Curiously Church followed his nod to the bedside cabinet. In the drawer was an envelope; an address was scribbled on the front. “That’s my studio. You go there, you’ll see.”
“I can’t-“
“You’ll find what you’re looking for. Peace of mind. Direction. You’ll know what happened to Maurice. It’s up to you now.” He pushed Church away roughly and rolled over. “Go!”
Church glanced at the envelope one more time, then reluctantly took it. At the door, he silenced Ruth’s questions with a simple, “Later.” Downstairs was in darkness. In the gloom, Church felt eyes on his back although he knew the place was empty, and he didn’t feel safe until they were outside, dialling a cab on Ruth’s mobile.
Kraicow’s studio was at the top of a Victorian warehouse in one of the many unredeemed backstreets that formed the heart of Clerkenwell. From the outside it seemed almost derelict: smashed windows filthy with dust, graffiti and posters for bands that had long since split up. Unidentified hulks of machinery were scattered around the ground floor, which stank of engine oil and dirt. But when they climbed out of the service lift at the summit, Kraicow’s room presented itself to them in a burst of colour and a smell of oil paint and solvent. An enormous, half-completed canvas was suspended over the centre of the floor, but it was impossible to tell from the splashes of colour exactly what it would eventually be. Other canvases of all sizes were stacked against various walls. The floor was bare boards, but clean, and there was a small camp bed in one corner where the artist obviously snatched a rest during his more intense periods of work. On an uneven table was a collection of tubes of oil, dirty rags, a palette and a jar filled with brushes.
“Do you ever get the feeling you’re wasting your time?” Ruth said as she looked around at the disarray.
“You were the one who insisted we go down every avenue, however ridiculous,” Church replied. “Personally, I think you’ve been reading way too much Sherlock Holmes.”
Ruth began to search through the stacked canvases. “What are we looking for?”
“God knows.” Church busied himself with an investigation of a pile of rags and empty paint pots near the window. On the top was a sheet of sketch paper where Kraicow had written El sueno de la Razon Produce monstruos. Church read it aloud, then asked, “What does that mean?”
Ruth paused in her search and dredged her memory for a translation. “`The sleep of reason brings forth monsters.’ It’s the title of-“
” a painting by Goya. Yes, I remember.”
Ruth leaned on the canvases and mused, “It’s strange, isn’t it? We go about our lives thinking the world is normal and then we stumble across all these people who obviously have a completely different view of reality, indulging in their paranoid fantasies.”
“Are you including the vicar in that?”
Ruth laughed. “The UFO guy and Kraicow and obviously Gibbons, all feeding each other. And obviously Mrs. Gibbons had no idea what was going on in her husband’s head.”
Church moved on to another collection of canvases, older, judging by the thick layer of dust that lay on the top. “Well, paranoia’s like a fire. It quickly gets out of control and suddenly the norm looks weird and the weird becomes perfectly acceptable.”
“You’d know, would you?” Ruth Jibed. Church didn’t respond.
Their search continued for fifteen minutes more, becoming increasingly aimless as the futility of the task overcame them. Church, for his part, was afraid to stop; he didn’t want to return to his empty flat with its bleak memories. Their hunt for meaning in their experience had released a whole host of emotions with which he hadn’t had time to come to terms.
Ruth let the final canvas drop back with a clatter. “We should call it a day,” she said. Church noted a hint of gloom in her voice. After a second she added morosely, “I don’t think we’re getting anywhere and I’m afraid if we don’t sort out what happened I’m never going to get back to who I was. That morning was so destabilising I feel like every support for my life has been kicked away.” She wandered over to the window and hauled up the blind to look out over the city.
“I know exactly what you mean,” Church said, remembering the morning after Marianne’s terrible death with an awful intensity. “Sometimes you never get straight again.” He checked the final canvas, a surreal landscape with hints of Dali. “Nothing here. I don’t know what Kraicow was talking about. Serves us right for listening to the views of a mental patient. So what do we do next?”
