by Darren Shan
‘Deleena Emerson. She works for a private bank in the City.’
I tell him a bit about Deleena, our nights together, how she looks in a black dress, a few morsels about her background. Joe smirks like a shark as I describe her long legs, soft hair and sparkling eyes.
‘Tasty,’ he purrs. ‘Does she have a sister?’
‘She’s an only child.’
‘Pity.’ He taps the table admonishingly. ‘But I’m not impressed with the way you’ve let it affect your work. I’m all for romance, but it shouldn’t interfere with your writing. What happened to your meeting with John Meyher? Did you go?’
‘I postponed it in the end. I wanted you be there, given that you were the one who set it up. He said his diary was open and to simply give him a few hours’ notice before dropping by.’
Joe wags a finger at me. ‘Can’t leave you alone for a minute,’ he scolds, then digs out his cell phone and slides it across the table. ‘Try and arrange something for this afternoon.’
‘But you’re tired, Joe. Let’s wait until –’
‘No waiting,’ he insists. ‘When I return to work I’ll be stuck in that bloody shop for most of the week, repairing toasters and microwave ovens. I’ve got an excuse not to go in today – I’m still on leave – but if we don’t go and see him now, I’ll be too busy to come.’
‘OK.’ I pick up the phone and dial.
‘You know the number off by heart?’ Joe asks.
‘I have an almost perfect memory for numbers.’
‘You’re a man of hidden depths,’ he grins.
‘You have no idea,’ I mutter.
Meyher’s wife answers and says that her husband’s out but will be back in the afternoon. I check their address with her – numbers stick in my brain but nothing else – and schedule the meeting for four o’clock.
‘We’re on?’ Joe asks as I hand back his cell.
‘Four.’
‘Excellent.’ He drinks up and accompanies me to my hotel, where he steals a nap on the couch while I wash and dress. He’s exhausted. I know how he feels. When my mother was dying, I rarely squeezed in more than a few hours of sleep a night. I’d like to leave him slumbering but he’d hate me if I went without him, so I shake him awake, ply him with coffee, then off we set in a cab hailed by the redoubtable Mr Lloyd.
John Meyher lives in Roehampton, a quiet, nicely maintained suburb in south-west London, very different to the city I’ve been getting to know, with more of a small-town feel. The air is actually halfway breathable out here. I like it. If I was to live in London, I’d choose somewhere like this.
John is pruning in a small garden in front of his house when we arrive. He’s a large man, heavy and tall, thinning grey hair. He welcomes us with a warm smile and takes us inside for the obligatory British cup of tea and a lot of talk about spontaneous human combustion. John’s an expert. He doesn’t give many interviews. Like most SHC theorists, he’s had to deal with ridicule and official denial over the years. He says it’s worn him down. But when he sees how eager we are to learn, he comes alive and talks quickly and eagerly.
After a brief history lesson and a swift but comprehensive overview of current trains of thought, John shows us photos of SHC victims, large piles of ash sitting on floors in the middle of kitchens, bedrooms or living rooms. In some a stray hand or foot rests nearby, as if sliced off prior to burning. A pipe lies in the middle of one pile, tobacco spilling out of it on to the human remains.
John points out the surrounding areas, drawing our attention to the fact that although some of the walls and floors are spotted with soot, the floorboards aren’t burnt through and the furniture stands unharmed.
‘Do you know the kind of heat required to reduce a human body to ash?’ he asks. ‘It’s in excess of nine hundred degrees Celsius. In a crematorium they use giant furnaces and pumps to generate the heat. Assuming you could start a fire that intense in an ordinary house, how could it incinerate a living human and do no other damage to the room in which they died?’
‘How do officials explain it?’ I ask.
‘They don’t,’ John snorts. ‘They just ignore it.’
‘And you?’ I press. ‘What do you think happens?’
‘They burn from within. Even scientists opposed to the concept of SHC accept that possibility. Internal gases can build up and ignite. But an explosion like that should hurl shreds of the victim about, not just leave the odd cleanly amputated hand or foot. It’s like these people generated a pillar of fire that spread from the centre outwards, and the only bits to survive were the limbs outside the pillar’s circumference. I don’t know how that can happen. Nobody does. It defies all known physical laws.’
