What’s the difference between a duck?
I don’t know, Dad.
One leg’s both the same.
My foot on the parapet. The crack of stone. The drop. How fast you’d go. A sense of freedom, of flight. Shackles off. A release forever from worry and fear and responsibility.
I bore down on the accelerator.
70… 80… 90…
I lifted my hands from the steering wheel and closed my eyes.
13
I got back at midnight. I went to the bedroom to take a nap, my body beginning to scream at me from a million overused junctions, and Mengele sank on to me in the dark. Here it comes, I thought, and braced myself for a savaging. But his claws were sheathed; I felt a soft, warm paw press against my cheek. He was purring fit to raise the feline dead (or his many victims).
‘Maybe I should change your name to Gandhi,’ I murmured, my voice thick with fatigue. And one claw dimpled my skin, as if to say, Don’t push your luck, cuntychops.
Whatever I dreamed, I don’t remember, but I woke up feeling disoriented and scared. A layer of sweat clung to me like a cellophane wrapping. Mengele had relocated to the sofa. He watched me as I shuffled about the room, trying to find my phone. I switched off the alarm and stared out, bleary-eyed, at the night. It was one a.m. I took a shower and dressed, then punched the co-ordinates from the scrap of paper into an online map. The location was on Cheyne Walk. A street-level view showed a building: Carlyle Mansions. I looked that up and it seemed there had been writers across the years stumbling over themselves to live there: Ian Fleming, Henry James, Erskine Childers, T.S. Eliot, Somerset Maugham. There were probably more blue plaques than red bricks on the damn thing.
Sarah – Solo – would be there tonight, I was convinced. She had to be. They’d said that she would jeopardise her chances of remaining a part of the Accelerants if she was absent again.
Like she’d give a shit.
I checked my messages – nothing from Clarke… nothing from Romy… plenty from Mawker, his voice becoming more and more animated with every recording he left (I imagined his uvula shaking and shivering like a beached fish) – then grabbed my keys and went out. I drove down to Chelsea. I held the wheel at the recommended ten-to-two position. I observed the speed restrictions. I didn’t try to jump any amber lights.
What had I been thinking? I shook my head and swore at myself every mile of the way. I was disgusted with myself that I’d acted so irresponsibly. I could have killed not just myself, but any number of poor, innocent motorists. But I swore at Jimmy Two as well. He’d balanced the car so efficiently that there was no danger of the Saab veering off the road. When I’d opened my eyes, twenty seconds later, I was still in the left-hand lane, and the requisite stopping distance (and then some) behind the car in front.
The thrill though.
Until I opened my eyes, I’d felt the same as I had at the top of Marble Arch tower. I’d felt scared beyond words, but also weirdly improved. Attuned. It wasn’t a sense of immortality I felt, although I could understand how some people who had survived what seemed like certain death might reach such a belief; this was more like a heightening of the senses beyond anything I’d known before. I felt young and electric. But in control too. Measured. Capable.
My heart leapt at the thought of what might happen tonight. I wanted to be a part of this forced experience. Fuck the writing. I just wanted to drench myself in adrenaline, enjoy the spike of danger that, for once, was something that was mine to sculpt. And it wasn’t just a follow-the-pack mentality; I was having ideas of my own. Experiences I wanted to suggest to the group. I wondered how they’d react to a storming of New Scotland Yard in order to leave drawing pins on Ian Mawker’s office chair.
I reached the river at around one-thirty. I parked the car on Lawrence Street and walked back, keeping an eye out for any of the others who might have arrived early. It was a little on the cool side, but you could definitely feel the change in the air from winter to spring. The river glittered with reflected light from the extravagantly illuminated Albert Bridge. Across the water lay Norman Foster’s design lair, and his curvy Albion Riverside building with its shops, art galleries and million-pound one-bedroom flats. I sneered at the penthouses and the Porsches and any other expensive things beginning with P.
I stood under the trees on the river walkway and watched the road. It was nearly two a.m. now. I felt a frisson at the thought I was the only one keen enough to get here on time. All the other Accelerants were decelerated. And then a convoy of taxis: three of them, as if in formation, pulling up outside Carlyle Mansions. I felt pierced, cheated, left out of things: they must have been in touch with each other to organise that choreographed rendezvous, giving a lie to this charade about not fraternising outside of ‘office hours’.
I trotted across to meet them, anxious to intercept before they could gather on the pavement and begin their incestuous whispering.
No Solo. Christ.
‘Corkscrew,’ said Underdog, the first to notice my approach. ‘Nice of you to join us. Maybe we should change your name to “Tardy”.’
‘I’ve been here for half an hour,’ I said, hating the wheedling tone in my voice.
‘Whatever,’ he said. ‘I’ve already moved on.’
‘You know, it’s only been a couple of days, but I’d forgotten just how charming you are.’
‘Oh, you don’t know the half of it.’
‘I know you’re a cunt, and that you legged it sharpish when I was a gnat’s chuff away from death.’
‘It’s all grist, isn’t it?’ he said, but he’d been stung by that cunt. I’d given it some extra spice.
‘Enough,’ Odessa said, and I stepped back immediately. My shoulders had tensed up and my fists were balling. I didn’t realise how far my appetite for aggro had been ratcheted.
Treacle and Odessa were standing next to each other. They weren’t touching, but you could see the closeness in them. You could see how they wished for their arms around each other. Something wasn’t right.
‘What’s on the agenda?’ I asked. ‘Have we got a room in this gaff, or what?’
‘It’s just a meeting place,’ Odessa said. ‘It’s known as Writers’ Block.’
‘I wonder why so many writers ended up here,’ I said. ‘Something in the water. Twenty-four-hour concierge has a pocket full of ideas for stuck scribes.’
Underdog snorted and turned away.
‘Where are we going?’ I said. ‘What are we doing?’
‘Somebody has been following me,’ Odessa said. ‘All of us.’
‘Really?’
Underdog turned back, his eyes intent. ‘How about you?’ he asked. ‘You been followed?’
‘If I have, it was by someone better at it than the ones who followed you. I haven’t noticed anything.’ I clenched my teeth, wondering if Odessa had felt the heat of my pursuit the other night. But I’d been careful. No noise. I hadn’t drifted too close, and I hadn’t hung around outside her door once she’d arrived. And anyway, even if it was me that had spooked her, who had done the same to Treacle and Underdog? Both of them were rattled. It had affected Treacle by clamming him up and freezing him. Underdog was hopping around like a kid with a full bladder outside an engaged toilet. And his lips were flapping as if he’d just learned how to use them.
‘I don’t even know what we’re doing here,’ he said. ‘Why not just step outside where we can play sitting ducks?’
Even Odessa was twitchy, on edge. She kept rubbing at her chapped lips with her forefinger.
‘I’ll tell you this,’ Underdog said. ‘If I see who’s doing it… if I catch the wanker, I’ll punch him into the Stone Age.’
He went toddling off again, and then turned on his heel – the sharp sound of his sole on the concrete shockingly loud at this hour – and came back.
‘We weren’t like this before you turned up,’ he said.
‘Underdog.’ But Underdog was no longer paying heed to Odessa.
>
‘Even before Needles died, there was no suggestion of any ripples in the water. But then he was gone, and suddenly here you are. With your copper speak. With your eagerness to please.’
‘President backed me up. You know—’
‘President is a loner,’ Underdog said. ‘All he does is write Springsteen-lite ditties in his inherited shag pad. I don’t think I heard him say a dozen words…’
‘Why would anybody want to say anything within earshot of you?’ I asked, not unreasonably. I was getting jittery. It was late. I wanted to get to where we needed to be. I wanted to do what we were intending to do. I wanted to know what was going to happen to Solo now she’d missed another meeting.
‘Never mind that,’ Odessa said. ‘We’re here to decide a course of action.’
‘What about the experiences?’ I asked.
‘This is an emergency meeting,’ Underdog said. ‘Feel free to go off and do something you’ve never done before. Sex with a grown-up, maybe. Have a pint.’
‘We need to lie low for a while,’ Treacle said.
I didn’t know what to do. I hated not being in control of a situation, but there was nothing I could do to push this in the direction I needed it to go. A direct mention of Solo would have Underdog screaming accusations of badge. A suggestion we all pile back to one of their houses, even if it meant safety in numbers, would be greeted with derision. I had to just play it out. I had to feed off whatever crumbs they threw my way.
‘But isn’t this kind of thing exactly what you crave?’ I said. ‘Shouldn’t you be embracing these emotions? Spinning them into gold ink?’
‘None of us want to die for our art,’ said Odessa.
‘There’s no guarantee anything dodgy is going on,’ I said. I couldn’t keep the desperation from my voice. ‘Needles might have been a one-off. There’s nothing to suggest that he was the first on a shit list that has your names on it. You’re anonymous. You cover your tracks.’
‘It didn’t help him though, did it?’ There was a sudden yield to Underdog’s voice, as though, even if his expression suggested otherwise, he was eager to hear reason.
‘Random acts of violence,’ I said. ‘They happen all the time.’
‘All three of us were followed,’ Treacle said. ‘That doesn’t happen all the time.’
‘You can’t be sure, though, if that was the case. Odessa didn’t see anybody.’
I don’t know why I felt compelled to play devil’s advocate. I ought to just shut up, play the nodding dog to whatever they said to each other.
‘It doesn’t matter what I saw,’ Odessa snapped; the first time I’d seen her lose her cool. ‘Something is going on. Treacle’s right. We need to go to ground.’
‘What about this other member? Solo? She doesn’t know your plans. She’s exposed.’
‘He’s off again,’ Underdog said. ‘What do you care? You don’t know her. Butt out.’
I was this close to admitting that, actually, I did know her, and where the hell was she? But again, I could not convince myself that any good would come of it. They didn’t trust me, or at least Underdog didn’t. If I was transparent about my motives for being among them, they might clam up completely. I had to bide my time, such as it was. I had one avenue of hope: I knew Odessa’s address. Keep an eye on her and she might lead me to Solo unwittingly.
‘But she’s a part of this group,’ I said. ‘What if someone is following her? What if there is some kind of shit list, and she’s next on it because whoever it is doing the following can’t find you lot any more? I don’t know her, but you do. How would you feel if something happened to her? You’d be indirectly responsible.’
‘Fuck off,’ Underdog said, but I could see the cogs turning behind his eyes.
‘We’ll leave a warning, at the drop,’ Treacle said.
‘But what if—’
‘Nobody knows where anybody lives,’ Underdog said, as if he was spelling it out to a dim child.
‘This isn’t right,’ I said.
Odessa shrugged. ‘There’s nothing we can do.’
They left then, wordlessly, as if they were part of a play they’d rehearsed but neglected to give me my lines. I watched them go, dispersing along separate streets, moving like dead leaves in a gusting breeze. Hesitant. On the edge of frantic movement.
I was clenching and unclenching my hands. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so frustrated. But it wasn’t so much their intention to bow out of public life, or their resistance to my probing about Solo. I realised I’d come here wanting to taste some more of the danger they’d tested me with at Marble Arch. I felt like the child who has been promised the moon on a stick only to end up with a pre-sucked lollipop.
I started after Underdog, but he was casting nervous glances over his shoulder every few steps. I wouldn’t stand a chance. As soon as he hit the King’s Road he was going to hop on a night bus or hail a cab. Or maybe they’d reconvene to discuss how likely it was that I was their stalker.
I thought about Odessa. Maybe she was going home with Treacle. Back to her place. Back to his place… She’d probably catch a bus again, wherever she was going. Which meant she’d not get back for quite some time.
I got in the car and tore off towards Tufnell Park.
* * *
Half an hour later I was on Laurier Road. I’d parked the car around the corner in Dartmouth Park Road, closing the door as softly as possible. This was London, a city that never sleeps, but someone had obviously forgotten to tell the residents of NW5. Curtains closed. Lights off. Do not disturb.