There was no reply. Church turned slowly. Ruth was standing at the window with her back to him, so immobile she could have been a statue. “Did you hear me?”
Still no answer. He could tell from her frozen body something was wrong. A hum of anxiety rose at the back of his head, growing louder as he moved towards her. Before he had crossed the floor, her voice came up small, still and frightened. “He was right.”
Church felt his heart begin to pound; somewhere, doors were opening.
When he came up behind her, he could see what it was that had caught her attention. On the window ledge was a small sculpture in clay, rough and unfinished, but detailed in the upper part. It was a figure with a face so hideous in its deformity and evil they could barely bring themselves to look at it.
And it was the perfect representation of the devil they had recalled during Delano’s therapy session. Kraicow had seen it too.
It existed.
chapter three
on the road
or the rest of the night they sat in Ruth’s lounge, talking in the quiet, clipped tones of people who had suffered the massive shock of a sudden bereavement. The discovery of the desperately crafted statue left them with nowhere to turn. Suddenly the shadows were alive, and life had taken on the perspective of a bottle-glass window.
“What the hell’s going on?” Ruth looked deep into the dregs of her wine. She had drunk too much too quickly, but however much she told herself it was an immature reaction, she couldn’t face up to the immensity of what the statue meant and what they had truly seen that night. For someone immersed on a daily basis in the logic and reason of the law, it was both too hard to believe and impossible to deny; the conflict made her feel queasy.
Church rubbed his tired eyes, at once deflated and lost. “We can’t walk away from it-“
“I know that.” There was an edge to her voice. “I never thought one moment could change your life so fundamentally.” She walked over to the window and looked out at the lights of the city in the pre-dawn dark. “We’re so alone now-nobody knows what we know. It’s a joke! How can we tell anybody? We’ll end up getting treated like Kraicow.”
“And what do we know? That there’s some kind of supernatural creature out there that looks like a man one moment and something too hideous to look at the next?”
“We know,” she said dismally, “that nothing is how we imagined it. That if something like that can exist, anything is possible. What are the rules now, Church? What’s going on?”
Church paused; he had no idea how to answer her question. He drained the remainder of his wine, then played with the glass thoughtfully. “At least we’ve got each other,” he said finally.
Ruth looked round suddenly, a faint smile sweeping away the darkness in her face. “That’s right. You and me against the world, kid.”
Church mused for a moment. “Kraicow must know more. He’d seen something, the same as Gibbons.”
“Then,” Ruth said pointedly, “we should pay him another visit.”
Unable to sleep, they arrived at Kraicow’s house at first light and sat outside in Church’s old Nissan Bluebird until a reasonable hour, dozing fitfully. His niece answered the door, her recognition giving way instantly to anger.
“Did you two have something to do with it?” she barked. Church and Ruth were taken aback by her fury, their speechlessness answering the woman’s question. “He’s gone,” she snapped.
Church’s puzzlement showed on his face; Kraicow had seemed
too weak to move. “Where-“
“I don’t know where, that’s the problem!” Anxiously, she looked past them into the empty street. “They came for him in the night. I had the fright of my life when I opened the door.”
“Who was it?” Church asked.
“I don’t know! They didn’t tell me!” She back-pedalled, suddenly aware they might judge her for not questioning the men further. “They were coppers,” she said unconvincingly. “Looked like a bloody funeral party, all dressed in smart suits and ties. I don’t know what the old man’s done. He never tells me anything.”
Church and Ruth looked at each other uneasily. “Do you know where they took him?” Ruth said.
The woman shook her head. “They said they’d let me know. They told me it was in his best interests!” she protested pathetically before slamming the door.
“What was that all about?” Ruth asked once they were comfortably in heavy traffic heading back into town.
“Could be the murder squad. They might have linked Kraicow to Maurice Gibbons.”
