often does this nightmare occur?” he asked in that reassuringly posh voice.

“Most nights. It goes round and round inside my head, layer upon layer, until finally I wake up. Now I’m too scared to fall asleep. I haven‘t slept properly for days.”

“I see,” he said pensively. “I do not expect you to discuss the events on which this disturbing material might be based, at least not now, not on the telephone.”

“Why, do you think my line is bugged?”

“I did not say that,” he said calmly, hearing the panic in my voice. “Would you like to come here, to my house? A change of scenery might do you good.”

It did not take me long to consider that kind offer. “Yes, Joanesy, I would like that very much.”

“Then come as soon as you can,” he said.

22. A MILLION FOOLISH FRIPPERIES

Outside in the outside world things were changing. The amount of building work going on in Walthamstow was doing my head in. Things were being put up all over the place and other things pulled down. Deep in the streets the situation was far from tranquil. All around, the hammering and the sawing, the welding and the drilling, continued unabated. Some days the swearing was a law unto itself. Painters and decorators dipped their brushes in many different palettes and the suitcase I had packed was flecked with the fear of repercussions.

When I hit the High Street on the way to the railway station the situation was no different. I looked up and saw the sign. The big bold letters screamed out at me and hurt my tired eyes: WELCOME TO WALTHAMSTOW MARKET. THE LONGEST MARKET IN EUROPE.

A million foolish fripperies to buy. That was the market. A seething, teeming mass of downmarket commerce shoe-horned into a narrow Victorian street that stretched as far as the eye could see. Roaring dragons and leering satyrs looked down from peeling facades and the stench of cheap food filled the air. Beyond this, way off in the distance beyond the hurly-burly and the babel of tongues was Walthamstow Marshes. A green and pleasant borderland of hovering windhovers and gurgling rivulets. A place where a grown man could lie like a child in the long grass, watching clouds pass and dreaming of a lost Albion.

But I was on the move. I did not have time for this rancid market. I was passing by within sustainable spending limits until one trader, eyes and sales patter winsome, ushered me to one side with the promise of special merchandise. Uncomfortably I waited in front of his stall, eyeing up the stacks of batteries and bin liners, mug trees and talcum powders, pencil sharpeners and toilet tissue holders, while he disappeared behind a filthy plastic flap. When he came back he was carrying an old shoebox with objects rattling inside.

“I can see that you are a gentleman who appreciates the subtle, the rare, the recondite, the finer things that life has to offer,” he said persuasively.

“Indeed I am,” I replied, for he had hold of my ego and was carefully massaging it out there on the cobblestones.

When he took the lid off the box my eyes nearly jumped out of their sockets.

“You like these things?”

He grinned at me knowingly until yellow teeth appeared from behind chapped lips like a badly kept secret. Achingly I nodded. Already my mind was on fire with possibilities and my eyes dazzled by the gallimaufry of his garish football shirt. Orange letters on the front of it advertised the name of some builder but what I needed was a fireman to put out the blaze. He was speaking to me quietly amid all the racket that was going on there, though I could hear him perfectly. His words were now the only words that mattered.

“Help yourself,” he said, holding out the shoebox. I clocked his snotty fingernails but they did not bother me. “Enjoy.”

Oh how my senses lingered over those lovely second-hand things! Eventually I dipped my hand in and brought out the largest of the battery-operated butt plugs. I think he sighed with approval. At the very least his head was nodding respectfully and his long, lank hair swayed like strips of fly-paper.

“That one, sir,” he said, watching me intently, “has had eight previous owners. As you will appreciate, it does not come cheap.”

I swallowed hard. “Really?”

I was trying to sound nonchalant but my voice was trembling and my hand shaking as I held the thing up by its small round base to admire the yellowing plastic and the smoothness of its cylindrical construction. Its elegant tapering sent shivers of delight through the very bones of me. I glanced at him quickly and he nodded to let me know that it was OK to go ahead.

Carefully, pensively, I positioned the thing beneath my nostrils and moved it sideways like a choice cheroot. Oh the vapours of it! Vegetal and oaky and grassy and smoky and nutty and tarry they were. All mixed up non-chronologically and conjuring visions and rumours of busy back passages buzzing with contentment. At which point he signalled a brief departure and vanished behind that filthy flap again, leaving me like some blissful saprophyte feeding off the fuggy smells. When he came back he was carrying another shoebox, this time rattling with ladies’ things. I nearly fell over backwards when I clapped eyes on them. Hardly had I kissed the dewy film on that ebony-coloured dildo when I received a sharp tap on the shoulder.

I turned round and saw Gus Morose standing there in a dark brown houndstooth sports coat and spotted silk cravat, sketchbook underneath his arm.

“For goodness sake, put away your money,” he said, looking at the bundle of banknotes I was now holding and happy to part with. He took the dildo out of my hand, put it back in the shoebox and shooed away the trader, who was looking extremely upset at this untimely intervention. “My dear Fannings, you look dreadful. What’s the matter?”

I could feel the tears coming to my eyes.

“I’m not sleeping, Gus. I’m plagued by nightmares. I’m falling apart. I’m on my way to Joanesy’s place. He’s invited me over. I’ve got to have a change of scenery.”

The sorry sentences tumbled out in quick succession.

He placed an avuncular hand on my shoulder and smiled at me sympathetically.

“Well, I’m off to get a drink. Come and join me and let‘s shoot the breeze. I haven‘t seen you for ages.”

We made our way to a small place not far from the market with all the familiar trappings of an East End boozer: the pool tables, the huge TV screens, the flaking dark wood, the grubby furnishings.

“The ale‘s good, though,” Gus assured me as we went up to the bar.

The barman exchanged a few friendly words with him, seemed to know him. We took our pints away to a quiet corner where the tabletop wasn’t too sticky and the upholstery bearable. There were a dozen or so other drinkers dotted around the room, all men, all minding their own business. I put down my small suitcase on the seat next to me. Gus put his sketchbook on top of it.

“Cheers, Fannings,” he said, raising his glass. “To your good health.”

“Thanks, Gus.”

I took a generous sip of the ruby-coloured ale. Held it in my mouth. It was full-bodied and fruity: a rich brew of red berries lurking beneath bitter hops. A damn good drink, though too strong for lunchtime consumption. Then before I knew it the tears were welling up in my eyes again.

“Hey, what’s the matter?” he said, patting me on the arm.

“Promise me, Gus, that you won’t tell anyone what happened back there in the market. It was a moment of madness, that‘s all. That wretched individual caught me at a low ebb.”

“Of course I won’t,” he smiled. “Your secret’s safe with me. Anyway, there’s a whole lot of stuff going on in that market these days to tempt the curious mind. It’s not all batteries and bin liners, you know.”

“Really? What kind of stuff?”

“Books, for instance.”

“What kind of books?”

“Second-hand books. Specialist second-hand books.”

“Specialist?”

“Yes, very specialised.” He took a quick sip from his glass and wiped his wet lips on the back of his hand. “Can’t really talk about it here but check out the second-hand bookstall next time you‘re down this way. I know you‘ll be surprised.”

“By the way, Gus, have you heard from Prince Carlo? I’ve tried to reach him on his mobile but he’s not answering. Is he is OK?”

He furrowed his brow and seemed uncomfortable at the mention of his name, looked around the place as if someone might be listening. But the others in here were just playing pool, gazing up at TV screens, or losing themselves in the faded curlicues of the shabby carpet.

“Look, Fannings, lad,” he said, leaning across the table towards me. “Prince Carlo is going to have to lie doggo for awhile until things settle down. That’s all I can say for the time being.”

“But do you know where he is?”

“Not precisely,” he answered. I think he was about to say something else on the subject when the one-armed bandit interjected with a barrage of impudent bleeps. We glanced across, and by the time we had freed ourselves from its hypnotic lightshow his mind had moved on to some other place. “How well do you know Mr Malevich?” he said cautiously.

“Who, the artist?”

“Yes, the artist.”

“Not at all. Never clapped eyes on him.”

“Well, he wants to work with me. I’ve been chatting to him for awhile. Exchanging ideas, that kind of thing. He’s got an exhibition on over at Bill Waterhouse’s place. In my bedroom of all places.”

“Yes, I heard about that. So you’re still living over there at Bill‘s?”

“Yes. Not ideal, I know. Terribly cramped where I am but I like the house. It’s like a fortress. I feel safe there.”

“Safe from what, Gus?”

“You’re not the only one around here with sleeping problems,” he said in that mournful tone of his. He brought his hand up and adjusted his spotted cravat as if to divert my attention from his growing anxiety. “Some nights it’s absolute hell. I can lie there for hours on that bloody bed with all kinds of shit running through my head.”

“What kind of shit?”

“Scary shit. On the internet.”

“You told me you don’t have a computer.”

“I don’t. It’s Bill’s. It’s a vast network out there.”

“Well, yes, that’s exactly what the internet is.”

“No, this is more than that. Something is happening out there online. Something big.”

“What is it?”

“Its consequences are wonderful and frightening.”

Tell me more, tell me much more, is what I wanted to say, but discretion got the better of me. There were shiny beads of sweat breaking out across his brow. His fingers were fiddling with one of the torn beer mats on the table. I thought I’d better not push him too far. For the time being it was enough to know that someone else was also battling the demons of the night.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Gus. I hope things improve for you. Anyway, what were you saying about Mr Malevich?”

“Oh yes, Mr Malevich. Now there’s a queer fish. He’s certainly got some intriguing ideas under that red beret of his. He’s obsessed with the ins and outs of cosmic excitation.”

“What’s that when it‘s at home?”

“I’m not sure. I’m waiting to see what happens.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I’m not sure what he and mates are up to in Walthamstow.”

I swallowed hard. “His mates?”

“A right bunch of nutters, if you ask me. Dressed in red. They were up at Walthamstow Stadium the other night chucking knives around.”

“Did they call the police?”

“No, the police were up there watching them.”

“Are you serious?”

“You obviously don’t peruse the local newspaper, Fannings. They’re some kind of radical circus troupe, at least that’s what they say they are. Hence the red costumes and the horses. They do some outrageous stuff with knives and flame-throwers. I don‘t know why Malevich has brought them here, but I have a strange feeling it might have something to do with that missing teapot. Do you know anything about that?”

“No, nothing,” I said, looking away into the hypnotic lights.

What with all the worry piling up and the strong ale acting on top of the general sleeplessness, I was getting restless. I wanted to make a move soon, to reach Joanesy’s place before it got too late, before it got dark. I glanced at my wrist to see what time it was, but found that I had come out without my watch. It always unsettled me when I did that. But I knew I couldn’t go back to the house to fetch it because that would mean going backwards and not forwards, and for the time being I needed to get out of there, and going back there would mean that I would have to lock up the place all over again, and that would mean probably not getting out of there, and I couldn’t risk that.

“What time is it, Gus?”

“Time for another.”

Before I had time to stop him he had moved away towards the bar with our empties. I watched him standing there in his dapper clothes, thinking how incongruous he looked in this down at heel place, but it didn’t seem to bother him. He was chatting to the barman: a thick-set, fifty-something chav with shaved head and tattooed forearms. After a few minutes he came back with the drinks.

“I’m glad that window cleaning incident over at your place is finally sorting itself out,” he said, putting the glasses on the table in front of us.

“Yes, so am I. Though it’s a shame it had to end that way.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, that young man with so much to live for being at death’s door like that, if you’ll pardon the expression.”

He was about to sip from his glass but he put it down again.

“Where did you hear that?”

“I don’t know. Somewhere, I guess. Maybe the local newspaper.”

Now he was shaking his head, looking extremely puzzled.

“That’s odd. Malcolm’s just told me that he’s making a good recovery.”

“Malcolm, who?”

“Malcolm Rodgers.” He motioned with his head towards the bar. “That’s the young man’s father over there. The barman.”

If I could have bolted from this place in an instant I would have done so. But before I could say or do anything Gus had shouted over to the barman, who was now making his way towards us. He was wearing jeans, trainers and a red sweatshirt; one of those promotional things with a white design embossed on the front. It looked more like a tank, a gun. Underneath in big bold letters it said: THE MALEVICH TEAPOT. I was still checking it out when he reached our table.

“Malcolm, I don’t think you’ve met Fannings, have you?”

“Nope.”

“Fannings is a close friend of Prince Carlo.”

The barman’s manner suddenly changed from mild indifference to warm geniality. He offered me his hand.

“Any friend of Prince Carlo is a friend of mine,” he said, gripping my hand firmly. “Me and the wife are grateful to you both for taking Terry on. It wasn’t easy for him to find work after he lost his job up at the big house. We were hoping that this window cleaning venture was going to be a new start for him. I’m only sorry this terrible accident took place on your property. It must have been distressing for you?”

“Well, obviously not as distressing as for you, Mr Rodgers.”

“Malcolm,” he said. “Call me Malcolm.”

“Gus tells me that your son is making a good recovery.”

“Yeah, we‘re over the moon about it. Terry’s out of his coma now. Of course, it’s still early days. He’s got some kind of amnesia but, fingers crossed, it won‘t be too long before he can get back to his wife and the baby.”

Wife and the baby? What would a bespectacled loser like him be doing with a wife and a baby? Is what I wanted to say, but discretion got the better of me.

Instead I nodded my head sympathetically. “I only wish I had been able to do something about it, Malcolm. But I was not in the country at the time. It was such a shock to get back and find out what had happened.”

“Well, that’s right. The first I heard of it was when I got the call on my mobile from the hospital. I was down at Gus’s studio with Prince Carlo when it happened.” He looked across at Gus, who nodded. “You see, I only work part-time here in the pub. I make up the rest of my money as a life model for Gus and Mr Clayton.” He looked over his shoulder, back towards the bar. There were a couple of the blokes who had been playing pool waiting to be served. “Anyway, I’d better get back. I’ll pop round tomorrow,” he said, glancing at Gus. “Good to meet you, Fannings.” He patted me on the shoulder. “Take care.”

I watched him amble back to the bar, his large hands crammed into the rear pockets of his jeans. The sight of him, bald-headed and bollock naked, posing before Gus, briefly monopolised my thoughts. It seemed unlikely, whichever way I imagined it, but then my creative juices were almost spent and I wanted out of here as soon as humanly possible.

“What time is it, Gus?”

“Not in the country?” he said, eyeing me closely. “I didn’t know you’d been out of the country. Where have you been then?”

“Canada.”

“Canada? That‘s a long way off.”

“Yes, I was visiting my parents in Vancouver. They emigrated there to be near my mother’s sister. I thought you knew that.”

“No, I didn’t know that.”

“Well you do now,” I laughed.

“Indeed.” He laughed too. That salty and seedy old seadog laugh. He glanced at his watch. “Yes, it’s time you were off. I’ll walk with you to the tube.”

“I’m taking the overland to Liverpool Street.”

“Why, what’s wrong with the tube?”

“Too many people, Gus. Too claustrophobic.”

“No, you wouldn’t want to have an accident down there, would you?” he said, winking at me.

“Gus, could you do me a favour?”

“Of course, Fannings.”

I took the bunch of keys out of my overcoat pocket, pulled off the spare front door key and gave it to him.

“Please keep an eye on my house while I’m away. I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

23. SKIN

Days and nights. How many did I spend there? I don’t remember. All the clocks told a different story of the passing hours, so I measured out my days in delivery vans. Never a dull day with the hustle and bustle of men in the hallway. Their chatter and the clutter of boxes and clipboards to sign. Of course, dear old Joanesy was the architect of all this activity; that is, he and his laptop and his addiction to internet auctions. Many was the time he would bid me goodnight on the landing, and then retire to his bedchamber with cheese and cream crackers and a thermos of the tarriest Lapsang Souchong tucked under his arm.

One imagines him at his most susceptible to error in the early hours: hunched in the glow of the monitor with eyelids dropping, fingers still feverishly tapping. Those bizarre purchases from that taxidermist in Winchester will stay long in my memory. I still retch at the thought of that bloated giraffe head festooned with dormice and other tiny mammalian decorations. After a tense evening in the drawing room, where it towered over us for several hours, I managed to persuade him to take it down and give it to Johnny Carver for immediate incineration. However, the costliest of these questionable acquisitions was a small painting attributed to the Belgian surrealist Magritte. A naked man on a deserted beach hiding his genitals with a bowler hat, Onan On The Beach turned out to be a tawdry fake. Embarrassed, but ever-resourceful, Joanesy employed the services of Freddie Clayton, who dexterously substituted the human head for that of a budgerigar, and the work was passed off as a recently discovered Ernst. Loplop Rising, as it became known, flew back on to the market and found a satisfied buyer in Basingstoke.

In a manner of speaking, Joanesy had taken me under his elderly wing. Early on I had sensed from his demeanour that he still had some fathering and grandfathering to do, and I was happy to oblige him. He seemed to want the best for me, wanted to encourage me, help me regain my confidence, and that reassured me. In return I played the dutiful son and the attentive grandson, note perfect on his kindly yet melancholy old viola.

With all this buying and selling going on there was plenty of work for me to do: both in goods inwards and goods outwards, and the cataloguing of items thereafter. It gave a structure to my days which I had not enjoyed for quite some time, and even the most menial of tasks I carried out with the diligence of an eager schoolboy. Come elevenses, I would put down my clipboard and join Joanesy in the breakfast parlour, where we shared a pot of tea and chewed over the morning’s business with toast and pate. Often a visitor or two would be there with us; like Johnny Carver, or Mr Catesby and Mr Johnson, Joanesy’s good friends from the Duck & Drake just off the Strand.

“Joanesy, I don’t know how you manage to accommodate everyone and everything in this house,” I said as I gazed up at the vaulted ceiling with its painted trellis of honeysuckle and columbine. How delightful it looked in this morning sun.

“House? Why, surely you did not think this was all one house?” he said, amused by my observation. He leaned over with the teapot and topped up my cup. The fruity, spicy scent of osmanthus tickled my nostrils. “My dear Fannings, there are three houses here, cunningly conjoined, not one. Number 12 is where we are now enjoying this splendid pot of Guangxi Guihua. Number 14, where you spend your nights wrapped in the arms of Morpheus, and the third is where you will find the front door, should you ever wish to venture out into this ghastly great metropolis.”

“You mean, number 13?”

He winced momentarily, then lowered his hawkish gaze to the jar of glazed venison pate and scraped some more of it on to a triangle of toast.

“Yes, that is the name of the unfortunate number.”

He bit down hard on the toast and looked away at the Piranesi engraving above the fireplace, at the shadowy arched ruins of the Villa of Maecenas.

I couldn’t help laughing. “I’m sorry,” I said, correcting myself. “But it seems such a cruel irony that one so afflicted should have to live in a house of that number.”

“Are you poking fun at me, young Fannings?”

“No, I am also a sufferer of that exquisite little inconvenience known as triskaidekaphobia.”

“I see,” he said, wiping the crumbs from his lips.

“Had it ever occurred to you to change the number?”

“You mean, to something silly like 12A?” He shook his head. “No, we all have our little crosses to bear and this one is mine. Anyway, I think it is time to make a move. There is a crate of Etruscan pottery to unload in the hallway and the looking-glasses in the dining room could do with a clean.”

He moved his chair back from the table and stood up abruptly. As he did I caught a whiff of that old-fashioned, soapy, leathery scent that he wore. The next time I inhaled it, the circumstances would be much different.

Then came Joanesy’s Big Idea, his Big Plan that would change everything were it ever to get beyond the planning stage, that would sweep aside the daily routines that I was now so familiar with, so comfortable with, that had helped to restore some stability and security to my life.

“I can see it all now,” he was saying. “I can see it unfolding before my eyes.” And I could see him too, reflected in the glass door of the bookcase that I was dusting in the library. He was across the other side of the room, arms gesticulating wildly, too wildly for a man of his age. I remember thinking: this is how men of his age, octogenarians, have heart attacks, go out like a light, go down like a sack of spuds, and never get up again. “Guided tours, caddy spoons, tea towels.” His voice was getting louder as he sped across the polished floorboards. Suddenly he gripped the ladder that I was standing on. The whole thing wobbled on its rubber feet. “Coasters, marmalade, paperweights, plastic replicas!” he was bellowing.

“Joanesy, let go of the ladder!” I shouted at him.

Now it was shaking, bumping against the bookcase.

“Fannings, we need to go commercial! It is the only way forward!”

The ladder was beginning to slide. I gripped the top of the bookcase.

“Let go of the ladder, you old fool!”

The shaking and sliding stopped suddenly, replaced by a deathly quiet. For a second or two I imagined that he had keeled over, expired in the middle of all that excitement. But, no. When I looked down I saw him staring up at me. Standing there in his stripy shirt and his baggy corduroys with his hands on hips.

“What did you just call me?” he said, giving me a hard look, a very hard look indeed.

“Joanesy, could you please pass me that duster. I seem to have dropped it,” I said, casually pointing to the place where it had fallen a few inches from his suede shoes.

Stooping, he picked it up and handed it back to me. He cleared his throat, but he didn’t say anything. Then he left the room.

For the rest of the afternoon my mind was racing, my stomach churning. I don’t remember the number of times I went to the toilet. I was inventing all kinds of convoluted scenarios, each one ending with my suitcase in the hall. If he gave me my marching orders I had no one to blame but myself. I would be apologetic, but not too apologetic, in case he thought I was being facetious. Yes, I could have been injured falling from that ladder, but no, I didn’t want to add insult to his injury.

I caught up with him later in his study. He was sitting at his desk, surrounded by all those Roman marble fragments on shelves. They made the room seem narrower, but it was a quiet, cosy space where he could get his head down over his books and papers. The early evening sun was still falling through the yellow glass in the skylight when I tapped on the open door. He looked up from the sheet of paper in front of him, angled his head towards me, swiftly removing his spectacles. I watched them bump against his stripy shirt, suspended by red cords. Before I had a chance to open my mouth he had launched into an apology; apologising for his reckless behaviour in the library. Once this was out of the way he went seamlessly into a detailed explanation of his strategic business plan. I sat on the corner of his desk and listened, watched his finger slowly move down the bullet points scribbled on the sheet of paper. I put my own apology on the back burner.

“So, what do you think?” he said, removing his spectacles for the umpteenth time. “Is it a runner?”

I paused for a few moments, took a deep breath, enough time to extricate myself from the avalanche of words that had been falling on top of me.

“I think you’ve been speaking to Bill Waterhouse, is what I think.”

He smiled at me, looked a tad embarrassed. “As a matter of fact, I have been speaking to Bill. He is a man of great acumen when it comes to business.”

“I thought as much. So is this Bill’s Big Idea for your place, or your own?”

He shrugged, shook his head, seemed slightly offended. “What does it matter? If it is a good idea, what does it matter who it belongs to?”

He was looking at me earnestly, obviously expecting a positive response. I nodded my head, pulled the right face to show that I was in basic agreement; that it was, in principle, a very good idea. Then I added a rider, tried to phrase it as diplomatically as I could.

“But Bill is quite a bit younger than you, Joanesy. Maybe he has the energy to see this kind of thing through. It’s OK for him to talk big but in your case…”

“So you think I’m too old, is that it?” he interjected. “Too old to take on a project like this?” His face was becoming flushed, his tone agitated. “Yes, of course, you do. That is exactly what you think. You made that abundantly clear in the library this afternoon.”

His hand was closing around the sheet of paper on his desk. Any moment now I thought he was going to screw it up and throw it at me. I knew I should have kept my big mouth shut and my interfering nose out of his affairs. What he did with his houses was his business, not mine. I was just a visitor here, someone passing through to help out with this and that, as and when required. All this had nothing whatsoever to do with me.

“I’m very sorry I said that, Joanesy. I didn’t mean it to come out like that. And I’m sorry I questioned your judgement. All these plans you have, all this has nothing whatsoever to do with me. I wish you the best of luck with it.”

No, he had not crushed that sheet of paper, but any creases that he had made in the heat of the moment he was now ironing out with his fingertips.

“No, this has everything to do with you, Fannings,” he said, looking across at me in the fading light.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I may be old but I am not foolish enough to take on a project like this on my own.”

“I’m relieved to hear that.”

“I want you to come in with me on this.”

“Me?” I gasped.

He patted my hand, the one that was resting on the desk. The other one was rubbing my chin in anxious amazement.

“Yes, you Fannings.” He smiled at me benignly. “Naturally I will oversee the project but I would like you to be my right-hand man, or is it my left-hand man? Whichever it is, I would like you to be involved in the new scheme of things. I have observed the way you deal with the goods inwards and the goods outwards and the cataloguing of items, and I must say I am most impressed by your orderliness and attention to detail. I think you would make a fine right-hand or left-hand man.” He held up his hands, laughing. “Now which would you prefer to be, right or left?”

“I think I would prefer to think this over, Joanesy.”

“Do not look so worried.“ His hand had locked on to my wrist. He squeezed it affectionately. “You are a good man, Fannings. A reliable man. But you need to boost your self-confidence. With more self-confidence you could go a long way.”

Coming from anyone other than Joanesy I would have felt patronised by this remark, but I knew that he wanted the best for me. Then something that I hadn’t thought about for what seemed like a long time, suddenly occurred to me.

“But I have my house to take care of. I need to get back there. The bills must be piling up.”

“Oh, yes,” he said. “I nearly forgot.” He flicked the switch on his desk lamp and the room glowed in the soft light. My eyes settled briefly on a marble bull’s head garlanded with honeysuckle. He opened a drawer in his desk and took out a bundle of letters, handed them to me. “These came for you this morning. Gus Morose forwarded them. Mostly bills, I suspect, and some letters addressed to your parents.” He patted my hand again. “Do not worry about the bills. I will take care of them. Let me know how much you require and I will write out a cheque. It is the least I can do. After all, you have been working here free of charge.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

“Thanks very much, Joanesy. That’s much appreciated. That’s certainly put my mind at ease.”

“By the way, where are your parents these days?”

“They’re in Canada.”

“Canada?”

“They emigrated awhile ago to be near my mother’s sister.”

“How interesting. Whereabouts in Canada?”

“Vancouver.”

“I understand the climate there is unusually temperate by Canadian standards.”

“Yes, that was one of the things that attracted them to Vancouver.”

“Have you been out there to visit them?”

“No, not yet. I’m still saving up.”

“Must be rather lonely for you over here without them. Are you an only child?”

“Yes, I am.”

He smiled. “I thought so.”

“Is it that easy to detect?”

“You have a certain air of independence which made me think that might be case. If you would like to borrow some money to make the trip to Vancouver just let me know.”

“Thanks. That’s very kind of you.”

“Anyway, now that the bills are taken care of perhaps you can go away and think about that offer of employment in a more settled frame of mind. As I said earlier, we would not be rushing into things. We have all that CCTV to sort out first. We could open to the public for a couple of days to begin with and then step things up at a later date. Of course, I would get someone in to help us with the daily running of things.“ He removed his spectacles again and moved back from the desk. “Anyway, think it over for a couple of days and let me know what you have decided.”

