Slow Motion Ghosts

by Jeff Noon

  And then Latimer gasped in surprise.

  ‘What is it?’ Hobbes asked.

  ‘I think I have something.’ She looked at him. ‘Simone has just seen Lucas Bell playing a gig in a tiny club in London, and she talked to him afterwards. It’s all here: their first ever meeting. And then she writes a review of the gig for the Melody Maker. And a week after that she reviews his debut album.’ Latimer held up a small piece of newsprint. ‘It’s right here. Published on the second of May, 1970. It’s a great review. She absolutely loves it.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And Simone gets a letter in response. Actually, it’s hate mail.’ Latimer showed him a small envelope and a sheet of folded paper. ‘And look, a Hastings postmark.’

  Hobbes took the envelope off her and checked it for himself.

  Latimer started to read:

  ‘Dear Miss Paige, I feel that you don’t fully understand the extent of Lucas Bell’s genius. I take offence at your dismissal of his music.’

  Hobbes stopped her. ‘You said it was a good review?’

  ‘It was. But not in this person’s eyes.’

  She carried on:

  ‘How dare you write such cretinous outpourings! You have entirely missed the point of his art. Obviously, you have no understanding of the secret meanings in his lyrics. Lucas will never be yours, Miss Paige, not ever. He belongs to a few special people only. Leave him alone! I am the first true admirer and if I see you at another gig, I will make my presence known, believe me. You are a bitch of the first order.’

  Latimer stopped reading. Hobbes whistled quietly.

  ‘But here’s the best bit. The writer signs off with her name.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Lady Minerva.’

  Hobbes took the letter off Latimer and read it for himself. He said, ‘When I mentioned the name Lady Minerva to Simone, she was puzzled, and thought it might mean something. But she couldn’t remember the details.’

  The telephone rang.

  Hobbes lifted the handset: ‘Who is this?’

  A gruff but cultured male voice answered him. ‘Is Simone there?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’m a police officer. Please tell me your name.’

  ‘A police officer?’

  ‘Yes.’

  There was silence on the line, a caught breath. And then in a pained voice: ‘Does this mean it’s already happened?’

  ‘Has what already happened?’

  There was another pause before the caller spoke again.

  ‘Is Simone already dead?’

  The Closed Room

  It was a bright, warm afternoon. Hobbes walked among the gravestones, carved angels and mausoleums. Branches wove a canopy of leaves over the pathway, and the tombs and broken icons were covered in moss and lichen. Spots of sunlight dappled the ground.

  A group of young people was standing around Lucas Bell’s grave.

  He stood and watched them for a moment, and then approached the man sitting on a wooden bench nearby.

  ‘Tobias Lear?’

  ‘Please, sit down. And it’s Toby, by the way.’

  He nodded towards the mourners at the graveside, who were now singing one of Bell’s songs. ‘More or less every day people come here to make their offerings, to say their prayers. Mostly young, far too young, and a few older ones, like myself.’

  From Simone Paige’s harsh description of him, Hobbes was expecting Tobias Lear to be a brash and reckless man. But the singer’s former manager was small and dapper, dressed in a cream linen suit with a flowery blue-and-yellow necktie held in place by a gold pin. He was in his mid forties, with prematurely greying hair swept back neatly from his brow.

  ‘It saddens me greatly to hear about Simone’s demise. She was a gem, one of the best of the old-school writers. She was both skilful and provocative.’ Lear paused and then turned towards the inspector and asked, ‘She died yesterday?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Lear shook his head at this. ‘She was the first journalist to support Lucas Bell’s cause. I got to know her because of that. And then when she and Lucas fell in love, she was around all the time: tour bus, backstage, after-show parties, record launches.’

  ‘And what made you suspect that she might’ve been killed?’

  Lear gestured again to the grave. ‘Watch now, they are seeking communion.’

  Hobbes looked over. The four worshippers – two men and two women – had stopped singing. Their hands were joined together, forming a closed circle. Moments passed. A bird chirped from a nearby tree. And then the group broke apart and moved away down the path, leaving Hobbes and Lear alone on the bench.

  ‘My turn.’ Lear stood up and walked to the grave. He bent down and placed a single flower in the metal vase at the stone’s base. Hobbes joined him there. He had seen this grave before, in the publicity photograph of Monsoon Monsoon. Here was the tombstone with its message, Fear no more the heat of the sun. Lear had fallen into a reverie, and Hobbes couldn’t help but be affected by the mood. He closed his eyes and thought of his own son. Perhaps one day they would meet again, under better circumstances, and become close once more …

  A dog barked, once, twice, calling Hobbes back to the world.

  Lear said, ‘Come with me, Inspector.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘If you want to know about Simone’s fate, you will need to meet my lodger. And then all will be revealed.’ They set off walking. ‘It isn’t far.’

  They made their way out of Highgate Cemetery on to Swains Lane and then took a few more turnings until they reached Lear’s residence. He was quiet along the way and would say no more about Paige or the murder. Hobbes did ask at one point whether he’d been Lucas Bell’s manager from the very beginning, receiving the reply, ‘Just me and only me, for my sins, all the way through from good times to bad.’

