Slow Motion Ghosts

by Jeff Noon

  It stretched out. No one spoke.

  Not until a terrible scream split the silence in two. Morgan Yorke stood up and lurched towards her mother. DC Palmer intercepted her, wrapping her arms around the girl’s body and holding her back. Morgan struggled and reached for her mother, straining against Palmer’s hold.

  Hobbes kept his eyes on Violet Yorke. She would not look at her daughter, not at all; her sight had returned to the room, to the present day, but only to focus on the patterned tablecloth in front of her.

  Morgan fell quiet at last and stopped her struggling. And when Hobbes nodded, and Palmer let the girl go, Morgan collapsed to the floor.

  Hobbes stood up. With Palmer’s help, he took hold of Morgan and lifted her to her feet. She was led through the doorway by Palmer, and he waited until he heard their footsteps fade before turning his attention once more to Violet Yorke.

  ‘How did Natasha Keele get involved?’

  She answered in a voice drained of feeling. ‘I walked in a daze back to Luke’s cottage. I honestly can’t remember how I managed it, but once I was there I rang Natasha from his telephone and told her I was in trouble. All I could think about was Morgan being taken away from me, because of what I’d done.’

  ‘Did you tell Natasha what had happened?’

  ‘No. Not then. Just that I’d committed a terrible act. My tone must’ve given me away. She drove straight out there to help me. Apparently, she found me huddled in a corner of the room, crying to myself. I told her what had happened, and she took immediate charge of the situation; she was always very good like that. She gathered some things from the house. I remember she tore a sheet of paper in two, I couldn’t think why. I couldn’t imagine what she was planning. But together we drove back to Witch Haven, and I was glad that someone else was now in charge. I remember being scared that we might meet someone on the way, but it was even quieter than before, and darker. The moon had clouded over.’

  ‘What happened when you got there?’

  ‘We walked down to the parked car. Natasha had brought a torch with her and I could see that she was excited by what she saw, the state of Lucas, his wounds, the blood. Her eyes were wild. She smiled, and it was horrible to look at, but I was grateful for her help. I watched as she placed a slip of paper in the glove compartment. And she had a tarot card with her – she must’ve picked this up from the cottage. She lodged it on the dashboard, in front of Luke’s body, and she made some comment about it, but I’m afraid I can’t remember what she said.’

  ‘That’s fine, Violet. Just carry on.’

  ‘And then we walked back to her car and we drove down the hill towards Hastings. It must’ve been two o’clock, by then. There was music playing on the radio. I was suddenly tired, but when I looked over at Natasha, I could see the excitement still in her eyes. I had done her a service by killing Lucas, or helping him to kill himself. Whichever it was.’

  Violet Yorke looked at Hobbes as she finished her story.

  ‘In her mind, I had punished Lucas for the crime of destroying King Lost. And now I know that I set Natasha on a course that night, a course that led her to kill again, and again. I must take some blame for those further actions. I have to …’

  She could say no more, and her head bowed down.

  DC Palmer came back into the room. Hobbes left her with Violet Yorke and walked back out on to the street. Many of the spectators had returned to their homes. He saw Latimer chatting to a uniformed officer and he walked over towards her. As he did so, he reflected on the fantasy village called Edenville and the six people who had lived there, over fifteen years ago. Each name now had a face, each face a name.

  Latimer saw him, and smiled.

  Hobbes touched at the dressing on his face and thought of the wound he had received. He stopped where he was, halfway across the road. The shock was setting in and he started to shiver as a sudden cold ran through him.

  He couldn’t move, not one step.

  Edenville

  Bo Dazzle – Gavin Roberts

  King Lost – Edward Keele

  Lady Minerva – Eve Dylan

  Luna Bloom – Lucas Bell

  Miss Caliban – Natasha Keele

  Mood Indigo – Violet Yorke

  MONDAY

  31 AUGUST 1981

  The Call-Out

  Hobbes struggled to pull the plastic bag from his face, but the more he tried, the closer it clung to him, to his skin and his mouth, and he woke up gasping for breath and wondering what the noise was, the noise that still rang in his ears, piercing the gloom.