Needless to say, I thought it over, and thought it over, until I was tired of thinking it over. What was I so afraid of? What was stopping me from going to him immediately and asking him to take me on? The thought of a queue snaking along the hallway and out of the front door and down the front steps, while I fumbled behind the pay desk with all that merchandise and loose change, that was what was stopping me. The thought of taking a bunch of people on a guided tour around the various rooms and suddenly being stuck for words and my temples pounding and my chest tightening and the panic rising, that was stopping me too. But deep down in my heart of hearts I knew that if you want to move on this life, you have test yourself, challenge yourself, each step of the way.

I waited a couple of days and then caught up with him in the early evening and raised the subject. He was staring out of one of the large windows in the south drawing room that overlooked Lincoln’s Inn Fields. The fading light was glowing softly on the yellow walls, glinting on the gilt mirror above the fireplace. As I crossed the room a creaking floorboard caused him to turn sharply.

“Oh, it is you, Fannings!” he cried with the startled eyes of one who is suddenly wrenched from a reverie.

Between us there was a mahogany writing desk and a chair. Instinctively, it seemed, he was heading towards them, almost hurrying.

“I’ve made up my mind, Joanesy. I’d be happy to work here with you. I think it would be a good thing for me to do.”

“Yes, good,” he said, sitting down. “Glad to hear it.”

He nodded his head a few times appreciatively, though I could see from his downward gaze that he was preoccupied with the contents of his desk. I watched him pick up a book with one hand and open a drawer in the desk with the other. The moment I saw it my heart skipped a beat.

“I see you’ve been studying Prince Carlo’s book,” I said as calmly as I could.

“Prince Carlo’s book?”

He looked up at me, eyeing me with interest. The hand holding the book hovered over the open drawer.

“Yes, I recognise the binding.”

“What about the binding?”

He closed the drawer, placed the book back on the desk.

“Well, it’s a bit of a grisly tale, Joanesy.” I laughed nervously. “I’m not sure that you’ll want to hear it. You see, it involves a taxi driver who came to a sticky end and ended up on the cover of that book. Quite literally.”

“I see,” he said impassively. “And this is the book that you speak of?”

He held it out for me. I took hold of it, felt the firmness and the smoothness of its luxurious construction. I flicked through some of its photographs, feasting my eyes on those famous fundaments, squatting and squelching there before me; all those crumpled tissues, so forlornly stained. They were like old friends coming back to me, returning after a long absence. I was so pleased to see them.

“Yes, this is definitely the book. I could not mistake it for any other.”

“Fannings, do you believe everything that Prince Carlo tells you?”

He reached up and took the book from my hands. Then placed it on the desk in front of him, letting it fall open.

“What do you mean?”

“I think Prince Carlo has been telling some exceptionally tall tales.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.” He removed his spectacles and rubbed his eyes wearily. “Firstly, this book is no more his, than yours or mine. How it fell into his hands along the way is far from clear. Thankfully it has finally found its way to a safe place, the place it was destined for. Secondly, it is rare for a book to be bound in this unusual manner without the consent of a testator. I know of very few instances where this has occurred, and this is certainly not one of them.”

“Joanesy, you speak like a connoisseur in these matters. Is there more that I should know?”

He smiled pensively, and standing up nudged the chair away from the desk with the back of his legs.

“Come,” he said, his finger lazily stroking the plump rump of a Hollywood starlet, “follow me, if you will.”

Follow him, I certainly did. For there was more than a tad of mystery in his voice and not to be resisted. Down we went through the dimly-lit passages where the sloping walls were the colour of burnt sienna; down a flight of stairs, past the statue of Hercules in the garden of the Hesperides, deeper and deeper into the depths of the building where the air was damp and chilly. Eventually we halted before a door on the left side of a narrow corridor. I waited next to him while he produced a key from a pocket in his fawn corduroy jacket. Something metallic dangling on the end of his keyring momentarily caught my eye as he placed the key in the lock. It was more like a tank, a gun, than a teapot; a silver thing about the size of a shilling. He turned the key and pushed open the door. Out of the darkness came the soft, sweet odour of sandalwood. How it filled my nostrils and fired my imagination. Soon his fingertips had located the dimmer and the light gradually revealed a windowless room no larger than a parlour. It was sparsely furnished. In the middle, a circular table and a single chair upholstered in crimson silk. Not even a rug to cover the bare boards. Above us a mighty plaster python slithered across the ceiling, hideous fangs protruding from its gaping jaws.

“I presume you are familiar with the notion of a chained library?” he asked.

As he sat down at the table I caught a whiff of that soapy, leathery scent that he wore.

“I think so.”

I was standing opposite him, nodding my head, gazing in amazement at the book-lined walls and the multitude of chains hanging from them.

“You will notice that the books are secured to the shelves with their foredges facing outwards. This allows them to be opened without entanglement. It may interest you to know that this is the largest library of its kind in the world.”

“The largest chained library?”

“No, the largest anthropodermic library.”

“What?”

“What we have here are among the most exquisite examples of anthropodermic bibliopegy. Books bound in human skin.”

24. PARALLEL LOINS

I should have taken dear old Joanesy’s good advice and limited the time I spent in that room. But I was headstrong and foolish and would not listen to him. Many hours did I run my fingertips up and down those mottled spines, while the chains rattled and the air-conditioning played its low drone, while the balmy, evening scent of sandalwood lingered in my nasal passages. Of the photographic contents of those numerous volumes I shall be brief and to the point. Suffice it to say, some images are now branded on my brain, while others are spontaneously evoked by the unfathomable vicissitudes of involuntary memory. By what synaptic pathways do the holes in a silver salt shaker lead me to that young woman with the bald pudendum, enraptured by the steely charms of a monkey wrench? Why do I see his ecstatic eyes in the tannin on a teacup, his erection stuffed in the mouth of that inanimate primate? What makes a woman swim naked in a foaming broth of urine? Or a man hang from a window ledge with the wind in his hair and the elemental breath of the blowtorch on his scrotum?

“Why do they do these things?” I would ask Joanesy after I had come out of there.

“Because they are not like us, Fannings,” he would reply with the tone of a man who is tired of being asked the same question over and over again. “Because these people are famous people, and they dwell at that perilous place where vanity meets vulnerability. Much has been written about the recklessness of celebrities, of the disgrace of the callow pop idol and the downfall of the distinguished elder statesman. Far be it from us to condemn the wilder impulses of the gifted and the famous, for in their golden lives we see reflected the base material of our own. The least we can do is offer them some kind of sanctuary, here in this special library, a protected place where their exhibitionist needs can be secretly explored and safely stored.”

“And now they have chained me to their pornographic fantasies.”

“Pornographic!” he exclaimed. I had seldom seen him look so angry. “Fannings, your crassitude is alarming. This is not pornography. This is beyond that. This is un cri de coeur. The baring of the human soul in all its many forms and guises and insensible gradations.”

His words were still going round and round in my head as I sat alone in that room with my hand going up and down on my tool. Faster and faster it was going as I looked into her dark eyes, and she looked into mine. She was famous but I didn’t recognise her. Joanesy said she was a newsreader but I hadn’t seen her read the news. Anyway, I didn’t watch the news much, so how would I know. All I knew was that she was lying there on that garage floor with her sexy blonde bob and a monkey wrench in her hand, and all that greasy, oily black stuff smeared across her plump breasts and slim waist and down her endlessly long legs. They were wide apart and bent at the knees and the soles of her feet were touching each other so delicately that they made a diamond shape on the floor. I don’t remember how many times I studied that perfect geometry, how many times I shoved the steel shaft of that greasy tool down the smooth pink corridor of her pretty quim.

All of a sudden there was a loud knock on the door. The part of my brain nearing take-off ran out of runway, crashed and burned up in an instant. I fumbled with my jeans, pulled my polka dot shirt down over them.

“Yes, what is it?” I said as calmly as I could.

There was no answer. I got up from the chair and went over to the door, slowly opened it. Joanesy was standing there. I have no idea how long he had been standing there.

“You have a visitor,” he said, looking past me into the room at the books on the table.

“Visitor?”

“She is upstairs in the library.”

She? I was trying to think how many women I knew who would be visiting me here, or visiting me anywhere else for that matter. I couldn’t think of any. He stepped aside to let me out of there, then closed the door behind me, locked it. My mind was still on that gorgeous grease monkey and my loins still aching with unsatisfied desire as I followed him up the corridor, up the stairs, along the passages to the ground floor, to the front of the building.

When I got there she was standing with her back to me looking into one of the bookcases. Dressed sombrely in black, dark hair gathered up and held in place with a wooden hairpin, wisps of hair falling over the nape of her neck. Probably saw me reflected in the glass door of the bookcase. The moment I walked in she turned. No greeting, no trace of a smile on those pouty lips.

“DS Cundy,” she said, holding up her police ID.

I swallowed hard, clocked her ringless fingers. Early thirties, maybe more. I pointed to the rush-seated chairs. Discreetly took a deep breath as we sat down. We got the preliminaries out of the way. Name, address, status, or lack of it in my case. Apparently, Gus Morose was at my house checking things over when she turned up. It was he who had pointed her pinched, though not unpretty working-class face in my direction. She had the most beautiful eyes: earnest, searching, pleading, needing. Had obviously come up the hard way, against the odds. Had fought the sexist bullies of the canteen culture. How admirable. Do you ever wear a police uniform? Is what I wanted to say, but discretion got the better of me.

“Anyway, how can I help you, DS Cundy?”

She reached inside her quilted coat and brought out a folded piece of paper. A newspaper clipping. “I’d like you to take a look at this,” she said in her smoky Essex accent. I gazed across the hilly landscape of her polo neck as she came closer. “Have you seen this before?” I took the clipping off her. Shook my head as she moved away. Inhaled the scent of musky apricots she left behind.

Of course I had seen it before. The bold headline said: DETECTIVE GOES MISSING. In the middle of the text there was a passport-size photograph of a man with dark hair, thick sideburns and thin lips, deep-set eyes and square jaw. Who could forget a mean-looking bastard like that?

“Don’t you keep up with the news, Mr Fannings?”

“No, not much.”

“Why not?”

“I have a lot of work to do.”

“What kind of work?”

“Library work, mostly. We’re opening to the public soon. We have a lot of things to get ready.”

She nodded slowly, blankly. Looked around the red room at the mahogany bookcases, at the green arches above them, and out through the large window at the mimosa swaying in the afternoon breeze.

“Do you recognise the man in the photograph?” she asked. I shook my head. Held out the clipping for her. “No, you keep it. It might help jog your memory. DCI Harding paid you a visit, didn’t he?”

“Who’s he?”

She sighed ever so slightly, pursed her pale lips. Red lipstick would have suited her better, would have enhanced the shape of those shapely lips.

“He’s the man in the photograph. He visited you, didn’t he?”

“Did he? I don’t remember seeing him.”

“Our records show that DCI Harding was scheduled to pay you a visit, Mr Fannings.”

“What for?”

“In connection with the Terry Rodgers case. To confirm your whereabouts at the time of the incident.”

“Oh, that.”

“So he did pay you a visit?”

“No, I meant that I’ve heard about the Terry Rodgers case.”

“Well, the incident did happen at your house, so it would be strange if you hadn’t heard about it. By the way, how was your trip to Canada?”

“What?”

“The Italian gentleman that DCI Harding and myself spoke to when we came to your house told us that you were visiting your parents in Vancouver when Mr Rodgers fell. Which airline did you travel with and when did you return?”

I cleared my throat. “The Italian gentleman was mistaken. I was out shopping in Walthamstow market at the time.”

“So why would he have thought you were in Canada?”

“I have no idea. You will have to ask him that. Incidentally, how is Mr Rodgers? I heard he’s making a slow recovery.”

There was a movement of fabric, a crackle of static as she uncrossed her stockinged legs, slanted them at the floor, knees together. I looked away quickly, out through the window at the purple wisteria climbing up the courtyard wall.

“Mr Rodgers is still suffering from amnesia but he is slowly regaining the power of speech,” she said.

“I happened to meet his father once and he seemed a very decent man. They seem like a decent family. I believe he has a wife and a baby. It’s terrible that an accident like this has happened to him. Such bad luck. Can I get you a cup of tea, DS Cundy?”

“No thank you.”

“We have a wide range here.”

“No thank you.”

“Perhaps you would like one of the classic blends? We have rose, orchid, osmanthus. Lotus blossom is very refreshing in the afternoon.”

“Mr Fannings, I have no time for your silly stalling tactics. A senior and respected detective has disappeared. The last time we heard from him he was on his way to your house. I want you to tell me exactly what happened when he arrived.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You know perfectly well what I’m talking about, Mr Fannings. I’ve been doing this job long enough to know when someone is hiding something from me.”

“I’m not hiding anything.”

“Yes you are, Mr Fannings. I can see it in your face. I can see that you are tired of hiding this thing, that you want to make it known. Now what is it that you want to tell me?”

I looked down at the newspaper clipping in my hand. Saw that bastard’s ugly mug staring back at me and felt the blows from his fist ricochet inside my head. Saw the terrible mess on the carpet. The blood on my hands.

“What are you trying to accuse me of, DS Cundy?” I shouted.

“I’m not accusing you of anything. Now calm down. I’m simply trying to help you. I’m simply trying to get at the truth.”

I looked straight at her, at the stony expression on her face. “Go on,” I said. There were tears coming to my eyes. “Go on, search my house if you want the truth. I’ve got nothing to hide.”

“We will search your house if and when we think that is necessary, Mr Fannings. That is, if I don’t get satisfactory answers from you now.”

“Well, do it!” I shouted. “Go on, fit me up! I know you want to!”

“Is everything all right in here?” Joanesy said, looking round the door.

He’d obviously heard my raised voice and decided it was time to come in and cool things down. I looked over at him, so did she. He gave us a quick, nervous smile and stepped into the room. I thought I was going to burst into tears but I held myself together.

DS Cundy stood up and shoved her hands in the pockets of her quilted coat, brought out a pair of red leather gloves. Her eyes followed Joanesy across the room as he came over to me.

“OK, I’ll leave things there for the time being,” she said, sighing irritably. “If I need to speak to you again Mr Fannings, where will I find you?”

“He’ll be here for the time being,” said Joanesy.

He was standing next to me with a fatherly hand resting on my shoulder.

“In the meantime, if you have anything further to add to our conversation you can reach me on this number.”

The soles of her black shoes clicked on the shiny floorboards as she walked towards me carrying a small card. I took it off her and glanced at it quickly. Saw her name printed in bold type and a telephone number centred underneath it.

“OK,” I said, looking up at her.

She forced a smile and turned quickly, scattering more of those musky apricots. She followed Joanesy to the door.

The moment they disappeared from view I went to pieces. The tears kept coming. I was still crying when Joanesy returned.

“Fannings, what on earth is the matter?” he said, pulling up a chair beside me. “What did that beastly woman say to get you into this state?” For the time being I couldn’t say anything. All I could do was wipe away the tears. I handed him the newspaper clipping, watched him run his eyes over it. “Does this have anything to do with your conversation with Johnny Carver?”

“What conversation?”

He smiled grimly at the worried look I gave him. “It was Johnny who asked me to ring you that night. He told me you were in a bad way when you contacted him, and it was he who suggested that you come to my place to recuperate.”

“I suppose he told you why I contacted him?”

“No,” he smiled. “He did not go into details and I did not ask him for them. What goes on between you and Johnny is your business, not mine.”

“You make it sound as if we were up to something.”

“Do I?” He patted me on the shoulder. “That is certainly not my intention. Is it such a crime for Johnny and me to take an interest in you, to want the best for you?” He looked at me and smiled as a father smiles at a son, or a grandfather smiles at a grandson, and I smiled back at him. Then out of the blue he said: “I trust that you are sleeping well and no more nightly visits from that little lady?”

I laughed nervously, shrugged my shoulders awkwardly, did not know what to say, or whether to say anything at all.

The afternoon sun had disappeared and the wisteria out there through the window on the courtyard wall was not much more than a moving shadow. Soon it would be dark and night would fall and time once more to distract myself with dreams.

Lying in my bed in Joanesy’s place I would fall asleep lulled by the heavy jasmine-like fragrance of the sarcococca beneath my bedroom window. When Caroline appeared in my dreams she would be in the distance like a figure shimmering in a heat haze; gradually coming closer until I could see the white frilly collar on her blue dress, the pale silk socks on her slender legs, the shoes like ballet shoes on her dainty feet. Always the same perfume enveloping her; clouds and clouds of it, sweet and cloying at first like too much Lily of the Valley, overpowering my senses, rendering me helpless to her womanly charms and her girlish frivolity.

Oh how we frolicked! Night after night after night. Crawling in the musty crypt on all fours in the chilly air, playing hide-and-seek behind the Roman busts and alabaster vases. I touched her hips with my fingertips. Light as a feather she danced up and down on top of me, her cunny tight around my tool. Other times it was hot and the air was humid and we kissed inside the old pharaoh’s dusty coffin. So hot that the sweat rolled off us at the slightest movement and a really slow blowjob was just the ticket. Little Caroline, she was as good as gold to me like that. Her pretty clit was such a lozenge. Feelings irrepressible and comforting drooled everywhere. I stretched her various membranes, filled her tiny wells to overflowing with my creamy ink, slaked my raging thirst for her with the spicy cordial that flowed from her fountain. I gave her everything and she took me to the dizziest levels of distraction.

“Caroline, answer me this,” I beseeched her at the back end of our rapture. “Is it against the law to suck and fuck a succubus in a sarcophagus?”

Eventually it was time to stop and get serious. I think I sensed it coming but did not want to acknowledge it. Caroline did. She was the one behind the mood change. She was the one who was playing the waiting game, waiting for me to get hooked on our nights of passion. But passion was never the only item on her agenda. While I was spellbound in my love or lust or whatever it was I was feeling for her, she was making plans for Fannings.

“How would you like to do me a small favour?” she said, breaking it to me gently as we lay spooning in that dusty coffin surrounded by its myriad chiselled figures.

How they fired my imagination, those beautiful raven-haired Egyptian women, stretched out and laid bare on humid ancient evenings, incense rising from the scent balls in their steamy vulvas.

“Yes darling, anything,” I breathed. “You know how much I want to please you.”

“Would you do absolutely anything for me?”

“Caroline, you know I would.”

I kissed the nape of her neck and the soothing scent of Lily of the Valley tickled my nostrils. I had never dreamed like this before. Never thought it possible that dreams could be so connected, so sequential. One after another they drew me deeper and deeper by insensible degrees into her nocturnal world of passion and pain, yearning and cunning.

“Lay me to rest, Fannings. Bury my bones, darling.”

She had mentioned her bones before, many times. “I feel it in my bones,” she would say whenever she felt the pain of her endless, incorporeal wandering.

“But how can I do that without upsetting my dear friend Johnny Carver?”

“Your dear friend? How can he be your friend if you fear him so much?” She turned to face me so that I could see the tears in her eyes. “People stared at me all my life. I was the smallest girl they had ever seen. I was a living doll, a fairy in a pretty dress. Even the rich and famous came to marvel at me. Some men paid extra to handle me, that’s what they called it. To sit me on their knee, to slide their fingers up inside me. That’s how they ruined my innocent little life. They wore me out, Fannings, and I wasted away, diseased and dirty, before their lecherous eyes.”

The tears were rolling down her cheeks. I wiped them away with my fingertips. Cradled her in my arms, felt her small body convulse with the enormity of her distress.

“Caroline, please don’t ask me to take your bones from Johnny. You know how much you mean to him.”

“Mean to him?” she scoffed. “I’m just a curio, a freak of nature, a trophy he keeps locked in a glass cabinet and takes into his bedroom every night. That’s what I mean to him. And now he is thinking of selling my bones to Arcimboldo and that lawyer. They will take me far away from here where I will become the Emperor‘s new obsession in his Wonder Chamber.”

I did not know what to say. I did not want to hear any more of this. One thing was certain. We could not go back to our nights of passion after this. She had taken that pleasure away from me. Those carefree, blissful nights were beyond me now.

“Don’t do this to me, Caroline. If I try to steal your bones he’ll kill me, hack me to bits like a scrap of meat on his slab and then incinerate the evidence. I wish I had never clapped eyes on you.”

Her crying had stopped suddenly. Now she was looking at me in disbelief, shaking her head. Even her ringlets were moving against me.

“Am I just a toy to you, something to titillate you when you need relief? Is that all I mean to you?”

“Of course not, Caroline. I didn’t mean it to come out that way. But you know I can’t do this thing you ask of me.”

“Fannings, don’t make me force you to go over there and take my bones.”

“Force me? How could you possibly do that? You‘re just a succubus inside my dreams. A gorgeous, cunning temptress twisting me around your little finger.”

“No, Fannings, I’m more than that. Much more. But I will become that if you do not cooperate. Do you want me to go inside the head of DS Cundy like I went inside your head? That pretty policewoman who you think about and lust after all your waking hours. Do you want me to tell her all the things you told me? How you tried to get rid of that young window cleaner and how you murdered her colleague, DCI Harding?”

“Don’t say these things, Caroline. Don’t tease me like this. I know you don‘t mean it.”

She laughed at me. I had never heard her laugh like this before, so coldly, so cruelly. Now it was my turn to have tears in my eyes. Tears of fear and regret.

“Don’t you realise that Gus Morose and dear old Joanesy know what really happened? They know perfectly well what you’re capable of.” She was up close, whispering in my ear, and the sweet smell of her perfume was making me dizzy. “I went inside their heads too, wandered through the corridors of their torrid dreams telling them everything about you, all your squalid secrets and pathetic excuses. But they promised me they would not go to the police if you buried my bones and laid me to rest.”

“Caroline, please don’t do this to me,” I begged her.

She kissed my forehead. “Fannings, you’re my only chance to find peace.” She wiped away my tears with her fingertips. “And I have waited so long for this chance.”

25. BONES

“I’ve seen the way you look at her,” he said. “Your eyes laced with furtive pleasure.”

I could see his ruddy face reflected in the glass door of the cabinet into which we were both staring. Towering over me in his red velvet suit, arm draped around my shoulders, his pudgy fingers clasping a tumbler of whisky.

“Is it that obvious, Johnny?”

“Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me, laddie.”

His large body erupted into raucous laughter suffused with the smell of peat. The tremors rumbled in my sternum, raced along my arms, tingling at the fingertips.

“What’s so funny?” I asked him, knowing damn well what he was laughing at.

“You remind me of when I was a young man starting out in this line of business. I was like you. Edgy, restless, impatient to learn, impatient to know more. People like you and me have a lot going on upstairs.” He pressed a forefinger to his temple, pulling me closer, bumping me against his barrel chest. “Too many ideas buzzing inside the brain like a swarm of bees. Got to let them out, laddie, if you want to see the colour of the honey.”

Of course, he had said these things before, because what he saw of himself in me formed the basis of our friendship, the bridge between us. As bridges go, it was not a sturdy construction of bricks and mortar, or wrought iron and steel, but a raggedy, frayed thing fashioned out of rope that swayed and twisted in the wind of his turbulent moods. Yet in its own way our friendship was surprisingly resilient, strong enough to bring me back time and again to watch the great Johnny Carver, top surgeon in town, at work in his underground dissecting room.

I would normally get there in the middle of the night after taking dinner with Joanesy. Make my way across the tarmac path under the brooding oaks of Lincoln’s Inn Fields, under the pointed roof of the bandstand, and come out on the south side of the square in front of the iron railings and grand portico of Johnny’s house. I would let myself in with the spare front door key he had kindly provided, such was his trust in me. If he was not working I would usually find him relaxing in his cosy drawing room, surrounded by numerous medical tomes and ebony-framed anatomical drawings. Among the masterworks of van Calcar and van Rymsdyk, there was one by Johnny himself; a charming illustration of a dissected penis, split down the middle to reveal the labyrinthine structure of the blood vessels, arteries and veins. Sometimes he would be alone there, listening to his hi-fi system, smoking his pipe, tapping his blade to the mind-boggling canons of Nancarrow, or to the mind-boggling fugues of Sorabji. Johnny loved the moderns more than the old masters because they opened up bold new worlds in which his restless imagination could roam and ruminate. When he wasn’t stretching his ears alone, he would be enjoying a drink (he was always enjoying a drink) in the boisterous company of his loyal assistants, his fellow anatomists. All this activity would be going on in the back of the building and to get there I had to thread my way through the corridors, passing the numerous rooms that housed his vast collection of specimens.

In time I had visited each of these rooms, first in fear and wonder. I shall never forget the moment when I encountered the big man, the giant he had paid a small fortune to acquire. Leg bones like oars, a huge skull with gaping sockets that almost sucked me into their hollow gaze. Insignificant he made me feel. Forced me to put back the flesh on his gigantic bones if only for an instant. But I kept him at bay, convinced him that I was the one doing the living and he was the lifeless one behind glass. Then came the things pickled in jars. Colours livid and vivid. Body parts, cut and wrenched from long-forgotten creatures, animal and human. Veiny and hairy and gristly and muscly and hideously lovely and lonely in their splendid isolation. Cabinet after cabinet I passed until I found the foetal skeletons. There they were. From thumbnail to pint pot size. My gaze panned across the line of tiny skulls with their pained expressions. But they did not call out to me in ethereal voices. Quiet they were as the graves that never held them, guarding the secrets of their liquid lives.

Watching Johnny work was not just an education. It was a pleasure. There was no time to feel squeamish in the face of such artistry. I would marvel at the speed and dexterity of his fingers, the neatness and economy of each practised gesture as he made his way up and down a cadaver removing the major organs, usually parcelling them up and sending them out to the various hospitals and clinics for transplantation, or preparing them for further analysis. It was a noble enterprise and he carried out his work with the dedication and discipline of a true master of the profession. Needless to say, I picked up a thing or two along the way and was able to help him with some minor procedures. It’s amazing what you can learn on the job.

“Fannings, you have a way with cadavers,” he once said. “You have the keen eyes, the decisive touch and the inquiring mind of the anatomist. Perhaps you would like to become one of my regular assistants?”

It was a tempting offer to be sure, and I was torn between my loyalty to Joanesy’s new plans and Johnny’s fascinating world of scientific exploration. After giving it some thought, I told Johnny that I would prefer to carry on as before, providing an extra pair of hands in his dissecting room when things got busy. Trouble was, things were nearly always busy. Johnny’s skills were in great demand and his reputation for getting the job done quickly and efficiently preceded him. Cadavers were arriving on a daily basis, always via the discreet side entrance, and a backlog was building up. Sometimes there would be half a dozen of us working away until late in the night, the sweat rolling off us under the bright lights.

