by Jon Steele
‘You recommended me to the IOC. I turn up in Lausanne and there’s a flat, an office, calling cards, a wad of cash. Then, like clockwork, Alexander Yuriev comes calling. This isn’t a job, it’s a set-up.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t follow you, Mr Harper.’
‘You knew Yuriev was on his way to Lausanne, you knew he’d try to contact the Doctor. And the real starter for ten, you bloody well knew the killers were tracking him. You needed someone to run interference for your Doctor pal, you needed bait.’
‘I’m afraid in answering that one I’d be revealing more facts than required for the present.’
‘Is the Doctor in on this?’
‘I assure you, he’s not. The Doctor’s part of something noble in a world badly in need of it. You and I, however, are part of its filthy underbelly.’
‘Why me, why not one of your Swiss Guard lads?’
‘I needed someone with your particular profile.’
‘As in a black-out drunk, someone so deep in the bottle he can’t remember his bloody London phone number.’
‘To be honest, I was hoping for a bit more.’
‘Ask Guardian Services Ltd for a refund.’
‘Trust me, there’s no time for that, Mr Harper. Hopefully, you’ll come round. In the meantime, let’s just say the unsuspecting always make for better bait, don’t you agree?’
The Merc rolled up through the outskirts of Lausanne and up from the lakeshore road to Saint-François. The Christmas village on the square back in full swing. Hot wine and drunken merriment beneath the twinkling lights. Black brollies popping open as icy rain began to fall. The Merc stopped at the traffic light. Harper looked through the rain-pelted windscreen. Flashing lights, a blur of faces. The whole world refracted through tinted glass, bending and stretching. Then the rain on the windscreen breaking into droplets and dripping down the glass like everything melting, till the rocker arm scraped over the windscreen and wiped it clean and made the world whole again. The traffic light flipped green. The Merc rolled up the hill towards the Lausanne Palace. Another construction brigade on ladders, patching up the hotel’s holiday ribbons and bows and lights, righting the small forest of beat-up Christmas trees. Life going bizarrely on.
‘So what am I supposed to do?’
‘Your job.’
‘And what’s my job, besides being bait?’
‘I’m sure you’ll work it out.’
‘What if I don’t?’
‘Then I’ll find the remains of your slaughtered form somewhere in Lausanne. Very soon, I’d imagine.’
The Merc drove by the hotel, did a U-turn, stopped at the bus stop 50 metres from the hotel.
‘You’ll forgive me if I drop you short of the hotel entrance. The Doctor might see you from the windows of La Brasserie. Wouldn’t want him asking questions. Can’t expect the man to be as resilient in his digestion as the likes of you or me, what? Besides, you have the look of someone badly in need of drink.’
‘First honest words I’ve heard out of your mouth all night, Inspector.’
Harper climbed out of the Merc, slammed the door, walked to the pavement. Heavy drops of rain pelting a patch of ice-crusted snow, picking up bits of lamplight, refracting into bits of colour.
Vnnnnnn.
Rear window lowering, Inspector’s voice jabbing at Harper’s back:
‘Mr Harper?’
Harper turned around.
‘I’ve made some arrangements to keep an eye on you but make no mistake, you’re in the gravest of danger.’
Harper felt ice-cold rain drip down his neck. He pulled at the collar of his mackintosh, turned around. Beyond the Merc, across Flon, above the old city: Lausanne Cathedral, illuminated in the soaking wet night.
‘You believe in evil spirits, Inspector?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Yuriev’s note – evil spirits walking the earth. Seems appropriate just now.’
‘Does it, indeed?’
Harper took a slow breath.
‘Don’t suppose I could tell you to fuck off and skip town?’
‘No, I’m afraid not.’
‘Right. Thanks for the ride then.’
‘Don’t mention it. Enjoy your evening.’
The window rose and the blue Merc drove to the hotel portico. The Prussian general of a doorman popped out, opened the rear passenger door, saluted. The Inspector alighted and strolled, devil may care, through the revolving doors. Harper looked down, kicked at the ice-crusted snow, watching it break into a thousand pieces of light.
‘Now is the bloody winter of our discontent.’
He looked up at the cathedral, thought about walking over, bang on the doors. Ask Headless Mary, Mother of God, the going rate for sanctuary.
Then again, didn’t do her much good.
He headed for LP’s Bar.
Katherine shuddered awake.
Alone in the bedroom, dark shadows against the white curtains, fireplace filling the room with light. She combed her hands through her hair. Slick, wet. Her skin, covered with the softest oil. Something delicious tingled through her body. She raised her wrist to her hand, smelling the scent of her skin, feeling the tingles swell. The oil was everywhere, her arms, her neck, her breasts.
She breathed the skin of her wrists again.
Her flesh warmed with a quickening pulse.
‘Yeah, here we go again.’
Pulling her hair over her face, breathing deeper. Her body melting into the silk sheets. Her hands touching her skin, her beautiful soft skin.
‘Jesus, whatever this shit is, I love it.’
Then remembering the looking-glass dream once again, wanting to stay in the dream for ever, sinking back to the bed. Her eyes searching the room. There, in the corner. The beautiful woman in the looking glass, floating fairylike in the dark.
‘There you are, baby. Come play with me some more.’
Watching the woman breathe, watching the joy seep into her blood. Katherine rolled her hips, the woman in the looking glass rolled her hips. She touched her breasts, the woman in the looking glass touched her breasts.
‘I so want it again, I want it again and again and …’
The beautiful woman dissolved and then reappeared, on the bed, but from a different angle. Still following her every move, but still looking away, dissolving and reappearing again.