I found Odessa’s house and studied it for a while but there were no obvious signs of anybody being at home. Conscious of spending too much time standing on the pavement, no matter how sleepy the rest of the street seemed, I pushed through the gate and walked up to the front door. One bell, which seemed to confirm my earlier suspicion that this place hadn’t been carved into flats. I tested the door but it was rock solid. Around the back was a garden with stone steps down to a patio and French windows. I peered through the glass into this basement level and saw the gleaming curves of accoutrements on a shelf, suggesting it was a kitchen. What looked like bi-fold doors separated the space from a front room. I put my ear to the glass for a while and heard voices. But they were space-filling voices. There were no lulls. These were voices being paid to talk.
I broke in, tensing myself for an alarm that never came. The kitchen was immaculate. Nothing had been cooked here for some time. I moved through to the front room to find an impeccably made bed and a small TV. It had the feel of a spare room. The whole basement, in fact – there was a shower under the stairs – was a self-contained living area. Maybe Odessa kept it for guests.
I ascended, wary of the voices, but suspecting that they belonged to a radio somewhere, the kind of low-level security effort that people made who didn’t have fancy motion-detecting alarm systems installed. Yet she did: I saw them tucked into the corners, flashing red whenever I moved. So they had been deliberately switched off. I paused on the stairs, wondering if my incredible proclivity for shit timing had struck again. Wouldn’t it just be sod’s law to be in this building at the exact same time that Gower’s killer had decided to bone up on his slashing technique?
The hallway gave on to a larger kitchen and here there were ghosts of what Odessa had eaten this evening. Something spicy, apparently. Smoked paprika was in that, and something meaty, a garlicky sausage maybe. Gutsy Dinners, by Odessa Scribbles. Lived experience. Write what you know. More separating doors and a big living room with scuffed old leather furniture. Dimmed lighting picked out the spot varnish on the spines in a bookcase. A vase of tulips past their best. No notebook. No diary. No laptop.
More stairs. A master bedroom containing a huge bed that was topped with a mess of blankets and pyjamas. Wardrobe with opaque glass doors. I stared at that for a while until I saw faces in the sweep of clothing that hung within. Spooked, I checked the bedside table but there was just a fat novel on top filled
with dog-ear folds, perhaps to remind her of choice phrasing she could steal.
Next door I found her study, and the radio (one voice saying ‘…this day and age it’s not videogames and TV that’s distracting our children, it’s social media…’ and another saying ‘…but there’s no evidence to show that children can’t multitask…’), and the reason why the alarm system was disconnected: an old cat sitting in a basket. This raggedy chap wasn’t up to any more outdoor adventures. Odessa couldn’t put the alarm on because it would go off every time Tiddles decided to plant his face in a bowl of chow.
He only reacted when I was within stroking distance. No twitch of the ears. No inscrutable stare. Deaf and blind. I scratched his ears and as he began to purr, his whole body shook. He was drooling like a dental patient pumped with novocaine. A tag on his collar told me his name was Gatsby. Fuck’s sake. What a great name for a cat.
I poked around Odessa’s things, expecting to find something with her name on it, but her anonymity extended to her own four walls, it seemed. I couldn’t find an envelope, passport or cheque book to illuminate me. More books, all of them research volumes: A Dictionary of Surnames, A Dictionary of Architecture, Joachim Berendt’s The Jazz Book, Lawrence Block’s Writing the Novel: From Plot to Print. I saw a piece of paper sticking out of that. Not a bookmark. A list of names. At the top it said Acc. Wannabes Thru the Ages. The first of the names – Rory Melling – was next to a date three years back. There were half a dozen other names yoked to dates that drew closer to the present day: Yvonne Gibson, Scott Dennis, Veronica Lake, Ben George, Barbara Parker. All of them had been marked with a red cross. And then, suddenly, from about eighteen months ago, presumably the change to anonymity had been made, because the list progressed with code names: Indigo, Renfield, Hawksmoor, Ransom, Odessa, Treacle, President, Underdog, Solo.
Sonata of the Dead Page 12
