by John Luxton
“I’m hungry,” she said.
Fifteen minutes later Mai and Joel were in a mini cab, speeding along the Great Western Road. Dave and Siobhan had not reappeared leading Joel to suspect that the tour of the Gate had culminated in the great view of the Thames from Dave’s bedroom. They were both hungry by now so the cab dropped them off outside a Persian restaurant that Joel knew. Unfortunately it was only providing take-away service because of renovation work but the chef cooked them lamb kebabs wrapped in freshly cooked unleavened bread. They walked along eating the hot food then went into a café where they washed their greasy hands and then sat drinking tea.
“So you are in the entertainment industry too?” Joel ventured with mock seriousness.
“Yes, without my fans I am nothing,” replied Mai continuing the theme.
“No really, tell me what you do, Mai?”
“Well, I play an obscure instrument called the Ondes Martenot, the earliest of electronic instruments, invented in 1928. It uses old technology, vacuum tubes, and the sound is treated by a variety of electro-mechanical modified speakers. Avant-garde composers have written numerous pieces for it over the years and it has been employed on many movie sound tracks. They are still being built in France and I studied the playing techniques when I was a music student in Paris. And I subsequently made it my main instrument. Now I am touring your lovely country with a small ensemble of musicians playing my own composition as the soundtrack to the German Expressionist film Asphalt. This was made the very same year that the instrument that I play was invented. Ta da!”
“Wow! I can tell you write your own press releases and yes I am familiar with the old Martenot. Bit like a Theramin with a keyboard and a slider thingy?”
“Yes, that’s right. I’m impressed,” said Mai.
“And are you performing in London?”
“Yes, in two weeks time at the South Bank. It’s the final night of our tour, and guess what?”
“What?” said Joel.
“You are going to be on the guest list.”
“I’m already a fan.”
Chapter 4
Dave and Siobhan were not, as Joel had imagined, in the bedroom. They were in fact on the roof terrace of the Gate. It was a modest area. There were two benches positioned to take in the sweeping views of the river and beyond. There was a full moon and the sky revealed no stars. Dave had pulled cushions from a locker and they sat drinking from a bottle of vintage brandy and smoking. The white steam of their breath merged with the cigarette smoke and rose above their heads before the breeze carried it out into the darkness above the river.
“My sister, who is a bit of an historian, believes that there has been an inn here for the best part of a thousand years,” said Dave reflectively.
“Yeah, yeah,” replied Siobhan. “And the health centre where I work used to be a leech pit”
“Ok then,” he said passing the brandy bottle. “Screw history.” Getting no response he then said in a serious voice, “actually, it’s a terrible waste to drink this stuff from the bottle. Let me get some glasses.”
“No, come over here and keep me warm instead.” Dave complied. They kissed. He bit her ear lobe a little too hard. She pushed him away and raised her index finger, moving it from side to side whilst shaking her head.
“I noticed there are moorings below. Do you have a boat?” asked Siobhan in a conversational manner.
Dave took a drink of brandy before answering. “No. The ones passing on the river all look rather like floating caravans. Not quite the thing. Maybe something ocean-going could be fun. But the saying is - to get the real feeling of what owning a boat is all about you must stand in the shower, fully clothed tearing up fifty pound notes’.”
Siobhan laughed. “I thought the saying was – if it flies, floats or fucks, then rent it.”
“Yes I have heard that too,” said Dave. “But it seemed unwise to share that thought at such a moment as this.”
“And what kind of moment may that be?”
“One where I am keen to show my empathic caring side,” replied Dave
“Omygod, a new man, and I had you pegged as an alpha male.”
“I can do that too,” said Dave.
“In that case let’s go inside where I can check out your silverback.” They tumbled onto the bed in an embrace and then began to slowly to undress one another.
Later as Dave was straddling her, working his way between her white breasts and occasionally reaching back a hand to apply gentle frottage to her vulva, they both heard a distant bell ringing.
“Must be closing time,” sighed Dave.
“Hey!” exclaimed Siobhan. “What about Mai? I forgot all about her. I hope she is okay with your friend. He’s a nice guy isn’t he?”
“She will be fine. Joel is a lovely guy.”
“So how do you know him?”
“He bought my boat.” Dave’s body was now shuddering with each stroke.
“You said you never had a boat. What other lies have you told me?” she said indignantly.
“Ferchrissake!” Dave groaned. Siobhan was wearing plum coloured lipstick. It matched her complexion perfectly. Smiling she guided him towards her mouth.
“Jesus titty-fucking Christ!” he ejaculated.
Chapter 5
Although it was not particularly late Joel was tired. He had sobered up thanks to the food and the tea but he was in a kind of daze. As they walked they talked and Mai slipped her arm through his. He told her about the earlier events of the day and soon they found themselves standing on the Bridge where he pointed out his home. The white tent that had been on the foreshore that morning was now gone. When he told her about it she said nothing, just looked at him intently. He also told her about the tattoo of the Map Turtle on the body and her eyes widened but she again said nothing. The full moon had risen and they stood looking at one another, not the view or the moon. He had the sensation that he was standing very close to the edge of a precipice. This was in addition to the fact they were standing in the centre of a suspension bridge. Double jeopardy, thought Joel.
Mai’s phone rang. It was Siobhan apologising for her disappearance. After the appropriate reassurances Mai put her phone back into the pocket of her coat and turned her divine face back towards him. Her black hair was tied back and there was a tiny mole on her throat.
“Listen,” she said. Then she leaned forward and kissed him gently on the lips. Time passed.
“I have to rehearse early in the morning so I can’t come to your boat tonight. I have to get back to Chelsea, it’s a drag I know,” she whispered.
Joel felt a mixture of disappointment and relief.
“Sure. Let’s get you a cab,” he managed to croak.
Chapter 6
Next morning and already on his third pot of coffee, Joel poured himself another mug, added cream and went outside onto the deck to get some fresh air. He had been up since five am but had skipped his regular run. The sky was a dirty grey shroud and rain was forecast however it was much milder than yesterday. Joel had been researching online and had discovered that bodies recovered from the waters of the Thames come under the jurisdiction of the Marine Support Unit. After a body is recovered from the water it is taken to the mortuary at Wapping Police Station in East London for identification. However if a body is on the foreshore it will usually come under the jurisdiction of the local police force.
Whilst carrying out his research part of his brain was constructing negative outcomes for himself. Newspaper headlines for instance. The worst he came up with was - ‘Local writer’s computer game provokes ritual slaying outside home’.
By nine AM he had had enough and so called his agent but could only get voicemail. He had been troubled all night by the possible implications of yesterday’s events. When his call eventually was returned he explained to Severin what had happened and suggested that they call Munroe Cleves. Munroe worked for a PR firm whose services they had often used.
“And when did t
his happen?” queried Severin.
“Yesterday morning,” said Joel.
“Well okay, but we need to move quickly just in case. Do you know if the police have released any information?”
“No, not yet,” said Joel. “The detective said they would keep me in the picture.” There was a silence for a moment and then Severin spoke.
“It occurs to me that if they cannot identify the body, then they may wish to publicise the tattoo in the press. Then all it would take is a savvy journalist to put two and two together and mention the proximity of the body to your boat. The wrong kind of publicity could be a real pain. Have you told anyone else?”
Joel hesitated and then told Severin about Mai. “It was only when I talked to her about it that I realised the implications,” he confessed.
“And lastly,” said Severin. “Have the police given any indications that they think you could be somehow involved with any of this? Sorry, but I have to ask.”
There was another silence on the phone and then Joel said, “No, none whatsoever.”
“Of course, excuse my crazy talk. I’ll phone you in an hour or so. Okay?”
The cabin felt stuffy, Joel slid open the door and crossed the deck. He stared across the water at the trees on the southern riverbank, their bare branches outlined against the leaden sky. The wind had kicked up and rain began to patter on the deck where he stood. Emptying his cold coffee over the side he hurried into the shelter of the galley and pulled the door shut.
Of course the main reason he had been unable to sleep was he could not stop thinking about Mai. When they had parted, she had said she would phone him when her rehearsal finished. So later that afternoon when the phone began to ring his heart began to pound, but it was of course Severin.
“Hi Joel, just got off the phone with Monroe and he thinks all we can do now is maybe have a press statement prepared.”
“Yes, I was thinking that too,” answered Joel. “This is a terrible thing really, someone died here. So I’m going to phone Detective Z and see what is happening with his investigation. After all I have nothing to hide.”
“Do prep press a statement just in case and email it to Munroe for his input, okay? And we do not license tattoo templates to anyone either but of course a decent tattoo artist can copy anything.”
“I’m going to phone the police right now and will let you know if I learn anything. And thanks. I know this stuff may not be in the brief of most literary agents, but believe me it is appreciated.”
“Only for you,” answered Severin.
Joel hung-up then took the card that Detective Z had given him out of his wallet and punched in the number. It rang five times and then an automated voice told him that his call was being redirected. While he waited he stood by the window watching the wind creating white horses on the river’s surface and the branches of the trees flailing around on the far shore. When heard the detective’s voice on the line he said.
“It’s Joel Barlow here.”
“Ah, Mr Barlow, one moment,” the detective’s voice faded out and then returned. “Sorry about the reception, must be this appalling weather. I have to tell you, Mr Barlow, my daughter Lorna was really over the moon with what you wrote about being guided through the silver forest, taken it to school with her to show her friends.”
“Glad to hear that,” answered Joel, “It’s the Cembali Silvae actually and it’s an anagram of Alembic Valise, it means harpsichord forest. It’s the title of my new book.”
The Detective’s voice was now clear on the line. “Ah yes, that must be privileged information Mr Barlow. But may I ask what can I do for you?”
“Well I wondered if there had been any developments since yesterday,” asked Joel.
