Slow Motion Ghosts

by Jeff Noon

  ‘No. He wasn’t. He had nothing to do with Luke’s youth.’

  ‘So what’s the connection? Why was he killed?’

  ‘I truly don’t know.’

  Her denial was simply stated. He was on the edge of believing her.

  ‘But I do know that something terrible happened to the members of Edenville. Lucas started to tell me about it one day, when we were on tour.’

  ‘You became close?’

  She nodded. A slight smile. ‘Yes. Very close, for a night or two. It was after Simone Paige had split up with him. I guess you could say he fell into my arms.’

  She looked out through the window.

  ‘He wanted to admit something to me, a crime. But I could see he was scared. He backed away from revelation.’

  ‘You’ve really no idea what this crime was?’

  ‘Sorry. No. And a few weeks later, he was dead.’

  He had the impression that Hauser was still holding back from the truth, but could see no way of prising the information from her, not yet.

  ‘How many people were in this Edenville club?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve told enough already. Too much. Lucas made me promise.’

  ‘I believe you know more. Why won’t you tell me?’

  ‘Because …’ She hesitated. ‘Because it would destroy all this.’ She gestured towards the fans taking shelter in their parked cars, and the pilgrims walking back up to Witch Haven field now the rain had stopped. ‘Everything these people believe in. The love they feel for Lucas. The truth would destroy it all.’

  ‘Miss Hauser. I’m afraid that’s not good enough.’

  Now she stared at him with a terrified look in her eyes, and she whispered, ‘They killed somebody. The Edenville group …’

  Hobbes spoke urgently: ‘Who? Nikki, who did they kill?’

  There was no answer. Her head moved rapidly from side to side. He touched her hand, and she reacted against it violently, pulling away.

  ‘Leave me alone! I need to get out of here. Let me out!’

  Suddenly there was a commotion outside. A pair of hands banged against the window on Nikki’s side of the vehicle, and Johnny Valentine’s face loomed at the glass. He was shouting madly: ‘Nikki! Nikki, darling! He’s trying to arrest me!’

  ‘What?’

  Her hand was on the door handle, pushing it down. Hobbes reached for her but he was too late. She was out of the car in a flash, pulling Valentine away with her.

  Hobbes got out of his side door and tried to follow.

  Barlow was rushing towards them. Nikki hurled abuse at him. ‘Leave him alone, you fucker. He’s innocent. He’s a good man.’

  ‘I didn’t do anything, sir!’ Barlow shouted. ‘He went crazy on me.’

  Nikki had pulled Valentine to her. They stood together, defiant against the police. Nikki spat and shrieked. ‘Fucking pigs!’

  Throughout all this, Valentine was silent. His facial scar glistened with fresh blood from the picked scabs.

  Hobbes had to try one last time. ‘Nikki? Think carefully. Think about Brendan, and what he meant to you. The love you had.’

  She wouldn’t even look at him. ‘Come on, Johnny. Let’s go home.’

  ‘Tell me what you know!’ Hobbes was almost shouting.

  A group of fans gathered. They formed a rough semicircle around the scene.

  ‘They’re coppers!’ Nikki spat. ‘Stinking coppers! Spies.’

  Murmurs travelled from one worshipper to another. Their faces showed a fierce anger, a shared emotion.

  The sun beat down. The greenery all around sparkled with raindrops. Shining jewels. Across the hills a rainbow painted the air with its diffuse colours. Rock music drifted from an open car door. Another Lucas Bell song, a call to action. The fans listened, and responded as one. Hobbes and Barlow stood their ground, waiting.

  The crowd moved in.

  The Haunted Ones

  Hobbes lay on the bed fully clothed, watching the smoke from his cigarette rise and flutter in the breeze from the partly open window. He brought his watch close to his face. Ten to six. Early evening and still light outside. He’d been asleep for a couple of hours, that’s all. It felt longer. His stomach was empty and he suddenly remembered that he’d promised PC Barlow a fish and chip supper. Well, it would have to wait. Barlow had taken the car; he’d be back in Richmond by now, passing on his orders that Nikki Hauser had to be found.