  He groaned aloud and sat up in the bed.

  The doorbell continued to sound.

  He bent down to slip the loop of string from around his ankle and cursed as he did so: the dull throb in his head suddenly spiked into a sharp red-hot pain. Well, at least he hadn’t been sleepwalking; perhaps he was free of all that, at last.

  He stumbled into the hallway and called out, ‘Yes, who is it?’

  ‘It’s PC Barlow, sir.’

  ‘Barlow?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Hobbes opened the door. The constable stared at him. Hobbes blinked a few times and then pulled his pyjamas tighter around himself.

  ‘What the hell do you want?’

  ‘You’re needed, sir.’

  For a moment, Hobbes could make no sense of what was being said.

  ‘What time is it?’ he asked, rubbing at his eyes.

  ‘It’s almost five.’

  ‘Five o’clock! Jesus.’

  ‘We’ve been calling you, but we couldn’t get through.’

  ‘I took the phone off the hook.’

  ‘Right. Shall I wait while you get ready, sir?’

  ‘What’s the problem?’ An awful thought struck him. ‘It’s not Martin, is it? My son?’

  ‘It’s Fairfax.’

  ‘Fairfax? He’s not …’

  ‘I don’t know what the trouble is, sir.’

  ‘OK. Give me a minute.’

  Hobbes went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. Then he dragged on the first clothes he could find and hurried outside. Barlow was at the wheel of an unmarked car. Hobbes got in the passenger seat and saw DS Latimer sitting in the back.

  ‘Guv.’

  ‘What’s going on, Meg?’

  ‘Tommy rang the station. He sounded desperate.’

  ‘He’s been attacked?’

  Worry took over her face. ‘I don’t know. He asked for you, specifically.’

  They set off. Hobbes probed around his mouth with his tongue and wished that he’d taken the time to clean his teeth. He felt terrible. He’d been in bed for most of the weekend, nursing his wounds and running a careful finger over the stitches in his cheek. And having the strangest dreams.

  He realized that they weren’t heading for the station. ‘Where are we going, Barlow?’

  ‘Putney, sir. DC Fairfax gave us the address.’

  Nobody seemed to want to talk, which suited Hobbes. He settled back into the seat and watched as the early morning streets of South London passed by. Some people were already up and about: taxi drivers, bakers, market traders, a street-cleaning vehicle.

  Latimer tapped him on the shoulder.

  ‘We’re almost there.’

  ‘Right.’

  Barlow was steering the car down a side street. The area looked run-down: a place you ended up in, rather than aspired to.

  ‘This is it,’ Barlow said as he brought the car to a halt. ‘Number seventeen.’

  Latimer looked out through the window. ‘Looks like a boarding house, or a hostel.’

  It did, and a grotty one at that.

  Barlow stayed in the car. Hobbes and Latimer got out and walked up to the front door of the building. It was opened immediately by the night manager, a middle-aged man who fretted about them both, saying, ‘I’m glad you’re here, I really am.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ Hobbes asked.

  ‘The visitor used the payphone
in the hall, just here. Then he went back up to the room. Do you see what he’s done to my property?’

  Latimer examined the handset. It was covered in blood.

  Hobbes looked up the stairs. ‘Which room are we talking about?’

  ‘Number nine, top floor.’

  ‘And who lives there?’

  The manager frowned. ‘A police officer. Name of Mawley.’

  Hobbes cursed.

  They climbed two flights of stairs. The place stank of damp and rot. So this was where DS Mawley had ended up after his wife had thrown him out.

  At the very top of the house, the manager pointed to a door. ‘That’s the one.’

  Hobbes tried it. It wouldn’t budge. He tapped on the panelling.

  ‘Fairfax? You in there?’

  There was no answer.

  ‘It’s Hobbes. I’ve got Latimer with me. Meg’s here.’

  Latimer stepped forward. ‘Tommy, it’s me. Come on, love. Let us in.’

