by John Luxton
And eventually the chamber began to dissolve, and he floated down to a dusty cot where, stilled by dread and the sickly yellow dawn, his sentience returned.
After a while Joel fell into a deep sleep, but only for short while. In that time however he dreamt of a journey that began at the ocean’s edge. He and his companions waded out into the water whilst reminiscing about their shared childhood experiences then began to swim. Soon an island came into view and as they approached many turtles came up from the ocean depths and welcomed them. They entered a cave in the side of the towering cliffs, and there Joel’s companions left him. He remembered feeling lost between continents.
Later he found Agim in the kitchen drinking coffee and rolling a joint. In the daylight he looked younger, he was wearing a kind of smoking jacket and with his long hair tied back looked like a nineteenth century poet.
“Hey, seen Deke or Seraphim?” said Joel.
“No. They left early. Want some breakfast?” He held up a coffee cup in his right hand and the elongated cigarette that he had just finished rolling in the other.
“Just coffee, please.”
“Or perhaps,” Agim said. “Some coco mojo?”
Joel watched as he palmed and un-palmed the bag of white powder like a conjuror.
“No thanks. What was in that raki I was drinking?
“Well that would be telling.” He winked at Joel.
Joel emerged blinking into the Brixton sunlight. He needed to check his phone for messages but did not want to talk in front of Agim, who had offered to accompany him to retrieve the Vespa.
“Only two things matter; sincerity and purpose...”
A car playing reggae went by drowning out the rest of Agim’s assertion. It was mid morning already and the pavements crowded with shoppers. The previous nights drug dealers, who had been plying their trade on the town hall steps had been replaced by a preacher with a loud hailer. Joel winced as they passed by.
At the carwash, spray and steam filled the air. The Albanians were already busy.
“Trust your own. It’s our version of social proofing.” Agim had said when Joel’s scooter was wheeled out. They both laughed and Joel was beginning to feel better. So he pitched it again.
“Do you know where they went?”
“Seraphim is going to the police and taking Deacon with him. To straighten everything out,” answered Agim. “Sera is a good man, you know. He helped many families from back home,” he gestured at the carwash, “… and these boys too.”
Sure, a regular Good Samaritan when not killing people or beating them up, thought Joel.
“And if you got bugged out last night, it was from mixing the grain and the grape. And that’s the truth, man,” said Agim.
He shook Joel’s hand before turning away and crossing the spray-filled yard to greet his socially proofed compatriots.
* * *
Lorna had been unable to sleep. In the cab the previous night she and Mai had had a girl chat. Mai had told her to be careful, after all how much did she know about Deacon? Lorna had bristled at this and retorted – how much did she know about Joel? This was a crazy thing to say and as soon as the words left her mouth she realised she was, by defending Deacon, showing the weakness of her position. But Mai had considered the question and said indeed how much do we know about anyone, but she was not sixteen years old. Of course Mai was right, but it was the future consequences of flying beneath her father’s radar that troubled her most. And now she felt she was in too deep to easily rectify this.
Last night on the deck Alembic Valise, Deacon had promised to text her when he and Joel got back from Brixton. But Lorna had heard nothing and now it was Saturday morning and she was beginning to worry. There was no school so she went downstairs to make some tea and toast. On the kitchen table was a note from her father explaining that he had gone to the office but would try to be home for lunch and maybe they could watch the rugby together later on. This was a standing joke because he knew she hated rugby, but the joke was getting a little stale, like the bread that she scorched and then threw in the bin. In the pocket of her dressing gown her mobile phone remained silent.
Twenty minutes later she was furiously pumping air into the tyres of her bicycle. There were two large panniers on her bike and it was her practise on a Saturday to cycle to the supermarket and buy provisions for the coming week. As she pedalled along she decided that she would take a detour down along the river.
Joel was parking his scooter wearily against the floodwall as Lorna rode up. He managed a tired smile when he saw her.
“Any news?” she asked, jumping off her bike.
“They are going to the police. Apparently. But I think they must be going somewhere or doing something first because they want us to keep schtum, for a while. That’s all I know and they didn’t even tell me directly. Things got a bit …”
Joel pulled a face, and she saw how exhausted he was. They both watched as a bright orange river-patrol boat powered past. It did not slow down for the rowers and canoeists, just blipped its siren, and then swept by, leaving the small boats floundering in its wash.
“You need some green tea,” said Lorna, taking control.
They quit the dry land and together boarded Alembic Valise. There were two messages on Joel’s voicemail. The first one was the hospital calling to say Dave had regained consciousness; he did not listen to the second.
Chapter 16
Sophie had always justified the gap in her memory as being a drug-induced forgetfulness. It was after all the heyday of trip-hop clubbing craziness when she was in her teens; and Bristol was the white-hot centre of it all. So she had assumed that a sad but entirely understandable weariness had crept into the part of her mind where remembrance dwelt, and lain there, and persisted, until now. But when she met Jim a key had turned, the seal had cracked, the rock had rolled, and the memory of events from the mid nineteen nineties that had troubled her by their absence, now troubled her by their presence. Sophie had remembered.
