by Nev Fountain
— feet? Something was wrong. There was a scream; a woman was in trouble.
No she wasn’t—the scream was his, and he was screaming because he had run off the edge of the world, or maybe the world had tipped the ground over and shaken him out like grit from one of its shoes. He realised something important.
The quarry where they’d filmed ‘The Burning Time’ was closer to the hotel than he remembered.
For a split second, he tried to doggy-paddle his way to the clouds. Then physics gave a wicked grin, and gravity was punching him in the face with a rock.
Soil, stones and rocks attacked his face like angry bees. He blindly put out his hands to slow his fall and was rewarded with dead plants that came away in his fists.
All he was able to see was a mad collage of images, rolling and swerving and jerking past him. His vision shook and juddered as he ploughed downward, not resting his eyes on anything for more than a split second. It was as if he’d become the cameraman of a particularly pretentiously shot documentary, investigating the terrible unforeseen dangers involved in falling into quarries.
The moon winked in and out of his line of sight, as he half-rolled, half-fell down something steep and painful.
What was it Duggie ‘Don’t lean against that window’ Fletcher used to say about falling down a sheer drop? Oh yes. Don’t even try it. Leave it to the professionals. Wise words, Duggie.
It was five whole seconds before he found something flat and hard he could lie on. He let out a shuddering breath, rolled over, realised he’d only landed on a tiny ledge halfway down, and continued his descent all the way to the bottom. The only thought rattling around his head was one of relief, that no one had seen him doing his little comedy intermezzo; he’d even let out a strangulated yell.
He felt oddly at peace lying there, the rain pummelling his face with refreshing pin-sharp droplets. He hoped he hadn’t broken his spine, it felt so comfortable. Shouldn’t he be in pain? He waggled his fingers. Nothing wrong there. He flexed his feet. Fine. He moved his head—and whimpered with the pain.
A figure swam into his vision. He heard the woman’s voice. A low voice. She pulled out a bottle of Estuary English water and Click-click-click-click opened it. Pouring the contents gently on to him.
Mervyn could feel a cool wetness hitting his face, mixing with the rain. He screwed his face up tightly, thrusting his face to one side. He knew what was in the water, and he knew what would happen if he swallowed any. All he could see was the rain and the water flying towards him, and the moon glowing at him, giving a huge conspiratorial grin.
And then nothing at all.
CHAPTER SEVENTY
Mervyn woke up in heaven.
At least, he assumed he was in heaven. It didn’t look like heaven, but it had to be. Stood to reason.
He said some words out loud, testing the heavenly acoustics. ‘As I mentioned some time ago to a blonde policewoman with interesting tattoos, “When you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the case.”’ He had fallen into a quarry in Surrey, someone had drenched him with poison, and now all of a sudden, he had woken up in his own house. That couldn’t have happened. That was utterly impossible. Therefore, he must have been poisoned. He must be in heaven.
There was other evidence to suggest he was in heaven. The house was spookily clean. The mess that the police had left had been tidied away. The bottle of water had been returned to its place on the middle of the table. The CD Robert had given him had also been neatly put back.
He was either in heaven, or he’d hired himself a cleaner. Heaven was more likely.
If this were heaven, then it was a bit disappointing. If he’d have to spend eternity in a perfect facsimile of his own house, God should at least have the decency to give him some nicer crockery.
After a few minutes, he convinced himself it wasn’t exactly heaven, more a waiting room for heaven. A little piece of cosy purgatory. A familiar-looking annexe so the freshly deceased could acclimatise themselves to their lofty new surroundings. He’d been scuba-diving once, and he knew the dangers of getting the bends when coming up too fast. Mervyn approved of God’s very sensible nod to health and safety.
More minutes passed. Mervyn tried the television.
He decided that this wasn’t a waiting room for heaven after all. God may be vengeful at times, but He wouldn’t allow property shows on the television.
He turned it off and wondered how he’d got home.
Now he realised he wasn’t in heaven, earthly worries like being caught by the police became uppermost in his mind. He sat in the dark on his hideous sofa, afraid to turn the lights on. His neighbours weren’t the friendliest at the best of times, and he had visions of them tapping out 999 the moment the house looked occupied.
He couldn’t switch the television on again. He was aching to hear the news, but he daren’t risk it. Instead, he found some headphones and listened to Radio 4, hoping to catch a bulletin; but no. It was just a programme about how thimbles were making a comeback. Instead, he just sat in the gloom and stared at the bottle of water.
He ended up doing that for quite some time.
He wondered if it was the same bottle. He turned it around and, yes, there was the tear on the label from where it had bounced around inside his bag. It was definitely the same bottle—only it wasn’t just a bottle any more, it was a symbol, and he didn’t have to ask the Godbotherers to find out how important symbols were.
He picked it up, then he put it down again.
He reached into his pocket. There was the CD of ‘The Burning Time’ commentary that Mick had given him, still there. Well, he could listen to that at least. He had to keep investigating. He had to keep thinking.
Find out what happened to Marcus. It’s the only way I can clear my name.
He put it into the CD player, and put his headphones back on. Marcus’s self-satisfied lecture filled his ears. He listened right through, from his own stumbling introduction to the death of Marcus Spicer.
‘…Mark my words, we’re heading back to a new dark age, where people are once again put to the sword for simply saying the world is round, and it was created a few thousand years ago; those are the stakes we’re playing for… And I for one don’t want to be tied to one just yet…’
Then there was a harsh KLAK-LAK-LAK-LAK as Marcus opened the deadly water bottle, and a pause as Robert silently told them in their headphones that they were stopping because of the noise. Then Marcus said ‘Sorry,’ and then Mervyn’s own voice turned up. Mervyn was surprised how tetchy he sounded. He always thought he had a gentle voice.
‘I know all that, I wouldn’t have…commissioned the story if I didn’t believe that. But there are plenty of moderate people of faith in the world who despair of extremism just as much as we do. Being thoughtlessly provocative doesn’t help anyone’s case. All it does is leave a nasty taste in the mouth.’
‘Oh! This can’t be what I…’
Then there were the terrible noises of Marcus dying. The gasping, the choking, the retching.
‘Marcus? Are you all right?’ That was Samantha’s voice.
And then the ‘flumpf’ of body on carpet. And the glog-glog-glog as the upturned bottle leaked poison on to the floor.
Then it ended. Either Robert or Trevor must have pressed a button and rushed into the sound booth. He couldn’t remember which.
He turned off the CD.
He kept looking at the bottle.
He realised he was being intimidated by it. No, not just intimidated, he was in awe of it. He was frightened of it. He’d given it its own special place. He’d eaten his meals around it. He had been depressed to find it missing. Now it had returned, and he was in awe of it.
He was treating it with the same kind of reverence that the Godbotherers had for their narrow beliefs, with which Graham Goldingay treated his props, that Marcus Spicer reserved for himself.
Well sod that. He was Mervyn Stone, and he didn’t be
lieve in anything. He had no time for magic talismans, graven images or objects of worship.
He picked up the bottle, held it aloft, twisted the lid. It opened with a muted click-click-click-click and he defiantly guzzled the water down.
Nothing happened.
Of course it didn’t. There was no way Lewis could have poisoned one of the bottles. Perhaps he’d prayed over them, asking for the water to magically transform after it had left the building?
But nothing had happened. There was no miracle. Mervyn felt exactly the same as he was seconds before.
Or did he? Something was different. He felt different. What was it?
It was something in his head. The ghost of a realisation.
He listened to Marcus’s final moments again. And then he realised what it was. He got very excited. He pulled out his mobile.
‘Hi Mick.’
‘Hello, Mervyn Stone.’
‘I’d like to ask you something…’
‘I see I got “unknown number” on my phone when you called.’
‘Yes. It’s a new phone. Pay as you go.’
‘Very wise.’