I gaze at a photograph where a hand lies next to a mound of ashes. I think about what John has told us. I put it together with what I already had in mind coming into this meeting. And I start to smile.
After our interview with John, we head to a pub – the Minotaur – and I down a couple of glasses of rum, my tipple of choice. Wine with a meal, beer if I fancy a casual drink, rum when I want to enjoy my liquor. I’m buzzing. John was the last significant link in the chain. With what he told me, I’ll soon be ready to write.
Joe waits for me to explain myself. I catch his eye and grin, lifting my third glass of rum in salute. Joe scowls, half amused, half annoyed.
‘Sorry,’ I chuckle. ‘I know I’m acting like an ass, but this ties everything together. I’ve been picking away at the strands of this story for a year, and today it finally fell fully formed into my lap. I don’t have all the twists and turns worked out yet, but the core is there.’
Joe leans forward. ‘Can you tell me, or is it still a secret?’
I stare at my hands and collect my thoughts. ‘Remember Pierre Vallance telling us how he can convert mental waves into voices?’
‘Yeah.’
‘If that’s true, and if you could convert the waves into images or objects, it would mean reality is subjective. Some people would have the power to change the world with their thoughts — as an example, if one of them imagined a unicorn or an alien, they could bring it into being.’
Joe tugs at his beard. ‘You think?’
‘Why not? If reality can be physically what we make of it, then someone like Vallance – but more powerful – could play God. Now, let’s say a guy with that power drops a match. He panics and imagines himself going up in flames. Only, due to his ability to reshape reality, he doesn’t just imagine himself catching fire, he unwittingly makes it –’
‘Actually happen,’ Joe interrupts.
‘You got it. And because he’s panicking, the flames don’t act the natural way — they do what his fevered imagination tells them to do and burn through him like a pillar of unbelievably hot fire.’
I sit back, more pieces of the novel clicking together as I speak. ‘If a person is unaware of their power and accidentally taps into it and burns to death, that’s a tragedy. But if someone is aware of what they can do, and uses their talent to target other people . . . Hell, that’s murder, prime material for an Ed Sieveking novel.’ I raise my glass, finish off the last of my rum, then tell Joe to drink up. ‘We can’t sit around boozing all day. We’ve got a book to write!’
FOUR
I meet with Deleena most nights. Sometimes we dine together or pop into a bar for a drink, but often we just stroll, taking London’s warren of streets at random, seeing where the night leads us. I feel like a prince when she’s by my side. All is good with the world. Even my ghosts pull back, as if repelled by the warmth I’m feeling inside. For the first time in years I find my waking hours more than just bearable at best, as they’ve been ever since the ghosts entered my life — with Deleena, they’re a pleasure.
Deleena seems to be a creature of the shadows. She favours dimly lit spots. She has sensitive eyes, which is why she prefers small, romantic restaurants to those which are harshly illuminated. That suits me fine. It means I’m discovering new sides of her every time we
meet. A mole on her left shoulder when her bra strap slips. A freckle on her right ear which was previously hidden by her hair. A slightly discoloured tooth.
I occasionally worry that her beauty might crumble if I ever see her in strong, direct, sustained light, that she’ll be revealed as a hideous hag, hiding behind a veil of paint and make-up. But of course that’s nonsense. I see enough of her, even in the shadows, to know it’s no mask.
She loves books, and though our tastes are similar, they differ in many ways too. For instance, her favourite novel is The Alchemist. I always dismissed that as a feel-good piece of New Age hokum, but she argues its case convincingly and has started to win me over.
One night she brings the book with her and reads out some of her favourite extracts to me while perched on a stone bench in Trafalgar Square. I listen to her with a warm smile, dreamily studying her lips as they softly open and close while forming the words. If Paulo Coelho himself happened to be passing and offered to stop her and treat me to a personal recitation, I’d scowl and tell him in my best British bobby impression, ‘Move along, sir. Move along.’
