Slow Motion Ghosts

by Jeff Noon

  The sign of a cross.

  And a pair of eyes.

  He turned back to the shelves. Yes, there, on the cover of the New Musical Express, the top half of a face was visible on the folded front page.

  A blue cross painted on a forehead.

  He took the magazine from the rack and opened it so he could see the cover image completely. King Lost stared back at him. Another person had taken up the mask.

  The headline at the top read ‘Lucas Bell Special Issue’. And at the bottom in smaller letters: ‘Johnny Valentine: This Time It’s For Real’. And now Hobbes recognized the face partly hidden behind the painted mask. It was the washed-up singer, the friend of Nikki Hauser who had helped her escape from Witch Haven field.

  He asked the newsagent when the magazine had come in.

  ‘This morning. It’s terrible, isn’t it, that picture? Why would a person do that to themselves? I had to cover it up so as not to shock my customers.’

  ‘Yes. I can see that.’

  ‘Perhaps they think it will help them sell more copies?’

  ‘That’s probably it.’

  Hobbes stared at the image. Valentine had gone further than any other wearer of the mask, further even than Lucas Bell. The photographer had actually caught the singer in the act of cutting the mask away. Hobbes thought at first it was fake blood streaming down the face, but no, it wasn’t; it was real. As real as the cut in the skin was real. As real as the knife in the hand, and real as the blood on the blade of the knife. And he knew just from looking at the image that the person wearing the mask would become the next victim: Johnny Valentine was destined to die.

  And more than that, now Hobbes knew why the other victims had been killed.

  Lipstick Scar

  The night sergeant at Kew Road told him that most of the officers were out on a warehouse break-in. Hobbes rang Fairfax but got no answer even after twenty rings. He slammed his palm on his desk. A lone WPC looked over and then went back to her work. Hobbes rummaged through the filing cabinets and through every drawer in Fairfax’s desk but could find no address for Johnny Valentine. Again, he tried Fairfax, letting the telephone ring and ring, without answer. He rang Nikki Hauser’s number. Her flatmate answered and told him that Nikki wasn’t in, and she didn’t know where she was.

  ‘Do you need some help, sir?’

  Hobbes looked up. It was the young WPC.

  ‘You look a bit lost. Sir. If you don’t mind my saying.’

  Quickly he explained that he was looking for the address of a person connected to a murder case, something DC Fairfax was investigating.

  ‘In what connection, exactly?’

  ‘A known associate of another person, Nikki Hauser.’

  As the constable started to search, Hobbes took out his copy of the New Musical Express and turned to the double-page spread of the interview. Here the singer was pictured in the full King Lost mask before the cutting had taken place. He was smiling, enjoying himself at this stage, happy to be back in the spotlight, even if it was someone else’s spotlight he had stolen. And knowing perhaps, inside, what he would do later on, when asked the right question by the journalist. There wasn’t time to read it all now, but perhaps the self-wounding was planned from the beginning – a hidden knife, a determined plan of action? Fame beckoned. Notoriety. Or perhaps the ultimate act of spiritual bonding: Bell and Valentine, joined by a wound. Hobbes remembered the freshly healed scar he had seen on Valentine’s face at Witch Haven. This interview had already taken place by then, perhaps a few days before. He turned back to the cover image, with its terrible sight of flesh opened up, the blood coloured dark on the grey newsprint.

  Again he thought of the reason for the murders. Of course, of course! It all seemed so obvious now.

  Three deaths already. Maybe another one soon, unless he acted quickly.

  The constable found Valentine’s home address in a file dedicated to Nikki Hauser. Hobbes looked at the file and frowned. The name of the street and the district brought back bad memories.

  ‘What’s your name, Constable?’

  ‘Thornhill, sir.’

  ‘Right, you’re with me.’

