Slow Motion Ghosts

by Jeff Noon

  She could hear herself on the tape, shuffling about in the chair, mumbling to herself, lighting a cigarette. Hobbes watched her closely, studying her reaction. She was embarrassed at being recorded like this, unguarded, that much was obvious. She swayed from foot to foot. Her mouth was crooked with worry.

  And then her voice was heard from the tape, speaking quietly, gruffly, to herself.

  It’s all my fault. It’s always my fault.

  Simone’s eyes narrowed. Her fine cheekbones twitched, just a little.

  ‘Wait,’ Hobbes said. ‘There’s more.’

  A second time her voice rose from the twin speakers, the words plainly spoken.

  They both died. They died because of me.

  Drawn in Blue Ink

  Hobbes clicked off the cassette player. He looked at Simone, waiting for clarification. None came. ‘Would you like to explain that statement?’ he asked.

  ‘That was …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I was talking to myself.’

  ‘You were indeed, Miss Paige.’

  ‘You can’t take any account of that. I was tired, scared, out of my mind.’ She glared at him. ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, I’d just seen a dead body!’

  ‘Yes, and that’s very upsetting. I understand completely.’ But Hobbes didn’t want her to settle, not quite yet. ‘Still, it’s something of note, I think. It implies a certain kind of feeling. A feeling beyond the norm, shall we say?’

  Simone could not answer him. Could not even look at him. Hobbes and Barlow were taking up too much room; her eyes fluttered to escape them both.

  Hobbes closed in. ‘What were you thinking, when you said those words to yourself?’

  Now she sighed. A deeply drawn breath. ‘It’s the truth,’ she said. ‘The truth. They both died because of me.’

  Hobbes kept his voice as low as hers. ‘Please tell me why.’

  ‘Very well. But I need to go back, to the beginning.’

  ‘That would be useful.’

  She seemed to find strength from this simple request. She sat back down, topped up her wine glass and began to speak evenly and clearly.

  ‘I met Lucas Bell in 1970 when I reviewed one of his early gigs for the Melody Maker. I was nineteen years old, almost twenty. He was twenty-two. I’d arrived in London earlier that year, seeking my fortune.’

  ‘So you fell in love?’ he asked.

  ‘Not straight away. Oh, I was fascinated by him, without a doubt. But only as any young woman might be, with a man on stage, singing his heart out about things that seemed to be amazingly important.’ Her face had taken on a gentler expression.

  ‘But you got to know each other?’

  ‘He came up to me after that first gig, I don’t know why. I had the impression that he chose me in some way. His first words to me were, “You have the most extraordinary eyes.” It sounds ridiculous, speaking of it now.’

  ‘I can understand,’ Hobbes said to her.

  ‘We became friends. I was the first journalist to take his music seriously. I knew from the start that Lucas had something to offer, something new after the sixties’ dream had failed. Something more dangerous, more tempting.’

  ‘This would be glam rock.’

  ‘Yes, it became known as that, after a time.’

  Hobbes thought for a moment. ‘So when did your relationship begin properly?’

  ‘That would be late 1972. November. After Lucas’s first suicide attempt.’

  Hobbes recalled the article he’d read in the fanzine. ‘Right. I’ve only recently heard of this.’

  Simone nodded. ‘He took an overdose after the second album and tour. He was a troubled young man. And that, I’m afraid, was very much part of his appeal. It still is. Because the fans love him for his scars, his pain, his passion.’

  ‘Even to the point of death?’

  ‘Exactly. Rather than live out an empty life following the meaningless laws of the music business, he took the noble way out, and ended it all.’ She paused. ‘Well, that’s one story anyway.’

  ‘And the other?’

  ‘That he shot himself because I threw him aside.’ She wiped at her eyes. ‘Either way, the fans hate me. Either I broke his spirit, or I broke his heart. Fickle muse or ravenous groupie. Take your pick.’

  Her voice took on a steely edge and she started to rant.

  ‘They’re fanatics. So many of them. You don’t know what they’re like. Crazy idiots. Sorry. I shouldn’t … but they never stop. They never fucking stop! They send me notes, terrible messages, they threaten me. But all I ever did was love him. That’s all I ever did. I loved him.’