  There was still no response. The manager produced a bunch of keys. He indicated the correct one to Hobbes, who used it to turn the lock. Carefully, a fraction at a time, he pushed open the door. Then he nodded at Latimer, gesturing for her to stay on the landing. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

  The room was neat and tidy, with the occupant’s few possessions set out in their proper places. A man’s shirt was drying over the back of a chair. This, a single bed, a cabinet, and a tilted wardrobe were the only pieces of furniture. A lamp had fallen to the floor.

  Detective Sergeant Leonard Mawley was sitting against the wall, his legs folded under him on the carpet and his hands attached to a radiator pipe with a pair of police-issue handcuffs. The wounds on his chest and shoulders were visible above the white vest he was wearing. There was blood all over the vest, and spots of it on the surrounding floor and walls. Mawley’s face was a pulpy mess, the nose busted and one eye puffy and forced shut. He’d probably lost some teeth, judging from the state of his jawline, but it was difficult to tell for sure because of the dirty tea towel that had been stuffed in his mouth. The one good eye tried to focus on Hobbes. Whatever portion of life remained was gathered in that blackened pupil.

  Tom Fairfax stood nearby, a tyre iron held in both hands.

  Hobbes didn’t move, not until he’d taken in the whole scene and his pulse had slowed. Then he took a step closer. Fairfax raised the weapon.

  The inspector tried to speak calmly. ‘OK. Let’s take this easy, shall we?’

  ‘Stay back, I’m warning you.’

  Hobbes raised his hands. ‘OK, Tommy. Look, I’m not moving.’

  ‘I’ll do him! I’m going to sort him out once and for all. I’ll finish the job.’

  ‘I know you will.’

  Fairfax wiped a smear of blood from his mouth. There had been some kind of scuffle, before he’d got Mawley under control. He must have been fiercely driven, to have overpowered Mawley, a bigger, more experienced man, a man with viciousness in his soul.

  Hobbes breathed steadily. He tried a different tack. ‘DC Fairfax, you called for me, isn’t that right?’ A nod in response. ‘You wanted to talk.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, here I am. Let’s have it out.’

  Fairfax turned to look at Mawley. His face held scorn. ‘I got him, the dirty fucker. I worked it all out, bit by bit.’

  ‘Aye, you did a good job. You might well get a promotion for this …’

  It was a mistake. Hobbes knew that even before the words had left his lips. The tyre iron came down with a crash on to the rickety bedside cabinet, smashing it in two. Wood splintered and an alarm clock fell to the floor. Mawley jerked back and pressed himself against the radiator. His wrists pulled at the handcuffs.

  Fairfax screamed. ‘This is about Charlie Jenkes, and who killed him. Nothing more!’

  Hobbes risked another step. ‘How did you find out? I’d like to know.’

  ‘You gave it away, Hobbes. Sir. You told me about the photos, and the blackmail, and another cop being involved.’

  ‘But how do you know it was Mawley?’

  ‘A process of elimination.’ He was proud of his work. ‘Who else could you take the pictures to, to get them developed, but someone you knew, someone away the force. I tried a few places.’

  ‘And then you went to see Neville Briggs?’

  Fairfax grinned. ‘I had it out of him, no trouble. A little pressure. He showed me the prints.’ Now his face creased into utter disgust. ‘It made me sick, just looking at them.’

  ‘Tommy, I don’t think you rang for me just to show off. There’s something more, isn’t there?’

  Fairfax shook his head vigorously. ‘It was a mistake calling you.’

  Hobbes kept his nerve. ‘I think you want me to help you. That’s why you called. So I’d stop you from going any further.’

  Fairfax made a threatening gesture with the tyre iron, and Mawley struggled on the floor, his mouth gagging on the towel. Fairfax reached down and tore the gag loose. Immediately the bound man started to cry out.

  ‘Get him off me, Hobbes – he’s a fuckin’ psycho!’

  Hobbes didn’t move.

  ‘One more blow should do it.’ Fairfax’s expression lacked all feeling. ‘One hard blow to the head. And he’s gone.’

  Hobbes kept his cool. He looked down at Mawley. ‘Len, is this true? Did you do it?’

  ‘He’s already confessed.’ Fairfax was ready to attack.

  ‘I know that. But I need to hear it for myself.’