  The inspector stubbed out his cigarette and swung his feet to the floor. Thank God he hadn’t walked in his sleep. That would’ve scared his hosts no end. He thought again of Chief Superintendent Lockhart’s request. Hobbes recalled Charlie Jenkes’s last words to him. They’d bumped into each other at the shadowy end of Berwick Street in Soho one Saturday afternoon a couple of days after the sentence had been passed. Charlie stepped out of the doorway of a private members’ club, his breath stinking of beer, his eyes fogged over. Hobbes couldn’t believe how different he looked to his old self, when he’d made the bullpen roar with laughter at the joy of life, and when he’d led them all into action, not caring about his own safety. Now despair flickered on his face at the sight of Hobbes, then anger. He swore, more to himself than anyone. Then he said, ‘I thought we were mates.’

  It pierced Hobbes to the core.

  ‘We were,’ he answered.

  Hobbes stared past Jenkes to look through the doorway. A set of dusty, unlit stairs led downwards towards God knows what iniquities: one of those dives the police had shut down countless times, only for another set of lowlifes to reopen it.

  He couldn’t help commenting, ‘You’re keeping good company, I see.’

  Jenkes showed his teeth, stained yellow from his Silk Cut intake, thirty or more a day. He was on the edge of saying something bad when Hobbes cut in, ‘I hope you’ll be all right, Charlie.’ It sounded ridiculous, cruel almost. But he added, ‘I really do.’

  Jenkes laughed. ‘Don’t you worry about me, Henry. I’m well out of it. Fucking cops. Bunch of useless bastards, the whole damn lot of them.’ He spat tobacco-coloured phlegm into a waste bin on a lamp post. A woman walking past looked at him in disgust. He grinned at her and then said to Hobbes, ‘I’ve got my friends, people to turn to, and they don’t care how dirty I am. I’ve got my plans.’ And then in an instant his drunken bravado fell away and the old Charlie came into view. He said, ‘I cocked up, good and proper.’ His voice was full of regret. ‘I’m sorry, Henry. I’m just so fuckin’ sorry.’

  And with that he stumbled away.

  Hobbes thought back on it now. What had Charlie meant when he’d said ‘people to turn to’? What plans? Had those plans gone awry in some way?

  He found the bathroom and splashed some water on his face and then made his way downstairs. Mr Palmer was serving dinner to his family. Hobbes nodded at his greeting, and took his invitation to sit down. A plate of food was put in front of him: a lamb chop, boiled spuds, garden peas. Detective Constable Palmer came into the room, her hair shiny and clean from the shower. It made Hobbes aware of his own sorry state, his torn lapel and unshaven face. But no one paid him any mind except to urge him to eat and be merry. The food was divine. He ate gratefully. Husband, wife and child – a boy of five called Kevin – chatted of this and that, and Hobbes joined in where he could.

  ‘How’s your head, sir?’ DC Palmer asked.

  ‘It’s fine. And thanks again for pulling them off.’

  ‘Those effin’ bastards need banging up.’

  Her husband, William, covered the child’s ears in a mocking manner.

  ‘What? I said effin’! That’s Queen’s English, ain’t it?’

  Palmer certainly had a rough tongue on her, but Hobbes liked her, and her family.

  ‘And anyway, it’s true,’ she continued. ‘Just because they walk round like an orgy in a fancy-dress shop, doesn’t mean they can’t be nasty little sods.’

  In truth, he didn’t want to talk about it. He had handled the situation badly from the start. He shoul
d’ve taken Hauser and Valentine away from the scene, towards neutral ground. Witch Haven was charged with too many memories, and too much spilt blood. The fans were in the grip of stronger emotions than would ever govern them in normal circumstances.

  Palmer grinned. ‘Mind you, they scarpered like rats, once we laid in.’

  Hobbes tried to remember the exact details. A blur of painted faces, the tribe of King Lost. And then a pair of officers arriving, DC Palmer and a male colleague. Barlow was laid out on the wet ground by then, his stone-washed jeans covered in mud.

  Palmer laughed when he mentioned this. ‘That young copper was well pissed off, when you sent him back to London. He wanted to get back out there and arrest a few teenagers.’

  ‘Aye, Barlow’s keen. I’ll give him that.’