  Her voice quietened. She looked embarrassed.

  Hobbes was scrutinizing her. ‘So, out of his failed suicide, you fell in love?’

  ‘I know it sounds strange. But I do think there was an element of me finally being able to love him, now that he was sick. It’s dreadful, but there it is.’

  ‘No, I can see that.’

  ‘We met up at a restaurant. He was gaunt, even for him. And washed out. And more beautiful than ever. By which I mean, all his usual practised charm had disappeared. I felt I was seeing him for the first time. The real face.’

  She stopped. Hobbes waited.

  ‘Is there something wrong?’

  She spoke to herself alone. ‘I was thinking …’

  ‘Please, out loud.’

  ‘Lucas had given up on so many things, including music. Basically, he’d had enough. He could no longer face the public. He wanted to disappear, that was his only desire. But the people at the record company were pushing for him to start recording the third album. He told me all this. And I said to him, “Why don’t you wear a mask?” It was said in jest, or half jest. Truly. But he looked at me, and smiled. And there and then at the table he started to sketch out a face. He invented a character, a persona, right in front of my eyes. It was the birth of King Lost, although he didn’t have a name until later.’ Simone’s face brightened. ‘It was amazing to watch. Something changed between us at that moment.’ Now her eyes sparkled as the memories took over. ‘That night we came back here, and we made love for the first time. It was … it was wonderful.’

  She stopped, as though suddenly aware she had an audience. Both Hobbes and Barlow were staring at her, totally fascinated by the tale she was weaving.

  ‘Let me show you something.’

  Simone left the room. Hobbes turned to Barlow and said, ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Of Miss Paige?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The constable hesitated. ‘I get the impression …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘That she’s lived more in one year than I have in my life.’

  Hobbes grinned. ‘You’re probably right.’

  Simone came back in carrying a small suitcase. It was battered and scuffed, marked with a few travel stickers of foreign cities. She placed this on the coffee table and clicked it open. Neither Hobbes nor Barlow could see inside. She rummaged around for a moment and then pulled out a piece of cloth. This she unfolded so the two officers could view it.

  It was a large table napkin, the kind favoured by restaurants.

  ‘This is King Lost,’ she said. ‘His very first incarnation, as drawn by Lucas that night.’

  Hobbes stared at it.

  Here was the mask. The adopted persona of the pop star drawn in blue ink. A rough sketch only, but with the familiar split grin, the X on the brow and the falling teardrop all in place. Hobbes was astounded. He knew very little of rock stars and their lives, but this felt to him to be a true artefact, the relic of a saint. For the first time he got an inkling of the singer’s true power, of why so many worshipped him. And most of all he couldn’t help thinking of poor Brendan Clarke, marked in the same way, the famous mask copied on to his face with a few cuts of a knife.

  Barlow whistled. ‘That’s got to be worth something, hasn’t it? It’s like viewing one of Hendrix’s guitars.’

  ‘Oh, it’s
more than that,’ Simone said. ‘Far more. This face would soon be adored by millions of people around the world. Lucas was filled with energy, after he invented King Lost. The whole album was written, recorded and released within four months. It made him famous and because he could hide behind the mask, it enabled him to get on stage again, to face his audience, to sing. For a while anyway, a year or so.’

  ‘So what happened?’ Hobbes asked. ‘Why did he stop?’

  Simone took a gulp of wine, swirled it around her mouth and swallowed. ‘I don’t know. I honestly don’t. He got tired maybe, tired of the pretence. I’m only guessing.’

  ‘You grew apart?’

  ‘Yes, as his fame spread.’ She frowned. ‘I had given myself to this man completely, following him into places I should never have gone. I was fearful of addiction, of illness. Of dying, even. I had to withdraw.’

  ‘He was a drug addict?’

  ‘He was. And he very nearly pulled me under with him.’

  ‘Was that why you split up?’

  ‘Partly. I don’t want to go into it, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘So how did Lucas take the break-up?’

  ‘He had other worries on his mind by then. But we both knew that we would always be friends. He was a reclusive person, which was part of the problem. There was me, and his manager. We were the only two people that he ever really trusted, I think.’

  ‘What happened to his manager?’

  Simone pursed her lips. ‘Toby Lear? God knows. Rotting in hell, I hope. You know, it was Toby who bought the gun for Lucas. The stupid bastard.’ Her face bristled with anger. ‘Toby played up to every whim Lucas had, pampering his cash cow, no matter the consequences. I hate him. Even now.’

  Barlow was scribbling away at his notebook throughout all this, doing his best to keep up with the story and the memories as they streamed out.

  Hobbes thanked Simone for showing them the napkin. Then he asked as gently as he could, ‘So what happened in the final weeks of his life?’

  ‘It was the end of the tour. The last gig was taking place at the Rainbow in Finsbury Park. I went along. I hadn’t seen him for a while. And he played the entire concert in the King Lost mask, beginning to end.’

  ‘And then he destroyed the mask? On stage?’

  Simone’s face showed no emotion. ‘He did, yes. He sliced into it. Or at least pretended to. People were screaming. Some of them were crying. I’ve never seen anything like it. Not before, not since. It was a public offering, a ritual scaring.’

  She fell silent, before dismissing the memory with a shake of her head.

  ‘Of course it was all fake. A special knife, a blood capsule.’

  Barlow asked a question, his first of the session: ‘I understand that Lucas went missing after the gig.’

  She nodded. ‘For three weeks. Nobody knew where he was, not at the time.’

  Hobbes frowned at this. ‘Nobody?’

  She met his gaze and held it for a second or two before answering: ‘Nobody at the time. But we now know that he rented a place outside of Hastings, in the countryside, close to Witch Haven field. A small cottage.’

  She stopped speaking. Her eyes closed, suddenly overcome by tears. The fingers of one hand traced over the lid of the suitcase. And when she continued with her account, Hobbes had to lean in close to hear her properly.

  ‘The next thing I knew was when my editor rang me up, to tell me about Lucas’s body being found. He’d shot himself.’

  She paused and drew a breath.

  ‘I wasn’t that surprised, to be honest. I’d always known that such an outcome was on the cards.’ She brushed off the feelings. ‘Anyway, that’s the end of the story. I went into a private clinic to get cleaned up. I didn’t even go to the funeral. Which is one more black mark against me, in the fans’ minds. But I’d had enough. Enough of the pain, the love. The fucked-up, twisted pain of love. Everything. It was over.’

  The room was quiet.

  Hobbes and Barlow were both staring at Simone. Her eyes were downcast. One hand still clutched at the now empty wine glass. Hobbes felt it might crack in her grasp.

  She said, ‘But the worst thing is, thinking back …’

  Hobbes waited. She had not yet looked up.

  ‘It was my idea, the mask. In some way, I can’t help feeling that I painted his face for him. I placed the mask on his face.’

  Hobbes asked, ‘I can understand why you might think you were responsible for Lucas Bell killing himself. After all, enough people have told you so, over the years. But what about Brendan Clarke? You said on the tape that you were to blame for both deaths.’

  She came back to the present moment. Her eyes were dark, glistening.

  ‘I have the kiss of the devil.’ The phrase cut the room into silence. ‘That’s what one fan said about me. She wrote it in a letter and shoved it through my letter box, the paper smeared with blood. And yes, they know where I live.’

  ‘In that case, you should report the threats.’

  ‘But maybe they’re right, the fans? The things I love, or reach out for … they die.’

  Hobbes didn’t know what to say.

  Simone spoke quietly now. ‘Finding him like that, seeing Brendan’s face like that, the cuts, the blood …’ She frowned. ‘It was the mask, wasn’t it? A copy?’ She looked at Hobbes directly. ‘The King Lost mask?’

  ‘Yes. I believe so.’

  The wine glass fell to the carpet. ‘Oh God.’ Her head dropped into her hands.

  She was closing up, still holding secrets. Hobbes couldn’t let that happen.

