He went to the counter with a fiver in his hand.
‘I need to use your computer for ten minutes.’
Afran took his money, said: ‘No porn, no jihad.’ Told him to keep an eye on the place and went out for a smoke. Belsey sat behind the desk and typed in ‘free website’. He clicked the first result that came up, ‘Your own website. Live online in minutes’, and keyed his details in.
It asked him to choose his domain name. He typed in ‘bridge9survivors’. It was available.
By 8.45 he was the proud owner of bridge9survivors.webspot.com. He chose a white background. Found a picture of a chrysalis. Across the top of the page he wrote: ‘Others have escaped. Talk in confidence.’
He opened another window and set up a new email address, made it prominent across the top and bottom of each page, along with his mobile number. He typed: ‘Any information, please call or email.’ Then he added: ‘We can help.’ He didn’t feel entirely confident about that. He added some references to magnetic fields, Group 9, radio telescopes, clicked ‘publish’ and went live. Then he sent a link to every Comfort attendee for whom he could find an email address or social-media page.
No sign of Afran. Belsey helped himself to a beer, switched the big screens on and watched highlights of a rugby match between England and Italy. He kept an eye on his phone. Afran returned and he paid for the beer, got one more. He ordered a pizza from the delivery place next door and, when it arrived, ate in front of the TV screen. He watched France vs Ireland. A couple of teenagers in caps came in and shot a few frames. At 10.45 an unknown number called, hung up as soon as he answered.
At 11.30 he got an anonymous text that said: ‘Sleep tight.’ Belsey tried calling the number; his call was rejected. When it got to midnight he put a tenner into Afran’s oversized fist and went down to his car.
33
BELSEY DROVE INTO THE CITY. He parked around the side of Waterloo station and fell asleep on the back seat. He achieved several hours’ blissful unconsciousness, woke at 9.20 a.m., shivering, phone ringing.
‘Hello?’ a man said, uncertainly.
‘Hello.’
‘Who is this?’
‘My name’s Nick Belsey.’
‘The website . . .’ He was hushed but well spoken.
‘Yes.’
‘Do you know where Thomas is?’
‘Who’s Thomas?’
‘My son.’
Belsey paused. No Thomas on the list of Comfort attendees.
‘I don’t know where he is. But I may have information related to his whereabouts. I can’t guarantee that. Tell me his story.’
‘Are you part of it?’
‘The organisation? No. I want to help people who’ve been part of it. I have concerns about the organisation. I work for the police. What happened to your son?’
‘He broke off all contact.’
‘When?’
‘Two years ago.’
‘And what made you call exactly?’
‘Can you come round?’ the man said. ‘I’d rather not speak over the phone.’
He gave Belsey an address in Highbury, close to the Emirates Stadium. The door was answered by a tall man with thinning white hair. He wore a jumper with a hole in the shoulder.
‘Come in.’
He let Belsey into a hallway filled with books, introduced himself as Jim Arnett, didn’t offer a handshake.
‘Have you also lost someone?’ he asked.
‘Not exactly. How did you see the website?’ Belsey asked.
‘Because of this.’
He led Belsey through to a study. A silver MacBook on the roll-top desk gleamed amongst old furniture, sagging bookcases and a Persian rug.
‘This is where you showed up.’
The screen showed three windows: in-boxes filled with alerts on keywords: ‘bridge’, ‘Group 9’, ‘Majorana’, ‘evolution’.
‘These were all terms we found in papers in his room. In emails and websites he’d been looking at.’
‘Was he living here at the time?’
‘Yes. We thought he should. For his first year. He was at university. Imperial.’
‘Can I see his room?’