“Could be.” Her voice suggested she didn’t believe it. “Seems more like the kind of thing Special Branch would do. Or the security services.”
“What would they want with Kraicow?” The question hung uncomfortably in the air for a moment until Church added, “Let’s not get paranoid about this.”
“If this whole episode isn’t a case for paranoia, I don’t know what is. We haven’t got any more leads now. Where do we go from here?”
They crawled forward through the traffic for another fifteen minutes before Church found an answer. “There’s a lot of weird stuff going on around the country just like this. I mean, not people turning into devils, but things that shouldn’t be happening.” Church explained to her at length about the massive upsurge in supposed paranormal events he had read about on the net. “I don’t know …” He shrugged. “It may be nothing. All the nuts coming out of the woodwork at once. But it seems to me too much of a coincidence.”
Ruth sighed heavily and stared out of the passenger window at the dismal street scene; no one seemed happy, their shoulders bowed beneath an invisible weight as they headed to the tube for another dreary day at work. It depressed her even more. “I can’t get my head round this at all.”
“Let’s just pretend it’s not happening,” Church snapped, then instantly regretted it; he was tired and sick of nothing in his life making sense.
Ruth glared at him, then looked back out of the window.
“Sorry.”
She ignored his apology frostily; Church could see she was tired herself. “Gibbons was killed to prevent him telling what he’d seen,” she mused almost to herself. “But what did he see?”
“I’ve had some emails from a woman who says she saw something which could throw some light on what’s going on,” Church ventured. He considered telling her about Laura’s mention of Marianne, but thought better of it; he could barely handle the implications himself.
“You really think all that stuff’s linked to what we’re dealing with?”
“Who knows?” he said wearily. “These days, everything’s a leap in the dark.”
“So is she going to tell you what she knows?”
“She wants to do it face to face. I was going to see her anyway, you know, just out of curiosity.” He winced inwardly at the lie about his motivations. Ruth didn’t deserve it, but how could he tell her he wanted to find out how this woman knew about his dead girlfriend? It sounded a little pathetic, worse, like an obsession.
“Why the hell not. Where is she?”
“Bristol.”
Ruth moaned. “Oh well, I’ve got no job to keep me here. Just give me a couple of hours to pack. Looks like we’ve got us a road trip.”
Although it had been two years since he had last felt the warmth of her skin, Marianne’s presence still reverberated throughout the flat. On the wall of the hall hung the grainy black and white photo of the two of them staggering out of the sea at Bournemouth, fully clothed, laughing; Marianne had had it framed to remind them both how carefree life could be if they ever faced any hardship. In the kitchen, in the glass-fronted cabinet, stood her blue-and-white-hooped mug with the chip out of the side. Church couldn’t bear to throw it away. He saw it every day when he made his first cup of tea, and his last. The dog-eared copy of Foucault’s Pendulum which they had both read and argued about intensely sat on the shelf in the lounge, next to the pristine edition of Walking on Glass which Marianne had given him and which he had promised her he would read and had never got round to. The paperweight of a plastic heart frozen in glass which they had bought together in Portobello. The indelible stain of Marianne’s coffee on the carpet next to her seat. A hundred tiny lies ready to deceive him in every corner of his home. Sometimes he even thought he could smell her perfume.
With the TV droning in the background and the holdall still half-packed on the bed, Church suddenly found himself taking stock of it all in a way he had not done since the immediate aftermath of her death. For months the reminders had simply been there, like the drip of a distant tap, but as he trailed around the flat, they seemed acute and painfully lucid once more. Perhaps it was the bizarre, disturbing mention of her name in the email, or what he thought he had seen in the street, but he had to visit each one in turn with an imperative which he found disturbing.
But he was sure he could give it all up, turn back to the future, if he could somehow understand what had driven her to suicide and how he had been so blind to the deep undercurrents that must have been in place months before. He had played over every aspect of their relationship in minute detail until he was sick of it, but the mystery held as strong as ever, trapping him in the misery of notknowing, a limbo where he could not put the past and all its withered, desperate emotions to rest. No wonder he was seeing her ghost; he was surprised it hadn’t come sooner, lurching out of his subconscious to drive him completely insane.