‘Mick. I know I shouldn’t bother someone like you at this moment…’
‘At this moment’?’
‘Er… Yes.’
‘“At this moment”…by which you mean that “at this moment” you’re on the run from the police. And by “someone like me” you mean “the police”. Am I right?’
‘Um… Yes. You put it very succinctly.’
‘I do succinctly.’
‘I quite understand if you don’t want to talk to me, me being an escaped murder suspect and all…’
‘Nah. Don’t worry about it. I’m off duty.’
‘Oh great. I just want to ask a question about Marcus.’
‘Yeah?’
‘About what he had in his pockets.’
‘Nothing special. Keys, wallet, cards…’
‘This is very important. Was he on any medication?’
‘No.’
‘Oh.’
‘But he did have aspirin in his pocket. He complained of a headache that morning, and Joanna Paine gave him a bottle of pills.’
‘She gave him a bottle of pills? Fantastic! That’s just… Fantastic. That’s just what I thought you might say.’
‘The pills were checked, Mervyn Stone. They weren’t poisoned or anything like that.’
‘No, I didn’t expect them to be. Thanks very much, Mick.’
‘Pleasure.’
Now he knew he was on to something. The bottle of pills was the first pebble in an avalanche, and now connections were raining down on his brain. Things started to make sense.
And then he heard the noise.
The noise was a dull thud. Mervyn had a forlorn hope that it came from outside, or next door, but the next, louder thud was utterly unmistakable. It came from upstairs.
‘Mick, there’s someone upstairs…’
‘Upstairs where?’
‘I’m in my house.’
‘Go and look then.’
‘I can’t. I’m scared.’
‘Listen. Mervyn fucking Stone is not scared of anything. Mervyn fucking Stone wrote “The Burning Time”. A man who had the balls to put that on prime-time telly is not scared of some kid going through his bedroom drawers and shitting on his duvet.’
‘You’re right.’
‘I know I’m right.’
‘I’m going to look. Will you stay on the phone?’
‘Yes.’
Let it go, Mervyn, he thought to himself. I don’t have to stay in this house.
But curiosity was a powerful thing, and Mervyn found his feet on the stairs; one step at a time. It’s a burglar. Mick’s right. It must be. A violent insane ratboy burglar, defecating on my bed, ready to pull his trousers up and bash my head in with my own hairbrush.
‘I’m going up the stairs now.’
‘Good for you.’
He pushed open the door.
The woman was completely naked, standing in front of the mirrored door of his wardrobe, examining herself. She was holding a mobile.
She heard the creak of the door and turned round.
‘Hello Mervyn Stone,’ she said into the phone. ‘Have you found your intruder yet?’
‘That wasn’t funny.’
‘Yes it was.’
‘What are you doing in my house?’
‘Waiting for you.’
She stood there, unashamed. The dragon lurking by her abdomen looked sinister in the half-light. There was a brief spasm of realisation in Mervyn’s brain. A flash of Stuart in his luminous bib, saying with a grin, ‘Am I Hannibal Lecter to your Clarice Starling?’ Mervyn had read those books many times. The story of a jailed mass-murderer leading the detective to the lair of a tattooed psychopath…
Don’t be ridiculous.
‘Okay, I’ll rephrase that. What are you doing—naked—in my house?’
‘Checking out my new tattoo. What do you think?’
Her bottom was pointed at him. Mervyn flinched. ‘Very good.’
‘A bit scabby, but it’s come out well. Really clear. Well, as clear as your handwriting gets. You could authorise your cheques with my arse, Mervyn Stone.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind.’
‘Don’t mention it. Oh, yeah. About the tattoo I’m getting of you…’
‘The one of me fighting your salivating dragon?’
‘Yeah. Well I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m going to wait a bit until I get it done. Just in case you did kill Marcus and Robert and that old guy. I don’t want a multiple murderer on my inner thigh. It might get a bit embarrassing in the showers at Hendon.’
‘I quite understand.’
