by Jeff Noon
Hobbes came upright. Fairfax was staring at him.
‘Where have you been?’
‘A friend’s house.’
Hobbes held his anger at bay. ‘I needed you here.’
‘Sir, it won’t happen again.’
There wasn’t a trace of irony in Fairfax’s voice, and Hobbes nodded in response. He noted that the detective constable had got himself cleaned up and shaved since the last time he’d seen him, in Lockhart’s car.
‘What’s she said?’
‘Nothing. She was attacked, knocked out. That’s all we know.’
‘Description of the killer? Anything?’
Hobbes shook his head.
‘But she knows something?’
‘She does.’
Fairfax made a clicking noise with his tongue. ‘About earlier … about the strip joint, and Superintendent Lockhart, and all that …’
Hobbes studied the younger man’s face. ‘I’ve made progress,’ he said.
‘On the Jenkes case? Really?’
‘Yes, I found some evidence, photographs. Sex-related.’
‘Evidence of blackmail? So I was right?’
Hobbes nodded. ‘Charlie was putting the screws on someone. Another copper, I think.’
‘Someone from Charing Cross?’
‘Looks that way.’
‘Tell me, who is it?’
Hobbes thought of Lockhart’s advice, to bring Fairfax on board. But it still seemed a step too far.
‘Look, Tommy, we’ll get to this in a day or so. There are more urgent matters at hand.’
‘Of course.’
Latimer came in. ‘It’s hopeless, guv. I can’t get anything out of her.’
Fairfax tapped on the glass with his fingertips. ‘Do you want me to have a go?’
‘Not yet.’
Hobbes left the room without another word and walked downstairs to the canteen. No kitchen staff were working at this time of night, so he bought a black coffee and a Mars bar from the vending machine and sat down at a table. He thought about the latest events. About a woman he was sure he’d seen somewhere else, and quite recently.
The thin, aquiline nose. The long dark hair. Those perfectly round eyes, almost like coins: imagine them without the make-up …
It was no good, the thoughts slipped away.
The canteen was quiet. One other table was occupied, two constables talking quietly. They left him alone, and he was glad of that. The coffee did its best to fight against his tiredness. He’d brought his copy of the New Musical Express with him and he opened it now.
The journalist started off by placing Johnny Valentine’s life and work in context, how he used to be a close friend and bandmate of Lucas Bell, how important they both were in the early days of glam rock. ‘But I tell you this: Lucas was the best of us.’ Here the journalist described Valentine pausing to drink from a whisky bottle before reminiscing: ‘You could see the dreaming take hold in his eye. Lucas was gazing ahead, far off down the road.’
And then Hobbes saw the word Eden mentioned.
The writer was asking about the rock and roll dream, whether such a thing had ever really existed, and if so, how it had changed over the last decade or so, and Valentine answered, ‘We’re building a mansion. But they keep tearing it down. And the only dream left to us is chasing the dollar. Lucas said to me once, “We’ve been kicked out of Eden.” And that’s the feeling I’m talking about. Exactly that.’ The writer asked what he meant by the word Eden. ‘Paradise. It was a story he told me once, a secret story.’ The writer tried to prise this secret out of him, but Valentine went off on one of his habitual tangents, and said, ‘It’s no bloody wonder we’re all going crazy, cold and alone out here in the night. We’re all destroying our masks. Even now. Now more than ever. It’s just that Lucas got there first. The poor guy.’
Hobbes reread the passage. ‘It was a story he told me once, a secret story.’ And that one particular phrase: Lucas said to me once, ‘We’ve been kicked out of Eden.’ Which meant that Johnny Valentine had possessed knowledge, at least partially. He’d known something about Edenville.
Latimer joined him at the table. She said, ‘Fairfax went in anyway, and had a go at Hauser.’
‘How’s he doing?’
‘Shouting at her, red in the face.’
‘Little good that will do.’
‘I’m worried about Tommy, actually.’
‘Oh yes. Why’s that?’
‘Well …’ She sipped from a can of fizzy orange. ‘Maybe he’s fallen in with a bad lot. Or else …’
‘Yes?’
‘He’s working another case, in secret.’