Since we spend much of our time discussing books, I start telling Deleena about the new novel that I’m working on. I hadn’t meant to share the details with her. Normally I don’t reveal anything about my work during the formative stages. The first anyone usually sees of an Ed Sieveking story is when I send a third or fourth draft to my agent. But it seems natural to involve her in my thought processes, to bounce ideas off her as I do off Joe.
As close as we’ve become, at the same time I feel somehow strangely distant from Deleena. Our dates have been chaste affairs. We haven’t even kissed. Twelve nights of wining and dining, exploring the streets, baring our souls, and we haven’t touched lips. Does that mean she simply wants me as a friend? I’m not sure. Sometimes she looks at me like she wants to pledge herself to me on the spot. Other times I catch something melancholic in her expression and feel sure that she’s about to cut me off with her next words, tell me she never wants to see me again. She confuses me. Maybe that confusion is part of her appeal.
She can be miserly with her time too. She’ll often leave early, maybe before the end of a meal or not long after we’ve set off on a walk, offering one feeble excuse or another, leaving me to stare longingly after her and brood on what might have been. On those nights I try to walk off my frustration and tune her out of my thoughts, but the less time she spends with me, the more I lust after her.
I like to think I’m a good judge of character – a writer needs to be – but with Deleena I just don’t know. There are moments when I feel incredibly close to her, then she’ll blink and it’s like I don’t know her at all.
Joe can’t help as he hasn’t met her yet. I’m keen to introduce them but they keep missing one another. Joe has cried off a couple of times when customers have made after-hours demands of him. Deleena had to work late another evening. We were meant to get together last Sunday for a barbecue, but first Joe got called away and then Deleena rang to say old friends had dropped by unannounced. If I didn’t believe that we live in a universe of chance, I’d swear destiny was working to keep them apart.
I’ve been grinding away on the plot of the book, trying to figure out why my lead character was killed. It can’t be random. The story is crying out for a reason that will drive the narrative forward, but I can’t decide what it should be. One evening, surrounded by a sea of notes in my hotel room, I mention to Joe that I’ve come to a block, and in a moment of genius he provides me with the answer.
‘The killer works for an agency,’ Joe says. ‘They eliminate people with powers like theirs, people who won’t work for them, who they see as a threat. Our main guy is spotted. They check him out, decide they can’t use him, and kill him.’
‘Then he comes back as a ghost and makes them eat a hundred unholy pillars of fire when he tracks them down,’ I enthuse, thumping Joe’s back.
‘Know what?’ I mutter a few minutes later, having scribbled down the idea and played with it a bit. ‘You just earned yourself a credit in the book.’
Joe’s eyes widen. ‘You’re gonna put my name on the cover?’
‘No,’ I laugh. ‘But how about a creative consultant nod on the title page?’
‘Are you serious?’ Joe whoops.
‘Of course I’ll have to cut you in for a percentage of the profits as well.’
‘Aw, Ed, there’s no need to . . . ’
‘I insist. How does five per cent sound?’
‘Why not ten?’ Joe responds immediately.
‘Let’s stick with five,’ I chuckle.
‘This calls for a toast,’ Joe beams and rushes to the minibar.
‘I can’t believe how generous I’ve become,’ I note wryly as Joe pours a rum for me. ‘If you’d told me a few weeks ago that I’d be offering to share credit with somebody, I’d have said you were crazy.’
‘Having second thoughts?’ Joe asks nervously.
‘No,’ I smile. ‘I’ll hold true to my word. Do you want it in writing?’
‘Don’t be stupid. I trust you.’
I finish off the rum and pour myself a second miniature bottle. I take this one slowly. I don’t want to drink myself into a stupor before nightfall.
‘Maybe I’ll include Deleena in the credits too,’ I murmur.
‘Why?’ Joe frowns. ‘She hasn’t injected any ideas.’
‘True, but we have her to thank for my generosity of spirit. If I wasn’t falling in love, I doubt I’d be so willing to involve you in the creative process.’
Joe drops his gaze. ‘You’re falling in love with her?’ he asks quietly.