There was a second of what appeared to be hesitation, then he led Belsey upstairs, opened the door to his son’s room and stepped back. The room was tidy, with a music stand set up, a violin case on the floor, maths books, school prizes. It felt like a museum reconstruction. A can of shaving gel had rusted beside the sink. The duvet cover had a Ferrari on it. But the detail that drew the eye, lending something quietly horrific to the scene, was a figure drawn onto the wallpaper above the bed. It was the crude figure of a man. The figure had large eyes with no pupils. One of its arms was raised. Around the head was what looked like a halo or helmet.
The father cleared his throat. ‘It appeared a week or so before Thomas disappeared. I’ve done some research. The image is taken from rock carvings in Peru. Three thousand years old or thereabouts. I don’t know what it’s doing there.’
Belsey walked into the room. The image had been outlined in pencil first: you could still make out some of the preparatory drawing. The ink looked like biro.
‘Do you know if Thomas drew it himself?’
‘He must have done. No one had visited him. He was in here alone often enough. We didn’t like to disturb him.’
A book sat on top of a pile of papers on the floor. A black, leather-bound diary – identical to the one he’d seen splayed face down on Amber’s couch the night she attacked him. The one in which Amber was recording the truth about things. Belsey picked it up. Inside, the title page announced ‘The Lost Light: Two Lectures by Prof A. Majorana’. The paper was thin, text printed in narrow lines.
Chemically all life processes are a burning. Oxidation is a slower burning, as in rust. Decomposition is a burning. Hence all energic activity amongst the elements of life is thought of as the work of fire. Man’s whole life is cast in the midst of fire. And so Egypt described the world as the lake of fire, or again, ‘the crucible of the great house of flame’.
‘It was amongst his university notes,’ the father said. ‘There are loose papers as well. Written by the same man.’ He indicated the pile the diary had been sitting on. ‘Odd lectures. That kind of thing.’
‘When exactly did Thomas go missing?’ Belsey asked.
‘Twenty-fifth of February that year. 2013.’
‘Any word from him since then?’
‘He called a month later. He said he was well. He wouldn’t tell us where he was. The number was blocked so we don’t even know where he was calling from.’
‘How did he sound?’
‘He sounded OK. But not entirely himself. His voice seemed older. Then, on Monday, we got a call. That was the first time in two years. We were out. We missed it.’
The man didn’t visibly express his anguish.
‘Did he leave a message?’
‘Yes. He said not to worry.’
‘Not to worry about what?’
‘That was all he said. “It’s me. Don’t worry. Everything is OK.” Seven words.’
‘And no idea where the call came from.’
‘No.’
Belsey went over to a photo display frame by the bed, a glass box with prints jumbled together.
‘This is him,’ he said.
‘Yes.’
Thomas looked awkward in all the photos: amongst friends, amongst family. Angular, in glasses, with the same long, thin face as his father.
‘How old was he when he went missing?’
‘Nineteen.’
Nineteen in February 2013. Belsey thought through the faces on CCTV, allowed for the time that had passed. He wasn’t one of the attendees for whom Belsey had a clear shot. Possibly one of the others.
‘Can I take the notes and book?’ Belsey asked.
‘If they help you find him. Will we be able to have them back when you’re finished?’
‘Of course.’
They
went downstairs to the living room.
‘Do you have any idea how he became involved with the group?’ Belsey asked.
‘No. We’ve tried to find out. The university hasn’t been able to discover anything. He had become slightly uncommunicative. We thought it was a good thing, maybe. He was doing brilliantly on his course, no problems there. As we expected. He’d never been in any kind of trouble. We’d thought he might take a while settling into university life, making friends . . .’
‘How long was he at Imperial before he disappeared?’
‘Five months.’
‘And he seemed OK.’
‘He seemed better than ever. Top grades, fencing team, orchestra. Even seeing a girl. Everything was tip-top. Then he vanishes, middle of the night. Doesn’t even take his wallet.’
‘Any suggestion he might have been forced in any way?’
‘None at all.’
‘What did the police say?’
‘Not much. There wasn’t a great deal they could do, apparently.’
‘Not easy for you.’
‘No.’
