by Jeff Noon
‘I followed the instructions on the piece of paper.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘It was stuck to the front door with a drawing pin. It was addressed to Simone Paige. Actually it just said Simone.’
‘You read this note?’
‘Of course. I pulled it loose from the pin, unfolded it. It read, I’m in the back garden. So I walked down the side alley, into the garden. Brendan wasn’t there. But the kitchen door was ajar. I saw it straight away. So I went inside. I thought it was a sign, that the house wanted me to enter.’
Hobbes’s mind reeled. He couldn’t put it together. Why was the door open like that? Who left the note?
‘Do you have this note?’ he asked.
‘No, I threw it away.’
‘And what did you plan to do, once inside?’
‘If Brendan was in, confront him. If he was out, leave a message for him, something he would never forget.’
‘Such as?’
Now she looked at Hobbes directly, and he saw in her gaze an emotion capable of causing great pain, if it wanted to. ‘I was going to shit on his floor. I would tear his clothes to shreds, scratch his albums. Pour treacle and baked beans on the carpet or chairs. Whatever I could.’
Hobbes had the feeling he was watching a piece of theatre, a drama many years in the making.
‘But then I heard the music from upstairs, so I knew he was in.’
‘And you found him dead?’
She breathed deeply, and her face settled back into that of a teenage girl, with traces of innocence still evident.
‘Yes. Dead.’ Her voice a whisper now. ‘Just lying there in the pale light.’
‘Was the face covered?’
‘No. He was on view.’ A tremble ran all the way through her. ‘Poor, poor Brendan. All cut up like that.’ A hint of a smile grew around her lips. ‘Now, at last, the mask was applied properly.’
‘Is that what you think the murderer was doing, Morgan?’
‘I believe so.’
A moment of silence went by. Then Hobbes asked, ‘And why was he killed?’
‘Because he wore the mask in vain.’
She laughed, loudly enough for Mrs Yorke to appear at the door and ask, ‘Is there anything you need?’
Morgan smiled at her. ‘No, we’re fine here, thank you, Mother.’
Mrs Yorke nodded. ‘Are you telling him the truth?’
‘I am. The whole truth.’
The mother turned to the inspector. ‘She’s done nothing wrong, you do know that, Inspector? Nothing serious.’
Hobbes didn’t bother replying. Instead he asked, ‘What did you do next, Morgan?’
‘I covered the face with the sheet.’
‘Why?’
‘Isn’t that what you do with dead bodies? Did I do wrong?’
He didn’t answer.
‘Then I went downstairs. I sat around for a while, thinking.’
‘About?’
‘About whether to call the police, or not.’
‘You decided not to?’
‘How could I? They would think I was the killer. Isn’t that obvious? And also …’
‘Yes?’
‘I wanted to let him rot a while longer.’
Hobbes gathered his thoughts. The more this case progressed, the stranger the people became. He was aware that a number of women were clustered around the ghost of Lucas Bell, and by extension around Brendan Clarke. Not least the woman seen in the car on the night Lucas died, whoever she might be. These were the protective guardians of the pop star’s eternal spirit, and Hobbes was cast as the infiltrator of the circle. But did this mean the murderer was female, too?
‘What happened then, Morgan?’
‘I was suddenly scared. I left the house. I went out through the back door.’
‘You left it open?’
‘Probably. I wasn’t thinking straight. And then that stupid next-door-neighbour woman saw me, and I panicked. I just ran, and kept on running.’
Hobbes leaned forward in the chair. ‘Did you take anything from the bedroom?’
Morgan nodded over towards a nearby shelf, and it took him a moment to spot the Lucas Bell figurine among all the other objects cluttered there. It was a similar height and style to the one he’d seen in Simone’s house, again wearing the King Lost mask.
‘Why did you steal it?’
‘I didn’t steal it. I took it back. I made it, it’s mine. Brendan Clarke only bought it off me, mail order, and he no longer deserved it.’
‘Morgan, did you take anything else from the house, any papers, lyric sheets, anything like that?’