‘I guess. Hell, I don’t know, maybe it’s the rum. Cheers.’
‘Cheers,’ Joe says, but soberly.
‘What’s up?’ I ask.
‘Nothing. It’s just . . . when am I going to meet her? It’s been more than two weeks and you haven’t let me see her.’
‘Is it my fault you’ve been fixing fridges, TV sets and God alone knows what else every time I try to introduce you?’
‘No, but . . . ’ He shrugs. ‘I’ve spoken to a few of my friends who were at Shar’s party, and nobody knows her. I’ve been wondering why I haven’t bumped into her before. From the way you describe her, she’s hard to miss.’
‘She is,’ I sigh, day-dreaming of Deleena in the black dress she wore when we first met. ‘But it’s not odd that your friends don’t know her. She’s a client of Shar’s. She didn’t know anyone on the boat. That’s why we hooked up — we were the only two who were alone.’
‘Still, you have to bring her to see me, Ed. For all I know, she’s one of the ugly sisters.’
‘Up yours,’ I retort, and Joe laughs.
I pour a third shot of rum and ponder my good fortune. A book that’s shaping up nicely. A relationship with a beautiful lady who brings out the best in me. And a good friend. It’s a far cry from my usual lonely, passionless life. For years I’ve limped along, nursing grudges, bitter at the world for what it did to me, haunted by my ghosts, desperately searching for proof that the spirits are real, that I’m not insane, struggling to hold on to whatever thin slivers of sanity I can claim to be in possession of. Now I can see light for the first time in ages. Maybe love will cure me of my ills and banish the spectre of the ghosts. If they’re the product of a disturbed mind, perhaps all I need to make them go away is to find the happiness that I was sure I’d always be denied.
I’m not sure what I’ve done to merit this good fortune, but I’m determined to appreciate it for as long as it lasts, and if the fates are kind, who knows, it might just last for ever.
Another night in the company of the delectable Deleena. She takes me to a busy little restaurant overlooking the Thames. I tell her about my conversation with Joe. She laughs and says to bring him along any time. I propose heading out to the countryside for a weekend away, all three of us, but she isn’t warm on that idea.
‘Work’s even busier tha
n usual. I could be summoned without notice any day, even a Saturday or Sunday. I don’t fancy having to cut short a break and drive all the way back.’
‘I thought slavery had been abolished,’ I scowl. ‘Surely you can ask for a Sunday off?’
‘Of course I can. But there’s a post opening up shortly and I’m in with a chance of bagging it. That would mean more income, more security and –’ she leans over to playfully stroke my nose – ‘longer holidays. Three of us are in the running and we’ve been working flat out to impress our lords and masters. A plea for personal time now and I might as well forfeit. So, sorry, but . . . ’ She shrugs prettily.
We move on to the subject of the book and I tell her how it’s progressing.
‘Have you interviewed any more mediums?’ she asks.
‘Not this week.’
‘Did you look up Etienne?’ She’s referring to Etienne Anders, a medium she recommended.
‘I rang her a few times. She was engaged once and I got her voicemail the other times. I hate leaving messages, so I hung up.’
‘Do you still have her card?’ Deleena presses, and I nod. ‘You should ring her. I told her you’d get in touch. She’s really good, Ed. I’ve been to lots of mediums over the years and she’s the only one who genuinely impressed me.’
‘I’ll contact her, I promise, but at the moment I’m exploring other angles. If you want, I can cancel a few things, swing by tomorrow.’
‘No,’ she smiles, laying a hand on mine. ‘You don’t have to go out of your way on my account. I’m trying to help, not interfere. Just hold on to the card and . . . ’ As her eyes wander, she freezes. Her hand goes limp and slides away. Following the direction of her gaze, I spot a table of five middle-aged men, boisterously pulling crabs apart. Deleena is focused on a man to our left, long grey hair tied back in a ponytail, a heavy tan, immaculately dressed.
‘Something wrong?’ I ask.
‘No,’ she gasps, but now she’s leaning over, using me to block the man’s view of her if he happens to look across.