  Mawley raised himself up as best he could, his body curved and straining at his bonds. ‘Get me out of here, Hobbes! I need a hospital. I need you to do the right thing.’

  The right thing …

  Yes, that seemed like a good idea.

  ‘Did you do it?’

  It was a cold question; and it got a cold answer.

  ‘Damn right.’ The one visible eye closed. ‘Yeah, I strung him up. As he deserved.’ Mawley spat out blood, one gobful for each phrase of the confession. ‘He was a bastard, through and through. You both know that!’

  ‘You see?’ Fairfax’s eyes blazed. ‘I want you to watch, Hobbes. While I kill him.’

  Hobbes walked up close. ‘Wait. Think about it, Tommy.’

  ‘If you had an ounce of guts, you’d join in.’

  ‘Perhaps. But that would make me no better than Mawley. And he’s as bad a cop as I’ve ever seen.’

  The younger man hesitated. Doubt flickered in his eyes. Hobbes reached out. ‘Come on, it’s over. We’ve got our man.’

  But then the door opened and Latimer stepped inside the room. Fairfax didn’t like this. Shame painted his face red, and he gave Hobbes a push, hard enough to make him stumble back and hit the wall.

  Fairfax shuddered. He cried out, ‘Meg, get out of here!’

  Hobbes said to her, ‘Best do as he says.’

  But Latimer disobeyed his command. Instead she walked up close to Fairfax, and said, ‘You stupid prick. I mean, look at the fucking state of you.’

  Fairfax withered under her gaze.

  ‘Meg,’ he said, his voice trembling. ‘Meg. I’m sorry. Don’t look at me like that. Don’t look at me.’

  But Latimer kept her eyes right on him. ‘I’m not turning away, not until you put that stupid thing down.’

  Fairfax blinked the sweat from his eyes.

  Hobbes looked on. The situation could turn in a second and he tried to ready himself to deal with any eventuality.

  Mawley buried his face in the crook of his arm.

  The tyre iron trembled.

  Latimer touched Fairfax on the arm. ‘Tommy. I’m on your side. We both are.’

  And that was it. That’s all it took. Those words. Fairfax made a whimpering sound and his hand opened, and the weapon fell to the carpet. And then he collapsed. He folded into Latimer’s arms, sobbing.

  Hobbes remained where he was, taking in the sight of his two fellow officers, and his former colleague huddled
up against the radiator. He saw the broken furniture, the blood in splatters, and his own damaged face in a mirror above the bed. This little room. Latimer, Fairfax, Mawley. For the first time in months, in years even, he was a part of something. It was strange and barely understandable, but right here in the midst of love and hate, right at the fracture, the balancing point, this was his place in the world.

  Acknowledgements

  Warmest thanks to:

  Susanna Jones, for the seeds of Witch Haven field.

  William Shaw, who told me a story about the very early days of a world-famous rock band. From that conversation, the concept of the imaginary village grew. He also gave me expert advice on writing for the crime genre.

  Vana, Michelle, Alex and Russell, who read the manuscript at different stages and offered invaluable help and guidance.

  Everyone at Transworld for their amazing work in bringing the book to life, and especially to my editor, Bill Scott-Kerr, for seeing the potential of both the story and Detective Hobbes.

  I received financial help from the Society of Authors and the Royal Literary Fund during the writing of Slow Motion Ghosts, and I wish to thank both institutions for their dedication and support.

  About the Author

  Jeff Noon trained in the visual arts and drama and was active on the post-punk music scene before becoming a playwright, and then a novelist. His novels include Vurt, Pollen, Automated Alice, Nymphomation, Needle in the Groove, Falling Out of Cars, A Man of Shadows and The Body Library. He has published two collections of short fiction, Pixel Juice and Cobralingus, and is the crime reviewer for The Spectator.

  Also by Jeff Noon

  Novels

  Vurt

  Pollen

  Automated Alice

  Nymphomation

  Needle in the Groove

  Falling Out of Cars

  Channel SK1N

  Mappalujo (with Steve Beard)

  A Man of Shadows

  The Body Library

  Collections of short fiction

  Pixel Juice

  Cobralingus

  TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS