Eureka

by Anthony Quinn

  ‘Clift, you mean?’ Nat frowned, wondering how anyone could have forgotten him so quickly.

  ‘Has he acted much since?’

  ‘No. And never will. He died last year.’

  Joey took this in with an absent grimace. Arriving at the hospital Gina, her anguish at last under a semblance of control, helped Sonja towards casualty. Joey, watching them go, shook his head. ‘She’s gonna spend the rest of her life trying to keep her face in profile.’

  Nat was on the verge of deploring the heartlessness of this remark when he realised that Joey was simply speaking from experience. He’d known what it was to live with damage on display. ‘It was only meant to put the frighteners on yer,’ he said to Nat. As an expression of remorse it was inadequate, but it would have to do. A moment later he left and Nat was alone.

  Freya, who’d been out most of the afternoon, got the call at her desk. She arrived at the hospital a couple of hours after Sonja had come out of surgery. They had put twenty-one stitches in her left cheek.

  Nat was waiting for her as she came down the corridor.

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘Sleeping, in her room. She was in a terrible state – her face – but the surgeon seemed to know what he was doing.’

  ‘Can I see her?’

  Nat shook his head. They were not allowing visitors this evening. He told Freya this to save her from the truth. In her room, minutes before, Sonja had asked him, begged him, to make sure that Freya wasn’t admitted: she couldn’t bear to be seen like this. Nat didn’t know what to say; either she was deep in denial or else she didn’t realise that the injury was of a nature to make her permanently ‘like this’. The only visitor she did allow was Reiner, who stayed for half an hour. When he emerged, they had talked briefly about what had happened. Nat recounted the fateful moment in a low, halting voice, forlornly aware of his own helplessness. He berated himself for not having acted more quickly in Sonja’s defence, but the whole thing had passed in the blink of an eye; even Joey, with his speed of reaction, had been unable to prevent it. Reiner had listened in his phlegmatic way, betraying no sign of rage or even of dismay. Nat felt that he could have been describing a scene from a film. Before leaving Reiner asked him if he knew where Pulver had gone; Nat shook his head – truthfully, he didn’t know – though Joey had probably advised him to lie low.

  Freya could hardly admit to herself the mixture of dread and longing she felt about seeing Sonja, and wouldn’t confess it to Nat. That face, she thought, that lovely face. Blinking her image away she said, ‘I’ll come back tomorrow, then.’

  Nat pulled a demurring expression. ‘I wouldn’t. Wait until she calls you. She’ll need time to compose herself.’

  Her narrowly searching look made him wonder if she’d guessed, but she didn’t press him. As they came out to the forecourt, Freya asked him about Reiner. With the film in the can the director wouldn’t be in London much longer. Nat said, ‘He told me he’d be in touch with you.’

  ‘Well … I did get this through the door a week ago.’ Freya showed him the book of matches, and the unmarked envelope it came in. She squinted at him. ‘Do you still think he had nothing to do with that fire?’

  INT. BEDROOM – MORNING.

  Darkness. CHAS opens his eyes. From his POV we see GEORGE upside down. The camera flips round to show that CHAS is on his back looking up. The picture corrects itself and GEORGE stands there holding a glass of orange juice.

  GEORGE

  Morning. Here.

  He hands him the glass, which CHAS groggily takes. He looks around, utterly disoriented from the night before. We watch him puzzling, trying to put together the fragmented episodes of his acid trip. Something seems to click in his expression because he looks up suddenly at GEORGE, who stares at him levelly.

  GEORGE

  Are you all right?

  CHAS

  Nnh? Oh … yeah. What time is it?

  GEORGE

  Eight, just gone. That was quite an evening.

  CHAS sits up, slowly rubs his forehead. He looks terrible. GEORGE watches him.

  CHAS

  I feel wiped out. Last night, did I – did I say anything?

  GEORGE

  Like what?

  CHAS

  I dunno. I was talking with – was Gwen here?

  GEORGE

  No. Though at times I did wonder who it was you were talking to. Or thought you were talking to.