  They drove east via the South Circular Road, skirting Clapham Common. Traffic was light at this time of night and they made good time. It was unsettling, to be travelling along Brixton Hill Road again, as he had done the night of the riot. Groups of youths were hanging around on the street corners, standing under street lamps, smoking, bursting into laughter. Loud blasts of music could be heard, the heavy treading beat of dub reggae.

  ‘It’s scary round here, sir.’

  ‘Keep looking at the map, Thornhill.’

  She had the A–Z of London open on her lap. ‘Someone told me you were in the riot, is that true?’ Her voice was a mixture of fascination and fear. ‘What was that like? Were you scared? Did you smash any heads in?’ The words tumbled out. ‘Will we be crossing over the frontline?’

  ‘You think it’s a war zone?’

  ‘What else can it be?’

  ‘People live here—’

  She didn’t let him finish. ‘I heard that officers hate patrolling the Railton Road area. That’s where the black gangs rule the streets.’

  Hobbes sighed. ‘What’s your name, Constable? Your first name?’

  ‘Madeline. Everyone calls me Maddy.’

  He’d seen her around the station but had never talked to her before now. She was a person still seeking a place in the world, at least to his eyes, and he wondered about the events and emotions that had led her towards wearing the uniform.

  They took a right on to Coldharbour Lane.

  ‘They’re just people, Maddy. Sometimes they go a bit crazy, but that’s what people do, black or white. And sometimes the world gets too much and we go crazier than ever, and then we regret our actions, and we try to make good.’

  Actually, they could be anywhere, anywhere in the city as night cloaked the streets and the lights showed warm behind closed curtains and men and woman grew raucous and giddy outside the pub doors. Yet he knew in his heart how close he was to shutdown, if he thought about it too much. Shakespeare Road was up ahead.

  Don’t think about it. Keep driving, just keep driving.

  Thornhill was talking non-stop. ‘My boyfriend reckons we should send them all back home, but I wouldn’t go that far, not as long as they stay within their limits—’

  ‘Will you shut the fuck up!’

  The car swerved slightly and a wheel hit the kerb. Hobbes brought the vehicle to a halt and he sat there staring ahead, in silence. He could feel the constable’s tension, her fear of him. Her hatred, perhaps.

  ‘There’s no need to shout. Sir.’

  Her voice wavered, seeking strength.

  ‘I just need …’ He turned to her. ‘I just need to get to the address that I gave to you, as quickly as possible. A man’s life is at stake.’

  She held his stare for a moment and then said, ‘It’s the second on the left.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  They set off again and found the street. Nothing more was said, not until he asked her to keep an eye out for number 59.

  ‘I can’t see it anywhere.’

  ‘I think it might be above one of those shops.’

  He parked the car and they got out and walked along the row. Every window was covered with a grille, or else boarded up completely. The riot’s aftermath. The only shop still open at this hour was an off-licence. The man behind the counter was protected by the wire mesh of a screen.

  ‘I’m looking for number fifty-nine.’

  ‘Directly above us. Entrance round the back.’

  Outside again, Hobbes looked up at the single storey above the shop. Two windows, one dark, the other dimly lit. A flickering light. Curtains half drawn.

  ‘This way, sir.’

  Thornhill had found an alleyway further along the row. They hurried down it to the rear of the buildings and clattered up the metal stairs to a walkway abo
ve. Hobbes knocked on the door. They waited.

  ‘Is this really where Johnny Valentine lives?’ Thornhill asked. ‘He’s come down in the world, that’s for sure.’

  Hobbes banged on the door, louder this time. There was still no response. He moved to the window and peered through into an unlit kitchen. Beyond that he could see a corridor and a weak light. He went back to the door and placed his ear against the wood. Silence at first. But then he pressed closer.

  ‘Can you hear that?’

  Thornhill listened as well. Their faces were inches apart on the door panel.

  ‘It’s a voice. I think,’ she said.

  ‘A woman’s voice?’

  ‘I think so, yes. She’s singing.’

  Hobbes stepped back. He raised his leg and kicked as hard as he could. The door was weak, badly made, with a single mortise lock. The wood splintered at the first attempt and the door swung inwards to bang against the inner wall.

  Thornhill gasped. He grabbed her by the shoulders. ‘Stay here.’ He stepped inside the flat.

  The singing had stopped. All was quiet.

  Three lighted candles marked the way forward, down a corridor. There was a kitchen, a bathroom and a bedroom, all in darkness, and one other door, open, leading to a small living room. A woman was lying on the floor of the corridor, just beyond the doorway. Her body was pushed up against the wall amid a pile of scattered shoes and boots.

  It was Nikki Hauser.

  Hobbes pressed his fingers against her neck, seeking life. Her skin was warm. A pulse. She stirred at his touch, and moaned. He couldn’t help thinking: why had she been singing like that, from what depths had the melody arisen? It didn’t make sense. He moved to the door of the living room and peered in, trying to take in the scene before him. No electric lights were on. But a candle stood on the window ledge, the flickering glow he had seen from outside. And more candles were placed on the floor, standing in saucers and ashtrays. They formed a half-circle around the armchair in the corner of the room.

  Here was Johnny Valentine.

  A figure slumped down, unmoving, both arms draped over the sides of the chair. He was dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt. Hobbes took a single step into the room and then stopped. He forced himself to examine the body from where he stood.

  There was blood on the side of Valentine’s neck. The exact same position as the fatal wound that had killed Brendan Clarke. The face was marred by hundreds of cuts, each one tiny, covering the entire range of skin in criss-cross patterns. The self-inflicted wound from the interview was even more prominent than before, the long scar coloured a vivid red with what looked to be lipstick, its bright colouring extending beyond the edges of the wound on to the skin itself. He’d been given a second mouth, a cruel and vicious sideways grin.

  Valentine looked like a monster in the candlelight, an evil clown who had reached a sorry end after the last show in town has closed down.

  There was a card lying on his lap, a tarot card.

  The card trembled slightly.

  Hobbes held his breath.

  The card moved again, fell to the carpet.

  Hobbes stepped closer, reached out a hand.

  The body shuddered and lurched upwards, grabbing at him.

  Valentine drew in one great lungful of air and cried out with all his passion, as though the word, the very sound of his lover’s name, might hook itself into the flesh of life and drag him backwards from the brink, from the darkness.

  ‘Nikki, Nikki!’

  Each utterance speckled Valentine’s lips with blood.

  ‘Help me.’

  Quieter now, the voice losing power, the eyes gazing upwards in the sockets. And then the body slumped once more into the chair. Hobbes shook at the full weight of the man. It did no good. Yet still he urged him to speak, to offer help.

  ‘Valentine. Don’t fall asleep.’

  There was no answer. Only blood dribbling from the corner of the mouth.

  Hobbes checked for signs.

  A faint pulse, a wing’s flutter.

  There was a cry from behind him. He let go of the body and turned. It was WPC Thornhill, standing in the doorway. Her hand was covering her mouth. He shouted at her. ‘We’ll need an ambulance and backup. Quickly!’ She turned and vanished down the corridor.

  Hobbes attended to Valentine. He checked the wound in the neck: it had stopped bleeding. The killer had slightly missed her mark this time. Hobbes pressed the side of his head against the man’s chest and listened for breath, but all he could hear was the distant echo of his own voice as he whispered, ‘Don’t worry. We’re here. We’re here now.’

  The message went unanswered.

  Valentine was dead.

  Hobbes stood up straight. The room enclosed him. Two of the candles had fallen to the floor and the smell of extinguished wax drifted through the air. He moved to the corridor and looked down at Nikki Hauser. Her eyes were now fully open and she said with laboured breath, ‘Johnny? Is he all right?’

  Hobbes bent down to her. ‘Don’t move, you’ve been injured.’

  There was blood matted in her hair.

  He had a sudden fear, that Valentine’s calling of her name at the end was actually an accusation. Perhaps Hauser was the killer?