‘You said you didn’t want to talk over the phone.’
He nodded.
‘Why was that?’
‘Just . . . caution, I suppose.’
‘What’s made you think you need to be cautious?’
‘Nothing really. Well, just one thing.’ He hesitated again; glanced at Belsey to make one final assessment. ‘In the first week or so I thought there might be people watching us.’
‘In what way?’
‘There were two cars in particular, that I saw parked across the street four or five times. With someone in them. Sometimes two people. As if they were taking turns to watch the house. This could be a total overreaction on my part.’
‘I’m not sure it is. Were Imperial aware of other students who may have been involved?’
‘No.’
‘Did the girl he was seeing notice he’d changed?’
‘To some extent. She said he’d been seeing her less. She had concerns, but she didn’t know what was happening.’
‘Do you have a number for her?’
He went to a chest of drawers at the side of the living room. ‘This was in his desk.’ He produced a square piece of card with ‘Josie’ written on the back in a young woman’s handwriting, a heart, then the number for a landline in south-east London. On the front was a picture of a chrysalis.
34
BELSEY PROMISED JIM ARNETT HE’D be in touch as soon as he found anything out. He took the notes, sat in his car at the side of the Holloway Road. Studied the card. It was an extraordinary photograph, close up. You could see the black stalk at the top of the chrysalis, by which it hung from the stem of a plant, the veins of a wing within the translucent green wrap, pressing against the outer skin. He turned it over, called Josie’s number. The line was disconnected.
Belsey looked at the notes. No contact from Thomas in two years. Then a call on Monday. He said not to worry. Which meant there was something to worry about.
He skimmed the notes for any suggestion as to what it might be. He hit this:
To advanced recruits:
Trainees who have successfully completed the initial stages must prepare themselves for the psychological demands ahead. Those granted access to the past and future will inevitably undergo exile from the present. Be patient and guard your new knowledge. Do not expect the uninitiated to accompany you on this journey. Man’s collective reality is an expression of fear, and no fear is greater than that of advancing beyond the terrestrial.
Life does not necessitate acceptance of the human condition. Humanity is a stepping stone. Our vow, as vanguard, is to conquer new potentialities before they can be exploited by the forces of greed. The time is coming when Earth may lose, once and for all, the possibility of fulfilling its role in the universe. Civilisations have risen and disappeared, each advancing man’s knowledge of the journey ahead. Yet none have displayed a level of self-destruction such as ours.
Belsey looked at the chrysalis picture again. Josie Christie. Not a unique name, but unusual enough. He googled it and found three Josie Christies currently in the London area, one a retired headmistress, one a twelve-year-old. The third worked for a PR firm called Kingsley Mackintosh Promotions. It was accompanied by a brief biog, which had her graduating from Imperial in 2011.
There was a picture of her on the firm’s website: quite glamorous, long, wavy brown hair, bright smile, in her late twenties. Belsey called the company. They said she was on maternity leave. He said he wanted to send a present for the baby and the idiots gave him her home address.
Crouch Hill. Identical detached homes arranged in clusters of four to marginally offset the effect of an assembly line. The front gardens gave each occupant the opportunity for self-expression but few had ventured beyond a bird bath or some rhododendrons. Clean bricks, double-glazing. Christie’s home had an empty driveway. A woman answered.
‘Josie?’
‘Yes.’ She was pretty, a little pale with maternity. Glad of distraction.
‘I need to talk to you. About Thomas Arnett. About the Bridge.’ Her face fell. Belsey showed her the chrysalis card. She stared at it, at Belsey, then her eyes flicked to the road behind him.
‘Who are you?’
‘Someone who’s concerned.’
‘I’m not part of it any more. I’ve got nothing to do with them.’
‘Then you’re free to talk.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Yes you can.’
‘My husband will be back in a few minutes.’