  CHAS

  (shifty)

  It beats me.

  GEORGE

  (checking his watch)

  I need to go to the post office. Antrobus has forwarded some research material for the book. Obituaries, press tributes, you know.

  CHAS

  How’s the book going, by the way?

  GEORGE

  So-so. But they’ve brought the deadline forward. There’s been a revival of interest in Hugh since …

  CHAS

  (after a careful pause)

  Will you need some help?

  GEORGE

  Chas … (He laughs.) I think I’ll be fine on my own.

  CHAS

  Well, if not, I’m available.

  GEORGE

  Coming for a drive?

  INT. HALLWAY OF APARTMENT – MORNING.

  They descend the stairs and walk through the hallway when CHAS notices something leaning against the wall. It is a red hula hoop. He picks it up.

  CHAS

  Is this yours?

  GEORGE

  Mine? No. Some kid’s. There’s always a few of them playing around here.

  CHAS

  So you’ve never seen it before?

  GEORGE

  No. Why – have you?

  CHAS stares at it in confusion for some moments. He shakes his head and leans it back against the wall. They exit the building.

  EXT. STREET – MORNING.

  Rome’s traffic buzzes around GEORGE’s car. The car’s hood is down. When they stop at a traffic light, CHAS looks round to see another open-topped car, with a very pretty woman at the wheel. She’s chatting and laughing with a man – her boyfriend? – in the passenger seat. The wheel, and the woman’s hands resting on it, seems to revolve at an abnormal speed. CHAS looks freaked out. Eventually the lights change, and she drives off.

  EXT. STREET – MORNING.

  The traffic has thickened. GEORGE has noticed CHAS’s absorption in the woman.

  GEORGE

  The look on your face.

  CHAS

  I think I’m still tripping from last night.

  GEORGE

  Oh yeah. Something you said … ‘He’d kill me if he found out about this.’ Sounded a bit desperate. I remember it now.

  CHAS

  I said that?

  GEORGE

  Your very words.

  CUT TO: Overhead shot of the car, which has sped up.

  CUT TO: Rear shot of CHAS and GEORGE.

  CHAS

  Are you in a hurry or something?

  GEORGE

  No. It’s funny, cos nearly the first thing you asked me about this morning was Gwen. Why would that be?

  CHAS

  I’ve no idea.

  GEORGE

  Really? You see, things come out when you’re tripping – things you might be wanting to conceal. I think the person – well, the figment – you were arguing with last night was Gwen.

  CHAS

  Why would I be arguing with Gwen?

  GEORGE

  That’s what I was about to ask you. You feared that someone would kill you if he found out about ‘this’ –

  CHAS

  George, slow down –

  GEORGE

  I have a fancy that the someone is … me. And what would prompt me to try and kill you?

  CHAS

  I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.

  CUT TO: Camera foregrounds CHAS’s profile, while GEORGE looks round at him. The car is speeding dangerously. CHAS is the first to realise that the car h
as jumped a red light. In the background we see traffic heading crosswise towards them.

  CHAS

  Jesus, the lights! Fuck –

  GEORGE turns his head just as a truck ploughs full-tilt into the driver’s side, knocking them sideways. A hideous screech of metal and glass. The screen whites out.

  19

  September had nearly passed when Freya happened on an item in a film journal speculating on the prospects of the just-completed Eureka. It had run into post-production trouble, mostly related to reshoots involving leading actress Sonja Zertz, who had been unavailable following what the magazine described as a ‘minor accident’. The real story had been buried. There was also a financial hole to fill after the sudden withdrawal of its main backer, Harold Pulver, now believed to be living in southern Spain. Berk Cosenza, the producer, was still hopeful that the film would be ready for its premiere at next year’s Cannes festival. Reiner was reportedly back in Berlin scouting locations for his next venture. Freya’s efforts to secure an interview with him had failed. Her only consolation was that no one else had got one either.

  Sonja had also returned home to Germany. Freya had tried to see her after she left the hospital and moved back to her room at the Connaught – in vain. In the end she had had to ask Nat to pass on a letter, which he duly did: ‘I put it in her hand,’ he said. It was a brief message, though as sincere a thing as she had ever written. She had waited, fretting, hoping, then telling herself it didn’t matter either way. There was no reply. Two weeks later Nat called to tell her Sonja was gone.

  ‘Don’t think badly of her,’ he said. ‘It would be devastating for anyone, but for an actress … She’ll never make another film.’

  The midday post had arrived at the Chronicle, and Freya leafed through it indifferently. One item gave her pause: an invoice, ancient, flimsy, mildewed with spots. The letterhead, in a stolid Victorian typeface, announced it as coming from the office of the Imperial Hat Co. The copperplate hand had dated it to August 1890, and had jotted down the fabric of the hat and its measurements. On the reverse was something else, six words typed in Courier:

  ashes to ashes, dust to dust

  The ink on these words looked fresh. She puzzled over it for some moments, and turned back to the Victorian side. No customer name or address had been inscribed. The company apparently had a royal warrant, and was located at Bathurst House, Spitalfields, London. She checked the company in a telephone directory and found nothing. She rang Companies House, where a voice informed her that the Imperial Hat Co. had gone out of business in 1955. The invoice could have been found anywhere, in a ledger, or an antique shop, or a hat.

  Later that afternoon she caught sight of Fosh across the newsroom, feet up on his desk, lobbing screwed-up balls of paper into an office bin.

  ‘Busy day?’ she said.

  ‘I honestly don’t know how I manage,’ he said with a grin, launching another missile.

  ‘Get your camera. I might have something for us.’

  She had to bluff a bit while Fosh drove her there. At first she had been inclined to toss the invoice away; but anonymous messages, and natural intuition, had a habit of nagging away. She needed to make sure, and had spun him a line about receiving a tip-off. Bowler-hatted City gents were already flocking the streets and descending to the Tube by the time they reached the edges of Spitalfields. They parked on a cobbled terrace of derelict shops and houses, their windows cracked or blinded by chipboard. It was always a wonder to her that the City should exist cheek by jowl with this pauperised neighbourhood. They found a gated passageway leading to a courtyard, also cobbled, where a tall brick warehouse occupied three sides. A peeling faded fascia was still legible across a doorway. IMPERIAL HAT CO. Rusting grilles barred the windows, and a chained padlock looped the handles of its double doors.

  Fosh, camera slung over his shoulder, looked about the courtyard unimpressed. ‘You sure this is the right address?’

  Freya nodded, and wandered to the far corner where wooden garage doors indicated another entrance. She tried a painted metal latch, expecting it to be locked; instead it gave a gratifying click, and she pulled the door open. Dust swarmed everywhere as she picked her way through the cavernous gloom; behind her she heard Fosh close the door and begin to nose around. The building was divided into a series of long rooms, still occupied by workers’ tables and benches. All was disuse and neglect. The walls, leprous with damp, at intervals displayed advertising boards and posters for the Imperial Hat Co., even a certificate of merit from a guildhall. It hadn’t helped in the end, any more than that royal warrant had done. In what had once been an office she found heaps of discarded letters and invoices, of a sort her anonymous correspondent might have helped himself to. They could hear the soft scratching of mice beneath floorboards.

  ‘What are we meant to be looking for?’ asked Fosh.

  Freya hesitated. ‘A film can, possibly.’

  They walked right around the shell of a factory that had once resounded to the presses and punches and steamers of the hatter’s trade. Their footsteps crunched on grit. There was really nothing here but shadows and dust. The end of the building brought them to the open doorway of another garage, the replica of its neighbour opposite. She tried an ancient light switch, as dead as everything else. Behind her she heard Fosh sigh.

  ‘Well, unless you’re going to do a piece on the decline of the hat I think we should get out of here.’

  She took the shallow steps down anyway. Through the murk she approached the outline of something – a car, or rather the shape of a car, swaddled in a grimy canvas shroud. Without pausing to think why she took hold of the canvas’s edge and tugged it. As it slid off she gave a violent start. Through the clouded passenger window she could see someone in the driver’s seat.