She didn’t reply. Her eyes blinked. The left one, with its circle of fake blood, twitched slightly, perhaps from irritation.
‘If there’s anything at all, please tell me.’
She started to shiver. Hobbes wondered if she was all right, if she was in charge of her feelings, her thoughts. Her mother fidgeted in the background, obviously scared for her daughter’s well-being. But then Morgan brought herself into a sudden focus.
‘I would like to keep it.’
‘That might be possible. I don’t know. It all depends on what it is.’
She sighed deeply and a terrible sadness crossed her face. He moved closer still, giving her no room to breathe, no time to consider.
‘Do I need to search your room?’
The girl’s head shook frantically. Her mother hovered near, saying, ‘Darling, please do as the officer asks.’
At this, Morgan reached to a nearby shelf and picked up a white envelope. ‘This. It was lying on the bed, near Brendan’s hand.’
Before he did anything else, Hobbes asked Mrs Yorke to fetch him a clean plastic bag from the kitchen. Then he took the envelope from the girl’s hand, holding it by the edges only. There was a single tiny smear of blood visible. By now, he wasn’t too surprised to see the name of the addressee: Simone Paige. He turned the envelope over; the seal had been ripped open.
‘You opened it?’ Morgan nodded. Carefully, he took out the letter from inside. ‘And read it?’
‘What else could I do? It was such a precious object.’
Hobbes scanned the letter quickly – it was only one line long, written in capitals – and immediately he knew that Clarke had not written it. This was a message from the killer.
He said to Morgan, ‘The note is signed. Does the name mean anything to you?’
‘No. Nothing.’
He took her on trust; he had no alternative.
‘Morgan, is your father around?’
She answered simply. ‘I’ve never seen my father, not ever.’
Hobbes had suspected as much; there was something about this house, as though the entire place was sealed in a plastic bubble in order to keep the world at bay.
Mrs Yorke came back into the room carrying a clear plastic food bag. Hobbes took this and wrapped the letter and envelope in it.
She said, ‘Haven’t you upset my daughter enough, Inspector?’
Hobbes nodded. Indeed, he wondered how much more he could get out of this strange, lonely teenage girl, but decided it might be worth asking one last question, given her obsession and knowledge of Lucas Bell.
‘Morgan, can you tell me how to get to Edenville?’
A thoughtful expression settled on the girl’s painted features. ‘Nobody knows.’
‘But you’ve heard of it?’
A quick nod. ‘Lucas mentioned it once, and only once, in a radio interview. It was early on, before he was famous.’
‘What did he say?’
‘I can remember exactly.’ Her eyes gazed into the distance. ‘All my songs come from the same place …’ The young woman had changed her voice for the quotation, giving herself a slightly deeper tone. Her face tightened with concentration as she tried to recall the rest of the words.
Her mother nodded. ‘Morgan has a mind of silver. She can bring anything to mind about Lucas Bell, no matter how tiny or how far away.’<
br />
She looked on with love as her daughter started again on her task.
‘All my songs come from the same place. Let’s call it Edenville.’ Morgan stopped again, and said in her own voice, ‘And then the interviewer asks, “Where is Edenville?” And Lucas replies, Nobody knows. Not any more, they’ve closed the gate. That’s it, I’m afraid. They moved on to other stuff.’
‘You have this recorded?’
‘No. But I heard it. In my bed, with my transistor radio under the sheets. It was the first time I’d heard his speaking voice. I was seven years old.’ Morgan’s eyes kept their brightness as she recalled the moment, and she smiled.
Hobbes thanked her. ‘That was very useful.’ And then he asked, ‘Do you have any idea who killed Brendan Clarke?’
The girl answered in a grim voice: ‘I do. I know for sure who killed him.’
The room was quiet, the clock seemingly suspended between ticks. Morgan’s words barely disturbed the air. ‘King Lost did it.’
Mrs Yorke gasped, hearing this. ‘Please, child, don’t go on now. We’ve spoken about this so many times!’
Morgan ignored her mother’s wishes. ‘King Lost came back. He is a vengeful ghost.’ The girl’s eyes glinted. ‘He’s haunting us. He always has done, and he always will.’