Johnny was a fervent believer in the work hard, play hard philosophy, so many was the time I staggered back to Joanesy’s place the worse for wear. There were even occasions when I woke up in the dawn light with a parched mouth and a head full of birdsong, only to find myself staring at the moss-stained ceiling of the bandstand in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. When I told Johnny about this he asked me if I had been visited by the ghost of Sir Anthony Babington, who had been brutally executed on that very spot many years ago for attempting to assassinate Queen Elizabeth I. I couldn’t help noticing the peculiar glint in his eyes when he told me that Babington was still breathing when the executioner hacked off his genitals and burned them in front of the voracious eyes of the crowd.

There was a peculiar glint in Johnny’s eyes now as we stood together, his arm draped around my shoulders. The other assistants had gone home and there was just the two of us, drinking the night away, getting more and more chummy by the minute. We were staring into the cabinet that contained Caroline’s bones and a few of her remaining possessions: a pair of silk socks, a pair of grey ballet shoes, a silver thimble, a tiny ruby ring.

We had been working hard that night. Had stripped two cadavers and started on a third, and perhaps this burly Scot had enjoyed two too many malts by way of relaxation, for his tongue was looser than usual and his manner fast becoming extravagantly reckless.

“Would you like to handle her?” he asked me suddenly, his sweaty, ruddy face close to mine, his peaty words slurring into my ear.

I nearly fell over backwards in amazement. All I could do was open my mouth and wait for the right words to fall out. Eventually they did.

“Yes, I would like that very much,” I said as casually as I could.

He nodded slowly and let go of my shoulder, emptied his tumbler and set it down in front of the nearest cabinet, baring his teeth as the fiery liquid hit the back of his throat. I watched him pat each of his pockets before pulling out a bunch of keys which spilled out of his hand and crashed noisily on to the floorboards. He tried to pick them up but staggered backwards, thrusting out an arm to keep his balance. His hand went through a glass cabinet, narrowly missing a jar containing the head of a chimpanzee. The glass shattered and some of it fell out on to the floor, on top of our shoes, on top of the keys. I bent down to pick them up, careful not to cut my fingers. I took hold of a silver thing about the size of a shilling that was clipped to the keyring. It was more like a tank, a gun, than a teapot. I lifted them up by that.

He was leaning against the damaged cabinet, sucking his knuckles, but there was still blood dripping on to the floor. I gave him the bunch of keys and he held them up in front of his bleary eyes. He was concentrating hard, very hard, struggling to work out which key was required. Eventually he grabbed one and pressed it into my palm.

“She’s all yours, laddie,” he slurred. He glanced down at his injured hand and shook his head. “Better go and clean this up before I bleed to death.” He belched loudly and started to move away. “Catch you later.”

“Yeah, take it easy, Johnny. Have a lie down. You don’t want to aggravate your angina.”

I watched him cross the room, swaying as he went. His shoulder clipped the door frame as he disappeared from view.

Standing in the quiet of this room with all these glistening ears and eyes and hearts and brains and uteruses around me, the enormity of the moment suddenly revealed itself. My pulse was racing faster than a greyhound, but I kept telling myself over and over again to keep calm. In my head I had rehearsed a moment like this so many times, though I never thought it would come. In my dreams Caroline had become a distant figure shimmering in a nebulous light from which she refused to emerge. I called to her but she would not answer. Instead of the warmth of her comforting body, all I felt was the weight of her unsatisfied longing pressing down on my raw nerve-ends. I knew she was watching and waiting for me to make a move, and the moment for making that move was here and now. I could not fail her. I dare not fail her.

When I moved towards the cabinet with the key between my fingers my senses slipped sideways. Johnny was not the only one feeling the ill effects of too much whisky. Fortunately, I had not matched him shot for shot, so I had more than a little stability left in reserve. I stood for a moment or two, breathing deeply, getting my senses back in shape, before placing the key in the lock. It turned easily. The door swung open. It was like standing in front of a shrine or a reliquary, something special, something spiritual. I almost genuflected out of respect.

Very carefully I lifted her off the shelf, placing one hand around the ebony plinth on which she was mounted and the other around her spine which was supported by a thin metal rod. The whole skeleton and its attachments weighed little more than a thick paperback book and was about the length of one of those large plastic bottles of mineral water. Quickly I kissed the forehead of that small skull. The grainy surface was cold against my lips. I savoured its texture, savoured that precious moment of intimacy. Then I cradled her in the crook of my arm while I reached up and took the ruby ring. Stuffed that in my overcoat pocket. Now I was ready. I turned to go. Got halfway across the room when Johnny reappeared.

He was standing in the doorway, glaring at me. His arms behind his back, his bulky body blocking out most of the light from the corridor. Water was dripping from his face. At first I thought it was sweat but then realised he had been trying to sober himself up.

“Hello Johnny,” I said as calmly as I could. “How’s the hand?” He brought it out from behind his back to show me. It was now bandaged and attached to the handle of a baseball bat. “I didn’t know you Scots played baseball?”

I tried to make him laugh but he didn’t see the joke.

“Where are you going with that wee lady in your hands?” he yelled at me, his body shaking with rage.

“Hey, come on, Johnny. Calm down. You’ve got the wrong end of the stick.” I thought maybe it was the drink doing the talking; just another of his abusive outbursts that would die down once the alcohol had worn off. But I took a few steps backwards to be on the safe side. “I was just getting her out of the way of all this blood and broken glass. There’s no need to panic.”

“Well hand her over then!” he shouted.

He lurched into the room, larger than ever, menacing me with his bulky frame and the way he was standing with his feet apart, the baseball bat resting on his shoulder. He looked like he was ready to strike out at any moment. I was in two minds about what to do. Whether to give her up now, back down and avoid a beating, or try something he might not be expecting, and risk it going wrong. Something Caroline had said in one of our last conversations, something that really hurt me, suddenly forced its way to the front of my mind. She had accused me of being scared of Johnny, of being too weak-willed to stand up to him. Working with him had certainly toughened me up in many ways, so maybe now it was time to put that training to the test, time to take Johnny on.

“Hand her over? Why should I hand her over to you so that you can keep on degrading her?” I told him.

He was shaking his head in disbelief. Clearly couldn’t equate this kind of defiance with the likes of me.

“I trusted you to handle her and no more. But you took advantage of my good nature and tried to steal her from me. Is that how you repay my trust?”

“And you came back armed with that bat. What kind of trust is that?”

“I know what you’re like, Fannings. Me and my boys had to clean up after you, remember?”

How could I forget? It wasn’t the first time he’d dragged this up. Clearly he was never going to let me forget that regrettable incident and how he’d helped me out. But now he was bringing it back with a new kind of vengeance as though he had something else to prove.

“That’s history, Johnny. That’s over. It’s the past. Move on.”

“Move on?” he sneered. “You left that poor bastard in one hell of a mess after you’d finished shagging him.”

“Shagging him?” So this was his new angle. How pathetic he was. “You know damn well it wasn’t like that. Harding forced himself on me and I had to defend myself.”

“Admit it, you went too far. Lost control. Broke the rules. You bit off more than you could chew.” He laughed to himself. “I know the sick games people like you play.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Fierce Midnights.”

“What the hell’s that?”

“A seedy little cellar club where perverts like you go to get their kicks. It’s all hush-hush. Top secret.” He pressed a facetious forefinger to his lips. “But I’ve seen what happens in the name of pleasure. I’ve seen what happens when the noose play goes wrong. The broken bodies. Their bloated faces and the savage lacerations. Well, I’m sick and tired of getting rid of their mistakes in my incinerator. I should never have listened to Joanesy. That old bastard talked me into taking the money. I never wanted to get involved in that filth. I have a reputation to look after.”

“Reputation? Don’t make me laugh. The only reputation you‘ve got is for being a nasty drunk with a warped mind. Now you‘re so shit scared you’re trying to put the blame on Joanesy.”

I could see his fingers twitching on the handle of that baseball bat as he shuffled towards me. I stepped back from him. My heels bumped up against the base of the cabinet behind me.

“Don’t lecture me, laddie. If it wasn’t for me you’d be rotting in prison now. I know what you’re capable of. You don’t fool me.”

“And I know what you’re capable of in that vile dissecting room of yours. Bill Waterhouse was right about you. You’re nothing more than a Smithfield butcher. Remember, I’ve seen what goes on down there. All those fresh stiffs that come in every day. All those organs you harvest and flog off to private clinics. Import, export. I know what kind of racket you’re running, fatso!”

“I’ve never liked you, Fannings. I only took you on because it made me feel good to see a worthless specimen like you. I don’t care what you think of me. It doesn’t matter anymore. You’ve served your purpose. You’re finished now.”

He staggered forwards, his eyes blazing with anger. I shielded Caroline in my arms. Prepared myself. He took a swing at me. A very wild swing. The bat flew out of his hands and crashed into a cabinet on the other side of the room. The door collapsed, sending out a hail of glass as the bat swept away a row of jars. I watched them drop down on to the floor, smash and spill their pungent contents. Out came the diseased brains of little children. They wobbled towards me like punctured footballs.

Now we were facing each other, screwing up our eyes in the acrid fumes of the formaldehyde. It was the fumes that started him coughing and wheezing. He fell down against the wooden doors on the lower part of a cabinet. His chest was heaving, his face redder than ever. He was patting his pockets but he couldn’t find what he was desperately searching for.

“My pills,” he said, struggling to get the words out. “Angina pills. Sideboard. Drawing room. Fannings, please.”

He was looking up at me through streaming eyes. I had never seen him like this before. The great Johnny Carver, top surgeon in town, so vulnerable and defenceless.

“I’ll tell you what I’ll get for you,” I told him as I walked across the room towards the shattered cabinet. I pulled out the baseball bat which had become lodged between two shelves and went back over to him, dangled it in front of his bloated face. “Did anyone ever tell you that you look like a clown in that ridiculous red suit?”

“Pills, please,” he wheezed at me, pleaded with me.

I shook my head and grinned at him. “I’m getting out of here and I‘m taking Caroline. She’ll be much happier with me.”

I set down her little skeleton several feet away on the floor and took hold of the bat in both hands. It felt good and light, comfortable in my grip. He watched me take a couple of practise swings. Raised an arm and screamed something at me. But all that came out was phlegm and foam.

Standing in front of him, staring down at him with that all this alcohol and energy surging through my veins, I felt invincible. I knew I had to do away with him. Maiming him would not be enough. He would come after me, or send someone else to bring me back to him, back to his dissecting table. Once there I would be as good as dead, but not quite dead. He would devise some excruciating torture that would slowly extinguish me. No, I had to kill him. I had to crush him. Crush his skull until it was like bits of blood-soaked eggshell staining the floor. I took a swing at him, but midway through the swing I stopped, brought the bat down by my side. He blinked his eyelids at me, his swollen red eyelids. He seemed to sigh with relief as if he thought I was sparing him. No, I wasn’t sparing him. I had a better idea. It had just occurred to me. I wouldn’t crush his skull. I would smash his legs and leave him lying here to punish him for all the poisonous lies he had told about Joanesy and me. Then I would torch the place. Room after room. I wanted him to be breathing when the flames caressed his blubbery body and his fancy house and hideous collection burned to the ground.

26. ADRIFT

The inferno went on for hours, so I read in the newspaper. I watched it for a little while. I like to watch things in the sky. Tongues of fire like satanic monsters licking the moist cunny of the heavens. That’s what I was thinking as the fine rain fell. There’s nothing like a good blaze to bring people together. Brings out the collective urge in all of us. Excited bodies standing shoulder to shoulder in the darkness. Excited bodies feeling the wild heat of the red and yellow flames. Heartbeats racing to a primordial rhythm. Yes, I stood there among the large crowd that had gathered across the road under the oaks of Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Together we breathed the fumes of destruction. Someone said the firefighters were worried that the sparks would carry to the park, that the trees would burn like a hundred Roman candles.

I would have been proud to be the instigator of such a magnificent blaze. But it wasn’t me that lit the blue touch paper that night. I didn’t bring the crowds out, or bring the house down. That was someone else’s doing, not mine. I slipped out by the side entrance after I heard the glass shatter in the front door, the heavy footsteps in the entrance hall, the sound of Johnny’s tortured cries as they slowly shot him to pieces.

Felicitous phrases came thick and fast but not from my lips. The newspapers were full of it, couldn’t get enough of it. I followed the unfolding story along with every sarnie-munching clerk and secretary that gathered in the parks across the capital each lunchtime. TOP SURGEON DIES IN MASSIVE BLAZE was the first headline to hit the high street. A tragic accident, the first impression. Daily tributes poured in from the great and the good, celebrating the colourful life of a true pioneer. Yet, once the forensics started raking over the ashes and charred remains, deciding what was just historical debris and what was new and newsworthy, the story took a grisly turn. TOP SURGEON TORTURED BY ARSONISTS took nearly everyone by surprise. Soon after, Joanesy brought me into the narrative, not as a suspect but as a probable casualty. He told the investigators that I had been living at his house, that I was a good friend of Johnny’s and I was over there helping him that night and had not come back. A bit-part player with no photograph to play the heartstrings, I was written off as one of Johnny’s boys who happened to be in the wrong house at the wrong time. A faceless nobody trapped in the blaze. A luckless nobody now presumed dead.

Being dead was not easy. It could be draining, especially during the day. Travelling all those weary roads without suspense, I felt the length of the hours, the minutes and the seconds too. For some reason I was drawn to Liverpool Street station. It was a kind of hub. Everything I did, everywhere I went, radiated from that place. I never strayed too far, never further than a bus ride or a brisk walk through the city. I guess I had gravitated towards it because it was not too far from Walthamstow, that overcrowded dump that I called home. I only needed to hop on an overland train and I could be there in twenty minutes. But I didn’t dare do that. I didn’t know who might be waiting for me at the other end.

I had started to sleep out in the open. Spent my nights curled up in a sleeping bag under the bandstand in Finsbury Circus. I bought the sleeping bag and a large rucksack with some of the folding money that I filched from the biscuit tin in Johnny’s drawing room; the one on the sideboard next to his angina pills. There was about six hundred quid there; loose change as far as Johnny was concerned. He was rolling in it. What I took was just cash for whisky and fast food to get us through the long nights. He was generous like that. Always made sure that his boys were fed and watered. Maybe I was missing him. I don’t know. He was a big man. He was bound to leave a big hole.

Gradually my thoughts thinned out. There was nothing much to think about anymore. A few binary opposites like night and day, heat and cold, wet and dry, hungry and full, that‘s all. Nothing else mattered. I hardly spoke to anyone anymore. Just the vendors at the various food and drink stores. A few functional words from time to time. The rest of the time it was silence. There were times when I wondered whether I would lose my voice, whether I would ever hear it again.

My daily drifting took me to many of the city of London churches. Not for religious reasons but just as places to kill time; somewhere safe to get out of the cold, to look up and lose myself in the swirling patterns on their white coved ceilings. They were part of my routine, such as it was. Surrounded by all those towering office blocks and all that teeming traffic and human noise, it always amazed me how tranquil they were. Once I had closed the heavy wooden doors behind me I was in another world with its own self-contained drama, insulated against the vulgar hurly-burly raging outside. Sometimes there would be a bouquet of lilies by the altar: pure white trumpets blowing fanfares of spicy fragrance. Other times I would hear the shimmering tones of the organ as I slumped in dappled shade at the back of the nave.

I was probably in one of those churches, perhaps St Botolph-without-Bishopsgate, when that idea attached itself to me. Like a little silvery, wriggling thing it snagged itself on a rusty hook that must have been dangling among the dark weeds at the bottom of my mind. I felt its pull. Gentle at first, almost ignorable. Gradually it got stronger, nagging me like an ache that would not go away. Eventually it took me over, filled up all the time that I was trying to kill, until I realised that I was the one who was hooked.

What spawned this idea was that card she gave me. That small rectangular card with her name and number printed on it. I should have torn it up the moment she left the room. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. Instead I kept it and carried it around with me like a keepsake to remind me of her. Took it out of my pocket from time to time and pressed it to my lips. Like a little ritual. It kept me going. Strange how the mind works. I knew that number backwards and yet I still had to look at that card when I made the first phone call.

I chose a call box in a very busy place on a very bright and busy afternoon in the West End. I had watched enough police dramas on TV to know that the police can locate the origin of a telephone call without too much trouble. I needed to be secure in the knowledge that if this call didn’t go as planned I could exit that box quickly and blend in with the crowd. When I picked up the handset my pulse was racing like a greyhound. I put the handset down and took a few deep breaths. Checked over my shoulder to see if there was anyone outside waiting. There wasn’t. I picked up the handset again and dialled the number. Then waited.

“DS Cundy,” said a woman’s voice, almost immediately.

“Hello,” I said.

I was into the conversation before I really knew it.

“How can I help you?”

“Well, actually, I might be able to help you.”

“OK.”

“I have some information that I think will be of interest to you.”

“Yes, go on.”

“It relates to a gentleman called Mr Harding.”

“Do you mean DCI Luke Harding?”

“I think so. The gentleman said he was a policeman but to be honest with you I’m not quite sure what to believe. He gave me this number and persuaded me to contact you.”

“I see.” She paused. I could hear voices in the background. The clatter of a keyboard. Office noise. “Can I ask who I’m speaking to?”

“Well, I work for an organisation that supports vulnerable people.”

“Which organisation is that?”

“I’d rather not say, if you don’t mind. You see, I’m not contacting you in an official capacity.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, Mr Harding, DCI Harding, is not one of our clients. I have spoken with him on a number of occasions but he has not registered with us. Therefore, I am not representing him in an official capacity.”

“I understand. Could you give me the details of DCI Harding’s whereabouts?”

“No, I‘m sorry I can‘t.”

“Why not?”

“Well, I’m not sure of his exact whereabouts because he is currently of no fixed abode. I mean, I would guess from his general appearance that he is sleeping rough and probably moving from place to place. Judging by his anxious state of mind I would guess that something serious has happened to him. He seems very troubled.”

“Right, I see.” She paused. Sniffed. Cleared her throat. “Can you describe this gentleman to me?”

“You mean, give a physical description of him?”

“Yes, that’s what I mean. You see, Mr…..”

She paused again, waiting for me to fill the silence with a name.

“Babington.”

“You see, Mr Babington, I need to be clear that we are in fact talking about DCI Harding and not some other individual who may have picked up some information about him and who may be misleading you.”

“I see. I hadn’t thought of that. So you think this man might not be who he says he is?”

“That’s always possible. Are you aware that we have been running a campaign in the newspapers since DCI Harding’s disappearance?”

“No, I wasn’t aware of that.”

“Our adverts include this telephone number. The one you’ve just called.”

“Right, I see. So you‘ve obviously been getting a lot of hoax calls?”

“Sadly, there are always people who, for reasons best known to themselves, like to waste valuable police time. Therefore, we have to be cautious about the quality of the information we receive.”

“Yes, of course. I appreciate that.”

“Anyway, Mr Babington, can you describe this gentleman who you say you have met on more than one occasion?”

The money was starting to run out. I took a few more coins off the pile that I had arranged on top of the machine and poked them in the slot. I glanced over my shoulder to find that no one was waiting outside, nor were there any policemen converging on the call box.

“Well, he’s a reasonably tall man. About six foot tall, I would say. Middle-aged. Mid-fifties, maybe. Dark hair and beard.”

“Beard?” She sounded surprised. “DCI Harding doesn’t have a beard.”

“When I say beard, I mean a very scruffy growth that I assume is the result of his unfortunate current circumstances.”

“Yes, perhaps.” She sighed pensively, almost wearily. “I have to say your description does sound rather general and could easily apply to any number of men. Is there anything more specific that you can offer? Are there any distinguishing marks that you have observed during your meetings with this man?”

I thought hard for a few moments. Pictured him again in my small front room as the mean bastard who had forced himself on me, who had tried to bully me into submission by degrading me like that. Then, unexpectedly, a tiny detail came back, floated back into my mind along with the aroma of French cigarettes. Maybe it was the stale reek of cigarettes that was clinging to the damp mouthpiece into which I was speaking that brought it back. It was only a fleeting thing, before the onset of all that dreadful violence. Those drawings that Gus Morose had given me had caught his eye. He complimented me on my good taste. He liked the Darjeeling too. Revealed himself to be something of a connoisseur. I was amazed. Bowled over. He smiled at me. I smiled back. Yes, it was his smile that caught me off my guard. For a brief moment I warmed to him. Forgot that he was there to interrogate me, to catch me out. It was a broad smile: reassuring, generous, charming, giving. The flash caught my eye. The sudden flash that appeared from behind his lips. Like a bolt of lightning it shattered the barrier between us.

“There was one thing I did notice,” I said hesitantly.

“Yes, go on.”

“This man, Luke, DCI Harding, if that’s his name. He has a gold tooth.”

When I stepped out of that call box the sunlight and the traffic noise hit me between the eyes. It was as though I had been shut away in some dark secluded cell, not in the middle of a heaving West End street. I had been concentrating so hard, all my efforts focused on that phone call. Now I felt exhausted, excited too. It took me awhile to reacquaint myself with my surroundings, to get the measure of them once again. I walked down New Oxford Street in a daze and crossed over into High Holborn. When I got to the Princess Louise pub I stopped and peered through the front window for old time’s sake. The place was filling up. Joanesy and me used to go there from time to time when it was less busy in the middle of the afternoon. A warren of snugs and snob screens, ornate Victorian glasswork and richly painted tiles, we immersed ourselves in its lustrous atmosphere over a pie and a couple of pints. Those were the days. How I missed them.

My thoughts returned to Joanesy when I came to the entrance of Great Turnstile a few minutes later. I lingered there a long time. Sat down on the pavement with my sleeping bag around my shoulders, staring at the army of polished shoes that marched by. I kept wondering what would happen if I cut through this narrow passage and followed the road round to his place at Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Would he be pleased to see me, or merely suspicious that I had not returned to him on that terrible night? Anyway, too many nights had passed under the cover of death for me to go back now and expect him to welcome me like some prodigal son.

Evening was descending. The crowd dispersing. I watched the ebbing tide of tired feet trickle down to underground stations. Others disappeared into bars and restaurants to rejuvenate themselves. I drifted eastwards towards Holborn Circus. The traffic criss-crossed in front of me. The buildings towered over me. I saw my stooped outline mirrored in their glowing surfaces. Wondered how long I could keep this thing going. At the viaduct I entered the beasts’ lair. Huge dragons breathing forked tongues of fire spread their wings against the red sky. I gazed up at them. Could not tell from their muscular silhouettes if they were guardians or predators.

As the floodlit dome of St Paul’s squeezed into view between soulless office blocks, my bodily strength began to waver. It had been a long time since I had eaten and a heavy melancholy fatigue was spreading through my limbs. I stopped at a store on Cheapside to stock up for the night and the next day. Bought cans of beer, bottled mineral water, pasties, chocolate, crisps, vegetable samosas, more ibuprofen and indigestion tablets. Crammed them into the side pockets of my rucksack. The main compartment was for Caroline. I had lovingly wrapped her in my polka dot shirt and bought a fleece to wear under my overcoat. I wanted something that retained the pungent juices of my body to be in contact with the fragile beauty of her pale bones. In my dreams she still kept her distance, watching, waiting to see what I would do next.

Sitting on the steps of St Mary-le-Bow, under the wings of the golden dragon, I ate the first of the pasties: a compacted mushy filling masquerading as cheese and onion. I washed it down with mouthfuls of beer, then sucked on a peppermint tablet to forestall the heartburn. As usual the minty vapours started me sneezing, loosening the encrusted filth that accumulated each day in my nasal passages after hours in the fume-filled streets of this ghastly great metropolis. I stood up and snotted on the pavement. Three or four sonorous blasts from each nostril and felt the better for it. With a clearer head I set off in the direction of Bank.

The Bank of England, the Royal Exchange, Mansion House. I had never been impressed by all that Neoclassical pomp. Those bombastic columns and porticos with their carved heroic figures. Had wandered by them so many times that they were virtually invisible to me. Lunchtime, and the broad steps and benches were infested with tourists clicking cameras and city traders chewing through pastrami daydreams. I kept my head down and gave them a wide berth. At night the area was a different proposition, mostly deserted, more atmospheric. The buildings had a ghostly grandeur: the pale grey Portland stone glowed under the street lamps.

From Bank several roads slithered out like the arms of a prehensile octopus. Only one of these was of any interest to me. That was Cornhill. Here, where the road was narrow and largely shaded from the sun, stood the churches of St Michael and St Peter. But it wasn’t the churches that brought me back time and again to gaze upwards in fear and wonder, it was the creatures: that unholy trinity of horned, terracotta devils on their lofty perches, put there in Victorian times by a sardonic prankster. I stared at them now against the blood red evening sky as I sat in a doorway across the road, my sleeping bag pulled around my shoulders. The smallest was no more than a head, a maniacal rictus; the one directly above it, squatting there with its bearded, leering face looking down over the pavement, mocked the passers-by. The last one sat further away, staring out from the corner of the building. It was the strangest of the three, the most alarming, the most captivating. A she-devil with crumbling dugs, goatish ears and a thick tail that sprang up like an erect phallus and coiled around its arm. The curvature of its back, the jagged ridge of its vertebral column, stood out sharply and painfully against the sky. There were nights when I thought I heard that scorn-filled mouth shriek across the old Square Mile as I lay curled up in the dark in Finsbury Circus.

But I was not there yet, not quite ready to beg Morpheus to blanket out my restless, sleepless worries. Over in The Counting House the well-shod clientele was trickling out on to the pavement. This was another reason for coming to Cornhill; at least it used to be before my circumstances took a downhill slide. Once it was a bank. Now a thriving pub: exuberant, theatrical, strutting its stuff in swanky red, gold and green. Gazing at its splendiferous self in wide gilt mirrors.

Getting Joanesy to leave his place was not an easy thing to achieve; after all, he had just about everything a bon vivant of his advanced years could desire under one roof, or three roofs in his case. Yet, a night out under the glass domed ceiling and glittering chandeliers of The Counting House, with a pint of the finest full-bodied ale and a fish and chips supper, was something even he couldn’t resist. It warmed my heart to think of those nights over there with Joanesy, Johnny, and Gus Morose and Monty d’Hortense, who came down from Walthamstow to join us. Often we sat up in the gallery, surrounded by views of Old London and be-whiskered gentlemen. I would look out over the rail at the huge mahogany island bar, its beautifully carved pillars and its pretty timepieces, and feast my ears on all the hustle and bustle and vibrant conversation going on in the main hall down below. Now my thoughts were waxing lyrical and drifting to Prince Carlo too. And to Bill Waterhouse with his snooty, stuck-up ways and to Freddie Clayton and his dandy posturing. I missed them all. Where were they now? All those friends that had slipped through my fingers, leaving me alone in this dark doorway with nothing but fond memories for company. What had I done to deserve this? Why was I in this wretched state?

There were tears in my eyes. I could not stop them coming. Night-time was always the worst time. The darkness closed in and dragged my spirits down. Deeper and deeper I went, disappearing into the depths of a melancholy mire. Soon I would hit rock bottom, and then what?