‘Then you better talk fast.’ Belsey stepped past her, into a silent house. Nicely done up, slight smell of baby wipes. Josie looked around, uncertain how to manage this visit. She led him into the living room, didn’t put the lights on. She picked up a few stray toys, moved a blanket from a sofa for him, perched on the second sofa. She had a view of the road in front. Daylight hit the side of her face. She wrapped herself in her cardigan, checked the clock on the DVD player.
‘Why do you want to know about them?’
‘All sorts of reasons. You’ve left?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, it was a part of my life before I met Lawrence. Look, he never knew about any of it. I was in a bad place, now I’m in a good place.’
‘How long were you involved?’
‘Three years or so.’
‘Did you know Chloe Burlington, Ian Harper—’
She raised a hand. ‘We didn’t use names. I can’t talk about that.’
Belsey checked his impatience. She didn’t want to look at him.
‘Why is it called the Bridge?’
‘Because it is – a bridge.’ She blushed. Finally she fixed her eyes on him. ‘For man. For humanity. That’s the idea.’
‘Who runs it?’
‘Andreas Majorana. He’s the founder. He founded all the groups.’
‘Where are the other groups?’
‘Abroad.’
‘Abroad?’
‘I think so.’
‘Describe him.’
‘I can’t describe him in words. Not simply. He was an incredibly kind, patient man.’
‘Was he white?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was he European?’
‘I don’t know. Not English, I don’t think. But he didn’t have a strong accent.’
‘How old, approximately? Older than me? Younger than me?’
‘About the same.’
‘Do you know whereabouts he lived?’
‘No.’
‘Where is the group based?’
‘Based?’
‘Its offices, anything like that.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘But you met.’
‘We met all over. People’s houses, centres with rooms they hired, or had loaned to them.’
‘Give me an address. Any address.’
‘I can’t remember. It
all feels so long ago.’
‘This is going to take some time, isn’t it. Maybe Lawrence can help speed things up. When he’s back.’
Her face contorted. ‘OK. There was one off Essex Road, a community centre. That’s all I can remember. We met there a few times. I mean, it was the most frequent one.’
‘How did you get involved?’
She hesitated, took a breath.
‘I have epilepsy. I’ve had it since I was a teenager. It was becoming worse, with more frequent seizures. I was feeling very low. A friend had gone to a few sessions and she said it helped her with her emotions. Her skin had improved and she was generally feeling happier. Someone had come up to her in a café and invited her to a meeting, that was how she got involved. It was Andreas. She’d been crying. She’d just broken up with her boyfriend. He came up and spoke to her. Anyway, she said it was great, and I should try it. So I went.’
‘What happened in the meeting?’
‘We talked. We were all new. We talked about how we’d ended up there. Then Andreas spoke. He explained the importance of the journey we were beginning, that we had been chosen for a task. He said we could leave if we wanted, if we didn’t want the responsibility. Our hearts would tell us if it was right.’ She looked startled as she said this, as if experiencing the whole thing for the first time.
‘Why didn’t you leave?’
‘Because of him.’
‘Andreas.’
‘Yes.’
‘Is that his real name?’
‘I don’t know.’
Belsey was holding the Comfort CCTV stills. He spread them across the coffee table.
‘Any of these him?’
She glanced, reluctantly. Shrugged. ‘No.’
‘Anyone else in the hierarchy that you can see here?’
‘There was no hierarchy.’
Belsey sighed pointedly, gathered the pictures up.
‘Give me something, Josie. Tell me about Andreas. Come on. Who is he? What’s his background?’
‘I . . . He’d had a terrible life, I think. He told us that he grew up around a lot of alcoholism, abuse, poverty. He started having visions of places and people. Later, when he was in the army, they tested him because they thought they could use his skills, but he ran away. He hated war, didn’t want anything to do with it. So he spent years wandering and slowly met others who’d had contact with the secret, or who he could introduce to it, who were receptive. These people decided to work together.’
The House of Fame Page 22