  The house was an imposing but grotty-looking structure set back from the road and surrounded by overabundant trees. The paintwork was peeling on the window frames, and areas of missing plaster revealing the brickwork beneath. Hobbes wondered: the house must’ve cost a packet back in the seventies, when Lear had made his fortune, but now it was a ruined palace, its former opulence seen only in the crumbling white pillars on either side of the front door, and the old Bentley parked in the drive, one wheel missing, the axle perched on a pile of wood blocks. A map of bird shit covered the bonnet and windscreen.

  ‘You’ll have to take us as you find us, I’m afraid.’

  Hobbes followed Lear into the house.

  ‘We’re surviving on royalty cheques from the good old days. Luckily, I made sure I shared a few joint songwriting credits with some of my protégés.’

  But the interior of the house was spotless. The living room was cosy and old-fashioned, complete with leather armchairs and a grand marble fireplace. The scent of wood polish and pipe tobacco mixed with the light streaming through the French windows that gave out on to a large back garden.

  ‘A terrible business,’ Lear said. ‘About Mr Clarke and the cuts to his face.’

  Hobbes nodded. ‘How did you find out about that? I kept the details from the press.’

  ‘Neville told me. He rang me late last night.’

  ‘Neville Briggs?’

  ‘That’s right.’ Lear smiled weakly. ‘Did Simone mention me, at all?’

  ‘She did.’

  ‘In disparaging terms, I shouldn’t wonder?’

  ‘Pretty much.’

  ‘Um. That’s understandable, given the circumstances. We were all very different people back then. The world was at our feet and this gave us the freedom to do as we pleased. Or so we thought.’ He paused, and smiled thinly. ‘Only later did we realize that nothing is given for free. All payments will be collected.’

  ‘We grow up?’

  ‘Actually, I forced myself to change by sheer power of will.’

  ‘And that works?’

  ‘It
can do. And one day, after years of effort, the original impulse to do wrong dies. And we become – well, not good exactly, but certainly better than we were.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’ve seen too much evidence of human cruelty to believe that.’

  ‘Oh, surely there is always a small chance of redemption?’

  ‘I used to believe so. But these days, I’m not so certain.’

  ‘Maybe you take after your namesake, Inspector?’

  ‘You mean Thomas Hobbes, the philosopher?’

  ‘He believed that men and women are essentially evil and brutish by nature, and only the power of the Law stops us from committing acts of barbarism.’

  ‘It’s one way of looking at things.’

  Lear grinned, displaying teeth browned by years of pipe-smoking. ‘And that makes the policeman the last defender against chaos.’

  ‘Yes, it’s like that at times. But the rational mind fights back, in all of us.’

  ‘In some more than others, I think.’ Lear smiled gently at his visitor.

  Hobbes replied, ‘We can’t all embrace madness, otherwise …’

  As if activated by the statement, a bell rang loudly on the wall. Lear said, ‘Well then, duty calls.’ He exaggerated his mild Londoner’s accent into broad Cockney. ‘My burden in life, my ball and chain, my trouble and strife, always wanting something or other, there’s no end to it.’ Then he stopped and looked directly at Hobbes. ‘Inspector, you saw Mr Clarke’s face, I presume?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘And was it truly a copy of the King Lost mask?’

  ‘Yes, as far as we know.’

  ‘I see. It’s just as Gavin feared, then.’

  ‘Gavin?’

  ‘My lodger. Gavin Roberts. He predicted that Simone Paige was in danger.’

  ‘When did he make this prediction?’

  ‘Only this morning, after I’d told him about Mr Clarke’s face. Which is why I rang Simone, to see if she was all right. To warn her. Alas …’

  ‘So your lodger has special knowledge?’

  ‘Yes, yes he does, rather. I will take you to see him now. However, the sight may be disturbing for you. Out of his loneliness, Gavin has made another world for himself.’

  ‘You mean like Edenville?’

  Lear smiled gently and nodded his head. ‘So then, you have got that far.’

  ‘How much further is there to go?’

  The bell rang again, and Lear tilted his head towards it, very like a Victorian butler responding to his master’s call. He directed Hobbes out into the hallway and together they ascended the stairway.

  Hobbes said, ‘Simone told me that you bought Lucas the gun, is that correct?’

  ‘To my eternal regret, it is. We went out to the woods and shot at trees and tin cans. I also supplied him with drugs, vetted his groupies, wiped the gunk from his mouth when he was down in the gutter, spewing up his day’s intake. He was seeking enlightenment through excess. A common pathway favoured by Romantic poets through the ages.’

  ‘And do you believe Lucas killed himself with that gun?’

  Lear stopped as they reached the landing. He thought for a moment and then said, ‘Yes and no. By which I mean, somewhere in between. If he did kill himself, then he was certainly pushed towards that outcome. And yet he could’ve so easily been dragged away from it, with a little love and understanding.’

  ‘By the same person?’

  ‘Oh yes, the person who directed him – whoever it might be – could well have saved him. I’m sure of it.’

  Lear tapped on the panelling of a closed door and, receiving no reply, unlocked the door with a key.