“Okay, things have moved along in fact. We have an identity that has been confirmed and the next of kin are being informed, in fact that’s where I have just been. The mother is totally distraught of course.”
Just at that moment there was a clap of thunder, a very hard gust of wind that seemed to momentarily change the air pressure within the cabin, and simultaneously the buzz of the intercom that was linked to the gate on the shore end of the floating gangway that led down to Joel’s boat.
“I don’t know what to say, that really is terrible.” Was all Joel could think of to say, distracted as he was.
“Well there should be something in press at the end of the week, I see this stuff every day, you know, and it does make you philosophical.” The Detective was sounding friendlier by the minute.
“How so?” said Joel moving towards the intercom. He thought it had maybe been triggered by the thunderclap. But then it buzzed again.
“Well,” continued the detective. “To value my own life and the people in it for one thing. Look I have to go, I’ll be in touch.”
“Bye”, said Joel into the phone. Then he hit the intercom button.
“Yes?”
“It’s me”, said a voice. It was Mai.
Mai was soaked through and went to take a shower. She emerged from the bedroom wearing a fleece, some shorts and his carpet slippers. The storm was still raging and she was hungry so he made her toast and hot chocolate to drink. He turned up the stove to dry her clothes and made some coffee for himself. All the while chatting like an old married couple.
“So how was your rehearsal, dear?”
“It was fine, but afterwards I made the mistake of catching the bus, the 73. It was so slow. And I tried to call you but you were permanently engaged. I didn’t even know if you would be here. Then walking from the bus station the wind was unbelievable, it turned my umbrella inside out and I threw the thing away.”
Joel put down a plate of hot buttered toast in front of her and felt a glow of pleasure as she enthusiastically bit into the first slice. He fussed around making his coffee then joined her at the table.
“Welcome aboard,” he said raising his mug in a toast.
“So this is the Alembic Valise. What is that exactly?”
“It’s a bleedin enigma, love,” said Joel in a mockney accent. “And the least said about those the better. But I am so glad you came to visit.” They sat smiling at one another.
“Any more freaky-deaky stuff happening on your patch of the riverbank, ratty?” she asked with a concerned look. He told her about the conversation with Detective Z. just before her arrival.
“That is so sad, so sad,” she said shaking her head. Which caused the towel wrapped around her head to fall sideways, he reached to catch it and suddenly she was in his arms. He held her close. There were crumbs on her chin.
The writer Celine wrote that love is a poodle’s glimpse of eternity. Better to be a disappointed romantic than a cynic thought Joel. Better to regret the things you have done rather than the things you have not. Burn like a beacon and then we are gone; and only our acts of love remain. The river had somehow brought her to him. Now she was sleeping and the light was fading.
He dreamt that the houseboat had come loose from its moorings and had been spun by a powerful incoming tide into midstream and then many leagues inland. Under bridges, past silent wharfs, until they ran aground on a green island. But it was dark and the only light came from one distant star. All around was undergrowth, redolent with danger. Here was the place where he had to search for the turtle egg buried in the soft sand but first he had to cross the island. In the centre of the island he encountered an eight-lane motorway. He now knew that the drainage ditch running alongside was the place he sought. The very place where he had abandoned the precious egg then walked away from and forgotten about for years. But now the egg was no longer there. Only the fragments of the shell remained. He followed the ditch. Trucks and cars hurtled by only inches away. How could he have abandoned the thing he loved in such a place, amongst the garbage and rubble? He heard a rustling sound and stooped to find the hatched turtle. As he picked it up it cried out and shuddered in his grip.
He only slept for an hour then awoke remembering the dream clearly. He could
hear the shower running in the bathroom. Suddenly starving hungry he headed for the galley threw some pasta into a pan and began to chop garlic. There were prawns in the fridge and he grabbed a cold bottle of beer, popped the top and took a long drink. Mai came in wearing his bathrobe to check if her clothes were dry then sat at the table making phone calls. The pan hissed loudly when he added white wine to the garlic and prawns. Mai had to take the tour bus from her hotel next morning so after eating they walked together up the gangway and onto dry land to find her a cab.
Later that evening Joel picked up the fleece that Mai had been wearing whilst her clothes were drying. A faint perfume persisted. He put it on and went onto the deck. The tide was out, the river level dropping a full seven meters so the deck of the boat was way below the flood wall, cutting him off from the sights and sounds of the city; except for the planes passing overhead and the car headlights nudging along Hammersmith Bridge in the distance. He closed his eyes and allowed the images and sensations of his recent dream to sweep back into his mind.
Of course, he thought: The turtle egg. It was his responsibility to bring life to the creature and then care for it. It was a metaphor of course, or an allegory, he could not remember the difference. After having created the twin turtles and turning them loose into the world, he neglected, lost them when he should have continued nurturing them. Had finding the baby turtle in the ditch somehow redeemed him? All too late for mud guy, he thought guiltily, opening his eyes. A pebble clattered off the deck next to him and a familiar voice called from above.