  ‘Oh fuck. Fuck,’ she cried in fear, hand to her mouth. In an instant Fosh was at her side. He fumbled for a match, lit it, and a feeble illumination flared against the glass.

  Straining his gaze he said, ‘I think it might be a dummy. It’s just … black.’

  They stared at one another for a moment. Swallowing her terror, Freya tried the car door, which was locked. They would have to try the other side – the driver’s. ‘Wait there,’ Fosh said, and she felt glad now to have obeyed her hunch in bringing him along. She watched him make his faltering way around the car, hesitating before he took the door handle. It opened, and Fosh reared back with a cry.

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘What is it?’ Freya called.

  For the moment Fosh didn’t speak. He had crooked his forearm against his nose and mouth. She came round to join him, dreading whatever it was he had found. ‘It’s not nice,’ came his muffled voice, warning her. She smelled it before she realised what it was: a corpse, seated upright against the wheel. It had been burnt to blackness, beyond recognition. She felt her stomach lurch, once, and waited for the nausea to pass. Then she forced herself to take another look.

  Dust to dust, she thought.

  Nat took turns with Reiner and Gina in keeping Sonja company while she recuperated in her hotel room. He had expected family to descend on her, and was chastened to learn (or else had forgotten) that she had lost both parents, her father in the war, her mother a few years later. There was a brother, from whom she was long estranged. Nat thought he understood now why she and Reiner were so close.

  After her determination to keep Freya away, it surprised him when, on the day before he drove her to the airport, Sonja allowed one other visitor to her room. Billie had brought flowers, and a heart thumping with dread. She tried her best not to stare at the bandages that mummified half of Sonja’s face. She stayed no more than twenty minutes, fearing to tire the patient, and when she leaned in to kiss her goodbye she felt a tiny flinch beneath the gauzy mask. Outside in the corridor Nat, who had tactfully withdrawn himself, offered Billie a handkerchief to dab her brimming eyes.

  ‘She seemed so calm,’ Billie choked out under her breath.

  Nat nodded:
the calm of resignation, he supposed. He took her down for a drink at the hotel bar. Billie sensed that he wanted to talk about what had happened that day.

  ‘I keep thinking I ought to have done something. But at the time I was half dazed from Pulver’s assault on me.’ It was what he had kept telling himself, yet spoken aloud his excuses sounded inadequate; cowardly, even. It keened away at him, like a radio set jabbering from a nearby window. He wanted to close his ears, but he couldn’t.

  ‘You can’t blame yourself,’ said Billie. ‘If anyone should have stopped him it was Joey. What was he doing?’

  ‘I think he was as shocked as anyone. Just didn’t see it coming.’

  Billie stirred her drink thoughtfully. ‘At least you’re safe from him now. I read in the paper that he’s hiding out somewhere in Spain.’

  Nat gave a small conceding pout. ‘To think I was about to drag myself off into exile. Not that a few weeks – months – at Vere’s place would have been a hardship.’

  ‘How is he, by the way? Vere, I mean.’

  He looked away. ‘“When sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions.” I’ve had a couple of sessions with him talking about the memoir, but he gets tired so quickly and I don’t want to press him.’

  ‘I’m sure he’s being brave,’ murmured Billie.

  ‘Yes. I’d hoped they might have a cut of the film to show him before he … before it’s too late.’ He traced his finger absently on the shiny surface of the bar. ‘Just one more damn thing I can’t help.’

  The case of the corpse in the car quickly gained notoriety. It mingled the macabre and the mysterious to a near-perfect degree. The police’s efforts to identify the charred ‘driver’ had stalled, though an autopsy established that the victim – male, probably in his forties or fifties – had been drugged before being set on fire. Early speculation that it was a tramp who had accidentally immolated himself was dismissed. Forensics revealed that the corpse had been strapped into the car post-mortem. The killers apparently wanted him to be found, though why they had tipped off the journalist in question, not a crime reporter, prompted more bafflement.