She walked to the bed and (thank God) tugged her jeans on.
‘I found you lying in a quarry,’ she said, pulling her belt on, and fastening the skull-like buckle tight. ‘I poured water on your face to wake you up, but you were dead to the world. When they started coming out of the hotel, I carried you to my car and stuffed you in my boot. Harder than it looks—lucky I’ve come across a few types that stuff bodies in cars for a hobby. You’ve got to put the legs in first and let the head rest on the wheel arch. I drove you back to London. Managed to give the police the slip.’
‘Mick… You are the police.’
‘Not the Surrey police I’m not.’
‘Fair enough.’
‘I saw the news. Your expedition with Pavarotti didn’t go to plan. So you wrote “The Burning Time”? I’m impressed. Mervyn fucking Stone is the man.’
‘You really smuggled me from the police? For all you know, I could be a mass murderer.’
‘Yeah. But you wrote “The Burning Time”. That’s huge. Great works can forgive a lot of bad things. I bet they would have let Charles Manson out long ago if his poems weren’t so shit.’
Mervyn didn’t know what to say.
Mick moved forward and gripped his shoulders. ‘Listen. You are a creator, not a destroyer. You are not a murderer. I believe in you, Mervyn Stone.’
‘Thank you. Thank you for believing in me, for whatever strange reason you have. And thank you for saving me… Twice.’
‘I am your guardian demon, Mervyn Stone. It’s like a guardian angel, but with a more interesting basement. How’s your head?’
‘Sore,’ he felt it tenderly, thinking about the events of last night. ‘Oh God. What about Lewis? And Brian? Lewis Bream attacked Brian, you know.’
‘Dunno anything about that. Just drove through the night. It’s only been a couple of hours since we left.’
‘Did you clean up my house?’
‘Yeah. Sorry about the mess before. Dave and Gerry are good police officers, and good girls, but they can get a bit carried away.’
‘Where did the bottle come from? And the CD?’
‘I knew your house was going to get searched. I broke in before to make sure you didn’t have anything incriminating in your
house. And you did.’
‘Yes I know.’
‘It would have looked very bad for you, so I took it. I thought you might need the stuff to complete your investigation, so I took it and hid it. I’ve got your laptop too. It’s on your bedside table.’ Sure enough, there it was, powered up and ready to use.
‘Well thank you; you’ve done far too much for me, Mick.’
‘I have to. You’re—’
‘I know. I’m Mervyn fucking Stone.’ Mick pulled out some scary thigh-boots from behind the bed and zipped them on. ‘So, that stuff about Marcus having the aspirin? That’s useful is it?’
In the excitement, Mervyn had forgotten. ‘God, yes, the pills. Absolutely. Really useful. In fact I think I know who the murderer is.’
‘You’re fucking kidding me.’
‘Yes. And it’s all thanks to you. If it wasn’t for that commentary CD you gave me, I’d never have worked it out.’
‘Really?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘Fuck, what a result. But you already had a CD of the commentary. I found it downstairs.’
‘No, Robert gave me that, but it didn’t work…’
Oh.
‘It didn’t work. No… Why didn’t it work? Robert was Mr Technical. He filmed and edited documentaries for a living, and restored old TV programmes. Why would someone as technically minded as that give me a CD that didn’t work?’
Mick shrugged.
Mervyn was already running back downstairs. ‘I always wondered why Robert was so certain Samantha was the murderer. He said something like he bet the CD would bring me to the same conclusion.’
There was the CD Robert gave him, on the table where Mick had put it. He took it out and examined it. He put it back in the CD player, but the machine clicked and complained and vomited it back out. ‘ERR’ came up in pretty digital letters.
Mick thumped down the stairs. Mervyn waved the CD at her. ‘It says “Commentary” on the case. But supposing it wasn’t? He said something about “putting me in the picture,” which I thought was a bit of an idiotic thing to say. Unless…’
On a sudden impulse, he switched the television on and put the CD into the DVD machine.