  ‘You can stay the night, sir, if your case needs it. No worries.’

  Hobbes nodded. ‘That’s kind of you.’

  The dinner was finished and cleared away and the television was switched on. Family life. Palmer invited him to have a look at the back garden. They stood side by side at the edge of the small, well-kept lawn. The smell of the sea was in the air.

  ‘Fancy a smoke, sir?’

  ‘Aye, but drop the sir, will you? We’re not on duty now.’

  ‘Deal, if you call me Jan.’

  A bird twittered from the neighbour’s apple tree. Hobbes looked at Palmer. There was a subject which had not yet arisen. Hobbes had grown wary of other police officers over the last few months.

  At last he spoke. ‘You do know of my history?’

  Jan Palmer didn’t look his way. ‘A little. From the news. Most of us do.’ She blew smoke into the darkening air.

  ‘And you don’t mind me being here?’

  Now she turned to him. Her eyes were sharp, unblinking. ‘You put a fellow officer in the firing line. He took the easy way out.’

  Hobbes wasn’t quite sure what the detective constable was going to say.

  ‘By all accounts, Jenkes had it coming. For what he did in that cellar.’

  Hobbes felt gratitude welling up.

  ‘I’m proud to have you in our home, Detective Hobbes. And also …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m not just saying that because of, well, you know …?’

  ‘Of course not.’ He grinned. ‘It never crossed my mind.’

  Jan Palmer’s black face shone under the patio light.

  He wanted to say thank you, but his throat tightened. Palmer saw his discomfort and broke off eye contact. They went back inside, and Hobbes asked for a street map.

  Palmer laughed. ‘You’re not going out, are you?’

  ‘I want to talk to a suspect.’

  Hobbes set off. The streets were crowded with both fans and holidaymakers. Hastings was a seaside resort, small enough to walk around. He followed the directions he’d been given and soon enough arrived at the house. He wasn’t expecting much because, from all he’d heard of Morgan Yorke, he assumed she’d be out tonight on some Lucas Bell-related jaunt. Yet the downstairs light was on behind the heavy curtains and he could hear music.

  He rang the bell. There was no answer.

  The house was a narrow two-up, two-down in the middle of a terrace. He checked the address one more time against the slip of paper Barlow had given him.

  He knocked on the door with his fist.

  ‘Police. Open up!’

  Only a moment passed before the light went out and the music stopped. He banged on the door continuously, until at last it opened a crack and a single eye peeped out at him. A brass chain hung across the gap.

  ‘I’m looking for Morgan Yorke. Are you her mother?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘And your name is?’

  ‘Violet Yorke.’

  The woman took the chain off the catch but kept the door half closed.

  Hobbes introduced himself and showed her his warrant card, saying, ‘Do you know why I need to talk to Morgan?’

  Mrs Yorke was in her late thirties, with a starved look about her. Yet her hair was dark and abundant, arranged in a tumble of curls around her brow. She looked nervous as she answered.

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  ‘Good. I’m glad that you understand.’

  Hobbes placed a hand against the panelling and the door opened completely, and he walked inside.

  ‘Morgan’s in her room.’

  He followed her up the stairs. A bedroom door was open at the end of the landing. But Mrs Yorke stopped Hobbes before they reached the doorway.

  ‘I’m very worried about my daughter.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘She hasn’t spoken to me, nor shown me her face – the face she was born with – not for days now.’

  Hobbes looked through the doorway but the room beyond was very dimly lit. He could barely make out the figure sitting on a chair in the corner.

  Mrs Yorke stepped forward, speaking quietly. ‘It’s a policeman, Morgan. He wishes to speak with you.’

  A hand reached out to click on a lamp and by its shaded bulb Hobbes saw Morgan Yorke for the first time. He was shocked. The teenager had transformed herself as completely into Lucas Bell as Brendan Clarke had done on the night of the gig. But on her the make-up looked frightening, a true death mask. She had overdone the face paint, using far too much colour. The cross on the brow and the split lips were roughly applied. The black teardrop stood out against skin the hue of a week-old corpse. And her eye …

  She leaned directly into the light to show off her handiwork.