  He couldn’t take any chances. He held her in place. Her eyes stared back at him. Her mouth moved to speak but then closed again. She looked fearful, and one of her hands came up and grabbed at his wrist for comfort, for safety. Or was it a threat?

  She whispered, ‘Listen.’

  ‘Don’t move, Nikki—’

  Her hand tightened around his wrist. ‘Listen, listen!’

  And then he heard it for himself.

  A noise. A woman’s voice, singing.

  Hobbes stood upright and looked back down the corridor, towards the kitchen.

  Nikki Hauser knelt up to a sitting position and she looked over towards the open door of the bedroom; the fear sat in her eyes like twin pools of darkness.

  Now Hobbes understood; the killer was still here.

  He moved carefully, setting his feet down without a sound. He could see Thornhill ahead, standing at the kitchen door. He held her back with a raised hand signal.

  A door on the left, open.

  He looked in. The room was pitch-black.

  Silent now.

  His hand moved, seeking a light switch. He couldn’t find it.

  And then he heard the voice again, the song. Softly, softly. That familiar melody slowed almost to a crawl. The words tender, broken by the pain of memories. Just another backstreet harlequin, lost in the Soho blues. Hobbes stared ahead, willing his eyes to see further, to become accustomed to the dark. Until at last he saw a shape in the now greying room.

  She was standing against the far wall, her arms hanging down at each side. Her hair was tousled, and shoulder-length and very dark. Her skin was painted white, with grey circles daubed around the closed eyes. There was a blemish on the chin, below the left edge of the mouth. Hobbes thought it might also be painted on. The woman’s face was motionless except for the lips, which moved to form the rest of the song. I’ve given just about all I can give, now there’s nothing left to lose. And then the eyes opened and glared at him. Madness. And sheer hatred. Hobbes stepped forward into the room. He couldn’t make out what he was seeing; the murderer’s expression puzzled him. He felt the whole case was balanced on this moment, that he needed to gather from these few passing seconds every last ounce of information. And then the killer raised a hand to show him the blood dark on her fingers and palm, a mark of pride.

  ‘Don’t move,’ he said.

  Her other hand came up as she stepped forward, and he had but a moment to glimpse the knife in her grip before she attacked.

  Hobbes bent away and he felt her rush past him, making for the open door.

  Now he was frozen, his body in shock. He cried out, ‘Thornhill!’

  A scream. Footsteps clattering.

  Hobbes moved at last.


  The corridor. Thornhill and the woman struggling together at the kitchen door.

  He reached them just as the policewoman was pushed back. The woman darted through the door.

  ‘Are you all right? Officer?’

  ‘Go on, sir. Catch her!’

  He ran out on to the walkway and looked over the balcony but could see nothing. And then a shadow moved across the yard below, vanishing down an alleyway. Hobbes made it to the stairs and rushed down. He ran to the alley. It was empty, end to end, a faulty lamp halfway down measuring his heartbeat. He ran down it anyway, and reached a junction of two roads. They were both deserted.

  A police siren called to him through the night. A lonely sound.

  Hobbes turned and walked back towards Valentine’s flat. As he did so, a single thought worried him. Somewhere beneath the paint and colour of the killer’s disguise, somewhere in her real eyes, her real features – somewhere beneath the mask was the face of a woman he had seen before.

  FRIDAY

  28 AUGUST 1981

  The Story of a Mask

  He stood at the viewing glass and looked through into the interview room. DS Latimer was sitting at the table opposite Nikki Hauser, while PC Barlow stood to attention near the door. Hauser was dabbing at her face with a handkerchief. Hobbes couldn’t help thinking back to when he’d been here looking at Simone Paige. Five days ago, that’s all. There was a madness at large, and he’d failed, failed to stem the flow of blood.

  It had been a long night and they were still working the case at past two in the morning. His head bowed until his forehead pressed against the glass. The coldness was pleasant and he felt himself drifting away.

  ‘So it’s true?’ a voice asked. ‘Hauser saw it all happen?’