Sophie had remembered the night that she and her friends had taken the brown acid. It was not really brown or acid but it had become a subculture convention to name any drug that produced an undesirable reaction thus. It was summer and they had gone up onto the roof of the club to drink beer and watch the sun rise. They had also snorted the last of the sulphate in order to liven themselves up as the ecstasy had long ago worn off. But as the sky began to slowly lighten she began to feel ill and so left her friends and began to descend the cast iron fire escape in the hope of getting to the street below before puking up.
The building was an old cinema from the Victorian era and it was run down even before it was turned into a nightclub. The sound system was state-of-the-art but that was powered down now and the building was silent. The fire escape led down to an alley and Sophie steadied herself by holding onto the handrail. The surface was cool and smooth and as she lost herself in the floating sensation that accompanied her descent she realised she was still very stoned.
She suddenly stopped because at her feet she saw a person sitting on the landing in front of her as she made the final turn to take the last section of the staircase. It was a girl with wild hair, wearing a flowered print dress, hugging her knees and softly sobbing. Sophie reached out and touched her on the shoulder and the girl turned quickly, looking frightened.
It was the bunga tuffy.
Sophie was about to speak when the girl held up a finger to her lips, looking nervously at the part-open window on the landing above them. The roller blind was pulled down but moved in the breeze and a then a man’s voice began to sing.
Hey, little girl
One night you will miss me
Pour some wine, put that dress on
Tonight we will dance
The future’s still a mystery
And yet for love
The time is always right
The cheesy sixties ballad delivered in a soft lilting voice. The girl looked at Sophie with pleading eyes,
then broke their gaze and began to climb the stairs.
Sophie fled and on reaching solid ground threw up next to a black Mercedes parked in the alley. She did not wait for her friends but stumbled home through the goldening streets to her basement bed-sit.
Now as she drove away from the hospital where her brother was still recovering, Sophie was able to finally see that this forgotten event had been the key element triggering the breakdown that occurred soon afterwards. The rest of that summer had been a blur of clubbing and festivals, until September, when her friends who were all older than her went off en-masse to Goa, and she instead of going back to school began the descent. She remained in her room, she stopped eating, the black dog had come to stay.
She was really just a child, unable to cope with the feelings of abandonment that were always just below the surface. Her parents had long ago split and were living abroad. Her last boyfriend had told her she was too needy, and now her friends had all gone. The party was over. Only Dave was there for her and he swept in and took her off to a commune in southern France, where she learnt to be a cook. Unwillingly at first, but as time passed she became consumed by the craft.
‘Momma look at me now,’ she sang in her head as she scanned the road ahead for a parking space.
* * *
Dave had been dozing after Sophie’s visit; he was tired of the hospital, everything was green. The walls, the blinds, even the nurses’ uniforms; it was too much. But soon, in a couple of days maybe, Sophie would take him back to the Gate to continue his recovery at home where hopefully Siobhan would materialise and allow him to lay his grizzled head upon her wonderful breasts. She had been conspicuous by her absence. Cannot expect a doctor to want to hang out with a sick person, when all day they have been surrounded by sick people, Dave thought muzzily.
He heard talking outside his door, yawned and opened his eyes to see his own green-clad nurse entering the room followed by Seraphim Volt.
“Are you well enough for another visitor?” asked the plump but in Dave’s eyes delectable nurse Bennin.
“We are the oldest friends,” said Seraphim spreading his arms imploringly. “And tomorrow I’m returning to the mother country, so just a little reminisce and a fond farewell. See how he is happy to see me?” He gestured towards Dave’s confused visage and took off his coat.
“Be a darling,” he said, patting the air suggestively behind nurse Bennin’s magnificent Ghanaian arse. “Just ten minutes.”
When she left he sat down and began speak as if he was confiding a great secret. “Your friend Joel, he came to me with Jim’s brother Deacon, tracked me down in Brixton. They thought I beat you up, I’m putting the record squarely straight here, I would do no such thing. And Mr Cuthbert, he sent me the other night, he had the crazy thought that your sister was trying to blackmail him or something.”
He looked into Dave’s blank blue eyes. “She’s not, is she?” Dave did not answer so Seraphim continued. “Because that would be a dangerous thing to do.”
“I don’t understand,” said Dave. “Really.”
“I will be on a flight to Pristina in the morning. Jesus is leaving the building, but tonight I will make sure that right is done.”
“How will you do that?” asked Dave. “And it’s Elvis.”
“Whoever,” he leaned closer to Dave. “Listen we have a saying ‘that a man must hold his own mud’ and I intend to do that, but I will tell you this one…” He stopped in mid-sentence as the door opened and nurse Bennin swiftly entered the room.
“You have another visitor, a lady with ginger hair.” Dave was beginning to feel overwhelmed. Seraphim stood up and put his coat back on. “Dave, you are one popular guy,” he said pulling up the collar of his leather coat.