Hobbes kept his face straight. ‘Any idea what it is?’
She looked at him, and grinned. ‘No. But maybe you do?’
‘Me?’
‘Yourself. The man in charge.’
‘Sorry, Meg, can’t help you there.’
‘You’re a terrible liar, guv.’ She pulled the magazine towards her. ‘Silly fool.’
‘Me?’
‘No, this guy. Valentine.’ She pointed to the cover. ‘You reckon it’s all about destroying the mask?’
‘Yes, that’s it, I’m sure. It’s the connecting point, the one thing all three of the victims did: Bell, Clarke and Valentine, they all cut or pretended to cut the mask, in full public view. Either on stage, or in the press. They caused blood to run down the mask, fake or otherwise. It’s a symbolic act.’
Latimer nodded. ‘I’ve read the article. It looked to me like Valentine knew something about Edenville?’
‘This is about more than killing off potential witnesses. It’s about ritual. And this has been true from the very start, going back to the Minerva Club in the sixties. And I believe that’s why the first two murders are so different; Bell’s was made to look like a suicide, out of desperation, probably, but the intervening years have given the ritual more power. It’s now an act of faith. So there was no attempt to cover up Brendan Clarke’s murder: it was a statement, a public warning.’
Latimer took another sip from her can. ‘It still doesn’t tell us why, though. What’s so bad about destroying a mask?’
‘For that we need to get inside the murderer’s head.’
Hobbes drained his coffee cup and put out a cigarette he couldn’t remember lighting. He noticed three stubs in the ashtray, all of them his. Suddenly, he felt drained. It must’ve shown in his face because Latimer looked at him and said, ‘Sir, you’re tired. Let’s start again in the morning.’
He shook his head. ‘I could’ve saved Valentine. Just a few minutes too late.’
‘You can’t be sure—’
‘Meg, there can’t be any more, no more killings, there can’t be!’
The outburst forced him into action. He pushed all thoughts of sleep aside and stood up, telling Latimer to go home.
‘What about you?’
‘Another shot at Hauser. I’m going to ask her about the only man she really loved.’
‘Would that be Bell, or Clarke?’
‘Neither.’
He walked back to the interview room, taking his time on the stairs, making sure his thoughts were in order. He took over from Fairfax, who shook his head in passing. ‘It’s no good. She won’t budge.’
Hobbes sat down opposite Nikki Hauser. He placed the New Musical Express on the table, the cover image uppermost. Then he studied Nikki’s face. She looked ghastly, half dead herself. Her face was whiter than ever, highlighting the old pockmarks, and her eyes were smudged all around where the tears had done their work.
A dressing had been placed over a cut high on her left-side brow.
‘You were fond of this man, weren’t you?’ He tapped at the photograph of Valentine on the magazine’s cover. ‘Nikki?’
She gave a barely perceptible nod. ‘He was my friend. No one else offered that to me.’
‘And you loved him back. Because a friendship like that, it’s all too rare.’
She stared at him. ‘You wouldn’t understand.’
Hobbes nodded at this. He pushed the magazine towards her. ‘Did you know that Mr Valentine planned to wound himself in this way?’
Her head shook slightly and she whispered, ‘No. It was a surprise to me.’
‘Were you at the interview?’
Her eyes flicked down. One hand reached out across the table and adjusted the paper so she could see the cover shot more clearly.
‘Johnny …’ Her voice cracked with emotion. ‘Poor, poor Johnny.’
Hobbes leaned closer. ‘Take me back, Nikki. Tell me the story. What do you know about the mask?’
The question triggered something in her, a memory, or more likely a regret, and she spoke clearly for the first time. ‘Wearing it is fine. But cutting into it, wounding it … that’s wrong. It’s a terrible thing to do.’
‘I see.’ Now he had her talking, there could be no gaps, no silences. ‘And how did you know this?’
‘Lucas told me.’
‘It was his secret?’
‘One of them, yes. He confessed to me.’
Again, Hobbes felt the need to tread carefully. ‘When did Johnny’s magazine interview take place?’
‘Thursday. Last week.’
‘Did you go along with him?’