Hobbes remembered Neville Briggs saying something similar, about slow motion ghosts. Why were people so taken by this dead singer and his fictional persona? He was about to tell the young woman off when Mrs Yorke spoke again, her voice filled with pleading: ‘Please don’t say such things. You’re upsetting me.’ But the girl would not stop. Her voice rose in pitch to a near scream and then dropped down low.
‘We are the haunted ones.’
Her mother came to her. She knelt at her daughter’s feet, her thin legs curled under her. ‘Oh, darling. Darling.’ Instead of a mother, she looked like a maidservant paying homage at the throne of her dark queen.
Hobbes left them there.
Morgan’s masked face stared ahead, the paint smeared across it.
Fair Harbour
Out of curiosity Hobbes followed a group of fans who were walking through the streets. Other people joined with them along the way, either alone or in groups. They moved with a single purpose. And then he saw why: they were all heading for a fish and chip restaurant called Duffy’s, the name written out in gold neon, its glass-fronted interior brightly lit. In almost every way it was a perfectly average seaside restaurant, but tonight the owner was doing a roaring trade; a long line of people were queueing to be served and many others were gathered outside, about forty or fifty of them. They were all Lucas Bell devotees.
Hobbes watched the proceedings. One after another the fans stood before the cafe’s window, all in identical poses, as friends took photographs of them. Their faces all held the same expression: wistful, infinitely sad, or at least their own approximation of the famous rock star’s look. And then one young man took his place dressed in the full King Lost mask and adopted the exact pose that Lucas Bell held on the cover of the album, bare chest and all. When his hand came up to hold the Fool’s card of the tarot in its appropriate position, the illusion was complete: here was the iconic record sleeve brought to life.
An older and rather shabby-looking photographer, obviously not a fan, was also taking pictures. Hobbes went up to him. ‘Does this happen a lot?’ he asked.
‘A trickle all year round, and then it’s like this every Lucas Bell day.’ He spoke the phrase as though naming an official holiday.
Hobbes had to admit: ‘It’s incredible.’
‘Isn’t it just?’
The man had lived a life: it showed in his bloodshot eyes, in the slack folds of skin on his face. Hobbes had seen the type enough times: down-at-heel reporters, always hungry for a big story that never arrives. Small-town dreams.
A startled look took over the photographer’s face. ‘Oh my sweet Lord.’
‘What is it?’
‘Now this is more like it!’
He started to move, camera at the ready. Hobbes followed his path and saw the reason for his interest. A woman was standing at the far edge of the throng, her face set in a scowl as though she might well strangle someone. Even with her collar pulled up and the brim of her black floppy hat tilted down over her eyes, Hobbes recognized her.
It was Simone Paige. The photographer moved towards her. Hobbes grabbed his arm and pulled him to a stop.
‘Hey. Let me go!’
‘We don’t need any trouble.’
The photographer explained: ‘If the fans see her, they’ll attack. I’ve seen it happen before.’
‘Exactly.’
‘And I need to get it on film.’
He tried to pull away. Hobbes held on tight. ‘No you don’t!’
‘What’s it to you?’
‘I’m a police officer.’
But the photographer ignored this threat. Instead, he shouted out so that all could hear, ‘Simone! Simone Paige! Over here!’
She turned in his direction. Others turned as well. The photographer took a quick shot of her, his flashbulb burning the night air.
‘There she is,’ he cried. ‘It’s her! It’s Simone!’
Now the fans had seen her. A terrible noise rose from them, a loud chittering sound. Hobbes likened it to the noise a swarm of locusts might make.
Two of the more robust devotees walked towards Simone. But she stood her ground, she didn’t back away. Hobbes thought she was brazening it out, or even worse, goading them. She removed her hat and threw it to the pavement. Her features were fully exposed under a street lamp’s glare. Now some of the female fans approached. They hissed at her.
The photographer snapped away, capturing the whole scene.
Hobbes moved quickly. He put himself between Simone and the fans and shouted, ‘Stay back. Police!’