“Ladies,” he said addressing Nurse Benin and Siobhan who were looking at him disapprovingly. He turned to Dave a final time. “Gotta go, but remember Dave.” He tapped the side of his nose with his index finger and looked meaningfully at Dave. “A man cannot piss in the same river twice.”
“What about woman?” said nurse Bennin quickly. She looked towards Siobhan for support then giggled nervously.
“You got me there,” said Seraphim and left the room shaking his head.
“Who he?” said Siobhan when the door closed behind him.
“Seraphim Volt,” Dave whispered.
“Well he must have studied the classics because that is a quote from Heraclitus, it goes - No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it's not the same river and he's not the same man."
“Wow,” said nurse Bennin and also left shaking her head.
When Dave was finally alone with Siobhan, he took her hand, looked into here concerned eyes and spoke. “No brain damage, right?” She nodded. “OK, I’m discharging myself and I may need you to drive me somewhere, right away.”
Chapter 17
Cuthbert liked to watch the sunset from his balcony. He hummed the refrain from ‘Take the A Train’. The melody was embedded in his DNA. As a boy in Trinidad he had listened to Jazz Hour, broadcast every night on The Voice of America, for which the Ellington and Strayhorn composition was the theme. The dense, sensual and yet almost scientifically disciplined sound that flowed from the radio in those far off days had produced an entrancement that he had never lost.
The suns rays slanted across the park and illuminated the neo classical facades of the villas, in a red glow. Cuthbert took a cigar from his pocket and clipped the end. Not bad for a boy from the islands, he thought.
His mood was soon broken however by the sound of the door chimes. He was alone in the house, Marna had gone to the health club, so he pulled the French windows shut and walked quickly into the hallway, frowning when he looked at the monitor and saw his guest’s identity. Then he composed himself and forced a smile before unlocking the heavy oak door.
Cuthbert greeted his visitor and then stepped out onto the pavement and looked up the street. His eyes were a little bloodshot and the cigar that he had only moments before flipped off the terrace into the shrubbery below had left a sour taste in his mouth. He was aware that he had not invited his visitor into the house. But he continued to stand on the threshold.
“What can I do for you?” Again he looked up the street and then licked his dry lips nervously. “I think you had better come inside.”
Chapter 18
That night the concert hall was packed. They had seats high up at the back close to the sound desk. When Mai and her band took the stage the lights went down quickly and the film began. In the seats to Joel’s right were Lorna and her father and DC Sharma.
That morning Joel had gone straight to the hospital after getting the good news of Dave’s recovery and had been reassured by what he found. Dave was not exactly awake and the nurse was insistent that he was too tired to talk but he did say a little to Joel. That he had strange dreams that began and ended roughly; a smack round the head on both occasions.
“What’s going on?” he had asked Joel who was unable at the time to answer honestly.
The effect, of the music and the images on the screen, was overwhelming. The ethereal sound of Mai’s Ondes Martinot soared again on cue and reinforced the emotional power of the story being told on-screen. After forty-five minutes there was a break and they opted to try the juice bar they had earlier passed in the foyer. This would allow Detective Z to go outside for a cigarette. DC Sharma took some apple juice outside to her date whilst Lorna and Joel sat and watched the people go by, each lost in their own thoughts.
Until Lorna said, “Are they really going to give themselves up? Deacon and Seraphim?” Before Joel could answer the end of intermission buzzer was sounded and Lorna’s father appeared.
“Joel, have you got a minute?” he said. They went outside. Joel wondered if the Detective had been able to lip-read his daughter’s words from across the room. “We just got a call that there is news on Deacon Mclure.”
“Has he given himself up?” asked Joel.
Joel could not
see any fear in the detective’s face as he replied in the negative. It is for the best that the police appear untroubled, he thought. But Joel himself felt a stab of fear puncturing the glowing bubble of happiness that had been elevating his spirits.
“They have him on CCTV.”
“Right,” said Joel hoping that his escalating uneasiness was not communicating itself to the detective in any way.
“Yes, we picked him up on one of the cameras in the embankment gardens. We have been monitoring that area for your benefit.” When Joel looked confused he added, “Deranged level nine gamers, remember? Seeking retribution?”
Oh yes,” said Joel with some relief. Then he remembered that the last time Deacon been there he was visiting him. And he had had Lorna with him. Oh Christ! he thought. “When?” was all he managed to say.
“Yesterday, we have to go and look at the footage now, in fact. Can you make sure Lorna gets home, I am afraid it’s going to be a long night for us.” DC Sharma appeared at his side.
“Thank your friend Mai for inviting us, the music was so beautiful. Apologise to her for us.” The two detectives started to walk away towards the concrete stairway that would take them onto Waterloo Bridge. Joel hesitated, but only for a split second. He knew that this was a point of no return.
“Wait” he called out.
Several of the concertgoers filing back into the auditorium turned to stare at him. Detective Z had started to climb the stairs and waited with an exasperated expression whilst his assistant retraced her steps. Joel took a deep breath.
“Yesterday evening I went with Deacon Mclure to Brixton to search for a man called Seraphim Volt who we thought could tell us about the attack on Dave. I know I should have told you this sooner.”