What jerked me out of this sinking feeling was a sharp screech of brakes. I looked up and saw a transit van across the road. Its back doors opened suddenly and two figures dressed in dark clothes jumped out. There was a chap, middle-aged perhaps, who had probably just come out of The Counting House in his posh overcoat, carrying a briefcase. He was walking along the pavement and they grabbed hold of him and bundled him into the back of the van. He was too surprised to put up a struggle. Didn’t even have time to shout for help. The doors slammed shut. The wheels squealed and the van shot off down the road towards Bank. It all happened so quickly that I had to rub my eyes to believe it. One moment he was there and the next he was gone. Now the road was eerily quiet, the pavement deserted. Well, almost. The only thing remaining, the only thing that convinced me that he had been there at all, was his briefcase. That was lying on its side by the kerb.

Strange how the mind works. I could have sat there in the shadows and kept well out of the way. It was none of my business. I was just a lowly turd living on the streets. One of the invisibles. I could have let it all drift by and never given it a second thought. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. Almost instinctively I got up and went over to that briefcase and brought it back, wrapped it up in my sleeping bag and took off down the road towards Bishopsgate.

In the mornings out there I was up with the birds. I had still not mastered the art of sleeping out in the open, especially in the dark. I was always afraid of being attacked, or robbed, or interfered with in unimaginable ways; though I did my best to imagine them all. The most I could hope for was to snatch a couple of hours here and there. An involuntary slide into a fragile slumber that could be shattered any moment by a sudden nocturnal noise: the rustle of an animal in the bushes, a drunk shouting in a nearby street. To make matters worse I had to be out of that bandstand and over the gate before the park keeper and his pals arrived each morning. Fat chance of a lie-in. I used to wander off to Liverpool Street station, take a dump there and get myself a coffee. Come back later, just after the official opening at 8.00am. There was a sheltered spot near an old pagoda tree that saw some sun in the morning. I would sit there on a bench and snooze, or just listen to the bees going in and out of the creamy white flowers. Other days, if the weather was fine, I would kill the time watching bowls on the bowling green.

Then life quickened up. Took on a different tempo. More things started happening inside my head. Other reasons to be kept awake at night. There was that briefcase. That bloody briefcase! I wish I had never clapped eyes on it. No, that’s not true. I just didn’t know what to do with it. Couldn’t open it. No, that’s not true either. I couldn’t open it the way I wanted to open it. I mean, without smashing it, or at least trying to. It was one of those hardshell attaché cases: tough, lightweight, with a combination lock. A solid black rectangle. There were papers. I shook it, turned it upside down. The papers moved around inside. Somehow it just didn’t seem to make sense. An enigma. That’s what really got to me in the end. You see, the sense I expected it to make was just not there in black and white. I checked the newspapers every day but there was no mention of it. Not a word about any kind of abduction. I couldn’t believe it. Surely someone was missing him. Someone must have known that he hadn’t come home that night, or that he hadn’t been to work the next day, or the day after, or the day after that. It was as if it hadn’t happened. But I had his briefcase in my hand. I should have ditched it. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. I kept it and carried it around with me like a keepsake to remind me of him.

Before the briefcase there was that phone call. But it was that briefcase, or at least my efforts to focus on something else, that got me thinking about that phone call again. The one to DS Cundy. I was as high as a kite for days after that. Couldn’t think of anything else. What amazed me was how much of our conversation I could still remember. It was like having a tape machine implanted in my brain, immovable. Running the tape forward, rewinding it. Hearing the sound of her poshed-up Essex accent, over and over. Amplifying the smallest smoky inflection until it filled my mind with its rampant sensuality. Night after night, thinking of her, thinking of her in my arms. Ejaculating into the all-embracing darkness. Salvo after salvo in her honour. It kept me going. It wore me out. Physically and mentally I was emptied out. Only then did I think the thing had run its course, that I was done with it, that I could finally be free of this fixation and move on. How wrong I was. Little by little the ache came back. It got stronger and stronger until it took hold of me again, forcing itself, filling me with new needs.

On a grey afternoon I found myself in a rancid call box opposite Bishopsgate Institute; its quirky Gothic towers and leafy faience façade dwarfed by that ridiculous glass gherkin which reared up behind it. Joanesy cursed them, and I could have happily roasted the balls of every stupid London mayor and city planner who allowed big business to put up its mirrored monstrosities without a care for architectural congruence. Yes, I was feeling pumped up and ready for action when I lifted the handset and poked the first coin in the slot.

“DS Cundy,” a woman’s voice said.

“Hello, DS Cundy.”

“Is that Mr Babington?”

“Yes, it is. You recognised my voice?”

“Of course I did. I’ve been waiting for you to call.”

“You have?”

“You know I have. It’s been a long time since we spoke. Too long.”

“Yes, you’re right. It’s been a long time. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologise to me, Mr Babington. I’m used to waiting.”

“You are?”

“Yes, I’ve been waiting for a long time.”

“Really?”

“You know I have, Mr Babington.” She sounded smoky. “Things haven’t been easy for me.” She sounded very smoky. “You see, I’m a woman on her own. Will you help me?”

“Yes, of course I’ll help you. In any way possible. How would you like me to help you?”

“DS Cundy,” said a woman‘s voice suddenly.

I cleared my throat, cleared my head.

“Hello, it’s Mr Babington here.”

“Hello Mr Babington.”

She sounded weary. She was obviously having a hard day.

“I’m ringing to give you the latest on Luke.”

“How is DCI Harding?”

“Well, things have moved on since we last spoke.”

“Have they?”

“Yes, Luke has told me that he would like to meet you.”

“He has, has he?”

“Yes, I saw him yesterday and he told me that he now feels ready to make the next move. He’s asked me to set up a meeting with you, if that’s possible?”

“Yes, that would be possible.”

“I thought perhaps the two of us could meet first and then I could take you to the place where Luke will be waiting. It’s what he would prefer. Is that all right with you?”

“Yes, that sounds like an excellent idea, Mr Babington. When would you like me to come?”

I cleared my throat. “When would be the best time for you, DS Cundy?”

“The sooner the better. We need to meet as soon as possible. Do you mind if I ask where you’re phoning from?”

“I’m in the Bishopsgate area.”

“Then let’s meet there. Where exactly are you?”

I paused. “I’m inside Liverpool Street station.”

“I see. That’s rather busy there. Can you meet me outside under the clock by the Bishopsgate entrance in, say, half an hour?”

“Yes, that would be lovely.”

“OK, then. Let’s do that.”

“But how will I recognise you, DS Cundy? I mean, what will you be wearing?”

“I’ll be wearing a long black coat.” She paused, laughed to herself. I had never heard her laugh before. It sent a shiver of joy through my loins. “Oh yes, and a pair of red gloves.”

Things were brightening up. The sun had come out from behind the clouds. All those occlusive thoughts that had been scudding across my mind had vanished into thin air. I now knew what I had to do and I couldn’t wait to do it. The traffic rumbled by relentlessly as I wandered back up Bishopsgate towards Liverpool Street station. For awhile I sat on a long stone bench which had been carved out of the wall. It was a popular spot with outdoor imbibers of various vintages, whose crushed debris was scattered around the dried-up pools of vomit. I did my best to ignore it. Closed my eyes and saw a pair of pretty red gloves fluttering around my naked form like birds of paradise.

I could have daydreamed like this for hours but time was against me, and I needed to be on the other side of the road. I gathered up my things and crossed over opposite Dirty Dicks pub, wandered along until I had a decent view of the clock tower. I stopped by a bus stop and stared back across the road. There were a lot of people around me, and a lot of people going in and out of the station: shoppers, workers, tourists, and people like me, hanging around, just blending in with the crowd.

I must have waited ten minutes or more before realising that she was already there. Not under the clock as arranged but further out on the other side of the glass canopy in front of the station. I guess I hadn’t been expecting her to be wearing that stuff. At least not the whole ensemble. She had the long black coat on, but it was open and showing off a short skirt and a fine pair of black-stockinged legs in long boots. One of the pretty red gloves was resting on her hip as she leaned to one side. She looked more like a catwalk model than a plainclothes policewoman. There was nothing plain about those clothes, or the policewoman inside them. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. But I wasn’t here just to get a hard-on. I had been buzzing around this lovely lady’s nectary for too long. Now it was time to taste the honey.

I made my move. Got in with the crowd that surged across the crossing when the light went red. Glanced over quickly as I swung round in front of her with enough bodies between us to obscure her view. Kept on moving until I was far enough away but could still see her. She looked lovelier than ever, even from this oblique angle. Upright, slender, and mercilessly jerking my heartstrings each time she checked that chunky watch of hers. All of a sudden she was on the move, striding across the pavement towards the clock tower, quilted coat billowing behind her. When she halted abruptly on the steps I heard the sharp, gritty sound of her soles scuffing the concrete. I gazed over at the pointed toes and the shiny silver buckles of those stylish black boots. Go on, darling, I urged her, tread on my unworthy face. Kick a hole in my chest and tell me that I’m the biggest loser that ever crawled towards the doors of your heart.

Slowly, I inched towards her. Slightly behind and to one side of her. Closer and closer until there was no one between us. The feelings of longing got bigger and bigger and more and more intense. Soon I could barely breathe. I stopped. Forced myself to take a few deep breaths. Thirsted to take the bottle from my rucksack but didn’t dare in case the movement attracted her attention. I stood there, parched with desire. Eyes transfixed, body immobile like a child in a game of statues. I felt the distance. The agony of every paving stone that separated us. The utter foolishness of my actions. The nauseating self-loathing. This reckless desire infested with despair. But none of these things mattered anymore. I wanted closure. Needed to be closer. Had to have her in whatever way possible, however fleeting that might be.

Who can say what prompted her to flip open her mobile phone and start a conversation at that very moment. Such are the vicissitudes and facticities of an existence that we are thrown into and that stretches out ahead of us like a dimly-lit corridor. We grope our way and bump our heads and rarely learn from our mistakes.

What I saw next was an open mouth and fresh white teeth and a hole that was begging to be filled by a man of my proportions. I seized the moment and lurched towards that hole. At least I tried to. But some unforeseen hand was gripping my shoulder. I felt its weight forcing me down, draining me of strength and vigour. It was pulling me away, out of the situation, denying me that sweet hole and those pretty red gloves and the faint hope of heart-warming intimacy. In my desperation and panic, I twisted my body. Looked over my shoulder and into the kind of jet black eyes that I had never looked into before.

27. OUT WEST

There had been a blaze going on inside my head. Bright red and yellow and silver sparks shooting everywhere. Soon these sensations fizzled and faded and were blotted out by the deepest purples and the blackest blacks. Then I passed out.

In pugilistic parlance, I had been caught by a sweet uppercut. I went down like a sack of rocks and was lucky not to crack my head on the concrete. I had a splitting headache and an aching jaw as slowly I started to regain consciousness. Yet it was not the pain that bothered me but the terrifying vision that unfolded behind my closed eyelids.

There was a plant growing inside my head. A disgusting thing. It had a brown and cream and dark green blotchy stem that looked like the deformed limb of a large reptile. I was standing in a grassy meadow next to it. The air around me was heavy with the putrid stench of the rich fertilizer that was feeding this thing: an oozing, bleeding dunghill of human corpses. The stem went on growing, getting thicker and taller until it was more than twice my height. Slowly it sprouted a long maroon poker; like an aerial it pointed to the sky. Then the top of the stem bulged and peeled back. It opened out like a huge cloak, revealing a lining of the darkest maroon. I stood there aghast, inhaling the stench, staring up at this grotesque formation. Behind its wavy edges the sky darkened. The noise that came after was deafening. I covered my ears but could not block out the intense buzzing. The sheets of sound. They were everywhere. Thousands and thousands of them falling from the sky. Insects, some of them with human faces, crash-landing into that hideous bloom. Sacrificing themselves. Bombarding it, tearing it apart with their hairy bodies and their faces full of fear and hate as they ploughed on into that heap of reeking ordure. The ground beneath me shook. I lost my balance. Lost my footing. Felt my feet sink into that marshy meadow. I cried out. Cried out for help. But I could not hear my voice above the din as I went down.

I was shaking. Someone was shaking me. I glimpsed a hand as my eyelids slowly flicked open. It withdrew quickly. A face was staring down at me. A young man’s face: smooth, tanned, half-hidden by sunglasses. I was on my back. Outstretched. Toes barely touching the back of a large cream-coloured car seat. The young man smiled at me. His teeth were as white as her white teeth back there on the steps in Bishopsgate.

“Mr Babington?” the young man drawled. I nodded hesitantly. “Welcome back to the land of the living.”

“Ricky? Ricky Welter?”

He smiled again, wider than before, whiter than a polar icecap. I wished I could have stepped out across that polished enamel and lost myself in its all-embracing brilliance.

“We nearly lost you, Fannings.”

“How do you know about Mr Babington?”

He ran his fingers through his hair. It was shorter and darker than I remembered. Combed back and quiffed up.

“Giles said the station was crawling with plainclothes pigs,” he said.

“Giles?”

He angled his head towards the front of the car. It seemed a long way off like another room, and well above my eye level. In my troubled mind I imagined a pair of jet black eyes fixed on the road ahead, a pair of strong hands gripping the steering wheel.

“Dunno what you ever saw in DS Cundy,” he sneered. “How you could have got yourself into such a lather over that hard-faced bitch. If you’d fallen into her honey trap she’d have ripped you apart in the interrogation room. You were acting like an arsehole, man.”

Before I had the chance to get angry with him he had leaned across. Ricky Welter, the handsomest man I had ever clapped eyes on, was leaning over me. I inhaled the bittersweet odour of his black leather jacket. Gazed up at his sleek jaw and his chiselled cheeks. His black jeans pressed against my thigh as we went parallel. Like a Hokusai wave waiting to break, the crest of his quiff reared up. But it did not break over me. Instead it blew back in on itself. The window he had been fiddling with suddenly descended with a soft drone. I heard it amid the howling air and the roaring traffic and all the crazy din of the outside world that came crashing in. Sound on vulgar sound going nowhere but up and down the scale of vertical density.

Now he had removed his sunglasses and was scrunching his eyes and furrowing his brow like a film star. Heroically gazing out of the car with the wind in his hair. I watched it blow this way and that, unsculpted, set free. The freedom of the young and the hugely talented to make the rest of us gaze in awe. I kept on gazing. He shifted his legs, pressing down harder on my grateful, painful thigh to give himself leverage, to bring himself upright again. He moved backwards, and as he moved away from me one of those glossy, well-kept hairs detached itself from the billowing black mass. Floating down like a sycamore wing it landed on my lips. Discreetly I parted them, breathed in gently, accepted this generous, voluptuous gift.

“There’s a bad smell in this car and it’s coming from you,” he told me. He sniffed the air contemptuously, reordered his hair. It was a big car and he was sitting cross-legged at the other end of the back seat. But with this thing tickling the inside of my mouth he was closer to me than he realised. “Are you wearing some kind of weird perfume?” he said, giving me a strange look.

“Perfume?”

“Yeah, really cloying, man. Sticks in the back of the throat.” He turned up his nose at me. “Like roses and sweat.”

There were buildings going by behind his head. I could see the tops of them. Swanky red-brick Victorian and Edwardian mansion blocks with corner turrets and bay windows and wrought iron balconies.

“Where are we going?” I asked him. “I want to go home. It’s time I went back to my house.”

“Your house?” He laughed to himself. “Prince Carlo told me it was your parents’ place and you’re just looking after it while they’re in Canada.”

“No, it’s my house now. They passed it on to me when they emigrated to Vancouver to be near my mother‘s sister. By the way, how is Prince Carlo. I haven‘t heard from him for ages. Have you seen him?”

Suddenly he looked tense. He shook his head, yanked the zip of his Chelsea boot up and down. The sharp noise it made grated on my nerves.

“Fannings, I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news. Prince Carlo has gone.”

“Gone where?”

“He topped himself, man.”

“Dead?”

He nodded pensively. “The note he left was sent to Joanesy. It seems he drowned. He was planning to jump off a bridge into the river late at night. Anyway, he hasn’t been found. I guess it takes awhile for a body to be washed up.”

“Are you sure about this? Why would he do a thing like that?”

“He was on the run, man. Surely you knew that?”

“Yes, of course. I read all that terrible stuff about his wife. I still can‘t believe he did those things. I suppose he had his reasons. But I thought all that was behind him now. He told me he was trying to start a new life over here in London.”

“Maybe he was. But there were people looking for him. Hunting him down. Ready to bring him to justice, their own kind of justice. I guess he couldn’t take the pressure anymore. The net was closing in on him. A life on the run is no life for any man.”

“Ricky, I don’t mean to sound offensive, but you know as well as I do that Prince Carlo is a wily old bugger. Do you think he might have pulled a stunt here? You know, faked his own death to get those people off his tail?”

“Holy shit! No way, man. You wouldn’t say that if you saw the note.”

“You saw the note?”

He nodded gloomily. “Joanesy showed it to me. It was dreadful. Definitely a guy at his wits end, not a trickster. His last words were so desperate, so defiant, that I can’t bring myself to repeat them.”

I could see by the look on his face that he was deeply moved. He turned his head away, perhaps to hide the tears that were now streaming down his cheeks. It hurt me to see him like this, though I had no idea he was that close to Prince Carlo. We sat there for awhile in silence watching the buildings go by. I still didn’t know where we were going. There were more of those mansion blocks and leafy avenues. Maybe we were somewhere out west.

Talking about Prince Carlo had stirred up a whole maelstrom of emotions. I was feeling sick inside. I just wanted to get back home and be alone in a quiet, safe place.

“Look, Ricky. I don’t know where it is we’re going but I need to get back home. It’s where I belong. Just take me there, please.”

“No!” he said emphatically. He looked across at me, wiping the tears from his red eyes. “That’s not a good idea.”

“What do you mean?”

“We, Giles and me, think that you going back to Walthamstow at this stage is not a good idea.”

“Why not? Why can‘t I go home?”

He cleared his throat, put on his sunglasses again which had been dangling from the front of his black silk shirt.

“Because it’s not a safe place for you to be right now. There are things going on there. People hanging around.”

“What people?”

“People you won’t want to meet.”

“If you mean the police, I told DS Cundy they can search my house anytime. They won’t find anything because there’s nothing to find. I know nothing about the disappearance of that detective.”

“DCI Harding.”

“You know about DCI Harding?”

“We know a lot of things about Luke Harding. He’s a friend of Giles. They go back a long way. He‘s one of the good guys. A decent copper.”

I swallowed hard. “Is Giles a policeman?”

“No, of course not,” he laughed. “He’s security. The best. A guy like me with a public profile needs close protection.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really. Giles is ex-military. That’s where he met Luke. He thinks Luke has gone undercover for awhile, that he’s working on something big. But he can’t understand why you would want to get webbed up in all that stuff, why you kept making all those ridiculous phone calls to DS Cundy pretending you knew where Luke was. I told him you were just desperate to get into her sticky knickers.”

“So that’s how you knew about Mr Babington? You‘ve been listening in to my calls?”

He gave me a huge smile that was so white beneath the blackness of his sunglasses that it nearly blinded me. But I saw myself reflected in them. Two small faces. Both of them fearful.

“Yeah, that’s right,” he drawled. “Giles is the sheet anchor. Nothing gets past him. He’s got all kinds of surveillance equipment. That’s why we hired him to find you.”

“We?”

“Joanesy and me. We had to find out where you’d go, who you might speak to. We knew you would be vulnerable after Johnny Carver’s murder.”

“Are you accusing me of murdering Johnny? Is that what you think?”

“Whoa! Whoa!” He put up his hands to calm me down. “I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m just saying that someone had watch over you.”

“So you were watching me all the time I was living on the streets?”

“Giles was, some of the time. I’m a busy man. I don’t have the time to watch you wanking in the dark.” He looked over his sunglasses and winked at me.

“I can’t believe you spied on me. That was an invasion of my privacy.”

“It wasn’t spying. We were making sure you didn’t fall into the wrong hands. Like DS Louise Cundy’s hands, for instance.”

“Louise? Is that her name?”

“Sure is. Now don’t go getting anymore ideas about her. Stay away from that bitch. Giles says she’s dangerous. He says all those missing person ads she placed were just a ruse to see who comes out of the woodwork with some tasty information. He reckons she’s got another agenda.”

“What kind of agenda?”

“That’s none of your business, man. Let Giles worry about things like that. I’ve got a place where you can stay and you’ll be out of harm’s way for the time being. A safe house.”

“Safe from whom?”

“Safe from the people who murdered Johnny, for instance.”

“You know who did that?”

“Probably the same guys that are waiting to meet you in Walthamstow.”

I swallowed hard. “Really?”

“Yeah, really. Gus Morose has moved into your house. You knew that, didn’t you?”

“Well, I asked him to keep an eye on the place while I was away, so I guess that’s OK.”

“Gus told me there have been some visitors. Not long ago a couple of guys came round asking for you.”

“Who were they?”

“He didn’t seem to know their names but he described them to me. He said he’d seen them once before at Joanesy’s place, at Prince Carlo’s birthday party. One of them was a smooth-looking bastard. Tanned with designer stubble. But it wasn’t him that put the frighteners on Gus. It was the other one. Gus said he was hideous. A hardcore freak with a fur cloak and a messed up face.”

“Yes, I know who are they are.”

“You do?”

“I saw them at Joansey’s place. They also came over to Johnny’s a few times while I was there. The smooth one‘s an artist called Arcimboldo and the other one’s a lawyer. I didn’t like the look of them so I kept out of their way. What did Gus tell them about me?”

“He told them all he knew.”

“What!”

“Fannings, he had no choice. The freak put a gun to his head and threatened to blow his brains out. Gus panicked. He was shit scared, man. He told them you were living at Joanesy’s place.”

“Is Joanesy OK?”

“He’s still alive, if that’s what you mean. Gus phoned him and warned him but there wasn’t much Joanesy could do. They cut him pretty badly. Really roughed him up. It’s a miracle he survived. Most men of his age would have croaked under that kind of pressure.”

“What did they get out of him?”

“Well, there wasn’t much he could say. I mean, he wasn’t even sure that you were still alive after the fire at Johnny’s house. He had no idea where you were. None of us did. The freak told Joanesy that you had taken something from Johnny’s house that belonged to them, something they bought from Johnny and they were going there to collect. Apparently they paid a small fortune for it. The freak said Johnny double-crossed them. Joanesy reckons they tortured Johnny and he gave them your name. Then they killed him and torched his place to punish him for letting you take this thing.”

“Did Joanesy know what this thing was?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t say, or wouldn’t say. Anyway, I didn’t want to hassle him. He’d been through enough already. He just wanted to find out if you were still alive and make sure that no harm came to you. He thinks a lot of you.”

“He does?”

“He talks about you like a father talks about a son. Fannings, what the hell is this thing those guys want so badly? Do you still have it?”

I was shaking my head. My hands were shaking too. I gripped the soft leather of the back seat to stop them shaking. There was a tightness spreading through my chest. I took a deep breath, tried to ease the tension.

“Ricky, I don’t know what Joanesy’s talking about. I don’t know what this thing is that I’m supposed to have. I don’t have anything belonging to anyone. All I have is a rucksack with a few clothes and a briefcase with some old newspapers.”

“Yeah, they’re in the boot. Giles picked them up at Liverpool Street station. We took a quick peek in the rucksack.”

I swallowed hard. “You did?”

“Yeah.” He grinned at me. “That polka dot shirt of yours.” He held his nose. “One whiff of that was enough, man. That disgusting smell put a hurt on our noses.”

The car was swinging round a bend in the road, gradually slowing down. A light breeze drifted in through the open windows. Ricky gazed out, ran his fingers through his hair. Some blossomy shrubs came into view behind him. The car stopped.

“This is where you get out, man,” he said, looking back at me.

He removed his sunglasses, polished them up on the front of his black silk shirt. His eyes were no longer red. He looked calm and composed. Totally in control.

“Are you coming with me?”

“’Fraid not,” he drawled. “Way too busy.”

“Oh, yeah. I forgot to ask. How’s the career going, Ricky?”

“Through the roof, man.” He beamed at me. “Stratospheric. Have you heard the song?”

“No, I haven’t. But Monty d’Hortense told me you were working on something special.”

“The most downloaded song on the net.” He gestured proudly with the sunglasses. “Hence the big car, among other things.”

“Earning you a small fortune, is it?”

“It’s a free download.”

“Free?” He laughed at my look of amazement. “How do you make your money?”

“Donations.”

“Donations?”

“It’s the way forward, man. Some folks want something for nothing but most want to give. Once you empower them, they keep on giving. Makes them feel good.” He put the sunglasses back on, yanked up the zip on his Chelsea boot. “Anyway, you’d better look sharp. We don’t want to keep Giles waiting.”

“No, of course not.”

When I got out of the car and stood on the pavement the sunlight and the heat hit me between the eyes. I looked up and down the road at the Victorian houses, at the huge front windows and tall chimneys, at all that impressive architecture. I was standing outside a strange house, perhaps the strangest of them all. It had narrow stained glass windows and a round tower with a conical roof. There was something church-like about it and something comical too. A red-brick Gothic folly of the highest order.

“Do you live here?” I asked him.

“Sometimes.”

He dangled his arm out of the window and flicked up his hand towards me. We did a high-five. The surface of his palm was hot and clammy.

“Ricky, will you be in touch?”

“Yeah, I’ll be in touch.” His arm went back inside the car and snaked out again quickly with a small brown bottle. “Take this.”

I took the bottle off him. There were things rattling inside. Pills, obviously.

“What are these for?”

“They’ll give you a lift if you’re feeling a bit down.” He slapped the top of the seat in front of him and the engine started. “Take care now, Fannings. Don’t forget to make yourself at home. I’ve gotta go. Gotta spread the word.”

“What word is that?”

“Chryselephantine,” he drawled.

“What?”

He smiled at me as the car pulled away. A knowing smile that glowed like phosphorous.

28. CHRYSELEPHANTINE

The syllables of that word were still ringing in my ears when I sat down in front of the computer. Ricky Welter had certainly grown in my estimation. His self-confidence, his poise, his sensitivity, had all reached new heights. But a word like that seemed to sit uncomfortably on his lips. Somebody had obviously put it there, but I had no idea who that somebody was. Anyway, I took a chance. Maybe it was a chance in a million, maybe not. Maybe those syllables were meant to be ringing in my ears. Anyway, when the system asked me for a password I punched it in: chryselephantine. Quick as a flash, I was logged in.

But that came later. How much later, if it did come later, I don’t remember. For time passed so strangely in that strange house. No, when I think about it, events were not sequential, linear or the like. Nothing moved in a straight line anymore. There was duration, but events simply and complexly happened at the same time yet at different rates. Slow events happening at the same time as slower events, making one wonder just how slow events were really going. Of course, the fast events were happening too, but the very fast events made the fast events appear much slower, but not as slow as the slower events.

That individual I saw reflected in the entrance hall mirror, who I did not want to recognise as myself, was quite shocking. I had not realised how much I had changed physically. It’s a wonder Ricky Welter let me into his car. It must have been a torture to him to have to share the back seat with an individual like this, like me. I had stared at my own reflection in the toilet mirrors at Liverpool Street station when I went down there to take a dump and splash water on my face to wake myself up. But that was a different context. I was not looking for physical changes when I was in that context. In that context I had other things on my mind.

Of my physical appearance I shall be brief and to the point. Suffice it to say, I had lost weight. Lots of it. My face was gaunt, my skin red and blotchy, my hair long and matted, and the stuff sprouting from my chin was as rough as a badger’s arse. The clothes I was standing up in were equally distressing, though I felt a sentimental attachment since we had been through so much together. Nevertheless, I burned those sorry garments on the terrace late one night. Watched the red and yellow flames leap into the dark sky and imagined a bright future free of fixation.

Black cherry is probably my all-time favourite. It is so reliable. Followed by loganberry, nectarine and peach. Strawberry is boring. Papaya and gooseberry are not without merit, though I was brought up to call gooseberries goosegogs which does not really help their case. Lemon has its moments, but prune is ghastly. I cannot imagine anyone’s mouth watering at the sight of a prune-flavoured yoghurt.

The water beating down on my back like some biblical rain was turning the colour of prunes. Fortunately, I could not smell the filth that was falling from my body, only the fruity fragrances of the shower gel and shampoo that I had taken from the bathroom cabinet. Robed in glistening bubbles I moved to the song. Polyrhythmic I was, blissfully unwinding to the hypnotic pulses and voices playing in my head. Then, suddenly, I felt his hand on top of mine, saw those jet black eyes loom up like lightless, airless tunnels.

“Mr Babington,” he was saying in a calm, clear voice, a voice used to giving orders, rarely receiving them, “don’t make me hit you again.”

The memory of that sweet uppercut came back sharply and swiftly, jolting me to my senses out there on the pavement in the hot, bright sun.

“Please, no, it’s mine,” I insisted feebly, as my knuckles cracked and my fingers turned to putty.

“No, Mr Babington.” He motioned with his head towards the stained rucksack in the boot of the car. “That‘s yours.”

Reluctantly, sensibly, I let go of the handle of the briefcase that I had been steadfastly protecting. He took it from me, turned away and rested his highly polished shoe on the bumper, balanced the case on the thigh of his light grey trousers. Seconds later the top flipped open. Amazed, I watched him gaze in at the contents which he was shielding from me. Impassive, impressive, a neatly-bearded, broad-shouldered fifty-something in a navy blue blazer, he glanced across.

“Thank you, Mr Babington,” he said, closing the case, taking his foot down off the bumper. “Thank you very much indeed.”

“What? Is that all there is?”

“What do you mean?”

“What about the man?”

He gave me a puzzled look. “What man?”

“The man who this briefcase belongs to. They bundled him into the back of a van and then drove him away. Aren’t you going to tell me what happened to him?”

“Mr Babington, you are tired. You have been wandering the streets. You have not been sleeping well. The mind plays tricks on a man who is short of sleep.”

“But he was there. Outside The Counting House in Cornhill. I saw him.”

“No, Mr Babington. What you saw was a briefcase lying on the pavement late one night in the city. That‘s all.” A cool breeze passed between us disturbing his brightly-coloured tie. Its rhubarb and custard diagonals fluttered momentarily. “Take this,” he said, dipping his fingers into the side pocket of his blazer.

He brought out something shiny that caught my eye and quickly pressed it into my palm. I glanced down and saw it lying there. It was more like a tank, a gun, than a teapot; a silver thing about the size of a shilling dangling from the front door key.

I had never seen so many beautifully made things under one strange roof. Jewels, gems. Lapis lazuli, malachite, amethyst, topaz, garnet, jade, jet, emerald, pearl, opal, and so on and on. So richly encrusted. Champlevé, cloisonné, repoussé. Bossed-up and ribbonned and scooped out and stuffed with enamels, translucent and opaque. Pretty things and pretty stupid things. Bibelots and baubles of the highest order. Here, there and everywhere mythical creatures and fairy tale creatures. Full-breasted mermaids and lopsided sea monsters. Valiant knights with perpendicular lances. Demons and maidens, and giants with urchins. On the walls, on the floors, on the chairs, on the ceilings, on the doors, on the stairs.

Up I climbed. Up the spiral staircase inside the tower. The opalescent light lit my way, guided me to wardrobes arrayed with familiar garments: black jeans and baggy corduroys, silk waistcoats and linen suits, tweed jackets and leather jackets, sports coats and black silk shirts. There were even a few Suprematist shell suits. All these lovely things hanging on beautifully carved hangers, begging to be filled by a man of my proportions. Except now I had the wrong proportions after all that degrading drifting around this ghastly great metropolis.

What I needed was fattening up, and fortunately the fridges were crammed full of full fat cheeses and sun-dried tomatoes stuffed with feta cheese, and oily olives stuffed with sun-dried tomatoes and pungent garlic. There was no time for marination or deliberation. I needed food that was ready to go, or at the very most a few minutes from my mouth in the microwave. Fish pies and Cumberland pies with layers of heart-warming meat and vegetables, topped with creamy, cheesy mashed potato. All I desired was within easy reach. A casual stroll across the sun-filled kitchen with its decorative cupboards and quirky utensils. Never the need to go shopping, to suffer the nightmare of long queues and crowded aisles.

But not even the pungent garlic could keep away the demons of the night. For the time I was there I was plagued by architecture. Hemmed in on both sides by extraordinary excesses. When I looked out the front I saw a forest of spires puncturing the soft underbelly of cumulus clouds. A host of angels hanging on to steeply sloping roofs. But these were not ordinary cherubim and seraphim and ophanim. Behind their beatific smiles there were bad teeth and bad breath that stained the stained glass windows of all those teeming towers. By their sides they wore scabbards with jewel-encrusted daggers, and under pure white robes there were hardened gold-tipped tools ready to impale me. When I looked out the back I saw monstrous monstrances of tarnished metals glowing against the red sky. Huge dragons and winged lions circled overhead, dumped their evil excrements on dome and minaret. High up, a legion of tiny Carolines peered at me through arrowslits, pierced me with their poisonous threats.

“Don’t take me away from her!” I cried out, though my voice was lost in the din. “I only want to love her!”

“Love her?” He was looking at me with those jet black eyes as though I had lost my marbles. Had me pinned against a wall in a smelly alley behind Liverpool Street station. He dipped his fingers into the pocket of my shabby overcoat, brought out something that was beautifully made, held it by its lovely tortoiseshell handle in front of my face. “Is this what you call love?” When he opened the blade engraved with Johnny Carver’s initials it shone like the silver buttons on his navy blue blazer. “Were you going to use this on her? Would you have hacked that pretty policewoman to pieces?”

I swallowed hard. Shrugged my shoulders. Did not know what to think now that he had destroyed my dreams, my hopes of heart-warming intimacy.

“There are historical precedents for this kind of thing,” I said as calmly as I could. “It’s nothing new.”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

In my mind I was still reading that book, or maybe it was a blog, or maybe what he told me himself in one of his unguarded moments. I was picturing the small group of them running up the grand staircase in his castle, about to enter the bedchamber where his unfaithful wife and that duke were joined in feverish passion. Prince Carlo, he was dressed like a soldier, helmeted, carrying a small harquebus. The others brandished halberds with which they skewered that lusty duke, hauling him off the dark-eyed lady like a piece of meat, his stiff tool still pumping its slimy load. They hacked it off before his eyes, before Prince Carlo fired the single shot that sprayed his impudent brains across a fabulous Persian rug.

Later, after they had had their fun with her and tied her down in a frilly nightdress, Prince Carlo slipped into something more comfortable. A Chinese mandarin’s robe with lettuce-shaped ruffs and a pair of richly embroidered slippers. Some say he produced a black silk handkerchief and blew his nose and stuffed it in her pretty mouth; others, that he smashed her lovely face with one cruel swing of an iron gauntlet. All agree that the blade he used was a work of art, exquisitely engraved; that her blood and foaming sex juices mingled delicately each time he rammed it up inside. Afterwards, he left it there to marinate, so that he might savour the glistening flavour of revenge laced with despair.

There were things like this on the internet. Bloodthirsty computer games that I came across by chance as I sat scoffing a Stilton and broccoli quiche, or some such tasty snack. I wasn’t the only one playing them. Millions were. The stats were unbelievable. I never realised this kind of material was so popular. The strange thing was that these games were so easy to play. No need for any strategy. Just the awesome excitement of disembowelling all those politicians and bankers and Oxbridge undergraduates, over and over again. House Of Frauds, Blood Bank and Axbridge were a few of the games I played. Stranger still were the links. I recall them vividly. Links from these games to lists and lists of names and addresses. People whose names I did not seem to know but who I assumed were linked in some way to these games. I checked them out via a search engine and many of them came up, some of them quite famous names. Of course, these lists were always being deleted, dislodged by the authorities, but they came back again in unexpected and unsuspected places, growing like a fungus in the cracks and crannies and on the soft underbelly of this vast network. There were the names of schools too, and the names of children. The research involved to do this kind of thing must have been awesome, almost certainly the work of many people. It fascinated me to know how all these names and addresses had been discovered and painstakingly put together for public consumption. But who had compiled this information? Who wanted this information? And what were they were doing with it?

The answers to these pressing questions kept on eluding me as I tried to chill out to the song. Ricky Welter was right. It was certainly the most downloaded song on the internet. It was everywhere you looked, and it was everywhere when you weren’t looking for it. There were links to it on all kinds of blogs and forums and websites, even ones that had nothing to do with music, even ones like those computer games that I had been playing. I went to Ricky’s website and checked out all the details, saw how he sweet-talked the masses into making their generous donations. I had no idea that he was such an astute businessman, but I had a pretty good idea where he had learned the tricks of the trade.

The song was something to be proud of. I had not heard anything like it before, and I don’t suppose anyone else had. It didn’t take me long to realise that Ricky’s involvement in the making of it had been minor, if not negligible. The song was a one-word song and that word was chryselephantine. Yet its five syllables were multilayered and manipulated in ways beyond simple comprehension. Sped up and slowed down, stretched and sliced up, reversed and inverted, amplified outrageously and toned down to a murmur. But it was not just voices. There were other things going on too. Electronic things. Soft drones and staccato pulses, slivers of tones and brittle fragments that fell apart and blew away like dust on the breeze. Triumphal chords that rose up like cathedral walls and spectral hisses that escaped like gas through the tiniest of holes. And then there were the sounds that I could hear that weren’t really there, and the sounds that were there that I couldn’t hear. Yes, the song was Ricky Welter’s voice, he was the frontman, but Prince Carlo’s genius was behind it. That was obvious. Only a composer of his unique stature could have fashioned a work of such mind-boggling complexity, yet make it live and breathe in subtle ways that touched the souls of all who heard it. Never the same twice, it seemed to come from nowhere at all and go on like an endless parade.

The song was a phenomenon. It had gone from the margin to the mainstream in no time at all. A sparkling jewel that everyone wanted to possess. A deepening mystery that no one understood but everyone wanted to unravel. The internet was full of it, couldn’t get enough of it. There were blogs and forums and websites devoted to it, obsessed with the song. I had never read so many convoluted expositions, arguments and counter-arguments. Some said it was the work of a higher being and that Ricky Welter was merely a conduit, a mouthpiece through which the sacred things passed. Some said there were hidden messages lying there, words played backwards that were the words of the Devil. Some said their minds were filled with strange desires each time they heard the song. Then the politicians and the law-makers stepped in and decided that they had heard enough, that the files would be deleted and the song would not be heard again. But they could not silence the song, and the files returned elsewhere, and the word was spread and the song remained the same powerful force that it had always been. Then the police stepped in and took matters into their own hands, and Ricky Welter was arrested.

29. SAFE HOUSE

Trouble was, no one seemed to know where Ricky Welter was. We all saw the photographs and the footage of him being led away by uniformed men but beyond that nothing else was known. Some elements within the police force even denied that he had been arrested, claimed that he had faked his own arrest for publicity purposes. Some people on the internet said the secret service had got hold of him, that they were torturing the truth out of him to unravel the mysteries of the song. The only certain thing was that Ricky Welter had disappeared soon after he made those controversial comments about taxation, saying on TV that too many rich folks were getting off lightly and that loopholes should be tightened very tightly around the necks of those who were getting off lightly. I knew he meant it metaphorically, because Ricky was an artist, and artists like to use metaphors.

The longer Ricky was gone the more it depressed me to imagine that he was being held against his will, probably in a dank underground place where his handsome body was being violated and he was being made to micturate in a bucket while other people watched. I feared the day when I would see his haggard face on a grainy videotape, a man in a mask standing over him with a large knife demanding a ransom. These things began to depress me so much that I took some of the pills he had given me to give me a lift. But I needed more than that. I needed to feel closer to him now that I no longer knew if he was in the land of the living. In doing so I gravitated towards one of the wardrobes that contained those lovely things on beautifully carved hangers. To make myself more comfortable I slipped into a black silk shirt and black jeans. My smoothly-shaven face I pampered with milky lotions and moisturisers, plunged my fingertips into lavender-scented gel and quiffed my hair, softened my cuticles and pushed them back as a matter of priority. Around the mirrored bedrooms and bathroom I paraded, ceaselessly glancing at myself from advantageous angles.

What stopped all this posing and preening was that sheet of paper. I glimpsed it one afternoon, or thereabouts, between the floorboards in the hallway. I wanted so much to ignore it. But I didn‘t. I couldn’t. I hadn’t realised that a sheet of paper could exert so much influence. How long it had been there I have absolutely no idea at all. I mean, life has to retain some unknowables for it to make sense. Drawing back and leaving things to their own devices is an underrated course of action. I mean one can be positively proactive by doing nothing at all. Sadly, in this situation, this was not possible. I simply had to act on my suspicions.

I make no claims to being an expert in the field of stationery, but by getting down on my hands and knees and peering at it through a narrow gap in the floorboards, I estimated that what I was dealing with was almost certainly a sheet of 8 1/2” X 11” ruled paper with 3/4” spacing between the lines. To all intents and purposes this was a blank sheet of paper, though I have to confess my view was restricted and therefore not the best in the world. In order to improve it I decided to demolish the relevant floorboards with the monkey wrench I had discovered in a toolbox under the kitchen sink, or search for a more orthodox route to the lowest level of the building. I found the appropriate opening one evening in a small room beneath the staircase. I also found a SIG Sauer semi-automatic pistol on one of the shelves. I tucked it inside my leather jacket. Moving aside a shabby Persian rug I lifted the cellar door and went down a short flight of stone steps into the darkness.

The humid air down there forced its way into my lungs: stale, sour and full of bacterial fear. I sucked it in as my fingers groped along the nearside wall for the light switch. The naked bulb flickered and came on, illuminating a room containing a few cardboard boxes in the middle, and the aforementioned sheet of paper to one side of them. On the walls figures leapt out at me in lurid red paint. No, this was not art, I told myself. Not creative expression of any kind. Just crass daubs. Nothing more than paint splashed across filthy concrete walls to satisfy some pervert’s longings. Crude depictions of men dangling from nooses, sodomised by pitchforks or crucified upside down. Cartoon cocks spewing their gooey spunk into the mouths of kneeling victims. Everywhere, bitter obscenities scrawled in oversized letters. Words of hate and lust.

I was still trying to take it all in when I heard his calm, clear voice behind me. It shattered the grim silence. I turned sharply, horrified to see him standing there in his navy blue blazer, broad shoulders blocking the way out.

“What are you doing down here, Mr Babington?”

He was smirking at me, eyeing me up and down with those jet black eyes that seemed to gleam in this harsh underground light.

“What is this place?” I asked him. My voice was trembling, timid. The humid, dusty air clogging my nose and clinging to my throat.

He pressed a forefinger to his lips. I swallowed hard, my mouth parched with fear as he walked towards me. I backed away. A cardboard box slammed up against the heels of my Chelsea boots. I thought about the pistol in my jacket but did not touch it. He stopped short of me, a couple of feet away, stroking his neat grey beard, staring into my eyes with that implacable stare. He sighed heavily and the room seemed to sigh with him. The surrounding city seemed to evaporate, leaving just the two of us alone together in this seedy underground place somewhere out west.

“What do you want?” I asked him, wishing there would never be an answer.

He raised his eyebrows, then closed his eyes. Sniffed the air contentedly and smiled to himself. For a few moments he seemed to be somewhere else, drifting in forbidden places I did not dare to think about.

“I want you,” he whispered, opening his eyes, breathing out slowly, wistfully. His hot meaty breath wafted into my face. “That special scent that you carry around with you on your skin and on your clothes and in your rucksack. I know it so well. It brings back so many fond memories.”

“It does?”

He nodded slowly. There were tears in his eyes. They were tears of joy. He took my hands. He held them lightly. He kissed them gently. The tears rolled down his cheeks and dropped on to my hands, mingled with the perspiration that was falling from my forehead.

“I want to be inside you, Mr Babington. Tunnelling deep inside you. Would you like that?”

“I don’t know.”

“You have eyes like mine, Mr Babington. Each time I look at you I see myself. I won’t hurt you. I promise you. Giles Ray gives you his word that he won’t tear you apart with his tears of joy.”

I had never heard his name before, not his full name. Yet it seemed familiar. It set off bells ringing inside my head. The persistent tintinnabulation went on and on. Some of these bells seemed to be coming from above the ceiling of this cellar room.

“Aren’t you going to get that?” he said, glancing upwards, letting go of my hands. “Go on, answer the telephone. There‘s a good boy. Hurry along. Don’t keep her waiting.”

Her? I was trying to think how many women I knew who would be phoning me here, or anywhere else for that matter, as he stepped aside to let me out of there. I was also wondering how he knew it was a woman who would be on the other end of the line. I rushed back up the stone steps, through the small cupboard, and out into the hallway. The telephone, one of those old-fashioned things with the circular dial, was on an oval table in a shady corner next to an ornately-potted aspidistra. I picked up the handset.

“Hello,” I said hesitantly.

“Hello, dear.”

“Mum, is that you?”

“Of course it’s me, dear.”

I had to laugh. It was so unexpected. I could have cried my eyes out too. It was wonderful to hear her voice again.

“How did you get this number?”

“Joanesy gave it to me.”

“Joanesy?”

“Yes, Joanesy,” she laughed. “He got it from a notebook you left in his house. He’s a nice man, isn’t he?”

“That’s a private notebook, mum. He had no right to go through that.”

“Don’t be silly, dear. He was only thinking of you. He gave me this number so that I could contact you.”

“How did he get your number?”

“That was in the notebook too. He wanted us to keep in touch. He told me that you were feeling lonely now that we’re in Canada.”

“How is Vancouver? How’s dad?”

“Busy with the barbecue, dear. He loves the outdoor life. We both do. The climate’s lovely here. You would love all this sun and the sea breezes. When are you going to visit us?”

“I don’t know, mum. When I’ve saved up, I suppose. Did you get the letters I sent on?”

“Yes we did, thanks. Joanesy thinks you should come and join us. He thinks it would be the best thing for all of us to be together. He has the money if you want to borrow it.”

“I know. He told me. He’s a dear old soul.”

“By the way, have you done anything about that young girl?”

“What young girl?”

I could hear her cheeky old laugh on the end of the line. I knew it only too well.

“You know perfectly well what I’m talking about, dear.”

“I suppose Joanesy told you about her too?”

“Yes he did. You did the right thing taking her off that dreadful man. Give her bones a decent burial, dear. Will you promise me that?”

“I’ll do my best.”

“No, will you promise me that?”

“Yes, mum. I promise. Mum?”

“What is it, dear.”

“I do love you, and dad too.”

The back garden was not a place I had explored in great detail. Of course I knew it was out there. I had observed it through the French windows many times. The birds on the nut feeders and the branches swaying in the wind. But it’s only when you get out there and get up close that you realise what’s happening at the micro-level. You’ve got to see the soil shift for yourself, find out who the good guys are and who’s screwing up things for everyone else. Some snails don’t take no for an answer. They have to be trampled underfoot. There was a pond and a pergola too. A long lawn criss-crossed by paved pathways and somewhere near the middle a stone sundial. Mounds of quivering blue grass and pampas plumes and phormiums throwing blood red daggers. Sometimes in the pale dawn light I put headphones on and wandered out in my dressing gown, listened to the hypnotic syllables of the song while the blackbirds robbed berries off the pyracantha. There was a big buddleia. It was quite a thing. Unruly, exuding a heavy musky perfume. Beautiful in its own way. In the hot sun the bees buzzed frantically around its purple pokers, but there were no butterflies.

30. NECROPOLIS

This was a bad, bad road to go down, down, down. But I got there in the end. I could not face being too close to other people so I did not take public transport. I walked all the way. Maybe it was the voices coming up from that gurgling drain that started it all off in the very first place, and a little later the same sunny afternoon there was that geriatric mulberry tree. I remember sucking the juicy blood off my fingertips as I kicked away its wooden splints. I remember those gurgling voices telling me that something big would happen if I gave it my best shot.

There were uncertainties, lots of them, intruding all the time. Sometimes I was so disoriented I could not tell the difference between unsweetened soya and unsweetened yoga. I blame Ricky Welter’s pills. I blame a lot of things. For a time I was plagued by punctuation. Hemmed in on both sides by extraordinary excesses. When I crept out the front I was nearly blinded by the blazing asterisk high in the heavens. When I crept out the back I had to dodge a hail of bullet points.

The invasive tactics of Giles Ray did not help matters in the least. The favours I granted in exchange for close protection could not carry on indefinitely. Something had to give. Seeing his tear-stained face straining over me as he tunnelled inside brought no joy whatsoever. He fucked me in every orifice conceivable. But I would not let him break me or tear me apart. To distract myself I built hydroponic gardens in every scalding bead of sweat that fell from his forehead on to my lips; played the rhythms of the song over and over inside my head in time with the lusty movements of his hips.

When Giles was not around, when he told me he was out gathering information on Ricky Welter’s whereabouts, I went down into the cellar to check out the contents of those cardboard boxes. I had never seen so many hemp nooses and handcuffs and hoods so neatly stored. I always put everything back exactly as I found it, smoothing down the tape on top of the boxes with the utmost care.

Eventually, I thought, enough is enough. Prayer is pointless in a godless world, and so is hoping for the best. We are defined by actions. More and more this was like being under house arrest in a house that was supposed to be a safe house. Eventually I made my move. Crawled out of the reeking bowels of that place in the pale dawn light. I was half-expecting to see Giles come sweeping round the bend in that big black car. But he didn’t, and I wasn’t going back. I went out through the front gate with my rucksack on my back and a head full of hopes and fears.

Where I was going was determined by that sheet of paper on the cellar floor, the one I had glimpsed between the floorboards in the hallway. I went over to it and picked it up. There was nothing on the side facing upwards, but on the reverse there was something written in pencil that looked like a code: a digit followed by a letter, then a space, followed by two more digits. It didn‘t take me long to realise that I was looking at a grid reference. All I needed now was a street atlas to discover my destination.

I was following the map and following my instinct, way out west in the city. Had hit the Harrow Road in the afternoon when things went wrong visually. Sporadic white-outs left me deeply dazzled. Unable to move, I stood still waiting for the colours to come back. What went through my head during these episodes of immobility and blindness I cannot clearly remember. Metaphor and happenstance were my closest companions when the light got whiter. Once I fancied I saw a long-billed, long-legged bird fly across a wide expanse, but it was just a stray hair which I brushed aside with my fingertips. Other times there was noise around me, sharp and piercing noise, and so much hatred falling through the air I guessed it must be raining razor blades.

I kept on walking, kept on keeping close to the kerb where fewer people were walking. There were buildings on both sides and cars moving down the middle. This was a long, long road to go down, down, down. A sickly yellow strip surging across two spiral-bound pages stalked by the smell of stagnation. I took the muddy towpath where red and green canal boats shivered in the steely water. Overarching trees shed their withered leaves while bloated mosquitoes slept in the shade. In the early evening, when I saw the tops of monuments and tombstones, I knew I was nearly there.

I had never watched the sun go down in a cemetery. But this was no ordinary cemetery. This was a vast place, a grand necropolis of the highest order with Greek temples and Victorian chapels, Gothic fantasies and Neoclassical canopies, Egyptian sarcophagi and towering obelisks. I lay there on a sloping bank in the long grass, gazing out across this exotic landscape until the darkness soaked up the blood red sky.

I was so exhausted after my long trek and its various visual disturbances that I soon slipped into a comforting sleep. How long I remained like that I do not know, but what shook me out of it suddenly was a noise coming towards me in the long grass. Terrified, I sat up and pulled out my SIG Sauer pistol.

“Come any closer and I’ll blow your fucking brains out!” I shouted into the darkness.

“I should put that away if I were you, Mr Babington,” said a calm, clear voice. “I have a HK MP5 Kurz submachine gun with a night vision sight directed at your left eyeball. If I pull this trigger your head will explode like a pumpkin.”

I tucked the pistol back in my leather jacket. Moments later Giles was sitting next to me, but there was no sign of a weapon.

“I thought you had something nasty pointed at my head.”

“Kidology, Mr Babington. Kidology.” He grinned at me. “I knew your fear was greater than my firepower, so I exploited it. Try to remember that the surface of your mind is completely transparent to a highly trained individual like myself.”

“Anyway, how the hell did you know I was here?”

“Like I said, Mr Babington. I know the way your mind works. I knew the moment you clapped eyes on that sheet of paper in the cellar you would gravitate towards it, and the moment you read that grid reference you would pursue it as if by instinct.”

“So you’ve planned all this?”

“That is correct.”

“Why have you made me come here?”

“You are here to do a job, Mr Babington. You are here to take out a target.”

It was hard to cosy up to Giles Ray’s view of the world. He saw everything in black and white. People were like chess pieces to him. He ranked them in order of the possible threat they posed and the ease with which they could be eliminated if that threat ever became a significant danger. I could never quite work out if he was supremely confident or simply paranoid. He was certainly disciplined and he was determined to pass on that discipline to me. After all, he had come out here without a weapon and, for reasons best known to himself, had placed his life in my shaky hands.

The target, he later informed me, as the early morning sun broke through the clouds, was none other than that lawyer, that fur-cloaked freak who, according to Ricky Welter, had shot Johnny Carver to pieces and put the frighteners on Gus Morose and Joanesy. As it turned out, however, things were not that straightforward.

“Ricky couldn’t tell you the whole truth,” Giles explained, as he peered through a pair of well-worn military binoculars. We were still laying up in the long grass, nibbling Kendal mint cake. “You weren’t mentally tough enough to handle too much reality after all that drifting around the city. The truth is, after Johnny Carver’s murder there was an incident at your house.”

“My house!”

“Keep your voice down, Mr Babington. We don‘t want to give away our position.”

“What kind of incident?” I whispered.

“Two assailants, Arcimboldo and his unsightly friend, rammed the front door and took out Gus Morose and Monty d’Hortense.”

“Monty? I didn’t know he was staying at my house. You mean they’re dead? Both of them?”

He moved the binoculars away from his eyes and nodded solemnly.

“I’m afraid so. It seems they were caught totally by surprise. I suspect they were swiftly dispatched. A paintbrush and a badine, albeit one fitted with a retractable blade, are not much use against semi-automatic weapons. I took the liberty of burying the bodies in your back garden. It’s a temporary measure until we can give them a decent burial.”

“Yes, of course, I understand. How did you find out about this?”

“Quite by chance, actually. I was on my way round there to discuss some business with Gus and Monty and saw the assailants running from the house.”

“Ricky told me they visited Joanesy, that they roughed him up badly. Is that true?”

“No, that’s not true. Well, they turned up but Joansey was waiting for them with a M16 assault rifle. They skedaddled when they saw that.”

“I didn’t know Joanesy kept that kind of weapon.”

“Anyway, I neutralized Arcimboldo along Forest Road with my trusty Browning 9 milly but the freak got away. I followed him from a discreet distance to his bolt-hole in the backstreets of Leytonstone. Once I found out from Joanesy that this was all about you and your rucksack, I popped a little note through the freak’s letterbox telling him where he could find you. I’m certain he’ll take the bait and come here.”

I could not believe what I had just heard. All the sadness and the complications. I was struggling to comprehend the fact that I would never see Gus and Monty again, never enjoy the pleasure of their company, their hearty conversation, the inventiveness of their stimulating minds. This terrible news coming on top of the suicide of Prince Carlo and the disappearance of Ricky Welter was a heavy burden to bear. There were times when I felt like giving myself up to that freak and letting him blow me to smithereens.

Sensing that my mind was drifting into darker, unproductive regions, Giles suggested that we did a recce, that we familiarised ourselves with the possible points of entry that our target might exploit. This, he said, would keep my mind active and alert on this mission: surprise, speed, aggression, were our watchwords. He taught me the tricks of the trade, mental exercises that could be employed to keep a mind focused and from wandering into listlessness or anxiety during the hours of waiting. He told me that men had been known to write entire novels in their heads to keep themselves occupied. He told me that he had built a magnificent cathedral from fan-vaulted ceiling and moulded mullions down to the most intricately carved misericords in the choir stalls. Afterwards he explained the art of the double tap. Two gunshots separated by a short space. He said it was like hitting someone with a sledgehammer, not once but twice.

In the grey twilight we made our move and made our mental notes of the geography. We kept off gravel pathways and crept noiselessly over the soft turf between graves. The only sounds were the old yews rustling in the breeze and the fluty song of the blackbird. Nicotiana sylvestris was here in abundance. Tall and gangly, its pale tubular flowers sent out the strongest, sweetest fragrance imaginable. We heard the first few spits and spots falling on its broad leaves. Then the rain came down.

“Quick!” Giles shouted. “I know a place.”

“You’ve been here before?”

“Get a move on!”

I sprinted after him, heedless of the gravel shooting out from under my feet. The thunder cracked and in the flashes of forked lightning I saw stone crosses and angels pointing to the heavens. Soon we were dripping wet and sheltering under the porch at the back of a huge building. There was a narrow door protected by a wrought iron gate. In the fading light I watched him pick the sturdy padlock with his tiepin and then casually shoulder open the door.

“Follow me,” he said, glancing over his shoulder before we descended into the darkness. To myself I counted thirty-five steps as my fingertips brushed the coarse texture of the brickwork. “This is a big place, Mr Babington. Don’t wander too far and don’t touch anything. If you get lost, shout, but not too loud. We don’t want to wake the dead.”

This crass little quip of his was perhaps his way of breaking the tension, preparing me for what came next.

I have always had a fear of big things, big man-made things that go way beyond the human scale. I only have to look at old photographs of gigantic iron steamships and hydrogen-filled airships to feel the fear creeping over me. Some things are almost too big for the space they occupy, and sometimes there are too many people in one place.

What I saw when the light bulbs came on filled me with fear. But I fought against it, suppressed it for as long as I could. I had seen some unforgettable sights when I was working with Johnny Carver in his dissecting room. Had seen the human form ripped apart, depersonalised, reduced to quivering meat in claret sauce. But down here in this vast catacomb, this silent subterranean city of corpses, there was something more mysterious in the almost odourless air. There must have been thousands and thousands of them here. Aisle after aisle I wandered between the greying whitewashed walls. In every arched recess there were shelves stacked with wooden coffins, some partly obscured by rusty grilles and cracked glass panels, while others had crumbled so completely that the lead lining was now visible. In each container a numbered individual; bodies slowly, secretly dissolving in fleshy juices, filling up the space allotted to them. I sensed it in the air, along with the faint smell of decay and dust: the overwhelming fear of nowhere next.

“Are we nothing more than foul-smelling juices stored in lead tanks?” I asked him as we approached the exit.

“Calm down, Mr Babington. Calm down.”

“Giles, does the spirit go on, or is that all there is to us?”

“I have no idea, Mr Babington. But now is not the time to get teleological.” He patted me on the shoulder and switched off the lights. “In the dark all cunts are grey,” he whispered in my ear. He laughed. I had never heard him laugh before. “Come on, let’s get out of here. We still have a job to do. We have a lawyer to bring to justice.”

How long we spent down there, I don’t remember. But there was a sunrise waiting for us when we came out of the back door and he had secured the padlock on the gate. A glorious sky streaked with fiery reds and salmon pinks and azure blues and marigold yellows. It lifted my spirits to see it, to see the blazing sun framed by the gasworks.

For the remainder of the morning we were laying up in the long grass, nibbling Kendal mint cake and doing our mental exercises. “Never trust a noun with a silent letter,” was his good advice. I think I must have dozed off because when I blinked my eyes I thought I had been talking in silent alphabets. But it was Giles who was doing the talking. I didn’t know he had a radio. He was a few feet from me, quietly finishing off a conversation. I heard the last few phrases before he picked up his binoculars and started looking at something far away.

“Yes, that’s fine. I’ll do that. No problem. Goodbye Mr Thomas.”

“Mr Thomas?” I asked.

My sudden query did not startle him. He slowly moved the binoculars away from his eyes and glanced sideways at me, gave me a pained expression.

“Welcome back to the land of the living, Mr Babington. Please try to remain alert.”

“Who’s Mr Thomas?”

He turned away from me, repositioned the binoculars. When he bent his arm I noticed some thistledown in the crease of his navy blue blazer.

“He’s running this operation,” he replied casually.

“What operation?”

He seemed to sigh as he adjusted the focus wheel. “Do not concern yourself with that at this stage. Concentrate on the immediate situation.” He pointed with his finger towards the teeming structures of that vast necropolis which lay before us in the morning sun. “There’s something going on down there. We need to take a closer look. Come on, let’s make tracks.”

He chivvied me to my feet and I hoisted my rucksack up over my shoulders. I followed him through the long grass, crouching as I went. We hid behind headstones and mausolea, gradually working our way down to the lower ground. My heart was beating faster, my brain absorbing details, large and small: four beturbaned telamones, two blackened angels beneath an arch, a stone beehive, the chipped eye of a sphinx.

In the bright sun the contrasts stood out starker as we got nearer. The black harness on the white horses. The silver lamps shining on the black carriage. The black coffin behind white net curtains. I had never seen a horse-drawn hearse this close before. It was making its solemn way along the main path. Black wheels turning slowly, crunching over the gravel. Black hooves knocking out a heavy, hollow rhythm.

Giles was ahead of me, moving too quickly for me. I was struggling to keep up with him. Something about the way he was moving told me that his mind was not fully on the job. He rushed to the edge of the path just as the hearse came up alongside. He glanced back over his shoulder and shouted to me; something about horses and childhood holidays on the Camargue. It was all said so hurriedly, so excitedly. He looked back again. Looked up at the black-liveried gentleman holding the reins, who doffed his top hat to him. The very next moment a shot rang out and Giles went down like a sack of rocks.

When I reached him he was lying on his back, eyes closed, not moving a muscle. There was a bullet hole in the breast pocket of his blazer. Above me I heard the crack of the reins and the gravel crunch as the horses broke into a trot. I knelt down beside him. I was about to lift his wrist and feel for a pulse when I felt something cold and hard against the back of my head.

“Stand up!” a voice shouted behind me.

I stood up, hardly daring to breathe. When he shuffled round in front of me my mouth went dry and my bowels twitched. He was as hideous as I remembered him. Drooping eyes and twisted mouth, angry skin studded with pockmarks. He must have dipped his fetid tool in every steamy whorehouse in Europe to end up with a face like that.

“What do you want?” I said, my voice trembling.

He was aiming a pistol at me. A neat black 9mm Beretta.

“Don’t mess me around,” he lisped.

The sound of his breathing was like gas escaping as he reached inside my leather jacket to take my weapon.

“I’ve got nothing you want,” I told him.

It was true. I didn’t have it. I had dumped the rucksack with her bones back there with those blackened angels under that arch, in a place where no one would think of looking. Some prickly instinct inside me had told me, as I scrambled down here, that if I carried it with me all the way I would make myself an easy target. I could see that he was looking confused, that he was wondering why things were not easier. He shifted from one foot to the other and the breeze lifted the hem of his magnificent fur cloak. He was wearing a black hat, close-fitting like a skull cap. It brushed the dark hairs of his turned-up collar each time he shook his head in disbelief. Then he stepped closer and pressed the pistol to my forehead.

“Where is she?” he shouted, spittle flying everywhere. It flew into my face, landed on my lips. I dared to lick them. “What have you done with them? Where have you hidden them? Where are the bones?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” I said, the panic in me rising.

“I’ll tell you what I mean!”

He lowered the pistol, forced open my mouth and shoved it inside. I thought I would choke. Instinctively I gagged as the hard barrel bumped against my soft palate. A bitter metallic bile came up into my mouth and spilled out over my chin. I was doing my best to keep calm, to keep thinking of the training that Giles had put me through. All that stuff about what to do and what to think if you’re captured and interrogated by the enemy. But I couldn’t keep hold of it in my mind because he hadn’t prepared me for what came next.

That lawyer, that fur-cloaked freak, he was more than one step ahead of Giles and me in the psychology department. He grabbed hold of my belt and yanked it until it was loose and my jeans were sliding down my legs on to the gravel. I guess they landed in a heap, but I could not see them because he had my head pushed back with the barrel of that neat little Beretta. I was looking up at the sunny sky and the swaying branches when he slid his hand inside my boxer shorts. I could not believe it, that he would do such a thing. But he was good. He was skilful. He knew exactly what he was doing. His fingers were all over my tool. Pulling it, stroking it, massaging it, making it bigger and harder, making it crave his expert touch.

“The moment, the second you start to spill your seed you’re a dead man,” he told me. He pulled the barrel out of my mouth and pressed it to my forehead. “Now, tell me where you’ve hidden the bones.”

“Please don’t do this. You don’t have to do this,” was all I could manage to say.

It sounded lame and pathetic and he laughed in my face. I looked into those drooping eyes for a sign of humanity, a small glimmer of hope that he might desist from this degrading exercise. But he kept on. He forced the barrel back into my mouth and kept on working my tool with those callous fingers. He was shouting in my ear for the information. I tried to save myself, to focus on something else. I closed my eyes, and out of his angry noise she appeared to me. Soon it wasn’t his voice I was hearing or his fingers I was feeling. That pretty policewoman with her red lipstick and her pretty red gloves was whispering to me so lovingly, telling me to give her what she wanted. And the sap inside me was rising, the sweat rolling off my forehead. Then out of the blue I heard my mother crying. She was calling out my name. She pushed that pretty policewoman away as if she was a piece of trash. She was begging me to give that young girl a decent burial or I would be to blame. But I was not listening because things had gone too far. The temperature was rising, the mercury going to the top. I could feel the moment coming when I would leave all this behind. Now I wanted it, knew I needed it. Because the moment he pulled that trigger all the pleasure and the pain would be mine.

When the first shot came it echoed around that vast necropolis. I heard frightened birds fly up out of the treetops. The smell of raw meat and shit hit me as I opened my eyes. The head was still shaking, moving from side to side. But it was not my brains that were being blown out. Not my shit that was running into the gravel. I watched that head as if in slow motion. The drooping eyes seemed to stare at me in horror and amazement as the pistol fell from my mouth. Then there was another shot and the whole head exploded like a watermelon. Warm red juice sprayed into the air and into my face. The fur-cloaked body buckled and collapsed, dragging me down with it. My eyes were closing but the shots were still ringing in my ears. Two of them, separated by a short space. The loveliest sounds in the universe.

31. BENEATH THE SURFACE

Though the room was dark there were silver star things in my eyes. Galaxies glimmered above me on the painted ceiling. I lay there motionless, making the links, mapping out the old discarded constellations; rediscovering Polophylax the robed figure, Turdus Solitarius the solitary thrush, and Solarium the sundial, the last creation of the great Polish astronomer Johannes Frenulum.

“How long have I been lying here?” I said to the shadow that had quietly slipped into the room.

“How long is a piece of string, Mr Babington?”

“Giles, is that you, or am I dreaming?” I could not believe how heartened I was to hear his calm, clear voice again. “I thought you were dead.”

“Playing possum, Mr Babington. Playing possum.”

“You mean you fooled that fur-cloaked freak?”

“Sometimes a man has nothing left to resort to but the oldest trick in the book. If you cannot fight, play dead with a vengeance.”

The shadow moved round to the side of me, towered over me.

“But I saw the bullet hole in your blazer.”

“But not the bullet-proof vest beneath it, obviously.”

“Giles, you took the bullet that was meant for me. You are my saviour!”

“Calm down, Mr Babington. Calm down. I did not pull the trigger that dispatched him. See, this man is your saviour.”

The shadow backed away from me. Then I heard the click of a light switch. When the naked bulb came on I was appalled by the poverty of my surroundings. Windowless stone walls and a concrete floor on which my thin mattress was positioned somewhere near the middle. I had the feeling that I was underground. Giles was leaning against the door frame, arms folded across his navy blue blazer. He was eyeing me intently with those jet black eyes.

“Where have all the stars gone?” I said, gazing up at the slate grey ceiling.

“There are no stars here except for the one behind you.”

I propped myself up on my elbow and twisted my neck, looked back over my shoulder. There was a figure sitting on a wooden chair in the corner, dressed in a drab, hooded garment. I could not believe it. How long had it been sitting there in the darkness in silence? It did not look up at me or answer me when I called out.

“Are you the one who saved me?”

“He will not answer you, Mr Babington. He has taken a vow of silence.”

“Will he show me his face?”

“Perhaps.”

He called out to the figure, a few words of gentle encouragement. The figure responded, slowly pushing back its hood. Then I saw the face of a young man before me, lightly-bearded and with long hair. For a few seconds I stared at him, not knowing who he was, but when he smiled at me, a white smile that shone out brightly against the ugliness of the surroundings, I recognised him.

“I thought you had disappeared without trace. Ricky Welter, it‘s you!”

He nodded slowly and smiled at me again. I wanted to get up and go over to him and hug him, but something about the stillness and serenity of his posture prevented me from doing so. Instead I sat up and gazed at him in a kind of wonder. He looked more like a holy man than a pop idol, sitting there with his hands in his lap in his humble clothes. It did not seem possible that this calm, reflective soul had pulled the trigger that had turned a man’s head to mush in a matter of seconds.

“Will he ever speak again?” I said, turning back to Giles. “Will he ever sing again?”

“No, he will never speak or sing again. He has used up all the words he wishes to use in this world.”

“What do you mean?”

He dipped his fingers into the side pocket of his blazer and brought out something that was beautifully made. He held it by its lovely tortoiseshell handle and opened out the blade. It was the knife that I had taken from Johnny Carver’s house engraved with his initials, and the knife that Giles had taken from me at Liverpool Street station.

“This is the blade he took from me to perform a glossectomy,” Giles said.

I swallowed hard, glanced quickly, nervously at Ricky, who had lowered his head, then back again at Giles.

“Are you saying that he cut out his own tongue?”

“Yes, Mr Babington, that’s exactly what I’m saying.”

I could not believe what I was hearing. I did not want to believe that Ricky had done this grotesque thing. It sickened me to think that he had performed an act of such barbarity on his handsome body. It angered me to know that he had wrecked his career, that he would never sing again, that his blazing star had burned itself out. Now there was just a recording to fill the black hole. Now there was nothing left but the song.

“Didn‘t anyone try to stop him?”

“No, Mr Babington. It was the right course of action.”

“How could that ever be the right course of action?”

“Because it was a symbolic gesture and Ricky is an artist and artists like to use symbols.”

“Symbolic gesture? There was nothing symbolic about that. That was self-mutilation of the highest order. Someone should have stopped him. Someone should have made him see sense!”

“Mind your tongue, Mr Babington. Remember, Ricky is sitting behind you and he can hear everything you say. It is your judgment that is impaired.”

“Mine? Giles, how can you say that? Who put him up to this? Did anyone witness this terrible act?”

“I did,” said a voice from beyond the door.

It was a rasping voice I recognised immediately but never expected to hear again.

When he walked into the room my senses shifted sideways. The walls closed in and the ceiling seemed to come down. I thought I must be going mad or something similar. He was dressed in the most ostentatious Suprematist shell suit: black circles and red squares, and black crosses and red circles, and black squares and red crosses, all intricately layered and cunningly juxtaposed, all playing curvilinear havoc with the central serous chorioretinopathy in my right eye.

“Prince Carlo, what are you doing here?” I stammered as I hurriedly got to my feet. “I thought you were dead. Someone told me you jumped off a bridge into the river!”

“Maybe I took my water wings with me,” he grinned.

I looked around the room. I looked at each one of them. They were all grinning at me, mocking me.

“What‘s going on here? Is this some kind of sick joke?” I could feel myself losing control. “I thought you lot were dead. You are dead, aren’t you? Is this some kind of purgatory, or some kind of hell?”

There was a mist coming up in front of me. A grey mist with flashes of white light. In the white light a head exploded and bits of bone flew into my face. I blinked my eyes, again and again. Now there were circles and squares and crosses lurching towards me, distorted and pulled out of shape. I threw out my arms to fend them off.

“Calm down, Mr Babington. Don‘t make me hit you.”

It was Giles who had hold of me, who was shaking my shoulders, who had jumped between Prince Carlo and me. My forehead was bumping against the bullet hole in his blazer.

“I won’t be treated like this!” I roared.

“Like what?” I heard Prince Carlo say.

“Like a whipping boy! Like a figure of fun! Like a nobody! Like a nonentity!”

The words shot out of my mouth but evaporated almost instantly. There was no dramatic echo down here, no rebound or resonance of any kind. Just a deadening, suffocating lifelessness that was swallowing me up.

“Is everything all right in here?” said a voice.

Its polite, disarming tone cut through my anger like a meat cleaver. We turned our heads. There was a figure looking round the door. Through the clearing mist I recognised him. Now he was walking towards me. Giles made room for him. He let go of me. He stepped aside to let him get to me.

“Joanesy! Joanesy!” I cried and fell into his corduroy arms.

“My dear Fannings,” he said calmly. He was struggling to support me. He forced me back upright with the help of Giles. “There is no need for this outburst. You are among friends. You are among allies.”

The word seemed strange at the time. Allies? Strangely specific. But eventually it would begin to make sense. Eventually they would be talking about a Chinese parliament and situation reports and stuff like that. But before that, there was time for reflection. A time for me to try and come to terms with Ricky Welter’s bizarre circumstances.

Ricky had changed, not just physically. He had become introspective, almost entirely self-absorbed. I found myself staring at him, utterly fascinated, though not able to confront him or catch his eye. Occasionally Giles whispered something in his ear and Ricky‘s eyes appeared to light up like the old times. But mostly he sat there gazing into space, distant and unreachable, like a man whose mind had moved on to some other place, leaving the body behind. It was heartbreaking to see him like this. There were times when I longed to reach out and find out where he had gone, but his silence came between us. It stretched out further than my mind could fathom. I had not realised that silence could be so intrusive.

“It just seems such a terrible waste,” I said to Joanesy, who was giving me a Cook’s tour of the place.

We were in another subterranean part of that vast necropolis. A suite of sparsely furnished rooms off a narrow central corridor. Basic eating and sleeping facilities. Electricity powered by an unseen generator that rumbled like distant thunder. Hardly a holiday home, but clean and orderly with a well-stocked storeroom.

“Do not be hard on him, Fannings. Ricky has come a long way from his humble origins. He has achieved so much against the odds in such a short space of time.”

“Yes, his parents must be very proud of him. Do you they know what he has done to himself?”

“Ricky barely knew his parents. He was orphaned at an early age.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know that. What happened to them?”

“They were murdered.”

“Murdered?”

“They were the victims of a brutal attack. An intruder broke into the house and butchered them.”

“Where was Ricky? I mean, how did he escape?”

“Ricky was staying with relatives at the time. Eventually they told him that his parents were no longer alive, but he was too young to be told the details of their deaths. Needless to say, he discovered the truth when he was older. Life has not been easy for Ricky. His mental distress is often considerable. He has been in care homes and foster homes for much of his young life. Thankfully, however, his creative work has always provided a therapeutic outlet, enabling him to explore the lighter and darker aspects of his emotional experience.”

“I see. As you know, I’ve always admired Ricky but I had no idea that he was carrying such an emotional burden on his young shoulders. Joanesy, do you think that might be the reason why he mutilated himself? Do you think the burden became too heavy to bear?”

“I am not sure, Fannings. There may be many contributory factors. The human mind is a minefield of unexploded dangers. Who knows what lurks beneath the surface. Tread in the wrong place and the whole thing goes up in flames.”

At this point we were in the kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil. Joanesy looking pensive, leaning against the worktop, arms folded across his corduroy jacket.

“Did the police ever catch the murderer?” I asked him as I put the teacups on the table.

“After Ricky had informed me of the situation I checked back through the old newspapers, but there is no mention of a conviction, or even an arrest. I can only assume that the perpetrator of this abhorrent crime is still at large.”

“This is all so very shocking, Joanesy. How can someone live with themselves after doing such a vile thing?”

“I have no idea, my dear Fannings. I am not an expert in the dysfunctional mind. Yet it is my belief that the seeds of extreme behaviour lie dormant within us all, and if these seeds are germinated the consequences can be terrifying. You, too, have been through quite an ordeal recently. You were in a bad way when we brought you here. I do hope you will not be scarred by that ghastly encounter with the lawyer.”

“Well, certainly not as scarred as he was,” I said.

He smiled grimly through the steam as the boiling water cascaded into the teapot.

“I am glad to see that you still have your sense of humour. By the way, did your parents contact you? I spoke to your mother on the telephone and gave her the number of the safe house.”

I was going to remind him that he had no right to go nosing through my private notebook in search of any number, but discretion got the better of me. I sat down at the table.

“Yes, my mother did ring me.”

“That must have been quite a surprise for you?”

“It was. A big surprise.”

“Have you thought anymore about joining your parents in Canada?”

I looked up at him as he put the teapot on the table and sat down opposite me. There was a benign smile on his lips.

“Yes I have, Joanesy. Hardly a day goes by when I don’t think about it one way or another. Perhaps it would be best if I did join them. There‘s nothing much left to keep me in London. I‘d be better off out of here.”

“Well, as I have already told you, the money is there if you want it.”

“But it would take ages to pay you back.”

“Do not worry about that.” He reached across the table and placed his hand on top of mine. “You do not have to pay me back.” He squeezed my hand affectionately. “Think of it as a gift. A relocation gift.”

We sat together and drank tea. Cup after cup. After a few pots of Hougicha it was like talking to a different man. I could tell there was something on his mind when he started to sweat, when he started to get hot under the collar. Something was not quite right about him. There was obviously something bugging him, gnawing away at his old bones. I stared at the swirling Formica while the kitchen filled up with that rich toasted fragrance. He kept on and on about Johnny Carver’s death, blaming himself for not having intervened earlier. I told him that Johnny had done some dodgy things in the name of science. He had some dubious connections too. He was a risk-taker. He sailed close to the wind. All those organs he was harvesting. Sooner or later someone was bound to discover the truth. Lucky for him it was after his death.

Joanesy was livid. “No, that was not what happened!” His words were as bitter as wormwood. “It was not like that. How dare the newspapers suggest that he had been ransacking the bodies of the homeless and the illegal immigrants.” He banged his fist on the table in disgust. “Johnny was not that kind of man. He would never have harmed the poor and the vulnerable. He gave thousands of pounds to their charities. No, Johnny was not secretly flogging organs to private clinics at inflated prices. The organ part of the business was all above board,” he insisted.

But there were other things going on in Johnny’s house, things that I hadn’t been told about at the time, things that Joanesy was now eager to tell me. Other bodies came in through the back door. They were the ones that I didn’t see. They were the ones that ended up in the incinerator.

“What makes you say this, Joanesy? How do you know about these things?”

“Because I knew the bodies that came in. Their names and addresses and places of work. I knew where they were abducted in the city at night. I saw how they spent the last hours of their lives begging for mercy in that cellar before they were taken to Johnny’s place.”

“Where is this cellar?”

“In a house to the west of the city. A strange house. A safe house.” He was smiling at the look on my face. “Yes, Fannings. You know this place very well. Did you ever wonder at the smell down there? You would not believe how far a cock shoots its load when its owner’s neck is bulging in a noose. All those fierce erections. I watched them grow. Those desperate faces. All those greedy bankers making their last deposits.” He laughed to himself. “Their millions could not help them in the place we held them. In that cellar the sour stench of semen was always in my nostrils.”

“What are you saying, Joanesy? You’re twisting the truth into half-baked nonsense. I know about this place. Johnny told me about Fierce Midnights. It was a secret sex club. A place where people played extreme sex games and sometimes things went wrong. There was a racket going on and Johnny was taking money to get rid of the dead bodies. He mentioned your name. Maybe you were in on it too.”

“Fierce Midnights?” he sneered. “Did you honestly believe that yarn? That is what we told Johnny because he could not be trusted with the truth. We gave him some money to keep him quiet. That drunken fool would have blabbed to all and sundry if he had known what was really going on in that cellar.“ He was breathing heavily, though his voice was still strong. Beads of sweat were clinging to his forehead. He crushed them with the sleeve of his corduroy jacket. “No, Fannings. It is time you heard what has been going on this operation.” He reached over and grabbed my arm. His fingernails dug into my skin through my black silk shirt. “They actually thought they could pay us off. The arrogance of it. They actually thought we were in this for their money.”

“Who did? Who wanted to pay you off?”

“I’ve already told you!” he shouted. “Those businessmen with their offshore trusts. Those tax-dodging millionaires. Those bankers and lawyers and politicians with their obscene bonuses and their fraudulent expense claims. Robbing the public purse. Raiding the pension funds of ordinary hard-working people. They have been laughing at us for too long, Fannings. But those motherfuckers were not laughing when we pushed them into the furnace.”

“I don’t like the sound of this, Joanesy.” I pulled away from him. “All this hating does no one any good.”

“Do you know what your trouble is, Fannings?” His face came closer to mine across the table. “You are one of those people who likes to dream about mass murder, but you do not have the guts to do it.”

I shook my head in disbelief. “Don’t bring me into your depraved fantasies, Joanesy. All this sickening stuff has got nothing whatsoever to do with me.”

“It has got everything to do with you. You and your puerile obsession with that midget girl. Johnny had already sold her bones to Arcimboldo and that lawyer before you got in the way. Without you there would have been no fire and we could have carried on using his incinerator. That was clean and easy work and no one suspected anything. No one came to Johnny’s house asking awkward questions. But you and the contents of your rucksack were the cause of Johnny’s death and the deaths of Gus Morose and Monty d’Hortense. You fucked things up for us, Fannings. I would have put a bullet through your thick skull long ago if Mr Thomas had not stopped me.”

This was all getting too much for me. I had never seen Joanesy behave like this before. Never heard him use such aggressive language. He gulped back another cup of Hougicha and got to his feet. He stood there for a moment or two, swaying in space, his bony fingers clutching the back of the chair. He looked flushed and fragile. I thought he was going to keel over. I felt so sorry for him. It hurt me so much to see him reduced to this. A kindly, elderly man losing his temper, losing his dignity, losing his mind. He lurched towards me, pressing his mouth up against my ear.

“You held them in your hands, Fannings,” he whispered. “Day after day, alone in that library in the depths of my house.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The skin on the covers of those books. We took it from the bodies of those greedy bastards, and you caressed it so lovingly while you pleasured yourself to the photographs of those disgusting celebrities.”

There were chains rattling inside my head as he moved his hot breath away from my face. He stood up and staggered past me. When I caught a whiff of that sweaty leathery scent that he wore, I nearly puked.

Some time later, I don’t remember how much later, Prince Carlo waltzed in. I looked up from the swirling Formica.

“Someone’s been drinking too much Hougicha,” he said as he sniffed the air.

He came over and sat down opposite me. Lifted the lid on the teapot and peered inside, let it fall through his fingertips when he realised it was empty. The jarring noise jangled my nerves.

“I’m really worried about Joanesy,” I said. “He’s losing his mind. He‘s delusional.”

“I suppose he’s been banging on about Johnny Carver and that incinerator again?”

“Among other things.”

“All those plump rich bodies being burnt to a cinder.”

“Yes, it was disgusting. His language was atrocious. I’ve never heard him speak like that before. He was sweating like a madman. I thought he was going to have a heart attack. It was terrible to see him like that.”

“Look, Fannings,” he said, reaching across the table and patting my wrist. ”Joanesy’s a dear old soul, but he’s no longer fit for purpose.”

“That’s a bit harsh, isn’t it? He’s not well, that‘s obvious. He blames me for Johnny Carver’s death.”

“Don’t go worrying yourself about that, young man. I told him that he had to put Johnny’s death behind him. Get over it as soon as possible and move on. Of course, it was a shock to all of us. We didn’t want to see him croak like that. In those horrific circumstances. They tortured him first, you know. Arcimboldo and that perverted lawyer.”

“Yes, I know. Then they shot him to pieces.”

“Really? I heard they left him to sizzle like a rump steak in the heat of the fire.”

“It was a tragedy, anyway.”

“I suppose so. But Johnny was a drinker. He had a reckless streak and a mouth as big as a Zeppelin. You couldn’t trust Johnny with sensitive information. He was always going to be a liability.”

“What about Gus Morose and Monty d‘Hortense? That was terrible too. Joanesy even blames me for their deaths.”

“No!” he said emphatically. “Don’t reproach yourself for that. Those two jokers had themselves to blame. They should have been vigilant. They should have been guarding our house, not pissing around. Giles told me that he found Gus’s bullet-riddled body on the patio. It seems they caught him in the arms of a blow-up doll. Monty was upstairs waxing his moustache when he bought the farm.”

I have to say I didn’t much care for his cavalier tone, though I was hugely relieved that he was shifting the blame elsewhere. I was wondering whether there might be a sting in the tail when I mentioned the sensitive matter of my rucksack.

“The contents of your rucksack are your own affair,” he said, much to my surprise. He gave me a sly wink. “Every chap has a little peccadillo or two tucked away somewhere. Don’t fret about the details, Fannings. We need to keep our minds on the bigger picture.” He moved his hand away from mine and picked up the teapot. “Anyway, make us a brew, will you? I’m parched. I’ve been staring at a computer screen all day.”

I stood up and dutifully went over to the sink and rinsed out the teapot, filled the kettle, got him a clean cup from the cupboard. It was almost like the old days. The two of us in my Walthamstow kitchen. Yes, I was so pleased to see him again. A surge of nostalgia suddenly overwhelmed me: reassuring and surprisingly poignant. All we needed now were the dressing gowns to complete the rosy picture. I stored up these nourishing feelings for later like some hibernating animal.

“By the way, who’s Mr Thomas?” I said as casually as I could as I poured out the tea.

“Who told you about Mr Thomas?”

“Joanesy.”

“I see,” he said, eyeing me over the rim of his cup.

The steaming scent of jasmine wafted into my nostrils.

“Giles also mentioned Mr Thomas. Who is this man?”

He slowly put the cup back in its saucer and started stroking his goatee.

“Mr Thomas is running this operation,” he said pensively. “I assume you know about the operation?”

“Well, sort of. I got the impression that something was going on.”

“Yes, something big. Giles will give you the gen when he’s ready. Good man is Giles. Rigorous. A true professional. It’s a pleasure to work with him. Pity we don‘t have more like him, but that‘s up to Mr Thomas. He does the recruiting around here.”

“Recruiting? What do you mean by that?”

“He’s the one who brought the team together. He’s the one who helped me out in the first place. He heard about my difficult situation through the grapevine and arranged for me to come to Walthamstow with the help of Bill Waterhouse. In return I said I would assist him with the operation.”

“He knows Bill Waterhouse, then?”

“They’re acquainted, yes. Mr Thomas has been known to frequent Bill‘s gallery. That’s where he clapped eyes on you.”

“Me?”

“Yes, little you.” He laughed to himself. “Apparently Bill Waterhouse pointed you out to him. Bill thought your house would be somewhere safe for me to stay, somewhere suitably nondescript. Then Mr Thomas got back in touch with me and got things rolling.”

“I don’t think I’d spoken to Bill before I met you. So how the hell did he know about me and my circumstances?”

“Up there in the big house behind those big bay windows Bill gets to hear everything in Walthamstow. Don’t ever underestimate him.”

“So that’s how you turned up on my doorstep out of the blue? It was all Mr Thomas’s fault.”

“Don’t get shirty with me, young Fannings. I put in a good word for you. If it wasn’t for me you wouldn’t be on the team.”

“What team? I didn’t ask to be on any team.”

“You don’t ask. It doesn’t work that way. If you’re right for the job, you’re recruited. That’s how Mr Thomas likes to work. He’s an excellent judge of character. He knows suitable material when he sees it.”

“Well, what if I don’t want to be on the team?”

“It’s too late for that. You’ve been working with us for a very long time. It hurts me to say this, but Mr Thomas thinks the sun shines out of your arse. He thinks your input to this operation has been considerable and invaluable to all of us.”

“What input? I don’t remember being asked for any input. I don’t want to be part of Mr Thomas‘s or anyone else‘s operation. Keep me out of this!”

“Don’t take that ungrateful tone with me, Fannings. Mr Thomas has been very good to you. He’s overlooked your howling blunders.”

“What blunders?”

“That nasty business with the window cleaner, for instance. We all know you pushed him off that ladder. You vicious bastard!”

“I didn’t push him. He fell. Anyway, I heard he’s making a good recovery.”

“Yes, he was. But he popped his clogs unexpectedly.”

“You mean he’s dead?”

He nodded nonchalantly. “If that boy had come though his amnesia he would have sung like a canary and put you behind bars. Mr Thomas couldn’t risk losing you from the operation, so he paid him a visit in hospital. Apparently young Mr Rodgers has a sweet tooth, but he’s terribly careless when it comes to confectionary. It seems a mint humbug went down the wrong way.”

“Are you saying he was murdered because of me?”

“Get over it, Fannings,” he rasped. “You never liked him.”

“But he had a wife and a baby.”

“Spare me the sentimentality. Consider yourself lucky.”

“Lucky?”

“Yes, you’re a lucky bastard, Fannings. When Giles found out what you did to his old mucker Luke Harding, he was ready to shove an oily rag up your arse and set light to it.”

“I didn’t murder DCI Harding, if that’s what you mean.”

“You really went to town on him, didn’t you? You disgusting pervert!”

“No, it wasn’t like that. He forced himself on me. I had to protect myself. Anyway, how did Giles find out about this? How did you find out about this?”

“Joanesy.”

“Joanesy? I thought Joanesy was keeping quiet about this because he cares about me.”

“Cares about you?” He laughed to himself. “Joanesy only took you under his wing because Mr Thomas paid him to. He has no liking for you. Surely you knew that?”

“No, I don’t believe you. Joanesy has said some bad things about me lately, but only because he’s not well. He must have been losing his mind when he went to Giles. I know he cares about me. He’s been like a father to me.”

“Funny kind of father,” he said dismissively. “Joanesy can’t wait to see the back of you. After Johnny Carver’s death he couldn’t wait to tell Giles about what you did to Luke Harding, and how Johnny had to clear up that awful mess.”

“That’s not what Ricky Welter told me. He said Giles didn’t know where Luke Harding was.”

“Ricky Welter’s a born liar. That kid can’t separate fact from fiction. He talks so much bullshit he’s better off without a tongue.”

“That’s no way to speak about poor Ricky after all he’s been through. I don‘t like it and I won‘t have it!”

“You think Ricky Welter would have protected you if Giles had got his hands on you? You must be joking! Giles is not an easy man to appease, but lucky for you Mr Thomas stepped in and made him see sense, made him keep his mind on the operation. Lucky for you Giles Ray is a man of iron discipline. He’s bottling up a serious hatred for you.”

I swallowed hard. “This Mr Thomas,” I said. My voice was trembling, my head throbbing with all this horrible stuff. “He sounds like a very persuasive man. What does he look like? Have I seen him?”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. He’s a discreet man. A distinguished fellow. He likes to keep himself to himself. He eschews publicity.”

“What does he do for a living?”

“He‘s an author. He’s an influential thinker, a progressive thinker. Take it from me, Fannings, he’s one of the good guys. He’s a philanthropist with considerable resources. A champion of the underdog and the downtrodden. He believes in old-fashioned things like equal opportunity and fair play. He detests the monstrous greed that struts this ghastly great metropolis. He wants to see a fundamental redistribution of wealth. He’s determined to undermine the nefarious power of oligarchies, wherever they exist.”

Now it was my turn to laugh. “You’re a right one to talk about oligarchies. What would a puffed-up aristocrat like you know about the underdog and the downtrodden?”

His eyes narrowed at my audacity. But somehow he managed to keep his cool. He took a quick sip of jasmine tea and swilled it around his mouth. He swallowed sharply and smiled at me.

“Yes, you’re quite right to beg the question. I have to confess it’s been a steep learning curve, but with Mr Thomas’s guidance I’ve come to see the error of my ways. I have changed for the better. Now I firmly believe in the emancipation of all men and women of the lower orders.”

“I see,” I said, somewhat amazed by his new direction. “I suppose time will tell if you really mean it. By the way, speaking of women, whatever happened to that woman you were so fond of?”

“What woman?” he said, blushing.

I had never seen him blush before. He looked like a different man. He looked rather cute, almost cuddly, as he took another quick sip. I wish I had seen him look like this more often, instead of having to put up with the supercilious scowl that he usually carried around with him.

“That flame-haired woman? You know, the seductress of the cephalopods?”

“Oh, her,” he said, trying to sound disinterested. He looked down at the table and started fiddling with the teapot. “I haven’t seen her since Mr Thomas moved her on to some other part of the operation. Then I came over here at Mr Thomas‘s request. He’s done so much to help me that I couldn‘t refuse him.”

“You must have been sorry to see her go.”

“Yes, I was rather upset. We were getting things going.” He looked across at me. His face had softened and there were tears in his eyes. “She was very good for me, Fannings. A lovely lady. I learnt a lot from her. She was from a humble background, you see. We were worlds apart but we came together. She was as tough as old boots, yet so tender.”

I think he was about to say something else, about to open the seldom-seen chambers of his heart, when Giles poked his head round the door.

“You are cordially invited to the boardroom,” he said, winking at Prince Carlo. “You, too, Mr Babington.”

32. SOMETHING BIG

The boardroom was their name for the largest room in the place. Not that it was very large. It was situated near the far end of the corridor and dominated by a long oblong table of polished mahogany. When we got there Ricky Welter was sitting at one end of the table staring at a teapot and a few teacups which were clustered in the middle. The air was heavy with the tarry industrial fumes of Lapsang Souchong. I sat down next to Prince Carlo on one side, while Giles went down to other end where there was a laptop connected to a projector. He moved his stubby forefinger in tiny circles around the touchpad, told us to help ourselves to the tea and biscuits. Not long after he walked back over and round behind us. I heard him close the door, switch off the light.

The moment the light went off I went into a panic. I couldn’t stop it. I felt a tightness in my chest like someone had suddenly grabbed my heart and was squeezing it. Then came the familiar nauseous feeling of being trapped. I breathed in quickly. Tried to fill my lungs with new air, but all I could take in were the tarry fumes of that disgusting tea. A large glowing white square had appeared on the wall opposite. I stared at it. Zoomed in and tried to lose myself in its soft fuzziness, but knew that I would have to say something soon to break the escalating tension.

“Do you think we could have the door open?” I said as calmly as I could.

Giles looked up slowly from his laptop and glared at me in the shadowy semi-darkness. His bearded face seemed slightly ghoulish in the light from the monitor. Behind those jet black eyes I sensed the bottled-up hatred that Prince Carlo had told me about.

“What seems to be the problem, Mr Babington?”

“I’m feeling a little unwell,” I replied. I glanced sideways at Prince Carlo for support, but did not manage to catch his eye. I looked back at Giles who was stroking his neat grey beard. “It’s a bit stuffy in here. I thought perhaps we could have some more air.”

“More air?” He gave me a puzzled look. “There’s plenty of air in here. Let’s get one thing straight, Mr Babington. I will not pander to your so-called panic attacks. Now, if you have nothing serious to say, I will begin.”

“Well, actually, there was one other thing,” I said. I suppose I was so tense and thinking aloud that the words came out before I could stem the flow. It had been on my mind since I sat down and looked around at the bare grey walls and started wondering what I was doing here and wondering why he wasn’t here. I was still worried about him, still troubled by the state he had got himself into and all the heated stuff that had been pouring out of him like lava. “Where is he?” I asked him. “Where’s Joanesy?”

“Joanesy?” He put on that puzzled face again.

“Yes, Joanesy. You know, the elderly gentleman.”

He smiled at my facetiousness, then looked away at the others as if attempting to play them off against me; at Ricky, who was sitting there staring into space with his hood pulled up over his head; at Prince Carlo, who was staring down at the tea in his teacup.

“Joanesy isn’t well,” he said, fiddling with a cufflink.

“Yes, I know that. But why isn’t he here?”

He cleared his throat. “Joanesy has moved on.”

“Moved on where?”

“Mr Thomas has moved him on. He’s no longer part of this operation.”

“What is this fucking operation you keep on about?” I shouted.

Prince Carlo patted my arm. “Temper, temper, young Fannings,” he said. I watched him pour some tea into a cup and push it across the polished mahogany towards me. “Perhaps if you stop whingeing for a moment and let Giles get on with it you‘ll be the wiser.”

“Thank you, Prince Carlo,” Giles said. Now he was grinning at me, obviously amused by my outburst and Prince Carlo’s put-down. He cleared his throat again and dispensed with the grin. “Mr Thomas has asked me to give you a sitrep on the current state of the operation. In order to do this I’ve pulled together some material from various sources and made up a little montage for your enlightenment and edification.” He tapped the touchpad on the laptop and the glowing white square on the wall was replaced by a glowing red one. “If you have any questions, just fire away.” He smiled to himself and sat down. “Gentlemen, enjoy the show.”

When he tapped the touchpad again the glowing red square dissolved before our eyes, leaving us staring at a lush green lawn. Slowly the shot widened until we were in the middle of a quadrangle, gazing around at the honey-coloured walls and leaded windows of a Cambridge University college. Ornate stone roses and heraldic shields high up on the towering gatehouse. People, young and not so young, were streaming in under the archway by the Porter’s Lodge, filling the air with their exuberant conversation. And we were waiting for them; at least our virtual selves were waiting for them, tooled-up and wearing combat gear. Then all kinds of mayhem broke loose. Screams and explosions. Windows flying out. Walls dripping red and the lush lawn strewn with bodies peppered with stained glass.

“I’ve seen this before,” I said. My pulse was racing, but now there was no room for panic inside me, just the adrenalin thrill of seeing some lanky undergraduate in a duffle coat on his knees begging for mercy.

“You and thousands and thousands of others,” Giles said. “It was one of Gus and Monty’s earliest efforts. Crude but effective. Extraordinarily popular.” He smiled to himself as the same undergraduate was getting his smug bespectacled face stoved in with a sledgehammer. “Gus did the gore and Monty the sartorial detail.”

“Easy come, easy gore,” Prince Carlo laughed.

“Do the dons really still wear those silly gowns and the students those stripy scarves?” I asked.

I was watching a pretty blonde girl, who had been relieved of her skinny jeans and chunky pullover. She was flapping her arms like a bird and running around the quad in a lacy bra and knickers.

“I believe so,” Giles replied. “Anyway it looks authentic. Even in a game like this you’ve got to get the details right.”

“She’ll catch her death running around like that,” Prince Carlo remarked.

“Nice little sequence this,” Giles said. “Rather touching.”

Now it seemed she was the last one standing. Naked and curvaceous, screaming hysterically of course, yet so smoothly shaved in the pubic region. Her pert bum wobbled and her plump breasts bobbed up and down enticingly as she stepped over all the severed limbs and smashed heads and crushed briefcases. But her skin tones were too pink for my taste to be totally convincing.

“Isn’t anyone going to give her a good seeing to?” Prince Carlo asked impatiently.

“I‘m afraid not,” Giles sighed. “Gus and Monty drew the line at brutal rape.”

“Well, I guess you have to leave something to the imagination,” I said.

The others looked at me. Even Ricky Welter looked at me and laughed.

The fun in the quad was over. There was no noise anymore. There was no one left standing to make any noise. Body parts were piled up on the blood-stained grass, or sticking to the walls like lumps of pizza. Although her pretty privileged head had been drop-kicked over the gatehouse, I was still dreaming about that blonde babe’s smoothly shaved snatch when a bunch of foxes nuzzled their way on to the screen. There was some kind of feeding frenzy going on. They were gorging on scraps of meat thrown down by unseen hands.

“Those foxes are fucking fat,” I said. “I’ve never seen such well-fed foxes. The ones in Walthamstow are skinny blighters.”

I was about to ask Giles what game this was when a caption came up in big bold letters: THE FOURTH PLINTH. The phrase sounded familiar, though not the game. As the camera tilted upwards and a huge stone lion came into view I knew I was looking out across Trafalgar Square. Over its mane and broad back I could see the lower half of Nelson’s Column around which a massive crowd had gathered. In the fading light they were clutching fiery torches and punching the air with defiant fists. The camera closed in, slowly panning across excited faces, young and old, black and white. I could almost feel the heat from all those torches and the energy from all those jubilant voices. Then, suddenly, the view changed, the angle shifted, and we were looking up at something that was like a scene from a medieval drama. Up there on a nearby plinth a gallows had been erected. A sturdy wooden structure replete with dangling man.

“It’s the fourth plinth, isn‘t it?” I said. “I mean the empty plinth in Trafalgar Square?”

“Not so empty now,” Prince Carlo replied.

The dangling man was suited and booted, twisting and twitching in the twilight in that awful noose. But it was not this wretched sight that held my gaze. Beside him on the plinth there was another figure, silhouetted against the darkening sky. Tall and lean, it raised its arm to rally the crowd, holding aloft a long blade that flashed in the light from the torches. The camera zoomed in on the face. But there was nothing there to see. No hint of humanity captured in the flickering light. Just a featureless red mask stretched tightly over the head. It filled the screen. It filled me with dread. It turned my mouth dry.

“Looks like one of Malevich’s red men,” Prince Carlo muttered.

“Really? I wondered who they were,” said Giles.

“Never liked the look of them. Nutters. Psychos. Riders.”

“I can‘t see any horses,” Giles grinned.

Prince Carlo laughed. “They probably fed them to those fat fuckers.”

It was dark now. I sipped some tea to lubricate my mouth. The tarry taste lingered on my taste buds. The twilight had gone. Grey disappearing into black like smudged charcoal. Trafalgar Square was a hushed place. The torches still burned but the crowd was quiet. It seemed to be holding its breath, holding back, waiting for something big to happen. Meanwhile, up there the dangling man still dangled, while the red man strode back and forth as though he owned the plinth.

“That bastard certainly knows how to work a crowd,” said Prince Carlo. “He’s got their hearts in his hand and their balls in a vice.”

Yes, he was a polished performer. No two ways about it. Even those without balls would have gladly grown them to have him hold them, tease them, squeeze them, abuse them. The camera loved him. Sucked up to him. Worshipped every move he made. Every slick evangelical gesture of the arms. Every arrogant tilt of the head and jut of the chin. Every extreme close-up made him a force to be feared. At least that was what I wanted to think. But, no. The more I saw of the crowd’s response, the more I felt the surge of positive energy that swept across Trafalgar Square towards him, engulfing him as he stood before them. Then I knew I had got it wrong. I had misjudged him, mistaken him for something that he was not. No, this was not a cruel manipulator, or a disingenuous evangelist, or even a strutting despot, but a facilitator of deeply-felt emotions, a righter of wrong-doings, a settler of injustices. No, I had not seen what the crowd had seen. But I saw it now in that selfless, egoless red mask as he and his red comrades strung up all the greedy bankers and businessmen, the corrupt politicians and lawless gang members, the degenerate drug dealers and human traffickers that populated this ghastly great metropolis. When he carved open their chests with that long blade of his the crowd wept for joy.

These were the harvest times. The times when vital organs fell from arterial trees like ripe fruit into his caring red hands. He gathered them, the ones that had not been wrecked by overindulgence, and transported them to hospitals where they could be transplanted into more deserving bodies. The good blood, the blood that was not contaminated by chemical abuse, was poured into huge troughs so that it could be transported to hospitals and transfused into more deserving veins. But before this messy work could begin, all the bespoke suits and the branded sportswear were removed from the twitching bodies and transported to charities for the homeless so that they could be worn by more deserving persons. Even the bare cadavers were recycled. Here and there a few thrown to the feed the feral foxes, but most were transported to community farms so that they could be turned into fertiliser to nourish the crops that would fill the stomachs of the poor and needy. It was a lengthy process, all this asset-stripping. But the crowd loved it. Their torches burned brightly into the night. Their voices joined together in one long song of praise that filled Trafalgar Square.

“Ah, sweet shadenfreude,” Prince Carlo sighed. “They’re singing our song, Ricky.” There were tears in his eyes as he looked over at him. Tears of joy. There were tears in Ricky’s eyes too. Giles wept. We all wept. It was not possible to be unmoved by this stirring spectacle.

Eventually the voices of the crowd died away and the song disappeared into the darkness. Then the wall went black and a caption came up in big bold letters: YOU HAVE BEEN WATCHING PAYBACK TIME. Then the wall went back to being a glowing white square.

I was breathless. But not with panic. With excitement. With joy. With admiration. With all kinds of feelings that I could not put a handle on.

“That was wonderful,” I said. I could barely get the words out. “Was that Gus and Monty‘s work?”

“Who else?” Giles said dreamily. He was wiping his eyes with the corner of a black silk handkerchief. “That exquisite carnage. That fine tailoring. The red costumes were particularly striking. It was their final work. The apogee of their computer-generated art. Of course they had help from others. Let’s not forget Bill Waterhouse and Freddie Clayton, both supreme stylists. Prince Carlo and Ricky here provided the glorious soundtrack, as I‘m sure you‘re aware.” He smiled bashfully. “Even little old me made one or two contributions.”

“Yes, it was fantastic, Giles. Vicious but great fun. The best game I’ve ever seen.”

“Game?” He shook his head in disbelief. Tucked the handkerchief he had been wiping his eyes with back in his blazer pocket. “This is not a game, Mr Babington. Far from it. This is not an entertainment, although many may think so. Think of it more as a promotional film. A catalyst. A call to arms. A manifesto for change.”

“A manifesto for death and destruction more like.”

He smiled at me and my truculence. “Let’s not forget about abduction and mutilation. They also have their merits. But that’s a matter for individual preference and primarily we are targeting individuals.” He looked at me earnestly. “Groups are unwieldy things, Mr Babington. Their hierarchical structures breed resentment, clashing egos, internecine struggles, and so on. In my experience groups are easier to infiltrate and intercept. Groups give themselves away. No, we aim to attract individuals. Individuals with social consciences, working for the greater good, for a fairer society, but always operating alone and independently. So far the signs are very promising. Take a look at this.” He tapped the touchpad on his laptop and the glowing white square on the wall was replaced by a page from some website. It was one of those places where you could upload films. “As you can see from the stats, millions have already watched this film. Millions have been moved by it, just as you have. We think the take-up will be significant. After all, it’s what people want. Deep down they yearn for this kind of justice, this retribution. It’s payback time. It’s just a matter of time before someone somewhere takes things further. Then others will follow. The tide will be unstoppable. What comes next is already out of our hands.”

I swallowed hard. “This is madness, Giles. This is dangerous.”

“A dangerous disease requires a desperate remedy,” he said. “Mr Babington, we are comrades united in danger.”

“I thought this was just a laugh. Some sick games. A sick joke. Some kind of social satire maybe. Surely you can’t be serious?”

“Do I look as though I’m laughing, Mr Babington?”

I looked across the room into those jet black eyes, those cold black eyes that were filled with malice.

“No, of course not.”

“So far we have avoided detection. Thanks to you, Mr Babington. We could not have pulled off this operation without your assistance.”

“My assistance! These dangerous games. These films of yours. They’ve got nothing to do with me. I didn’t make them!”

“No, of course not, Mr Babington. That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?”

“I merely meant that these dangerous games, as you call them, had to be uploaded to a multitude of websites from somewhere. From a computer in someone’s house.”

“Yes, that’s right,” said Prince Carlo, patting my wrist. “You’ve been a big help to us, my dear Fannings. We couldn’t have done this without you, without your computer.” He grinned at me. “Chryselaphantine.”

“What?” I looked at him in amazement. “That’s my secret password. How did you get that?”

“You wrote it down in your notebook.”

“How do you know about my notebook? That‘s a private notebook!”

“There’s no need to shout. No need to panic.” He patted my wrist again. “While you’ve been away. On the run, gadding about this ghastly great metropolis. We took the liberty of using your house as our HQ. Of course the place is empty now. Now that Gus and Monty have moved on. Now that we no longer need to use it.”

“And it’s a little untidy at the moment, to be honest,” Giles added. “You see, the police were rather reckless when they visited. When they took away your computer.”

“Why wasn’t I told about this?”

“Because that information was given out on a need-to-know basis. And now you need to know.”

“Now I see it. Now I understand. You’ve used me. You only wanted me for my computer.”

Giles smiled. “But you have nothing to worry about. Mr Thomas will take care of things now.”

I was shaking. All the pores opening. All the pent-up anger and the rage was surging through my sweat-soaked body.

“What do you mean, nothing to worry about?” I shouted. “There’s everything to worry about!”

Prince Carlo was shouting too. “Giles! Ricky!” he shouted. “Get out of here!”

It seemed to sharpen me up, sharpen my focus. I saw Giles look across at him, pause for a moment as if waiting for the words to sink in. Then he stood up and moved away from the laptop. I had never seen him move so fast, so clumsily. His knees, his heavy body bumped against the mahogany and the table shifted towards me. He grabbed Ricky’s sleeve and Ricky scrambled after him.

“What‘s happening? What’s going on here?” I was shouting at them but they weren’t listening. The pair of them were coming at me, about to push past the chair where I was sitting, gripping the edge of the table. Giles glanced at me. I felt the pressure of those jet black eyes, felt his hatred lance me like a needle going through a boil. He made me feel like puss. He made me feel like shit. He made me feel like nothing at all.

Soon I would hear their footsteps on the concrete in the corridor. In my mind’s eye I saw them running towards the exit. Heard the metal bar go down and the open door crash back against the wall and slam shut behind them. Then there was a lull. A few moments peace when I breathed more easily, when I dared to imagine that things would settle down, that we could think things through and begin to find a workable solution to this situation. But that didn‘t happen. Things didn’t go like that because Prince Carlo had other ideas fizzing inside his head.

Almost immediately he was on me. Before I could say a word, his fingers, splayed and stiff, were bearing down on me like Boris Karloff, like one of those monsters in the old horror movies. He was staring at me with eyes filled with pity and pain.

You don’t have to do this, was what I wanted to say, but his hands were too tight around my throat and he was the one doing the talking. Saying how really sorry he was for the way things had turned out. Telling me how much I meant to him after all the arguments we had been through and all the reconciliations too. The tears of rage and the tears of regret. We had shared so much. A kind of love. At the very least a meeting of minds that would go on in some other sphere. But this, what was happening to me now with his hands around my throat, was for the best because I could not be trusted to keep my mouth shut. I would panic, like I always panicked. I would give his name to the police once they got hold of me in their interrogation room and ripped me apart. He made it sound so simple, so selfless. I guess strangling me was his way of saying goodbye.

33. PINCER MOVEMENT

Out of the chaos and darkness came a voice. A man’s voice. A policeman’s voice.

“What the hell is going on?” I heard him shout in that gritty voice. “Is he choking to death?”

“He’s having a panic attack,” she replied calmly.

“The fucker’s pissing on my floor!”

“All right Jack, calm down. I’ll fetch a bag.”

“Why, is he going to throw up?”

“To breathe in,” she said. “You give them a paper bag to breathe in. It stops the panic. He’s hyperventilating.”

“Hyperventilating, my arse.” He thumped the tabletop between us and the teacups jumped in their saucers. “I’ll teach the fucker to hyperventilate on my floor.”

My arteries were narrowing. My eyelids opening. My blood pressure, my heart-rate, going through the roof. But I had never pissed myself before. Feared that it would happen many times. Fear generates fear until it becomes fear of fear. Strange how the mind works. And the bladder. Maybe this was the big one that all the others had been building up to. Maybe I could have controlled myself even in this extreme situation. Maybe I was just full of anger like he said I was. Maybe I just wanted to piss him off on his nicely tiled floor.

Soon she had the bag over my mouth and I was breathing into it. Sucking it in and blowing it back out again. Her hand over my hand. The rhythm pleased me.

“That‘s good,” she said. Her voice was soothing. My eyes half-closed. “Gently does it.”

I could see him watching me, watching me waste his time. He didn’t care if I expired for lack of air. He was more concerned about his precious floor. He was just a boor. A lardy brute in a double-breasted suit. Peacock by name, peacock by nature. Fancied himself something chronic did Detective Superintendent Jack Peacock. The shady side of fifty with too much silver-grey hair for a man of his years. Always playing with it, teasing it back into place when it flopped forward like Errol Flynn’s. Had a facetious grin and a way of gazing at you that was supposed to suggest intellectual curiosity. Who was he trying to impress? Her?

No, she was not like him. I liked her. She was younger than him, more refined. Early forties, perhaps. Psychologist. Doctor Jane Burton. How very English. She shook hands with me. He didn’t. She had her saving graces, her redeeming features. High cheekbones and a delicate mouth. Pale and interesting in a Pre-Raphaelite way. It was the auburn hair. Tied back. Too long. It needed cutting, rethinking. A sharp bob would have suited her better, would have brought her svelte and sexy into the modern age. Each time she looked at me with those caring blue eyes I wanted to surrender. But I had to protect myself, watch my words. She made me think lewd thoughts to protect myself. Come with me, let me transfer your naked beauty to my crumpled sheets, is what I wanted to say. Let me slide my sweat-soaked tool inside your sweet backside for all eternity. But discretion got the better of me.

A policeman prepares. Yes, of course, it was all an act. A performance they put on day after day. The tried and trusted good cop/bad cop routine. Her good. Him bad. He got tough while she looked sympathetic. They were well-rehearsed. I let them play it to perfection. After all, I was just a bit-part player. Just there to swell a scene or two in their interrogation room drama.

They had called someone in, one of the Special Constables. A pimply young man in a white shirt and black trousers who had to mop up my piss. His sullen glances told me that he was not feeling too special, that he was aching to turn my face into truncheon meat. He passed Detective Superintendent Jack Peacock a handwritten note which he looked at nonchalantly before giving it to Doctor Jane Burton. After she had inspected it she gave it back to him and he slipped it into the side pocket of his suit. He nodded to the young man who went off with his mop and bucket. He came back briefly to collect the empty teacups, stacking them on a tray. When he left the room there was almost a spring in his step.

“OK, that’s quite enough,” he said, snatching the bag away from my mouth. I opened my eyes wide. He cleared his throat. Screwed up the bag in his big paw until I could no longer see it and then threw it over my shoulder. Very theatrical. “Now, where were we?”

“You were telling me about your penchant for underage girls, Mr Peacock,” I said. “How you like to flip them over on their tummies and buttfuck them.”

He raised his eyebrows and sighed wearily. Brought out a packet of mints and popped one in his mouth. It was water off a duck’s back to him, all this personal abuse. After the pissing episode it was difficult to know how I could further piss him off. Maybe I should shit on the floor. Maybe he was into scat. Maybe he would like that.

“I get the impression that you’re an angry man, Mr Fannings.”

“Really? What gives you that impression?”

“You’re beginning to sound like your characters.”

“What characters?”

He had come into the room with a briefcase. A brown leather thing like something from a bygone age that an old schoolmaster might carry. He was looking at me, but reaching under the table at the same time, doubtless flicking the metal catch, pulling up the flap, about to bring out whatever it was he had on his mind.

“Do you recognise this?” he said, plonking down a brightly-coloured notebook on the table. “Does this ring any bells in that angry brain?”

Yes, there were bells ringing. Alarm bells going off all over place. It was panic stations in the panic department. But now there were no reserves left. No one left on duty. All the energy for this kind of autonomic emergency had been used up, exhausted. No need anymore for brown paper bags. No reason for her hand to be on top of my hand, her soothing words to be gliding down the stagnant waters of my ear canal.

“That notebook is my private property!” I told him. “My private thoughts. You have no right to read that notebook. Where did you get that?”

“Temper, temper,” he said, snatching it up before I could get hold of it. “You know perfectly well where I got this notebook. It was in your bedroom hidden under the mattress. We found it when we came to your house. When we were called to your house.” He picked up the notebook and examined the cover. “Such a pretty design. Did you choose it? Lovely birds and flowers. Mr Fannings, are you a closet homosexual? Are you in denial?”

“Is that supposed to unsettle me?” I tried to laugh. ”Is this how you break people down in your interrogation room?”

“Not at all,” he said casually. He was flicking through the pages. “I was just wondering. I couldn’t help noticing as I read this story of yours that you have a fixation with men’s bodies, with men’s sexual organs.” His finger paused somewhere in the middle of my scrawl. “A fixation with mutilated sexual organs, with burning bodies.”

“Thomas,” she said quietly.

“Yes.”

Now it was her turn. Her turn to be informal, friendly. She used my forename. He used my surname. All part of their double-act. The pincer movement that was going to get me.

“You obviously have a talent for writing.”

“I do?”

“Yes, you do. You certainly have a way with words. Some of the phrases you use in your story leap off the page. All that detailed description of people and places. People from different points in history coming together because you wanted them to. Tell me about your characters. What made you choose to write about these particular people?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “I don’t know. Maybe they chose me.”

She smiled. “That’s an interesting way of putting it. I was intrigued to see the way you’ve changed their names. Adapted their real identities to suit your own purpose. That’s very inventive.”

“Well, that’s what writers do, isn‘t it? Twist things.”

“I recognise the artist Frederic Leighton and the architect John Soane. The famous surgeon John Hunter. And of course there’s William Morris, whom you call Bill Waterhouse. He was born in Walthamstow. Were you?”

“Yes, I was.”

“I expect you bought this notebook at the William Morris Gallery.”

“I did, yes. He lived in that house for eight years. It was his family home from 1848 to 1856. The house was originally called Water House. That’s why I called him Bill Waterhouse.”

“I see.” She nodded. “How interesting.” Her dangling earrings danced for me. “Some of the other names in your story are less well-known. Giles Ray, for instance.”

“The monster in the navy blue blazer,” he said. “Who‘s he supposed to be?”

“Gilles de Rais,” she replied.

He was shaking his head. “Who?”

“A French nobleman commended for his bravery. He fought alongside Joan of Arc.”

“Really?” He looked confused.

“Later on in his life he murdered hundreds of children,” she said. ”Sodomised them. Decapitated them. Dismembered them. They say he cut open their virginal bodies and masturbated over them.” She smiled at me. “Thomas, why do you think Gilles de Rais chose you?”

By now the urine on my jeans was cold and clinging to my legs. Utterly revolting. The lower part of my polka dot shirt was also wet. I yanked it out of my jeans.

“Is there somewhere I can change these jeans?” I asked them. “My legs are itching like mad.”

Detective Superintendent Jack Peacock leaned forward in his chair while his lithe fingers galloped backwards through his silver-grey locks.

“Mr Fannings, I get the impression that you don’t get out much. You’re a bit of a hermit. A hermit locked up in the heart of Walthamstow, you might say.” He smiled to himself and popped another mint in his mouth. “I get the impression you spend a lot of time on the internet.”

“Who doesn’t.”

“Well, some of us who work for a living like to spend our spare time more productively.”

“Really? And how do you like to spend your spare time more productively, Mr Peacock? Bible classes, perhaps? Or are you a member of the boy scout movement? I can imagine you waddling around in short trousers, rubbing up against all those pre-pubescent bodies.”

“Your attempts at humour do not move me to laughter, Mr Fannings. Clearly you have a lot of time on your hands. What kind of websites do you like to visit?”

“You tell me. You confiscated my computer. You’ve gazed into the deepest recesses of my cache. You know the colour of my soul.”

“OK, let me put this another way. Apart from the enormous amount of pornographic material which you consume on a daily basis, what else do you like to look at?”

“Fuck you! What are you trying to imply?”

“I’m not implying anything, Mr Fannings. Now calm down. I’m asking you a simple question.”

“You policemen are all the same. You suspect everyone. Guilty unless proven innocent. That’s your motto, isn’t it? Look, I don’t pay for porn. I don’t even have a credit card. I don’t lurk around on paedophile chat sites like you lot do. The filth I look at is legal.”

“You’re a university man.” she said. “An educated man.”

“What‘s that got to do with anything?”

“Thomas, what did you study at university?”

“Pornography and psychology. A combined honours from the University of Sleaze.”

She laughed, generously showing me her fine white teeth and pink gums. “These computer games you mention in your notebook. You seem passionate about them. You go into great detail. I’m not saying for one moment that you envy other people, but other people’s wealth seems to upset you.”

“I don’t envy them, if that’s what you think.”

“No, of course not. I’m not saying that you do. I’m just making the observation that other people’s success, their high incomes, seem to bother you. They bring out feelings of aggression.”

“That’s because they’re greedy bastards. Those bankers and city traders and solicitors, they earn millions for doing fuckall. They pay fuckall tax because they know all the dodges, all the loopholes. The rest of us are supposed to pay our tax and turn a blind eye to it.”

“I don’t suppose you pay much tax on your state benefit, do you Mr Fannings?” He was grinning at me with that facetious grin of his. “I don’t suppose you earn enough to pay any tax on your incapacity handout? It’s people like Doctor Burton and myself who have to fund your lazy lifestyle.”

“That’s not the point,” I told him. “The politicians, they do nothing about it because they’re on the take. These bastards are all part of the same money-grubbing elite that runs our country. I’m not the only one. There are lots of people out there who think the same way as me.”

“So what’s your solution, Mr Fannings?” he said, leaning back, sucking noisily on his mint. “Blow the buggers up? Tear them to pieces for not paying enough tax? Is that what you propose?”

“No, I’m not saying that. You know I‘m not saying that.”

“Well that‘s what it says in your story.”

“It’s only a story. It‘s a private notebook. No one else was meant to see that.”

“You’d like to execute them, wouldn’t you? String them up on a gallows in Trafalgar Square. Burn their bodies in an incinerator. Get out all that miserable hatred you have for them.”

“It’s just something I made up. Nothing beyond that.”

“Just a bit of light entertainment, was it? Just something to while away the long dark nights? Is that what you want me to think? Well, think again Mr Fannings. We both know that dangerous thoughts fester and breed. We both know that sooner or later thoughts turn into actions.”

“No, I’m not a terrorist! I don’t want to hurt anyone!”

“But you have an unhealthy interest in firearms and explosives, Mr Fannings. You have a huge number of specialist magazines. We found them stacked up in your cellar.”

I swallowed hard. “They’re just there for research. Just harmless research, that’s all.”

“Research?” he scoffed. “What kind of research were you carrying out, Mr Fannings? What plans were you hatching in that angry brain of yours?”

“Nothing,” I told him. “I was doing nothing but thinking things through.”

“Don’t lie to me, Mr Fannings. Don’t treat me like a fool.” He slammed his fist down on the table between us and the menacing sound echoed around the sparsely furnished room. ”We both know that you were planning to take a home-made bomb into Bishopsgate, somewhere in the heart of the financial district of London. You were planning to cause an explosion that would destroy the lives of hundreds of hardworking bankers because that is your idea of social justice.”

I was shaking. I was sweating. I was hurling every expletive I could think of at him, and he was sitting there looking pleased with himself, playing with his silver-grey hair.

“Thomas, calm down, please,” Doctor Burton said as her fingertips brushed my wrist. She had that pained expression on her face. She was good at that. It was painted there like the lipstick on her lips.

“You have no right to say these things,” I stammered. “No right to make these assumptions about me.”

“Mr Fannings, we have every right to make assumptions about you,” he said. “You are a dangerous man, a violent man. Because of your violent conduct a man is lying in a hospital bed attached to a life-support machine. That is why you are here now helping us with our inquiries.”

“That’s a lie. I did not touch him.”

“Mr Fannings, Terry Rodgers is an elderly man with a heart condition. His wife contacted us. We know what happened. She saw you knock her husband to the ground and then spit in his face.”

“No, it wasn’t like that. He was having a heart attack, foaming at the mouth. I went out there to help him. I did not harm him.”

“That is not what Mrs Rodgers told us. She said her husband simply asked you where your parents were and you lost control. Mr and Mrs Rodgers have not seen your parents for some time and they are concerned about their well-being. They were astonished when you told them that your parents had emigrated to Canada.”

“Well, that’s the truth. They’re just a couple of nosy neighbours who won’t let me get on with my life.”

“No,” he said shaking his head. “This is not the first time that you have come into conflict with this gentleman. Let me remind you. Several months ago my colleagues, DCI Greyling and DS Skipper, were called to your Walthamstow address because your parents were concerned about your aggressive behaviour. Your parents informed my officers that you had threatened Mr Rodgers because you thought his lawnmower was too loud.”

“That was nothing. A misunderstanding. Nothing came of it so why are you bleating on about it now?”

“Mr Fannings, no action was taken on that occasion because Mr Rodgers urged us not to. As you know, he and his wife are very close friends of your parents and he did not wish to worry them by taking things further. He told DCI Greyling and DS Skipper that you were going through a difficult time, that your nerves were bad, that you were not in the best of health because your life had not lived up to expectations. He said that he felt very sorry for you.”

“Thomas, tell me about your parents,” she said, looking at me with those caring blue eyes. “You’ve been living with them for a long time now, haven’t you? Are you a close family?”

“Yes, we are. Very close. We all sleep in the same bed.”

She sighed ever so slightly, pursed her pale lips. A darker shade of lipstick would have suited her better, would have heightened the drama of that delicate mouth.

“I get the impression that you are a man for whom frustration is a constant companion,” she continued gently.

“What do you mean?”

“Thomas, is there someone special in your life? Do you have a girlfriend? A boyfriend, perhaps? Or are you a single man?”

“What’s that got to do with you?”

“Are you comfortable with intimacy? Hugging, kissing, making love. Do any of these activities play a part in your life?”

“These jeans,” I said, “they’re soaking wet. Is there somewhere I can change them?”

Detective Superintendent Jack Peacock sucked the last of his mints and screwed up the empty packet in his big paw. I thought he was going to throw it over my shoulder, but he didn’t. Between his nicotine-stained fingers he rolled it into a ball and carefully placed it on top of my notebook.

“Mr Fannings, where are your parents?”

“You’ve already asked me that.”

“Yes, how could I forget. The last time you answered me by urinating on my floor. Believe me, I‘ve tried to be patient with you. Now it‘s time you told us the truth.”

“I’ve already told you. They’ve emigrated to Canada. I have very little money so I can’t afford to visit them. We keep in touch over the telephone.”

He raised his eyebrows, gave me that facetious grin as he brought out the handwritten note from the side pocket of his suit. He looked down at it pensively, then looked across the table at me.

“The telephone number you gave us. The street in Vancouver. We’ve had them checked out. There’s no such number. No such street.”

“Then there must be some mistake.”

He nodded gloomily. “The only mistake, Mr Fannings, is the one I made when I gave you the benefit of the doubt. After DCI Greyling and DS Skipper visited your home all those months ago they told me there was something not quite right about you. But I did not heed their warning. Now that I have seen the contents of this notebook I know they were right to be concerned. I wish I could dismiss all the puerile filth that you have written as merely the sick fantasies of a sad man, but now I know it is much more than that. This silly story about a missing teapot that you have so painstakingly crafted hides a terrible tragedy, doesn‘t it?”

“What are you talking about? What are you accusing me of now?”

“Mr Fannings, while we have been holding you here my colleagues have been digging up your back garden.” He glanced at the handwritten note that he was still clutching. “It has come to our attention that the headless bodies of your mother and father have been found beneath the ground. This news won’t come as a surprise to you because you put their mutilated bodies there. I also have officers searching a cemetery in West London where we expect to find the heads of your parents concealed in a rucksack. When that search is over your parents will be given the decent burial they deserve.”

“You people are sick bastards. You people are the scum of the earth. First you accuse me of being a terrorist, now you think I’m a parricidal maniac. I can’t believe you think I would do these things!”

Doctor Jane Burton smiled at me. For a moment I thought she was going to reach across the table and take my hand in hers and tell me this was all a terrible misunderstanding. But she didn’t.

“There’s no need to shout, Thomas,” she said calmly. “Shouting won’t bring back your parents. Nothing will. At the moment you are in denial, in distress. That’s understandable. You are struggling to cope with feelings of guilt and shame. That is why you have written this story. It is your way of externalising these and other feelings. When you are in prison we hope you will come to terms with what you have done. We know there are other things you will want to tell us when the time is right, other terrible events that are also hidden within your story. Eventually we hope you will find a way of moving on, of starting again.”

I put my hands over my ears. Why was I being tormented like this? I could not bear to hear anymore of these vile lies. What pleasure could there possibly be in crushing this fragile life that I had so carefully pieced together?

I looked down at the notebook that he had placed on the desk between us and the pile of loose change that he had tipped out of a small plastic bag. One by one he nudged the coins towards me with his long fingernails. They were probably the dirtiest I had ever seen. Meanwhile, behind him, the queue got longer, snaking its way around the entrance hall of the William Morris Gallery into the bright afternoon sun. Earlier he had been hovering about the merchandise stands, running his grubby fingers through the silk scarves, unfolding the tea towels, bending back the paperbacks that he had removed from the bookshelves. Eventually he joined the queue. Kept looking behind him as if to see who was there. Shifting his rucksack from one shoulder to the other. He was clutching that notebook to his chest as if his life depended on it. I kept my eye on him in case he disappeared without paying. It was difficult to know how old he was. Mid-thirties, maybe. I glimpsed it through the strands of his unkempt hair when he glanced at me across the pay desk. That pale, sweaty face. Vulnerable and edgy. Thin as a rake. I should have been counting all those coins, but I was too busy trying not to catch the eye of the next sighing customer; too busy trying not to breathe the cloying odour, like roses and sweat, that was rising from his shabby overcoat and that polka dot shirt. At least I thought they were polka dots. But when he came closer I could see they were not dots. They were teapots. Hundreds and hundreds of the same one. Strange little things. Dangerous little things. More like a tank, a gun, than a teapot. I had never seen him before, but I knew there was something not quite right about him. I saw it in the nervous smile he gave me when I handed him the notebook. I sensed it when his dark eyes lingered on the colour of my mulberry pullover.

34. CONCLUDING UNSCIENTIFIC POSTSCRIPT

I have heard it said that men have been known to write entire novels in their heads to keep themselves occupied. May it please you to know, you who are reading this manuscript in the vast telepathic library of the superconscious state, that I have written this tale that I call The Malevich Teapot while standing behind the pay desk in the William Morris Gallery, courteously selling tea towels, silk scarves and other ornamental objects to discerning members of the public. But I have not been writing this savage little whimsy inside my head to entertain myself, or to drive away the boredom of a job that is frankly beneath me. No, I, Terrence Thomas Rodgers, former college lecturer, lover of the subtle, the rare and the recondite, the finer things that life has to offer, have crafted this seething psychodrama to purge myself, to prepare myself for the hour when uniformed officers will come for me and take me away in handcuffs.

The stranger with the notebook, he was the start of it. That sorry little cunt who had the unmitigated audacity to come into this civilised place with his sweaty face and his reeking overcoat, he was the one who got my creative juices flowing. It amuses me to think of our brief communication across the pay desk as an act of colonic irrigation: non-consensual, of course. Yes, once I had locked on to him there was nothing he could do about it. Almost heartbreaking to see the helpless look he gave me when I started pumping all the evil excrement that was poisoning my brain into his sad and lonely skull. Thanks to him I am the proud owner of a squeaky clean conscience. Not even a mild whiff of remorse to trouble my delicate constitution. Now I can look ahead without dwelling on the past. Now I can stare blankly at the television screen each time I see the pictures of that devastated building and hear the daily reports about the rising number of casualties.

The bomb went off in Bishopsgate as planned, expertly constructed by myself using information gathered from the internet. I carefully concealed it in the toilets at Liverpool Street station during the rush-hour. Yes, I exploited the last great blindspot in every CCTV system: namely, the inalienable right of every man, woman and child to take a dump in private, safe from prying eyes. One day, I fear, that right will be revoked and many will sit and squelch while being watched by a fat man in an office wearing a white shirt with epaulettes. Anyway, I pushed the button from a safe distance further down the road. How very Hollywoodian, I was thinking, as the red and yellow flames leapt high into the early evening sky, followed by besuited bodies impaled on shards of glass. Oh, the joys of seeing all those repulsively rich bankers with their obscene bonuses falling through the air like lumpy rain on to the blood-soaked pavements. I watched the maimed and injured ones too, crawling from the wreckage like mutilated insects. No, I do not reproach myself for what has happened. Someone had to make a stand against all that sickening self-interest. Someone had to punish all that unrepentant greed. Anyway, I’m pleased, relieved, in fact, that mum and dad did not live long enough to know that their only son had detonated the device. I spared them the pain of that disappointment by burying their bodies in the back garden where they still lie undisturbed, oblivious to the necessary destruction that I have brought down upon this ghastly great metropolis. The days to come will not be easy for me. But I am confident there are those who will want to thank me. Yes, there is much comfort in knowing that I have done my duty.

The Malevich Teapot copyright (c) Chris Blackford, 2010

All rights reserved

WHEN THE LID COMES OFF – introducing The Malevich Teapot

In response to the generous comments of readers who saw extracts in various other places, and for the rest of you (which is most of you) who haven’t a clue what this is all about, here, for the first time, is the whole unexpurgated novel: The Malevich Teapot in all its grimy, tannin-stained splendour.

The Malevich Teapot is a seething psychodrama, a savage whimsy, a crass farce. It is set in a modern London of grand houses and seedy cellars, populated by the reincarnated and reinvented likes of William Morris, Robert de Montesquiou, Gustave Moreau, Frederic Leighton, John Hunter, Prince Carlo Gesualdo, Caroline Crachami, John Soane and Gilles de Rais. Into this shadowy world of decadent dandies, dangerous dandies, stumbles Fannings: a 30-something former lecturer with a serious panic problem. Some say he has a vile temper, others that he is a vulnerable young man adrift in a ghastly great metropolis. When the Malevich Teapot – the most mysterious and misunderstood item in the history of tableware – is stolen from an exhibition at Walthamstow Town Hall, all hell breaks loose.

This is an illustrated version of the novel. The photographs are my own work, and although they were not taken with the novel in mind, it is my belief that they complement its many moods. 

Chris Blackford

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