  Her left eye was ringed with red paint. And Hobbes knew then that this woman had seen the lifeless body of Brendan Clarke as he lay on the crumpled bed sheets. She had copied the face with all its cuts and incisions. He saw, as she deliberately turned her head for him, that her neck carried the crimson mark of the blade, mirroring the point where Brendan’s jugular had been severed.

  ‘Morgan? Can we talk?’

  She scowled at him in response, and said, ‘Pardon my rudeness, but I don’t often have guests.’ Her lips split further into a smile. Her teeth were stained from the make-up.

  Hobbes rocked on his feet as he gathered his bearings. The bedroom was hot and stuffy. The smoke from an incense stick didn’t help. The walls and ceiling were covered in purple wallpaper. Shelves of books and record albums climbed towards the ceiling on two sides. A wall clock was decorated with the brooding face of a well-known serial killer. The atmosphere was dark and oppressive. He tapped at the pane of a glass tank where a bulbous spider moved amid leaves and twigs. ‘That’s Octavia,’ Morgan said proudly. ‘She’s eaten two male suitors up to now.’ The arachnid’s rounded belly glowed like a bulb filled with black ink.

  Fixed to the wall above the single bed was a poster of Lucas Bell wearing the King Lost mask. He was dressed for a glam rock funeral, his dark jacket edged with gold piping and epaulettes, his hair feathered and layered, his thin body held at a precisely chosen angle to the camera’s lens.

  Hobbes picked up a pack of tarot cards from the bedside cabinet. The Fool’s card was visible on the top of the deck. But this image was of a more elaborate design than the one found on Brendan Clarke’s body.

  ‘That pack was designed by Aleister Crowley,’ Morgan told him. ‘You have heard of him, I presume?’

  ‘The mad wizard?’

  She frowned at this. ‘He was a magus, a true practitioner.’

  ‘And Lucas Bell was interested in him, I suppose?’

  Before Morgan could answer, Mrs Yorke came back into the room, carrying a tray with cups and a teapot on it. She placed this on the dressing table and started to arrange things, saying, ‘I’ve made you some refreshments.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He waited until Mrs Yorke had left the room. Then he turned back to the girl, asking, ‘How old are you, Morgan?’

  ‘I’m seventeen.’

  ‘And do you really believe in all this stuff?’ He gestured to the nearest bookshelf with its collection of extreme art book
s and true-crime studies.

  Morgan blinked. ‘Truth is found in the night, more often than in daylight.’

  Was she quoting something? He thought for a moment about answering back but he knew that her doctrine was firmly entrenched.

  ‘I want to talk about Brendan Clarke, and what you found in his house.’

  ‘Do you think I killed him?’

  ‘I’m not sure, to be honest.’

  She nodded. A mist of talcum powder rose from her fiercely dyed red-and-black hair.

  ‘I am sure,’ she answered. ‘Because he was dead when I got there.’

  Well then, here was Miss X.

  Hobbes took a seat. The serial killer whispered from his clock face. Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick. Nine o’clock was a few minutes away. Morgan settled back into the shadows and began her story without any prompting.

  ‘I stayed at a friend’s place in London after the gig. But I couldn’t sleep. I kept having these terrible thoughts. So I got up very early and took the tube over to Brendan’s house. I wanted to talk to him, that’s all. I hated him for what he’d done at the gig, taking on the spirit of King Lost like that. It’s not fair. It shouldn’t be allowed.’

  ‘But you’re wearing the mask yourself.’

  ‘That’s different.’ She spoke with utter commitment. ‘I wear it with love, with true understanding.’

  Hobbes knew that the further she sank into her own world view, her own mindset, the more easily she would speak.

  ‘How did you know where Brendan lived?’

  ‘His address is printed in his fanzine. It was simple.’ She paused, one hand coming up to worry at a long strand of hair. Then her voice hardened. ‘I wanted to teach him a lesson.’ Her expression widened, allowing the whites of her eyes to be fully seen. The face paint cracked. ‘Not to kill him. But to teach him the proper ways of belief.’

  Hobbes felt the truth of what she was saying. She could no more escape her calling than a Catholic priest could give up his creed.

  ‘I rang the bell, but there was no answer.’

  ‘So you broke in? That’s it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No? How then …’