‘No. He wanted to do it alone. Just him, the interviewer, the photographer. And then afterwards, he came round to my flat and I saw his face, I saw what he’d done to himself, and I wept. I wept. I couldn’t stop myself.’
‘What made you weep? The fact that he’d cut himself?’
‘No. I was used to Johnny slashing himself. But he usually did it out of sight, you know? The chest, the arms. But this was different. And I knew then, as soon as I saw him. I knew Johnny was going to die.’
‘What did you do? You helped him, didn’t you?’
‘I cleaned him up. I put a dressing on him. The wound wasn’t too deep. I could tell his hand had faltered.’ Her mouth crinkled at the thought of it. ‘And then I told him the truth, at least as I knew it, about the mask, and the killer. I thought Johnny would listen, and take care. But all he did was get stoned. So I rang the editor at the paper and I pleaded with him not to run the interview, or to miss out the bit about Johnny cutting himself, or at least not to use the photographs.’
‘He wouldn’t listen?’
‘Of course not.’ Her face creased with anger. ‘This was a great story, something nasty for the people to stare at.’
Hobbes tried to keep to the events as they happened, one by one.
‘What about your gig on Saturday, with Monsoon Monsoon? You seemed happy enough to let Brendan damage the mask—’
She exploded. ‘No!’ Her white face took on a flush of colour and her eyes narrowed to slits. ‘No, I didn’t know about that.’
‘The cutting wasn’t part of the plan?’
‘Brendan and I talked about him dressing up for the night, and doing some songs from Luke’s albums, that’s all. A celebration. In fact, when we were getting ready I tried to persuade him not to wear the mask on stage. He wouldn’t listen. So I told him not to do anything silly, I made him promise.’ She paused to wipe at her face. ‘I was as shocked as everyone else there that night, when he pulled out the knife.’
Her whole body suddenly trembled with remembered pain.
‘You drove him home, after the gig?’
‘I tried to make him stay with me, to come round to my place. But he was too angry at me still. And also …’
Hobbes completed the thought for her: ‘He’d just met Simone Paige?’
‘He had. He was so pleased with himself. But I did try to warn him. I really did.’
She looked away.
Hobbes considered for a moment, then he said, ‘Johnny Valentine must’ve been angry, I imagine, when he found out about Brendan Clarke’s antics on stage. Because the magazine wouldn’t come out until after the gig, so he’d seem like a copycat.’
‘No. Johnny didn’t give a shit. He’d gone one better, hadn’t he? He’d sliced the face open. For real.’ She sneered. ‘Rock and roll, live or die.’
‘So now you had two men in danger. Two men you loved.’
Her head bowed down and she started to murmur. ‘Why? Why, why, why?’ That was her only question, directed entirely to herself. And she answered it almost immediately, saying, ‘I was drawn to them. As they were drawn to me.’
Hobbes gave her a moment. Then he asked, ‘So after Brendan was killed, you must’ve been scared for Johnny?’
‘I was! Like I said, I pleaded with the editor to ditch the interview.’
‘And then at Witch Haven …’
‘I only went because Johnny was so determined to go. I had to keep him safe. He wanted to walk around with the scar on full view, but I made him put a sticking plaster over it.’
‘Wasn’t he afraid by then? After Brendan’s death, I mean?’
Hauser grabbed the edge of the table. ‘He didn’t care. Johnny didn’t care at all.’
‘Nikki, tell me about today. Can you do that?’
She nodded. Her eyes blinked in the light from overhead.
‘When I saw the cover on a news stand, I went round to Johnny’s place straight away. But he wasn’t in. Or he wasn’t answering the door, I don’t know. We’d had a bit … a bit of an argument, after Witch Haven.’
‘Go on …’
‘I kept ringing him all through the day, whenever I could. Still no answer.’
‘And then you went round again?’
‘He rang me in the end. He said, Nikki, I’m in trouble, I need your help. That was all.’
‘He didn’t say what the trouble was?’
‘No. So I rushed round there. And this time he let me in.’
‘He was alone?’
‘Yes. In a terrible state. And he was scared now. He knew by then that he’d done a bad thing. And yet at the same time he was excited.’