The two closest lads glowered at him, their mascaraed eyes alive with aggression. An older female fan stood behind them, her face if anything filled with even more hatred. She pushed the younger lads forward, like a general urging her troops into battle.
Hobbes used his most authoritative voice. ‘No more! Leave her alone!’
The fans stopped where they were.
‘Go on. Back off! Or else I’ll start making arrests.’
Hobbes felt his heart pounding in his chest, but he held his position. And then the fans started to relax; they bowed their heads and shuffled away. He turned to find the reason for their sudden compliance.
Simone had vanished.
Immediately he set off after her, rushing to the end of an alleyway, on to a dimly lit street. A figure was moving away in the distance.
The shadows took her as their own.
He hurried along, and then saw her again, standing perfectly still under an archway. Was she waiting for him?
He followed as she set off once more, from street to street. At one point he thought he could hear footsteps behind him, and he stopped and turned to look.
But the street appeared empty.
Hobbes moved on again. Simone seemed to know this part of town well. She led him around corners, past closed-down shops, through a marketplace, its stalls all covered over with plastic sheets for the night. He could never quite catch her. Until eventually they emerged on to a quiet, well-lit street. Simone was standing at the gate of a house. And this time, when Hobbes marched up to her, she remained where she was.
‘What the hell were you doing back there?’
She shrugged. ‘Don’t you ever want to walk into the fire, just to get it over with?’
He didn’t answer her.
‘I’ll take your silence as a yes, shall I?’
‘As you like.’
He noticed a few soggy flowers and greeting cards fixed to the fence of the house, and a printed notice pinned to the gate reading, No Lucas Bell fans. Thank you.
Another site of devotion.
Simone said, ‘They have to put that up every year. They don’t like being
bothered.’
Hobbes looked at the house: the pebble-dashed front, flowery curtains, plaster gnomes in the garden. The windows were all dark.
Hobbes made a guess. ‘Is this Lucas Bell’s family home?’
She smiled. ‘This is the place. He was born here, and spent all of his youth here.’
There was a pokerwork sign fixed to the house front, illuminated by its own lamp: Fair Harbour.
‘What is it, a boarding house?’ he asked.
‘It used to be. But it’s just a family home now.’ She smiled. ‘Can you imagine, a boy like Lucas, growing up in such a place.’ She smiled. ‘He told me a little about his early life. He had to help out during the holiday season, with new people staying here every week. Kids running amok. And never mind the sleazy unmarried couples. He hated it.’
‘Do his parents still live here?’
‘No. They divorced shortly after Lucas set off for London as a young man. And I think his dad died a few years ago. There’s another couple living here now. And I imagine they’re sick and tired of the fans knocking on the door. Hence the notice. And the reason why they’re out for the night. Very wise.’
‘Why did you lead me here?’ Hobbes asked.
‘I was walking along, you followed.’
‘Simone?’
‘Oh, I always come here. It’s the wellspring.’ Her face took on a pensive expression as she thought back in time. ‘Lucas first brought me here just before the King Lost cover shoot. We went to the fish and chip shop first, took some practice shots. Neville Briggs was the photographer. There was a small entourage: me, Toby Lear, a make-up artist, and I seem to remember that Johnny Valentine was there. He was a friend of Luke’s. Oh, and that publicist woman, what was she called? Laura something. Laura Townes. Christ, but that woman hated me. I think she had her eye on Lucas.’ Simone frowned. ‘I’m trying to remember. Yes, Lucas drew me aside from all the bloody fuss, as he called it, and we slipped away. He brought me here and we stood outside, just like we are now, and he told me more about his life than he’d ever done before.’ She pointed to the side of the house. ‘You see the lean-to garage there?’
Hobbes nodded.
‘That’s where he practised with his very first band, the Purple Flames. This would have been the late sixties. He talked about saving up every penny of spare change to buy his first guitar, and about writing his first songs. He told me that he’d made a den for himself in the attic, and he and a few friends would sneak up there to hold secret meetings. And then …’ Her voice faltered.