  ‘I met Gavin in late ’69, when I first took on Lucas as a client. He was a member of the entourage. It was very much love at first sight, for both of us, I think.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Do you? I wonder …’

  ‘Yet in the cemetery you called him your lodger?’

  ‘Ah well, we haven’t known each other in the biblical sense for a long time now. But we are still close friends, and, as you will see, Gavin needs to be looked after.’

  Hobbes thought for a moment. Then he asked, ‘Were there any other people around Lucas at the time, people he’d brought with him from Hastings?’

  ‘Maybe. I really can’t remember. There were so many hangers-on, as the years went by.’

  ‘What about Eve Dylan?’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘You don’t know the name?’

  Lear shook his head. ‘Only Gavin. He’s the only one who mattered to me. And I don’t regret a single day, despite the various difficulties.’

  He opened the door and invited Hobbes to enter. The inspector was struck immediately by a simple thought – that he was walking into Edenville, or an approximation of it. Here, in this clean, sunlit room, the imagined village had been brought to a kind of life. There were posters on the walls advertising concerts and films at different Edenville venues, alongside painted portraits of Edenville celebrities. Rows of books sat in shelving units, all with handwritten, made-up titles on the spines. One wall held finely drawn maps of different areas of the village. A vast array of smaller items covered every inch of the floor, the chairs, the tables: ticket stubs, newspaper clippings, vouchers, postage stamps, sales receipts, shopping lists, football programmes, and many more.

  Hobbes felt bewildered as he walked around, touching this object and that. Everything was either handcrafted, or hand-drawn. He moved to a large table in the corner of the room which was covered in a scale model of Edenville, each building represented either by houses and sheds meant for a train set, or constructed from cardboard and balsa wood. Tiny men, women and children stood around between the trees and shrubs in a miniature park.

  The inspector closed his eyes for a moment of peace.

  ‘It’s impressive. Don’t you think?’

  Hobbes wasn’t sure how to reply, not easily; not with the creator of this world sitting at its centre, his thin body arched over a tilted easel. Hobbes edged closer to the artist and watched as he worked at his latest piece, a watercolour sketch of a church, no doubt to be placed somewhere within the parish of Edenville.

  Gavin Roberts was ten years younger than Lear, an entirely normal-looking man with straggles of mousy hair and a pinched expression on his face. Hobbes tried to get his attention but the man’s eyes were fixed only on the point of the brush and the run of paint under the bristles.

  Lear came forward and touched his friend’s shoulder. ‘Gavin, you rang for me?’

  Only now did Gavin Roberts remove his attention from the drawing board. ‘Yes, I’ve almost run out of burnt sienna. And I won’t be able to paint the church properly without it. Do you see?’

  ‘I do, yes. And it’s very beautiful.’

  ‘But I need the paint.’

  ‘I will go to the art shop later today, if there’s time. Why don’t you make a list for me.’

  Gavin nodded eagerly and then went back to work.

  The two older men moved away slightly, in order to talk. ‘How long has he been like this?’ Hobbes found himself whispering.

  ‘It started shortly after Lucas Bell died. That was the trigger. And it’s become gradually more pronounced over the years.’

  ‘Do you have any idea what he’s trying to do here?’

  ‘Of course I do, he’s building Edenville.’

  ‘A fantasy land?’

  ‘Is it any different than writing a novel, or making a movie?’

  Hobbes didn’t reply.

  ‘Oh, I know, it’s dreadful, And some days it pains me to my core to see him like this. But then I think, well, he’s happy. Gavin is creating his own world and losing himself in it, and surely that’s enough.’

  ‘Mr Lear, how long have you known about Edenville?’

  ‘Lucas told me about it, about a year after we met. He was vague about the details, but he did explain that the place was very important to him, and to his work. In fact, he state
d plainly that, without the imaginary village, he wouldn’t be writing songs at all. He wouldn’t be singing. Of course, I was pledged to the utmost secrecy on these matters, otherwise he would have taken his talents elsewhere.’

  ‘And Gavin, I presume, was also one of the founders of Edenville.’

  Lear nodded. ‘He was indeed. Otherwise known, in the village, as Bo Dazzle. It was a nickname given to him by his mother. She used to call him her little Bobby Dazzler.’ Lear’s eyes blinked with happiness. ‘Oh, you should’ve seen Gavin, back in his glory days. He was such a beautiful young man.’

  ‘And when you first met him …’

  ‘I didn’t have a clue about Edenville, not back then. I knew that Gavin was artistic, right from the start. He drew the cover of Luke’s first single. And I knew that he’d lived in Hastings as a child, that he was friends with Lucas from way back when. But that’s all. I certainly didn’t know that he was part of this crazy, made-up world. That only became evident as I said, after Lucas died.’ Lear looked over at his friend and sighed. ‘One day he started designing a poster for a group, a group I’d never heard of, the Plastic Flowers. Now I pride myself on my knowledge of obscure bands, so I asked him about this, and he replied, “They only ever play in Edenville, at the Snake Pit club.” And he continued with the drawing, picturing the members of the band in perfect detail, almost as though … well, as though they were real. And that was the beginning. The village has grown and grown since then, in his mind, and in this room.’