‘Why excited?’
‘After Brendan was killed, Johnny realized that I was telling the truth about the King Lost mask. And he was actually looking forward to the magazine being published. He wanted to draw the killer towards him.’
‘You’re saying …’
‘Johnny wanted to die. Well, a part of him did, anyway. I’m sure of it. He wanted to die as Lucas died. By the same person’s hands.’
‘Why would he want that?’
‘He wanted to burn out.’ Her voice rose. ‘He wanted to follow Lucas into paradise, where only the true rock and rollers live, where they live on forever!’
Her eyes were overcome with passion as she spoke.
Hobbes urged her on. ‘Nikki, keep going.’
She wiped at her eyes and said, ‘There was a knock at the door. It was about ten, I think. I begged Johnny not to open it, but nothing would stop him, not now.’
‘It was her? The murderer?’
Hauser nodded.
‘Did you recognize her?’
‘No.’
‘You’re sure?’
She moved back in her chair. ‘Look, it all happened in a split second. All I remember is someone rushing towards me, and hitting me.’ She saw the doubt on Hobbes’s face. ‘I’m telling you, I’ve never seen her before in my life.’
Hobbes felt his heart sink. But he pressed on, regardless.
‘How did she attack you?’
‘I don’t know. She had something in her hand.’
‘A knife?’
‘No, I don’t think so. She pushed me back against the wall. I banged my head. She was vicious. Mad-looking. You know, crazy-eyed. And then she hit me, again and again.’ Nikki touched at the wound on her left temple and muttered, ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘You don’t have to apologize.’
‘No, no, that’s what she said to me: I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’
Her head dipped again, hiding her face.
Hobbes thought about this apology. Nikki Hauser was just somebody in the way. She wasn’
t a victim, and couldn’t be a victim, because she hadn’t taken any action that had led to the mask being damaged.
Hobbes spoke gently: ‘Nikki. Look at me, please.’
It took her a while, but then she looked up. Hobbes spoke slowly, broaching the most important subject yet.
‘How did you know that cutting the mask led to the person being killed?’
He could see immediately that he’d caused a problem for her.
‘Nikki, if you know anything, you have to tell me.’
A fierce tremble ran through her. ‘It’s meant to be a secret.’
‘I know that. But think of Johnny. Think of Johnny being stabbed like that. Think about the way he loved you.’
Nikki Hauser’s response to this shocked Hobbes. Her gaze locked on a far distant point and she started to intone:
‘I have one task only. I will protect the face and form of King Lost. His beauty shineth forth, as always.’ Her hands rose up from the table and she took on the voice of a preacher. ‘I will break asunder all those who harm his majesty. I will preserve his spirit from all future hurt, impairment and injury. I will exult him!’ And as suddenly as it came, the fever left her voice and she looked down once more. Her hands lowered to the tabletop, the fingers shaking with nerves.
Hobbes could not speak. He stared at her for a good long while.
‘Nikki. Do you understand what you just said?’
She nodded.
‘You were quoting something, a text of some kind?’
‘It is the credo,’ she answered. ‘As written by Lady Minerva.’
‘Lucas Bell told you this?’
She nodded. ‘It was towards the end, a few weeks before he died. We were lying in bed together. The night before the Rainbow concert, his final gig.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He confessed to a murder. The murder of a boy, a teenager.’
‘Do you know the boy’s name? Nikki, did Lucas tell you the boy’s name?’
She nodded.
‘And?’
‘It was King Lost. They killed him. All of them, all five of them. They murdered King Lost.’
Hobbes’s mind raced. The strands were floating around, waiting for the final knot that would tie the web into shape.
‘I’m afraid I don’t understand what you’re saying.’
Nikki looked at him. Her eyes were fierce with knowledge, and she spoke quickly, from the depths of a memory long fixed in place: ‘Edenville was built from the mind of King Lost. He was the originator of the idea. First he created the mask, to hide his face from the world. That wasn’t enough. He needed more. So he created the imagined village. It’s where he lost himself, where he went to hide. Lady Minerva and the others followed him there, and built an entire city around themselves. But it was his place of protection. The others were merely followers.’