In the lounge, the TV news had made an incongruous link from an account of a bizarre multiple slasher murder in Liverpool to details of a religious fervour which seemed to be sweeping the country; the Blessed Virgin Mary had allegedly appeared to three young children on wasteland in Huddersfield; a statue of the Hindu god Ganesh had given forth milk in Wolverhampton, and there were numerous reports of the name of Allah spelled out in the seeds of tomatoes and aubergines when they were cut open in Bradford, Bristol and West London. Church watched the item to the end, then switched off the TV and put on a CD. The jaunty sound of Johnny Mercer singing Ac-cent-tchu-ate the Positive filled the flat as he returned to his packing.
He picked up Laura’s email confirming the details of their meeting and then checked the road atlas. Church hoped his car would make the trip to Bristol. It had seen better days and very few long journeys, but he had bought it with Marianne and hadn’t been able to give it up.
A haze of chill drizzle had descended on the city just after he had dropped Ruth off and by the time he began to load up the car, it seemed to have settled in for the day. The world appeared different somehow; there was a smell in the air which he didn’t recognise and the quality of light seemed weird as if it was filtering through glass. Even the people passing by looked subtly changed, in their expressions or the strange, furtive glances which he occasionally glimpsed. He felt oddly out of sorts and apprehensive about what lay ahead.
When he stepped out of the front gate, a group of children splashing in the gutter across the road stopped instantly and turned to face him as one, their eyes glassy and unfocused. Slowly, eerily, they each raised their left arm and held up the index finger. “One!” they shouted together. Then they splayed out their fingers and thumb. “Of five!” Some stupid catchphrase from a kids’ cartoon, Church thought, but he still felt a shiver run down his spine as he hurried up the street to the car.
As he threw his bag into the boot, he heard the shuffle of feet on the pavement behind him. He whirled, expecting to catch the children preparing to play a
prank, only to see a homeless man in a filthy black suit, his long hair and beard flattened by the rain. He walked up to Church, shaking as if he had an ague, and then he leaned forward and snapped his fingers an inch away from Church’s face.
“You have no head,” he said. Church felt an icy shadow fall over him, an image of the woman at the riverside; by the time he had recovered the man had wandered away, humming some sixties tune as if he hadn’t seen Church at all.
On his way to Ruth’s, Church passed through five green lights and halted at one red. Nearby was a poster of a man selling mobile phones; the top of the poster was torn off and the man’s head was missing. Further down the road, he glanced in a clothes shop to see five mannequins; four were fine, one was headless.
And as he rounded the corner into Ruth’s street, a woman looked into the car, caught his eye, then suddenly and inexplicably burst into tears.
He finally reached Ruth’s flat just before 1 p.m. She was ready, with a smart leather holdall and Mulberry rucksack. “I can’t help believing all this will have a perfectly reasonable explanation and we’ll both end up with egg on our faces. God help me if the people at work find out,” she said.
“Let’s hope, eh.”
Church drummed his fingers anxiously on the steering wheel as they sat in the steaming traffic in the bottleneck of Wandsworth High Street. Ruth looked out at the rain-swept street where a man in a business suit hurried, head bent, into the storm with a copy of the FT over his head-as if it could possibly offer any protection. “You know,” she mused, “I have the strangest feeling. Like we’re leaving one life behind and moving into a different phase.”
“Too much Jack Kerouac.” Church’s attention was focused on the rearview mirror; he had the sudden, uncomfortable feeling they were being followed.
“It’s frightening, but it’s liberating too,” Ruth continued. “Everything was set in stone before-my job, where I was going. Now it feels like anything is possible. Isn’t that weird? The world has turned on its head and I feel like I’m going on holiday.”
World's End Page 6