  ‘Simone, we’re having trouble with certain aspects of the case, specifically to do with music.’ He nodded at Barlow. ‘Neither of us are experts.’ Her body showed no response, so he carried on. ‘What can you tell us about the record that was playing in the victim’s room, the repeated phrase? Simone?’

  At last she gathered herself together. Her hands came away from her face and she breathed in heavily. Then she rose and walked over to a record rack. She chose one. ‘It’s from Luke’s debut album,’ she said. ‘Backstreet Harlequin.’ She spun the vinyl disc in her hands to bring side two uppermost, and slipped it on to the spindle of the music centre’s turntable. Carefully she placed the stylus on the record. ‘The song that was playing is the title track.’

  Music filled the room. Lucas Bell’s singing voice was vibrant, full of life and love and yearning.

  ‘He wrote this when he first came to London,’ Simone explained. ‘A young man’s vision of the big city.’

  Hobbes tried to concentrate on the lyrics. One particular line in the chorus jumped out at him – Lost in the Soho blues – and he knew precisely what was being said. His own arrival in London came to mind, when he’d driven down from Lancashire as a young man: that sense of being adrift, helpless against the current, fearful, and yet filled with such excitement at the prospects of a life that was just starting to unfold. He looked over at Simone. She was moving gently from side to side. Her eyes were closed and her face had taken on a peaceful, faraway expression. For these few moments she was free from her troubles, whatever they might be, however deep they might travel.

  And then she opened her eyes and gestured to them both: ‘Listen. Listen!’

  The final chorus began, taking off on a different tangent than before. Lucas Bell’s voice rose to its highest, most urgent level:

  Just another backstreet harlequin,

  Lost in the Soho blues.

  I’ve given just about all I can give,

  Now there’s nothing left to lose.

  Hobbes was drawn immediately back to the victim’s bedroom, the body lying on the bed, and that one phrase, ‘nothing left to lose’, repeating over and over in the trapped, humid air.

  A few more emphatic, defiant chords and the song came to an end. Simone removed the needle from the record. ‘There it is,’ she said. ‘The song as it was originally recorded. Three and a half years later, when he wrote his suicide not
e, Lucas used this same song as his model. But he changed the final words of the song slightly.’

  Hobbes was fascinated. ‘What did he put?’

  ‘He wrote, “I’ve loved just about all I can love. There’s nowhere else to go.”’

  Hobbes envisioned how this woman must’ve felt at the time; surely this was a message to her alone, a curse almost. And the fans would definitely take it as that; it would be read as Lucas Bell blaming Simone directly for his actions.

  He looked at her. ‘So Brendan Clarke’s killer must’ve known of this history?’ he asked.

  She nodded. ‘It’s common knowledge, a major part of the Lucas Bell mythology.’

  ‘Which means the murderer was making a point. By playing that record, and that particular phrase, he was drawing a direct connection between this current death, and the one that took place seven years before?’

  ‘That’s it,’ Simone replied. ‘That’s all I can think.’

  ‘And what is the connection? Do you know?’

  She looked at him, hesitating.

  ‘Simone, I need to know. Only you can tell me.’

  ‘Very well. Brendan Clarke told me, in the dressing room after the gig, that he had proof.’

  ‘Proof of what?’

  ‘That Lucas Bell’s death wasn’t an act of suicide. In fact, he was murdered.’

  Hobbes sat back in the chair. He could hear Barlow’s pen nib scratching feverishly at the notebook.

  The Brendan Clarke case was expanding and reaching out to merge with another case, another young man’s death from years before.

  ‘I’ve read a few articles in the 100 Splinters fanzine,’ he said at last. ‘And yet nowhere did Brendan mention the possibility of Lucas Bell being a victim of murder.’

  Simone grimaced at this. ‘No, well, he wouldn’t. Because he knew how the fans would feel about that. That they’d hate it, completely and utterly. Because as it stands, the story is perfect.’

  ‘Explain this.’

  ‘A number of the fans, I’m sure, are actually glad that Lucas Bell is dead, because their fantasy is set free by the act. And if he has to die, let it at least be for a good reason.’

  ‘You make him out to be some kind of sacrificial lamb.’