‘You’re teasing me. Won’t you come closer?’
Katherine inhaled the smell of her skin again, closing her eyes, waiting for the forever rush. She fell back, stretched out on the bed, expecting to fly. Then high in the corner of the room, a tiny red light jumping from corner to corner.
Katherine stopped moving. A dull feeling washed over her as the rush slipped away. She shook her head, something not right. She climbed from the bed, wobbled, trying to find her balance.
The woman in the looking glass was standing, trying to find her balance, too.
Katherine stumbled towards the table.
She watched the woman in the looking glass stumbling the same way.
Katherine stopped, shook her head, focused her eyes at the thing on the table.
It wasn’t a looking glass, it was a laptop computer.
‘What the fuck?’
A tiny red light sparked next to her. Katherine stared at it till she could see it was connected to a video camera. She stepped back, saw herself on the computer screen, stepping back from the table. The picture dissolved and the red light jumped to a high corner. A second camera up there. Her eyes searched the room. Three, four … six fucking cameras, pointing to the bed in the centre of the room.
‘No way.’
She reached for the curtains behind the desk, eased one aside. The window had been filled in with bricks.
‘What the fuck?’
Katherine looked around the room.
Her luxuriant room of marble fireplaces and fragrant flowers … the place was a fucking dump. No fireplace, no flowers. Just an electric floor heater in the corner, cheap red velvet
on the walls, bright spotlights above the bed. And the luxuriant red silk sheets on the bed, cheap shreds of polyester, soaked with sweat and semen stains.
‘Oh, God, no. Jesus, please, no.’
She stepped back, bumping the table. The computer beeped and numbers and letters poured down the screen in a high-speed waterfall. A small message box appeared in the centre of the screen.
Connected: Encrypted Powerline Hyperspeed
199 members online
Subject not in frame
Switching to replay
Then seeing herself on the screen, alone on the bed, drugged out of her mind, masturbating like someone possessed.
‘Holy fucking shit.’
Her eyes searched the room again, trying to make sense of it.
She moved towards a light spilling beneath a door.
She touched the latch, pressed down with the lightest touch and opened the door. The light burned her eyes, she squinted to see. It was a bathroom. She went in.
A stinking toilet, a scum-lined sink. Bottles of oil, powders and herbs, mortar and pestle. Needles and syringes stained with traces of blood.
Katherine saw herself in the mirror, smeared make-up and swollen lips, hair sticky and matted. She looked like shit.
‘What the hell happened?’
There was a large bath in the corner, a grimy window above. She wiped her hand across the glass, leaned over the tub and looked out. She saw a metal platform outside the window, criss-cross stairs. A dark alley four floors down. Dead end one way, signs of life the other where a streetlamp stood at the corner of a small street.
Katherine looked at herself in the mirror again, realized she was naked. Then she saw the red spots on her breasts and skin. Bites and scratches and pressure marks. As if she had been mauled by a mob.
‘Jesus, Jesus.’
She looked around for her clothes, a robe, a towel. Not a stitch. She returned to the bedroom, she heard a muttering of voices echo down a mirrored hallway … and remembered walking down the same hall, in a beautiful gown … or was it a dream? Was all this a dream? She crept closer, peeked around the corner. A bright room at the end of the hall. She saw three shadows moving against a wall. Komarovsky and his attendants, it had to be them. They were there before, they gave her tea and fresh sweetmeats, Komarovsky telling her she was adored … Katherine felt a touch of fear as she realized she wasn’t dreaming at all, and the muttering voices were talking about her.
‘… the test is positive …’
‘… will need another dose soon …’
‘… have her bathed … taken to the others …’
The tall one’s shadow disappeared from the wall. Katherine saw his reflection appear in the mirrors. Walking towards the hall, walking towards her. She backed away and ran to the bed. She lay down and covered herself with the filthy sheets. She closed her eyes. She heard the tall one enter the room and open the door to the bathroom. She half opened her eyes, saw him through the doorway. Turning on the taps to the bath, testing the temperature with his hand, turning back towards the bedroom. Katherine closed her eyes again, heard him come close to her.
Felt him sit on the bed and pull away the sheets. Felt the touch of his fingertips tracing over her shoulders and breasts. His body lowering close to her, his lips moving against her face:
‘Are you dreaming still, my pretty?’
Katherine swallowed the scream in her throat.
‘Yes, I know. You want more, you need more. Don’t worry. I’ll be right back to bathe you in oils and inject you with potions and you will be in paradise once more.’
She felt his tongue lick her neck and nibble at her skin. She stopped breathing. Don’t move, don’t move.
‘There, there, my pretty. Soon, very soon.’
Katherine felt him rise from the bed, she heard him walk away. She opened her eyes. He was gone.
Panic rushed through Katherine’s blood. Gotta get out of this place now!
Her mind trying to think through the fog in her brain.
Bedroom window walled in, Komarovsky and his freaks down the hall, coming back to drug you. Wait … the bathroom window, the metal platform and stairs, must be a fire escape. She jumped from the bed, searched the room for her clothes. Only her mink and her bag on a chair. She grabbed both and hurried to the bathroom. The hot water pouring into the tub, filling the room with steam. She leaned over the tub and pulled at the window latch. It wouldn’t budge. It had been nailed shut.
She saw the water in the tub, more than half full now. The tall one would be back any second with his fucking knock-out drugs.
‘Shit!’
Her eyes desperately searching for something to break the window …
She felt the thickness of the fur coat in her hands.
‘Yeah, yeah.’
She rolled the coat around her arm, turned away her face and smashed the coat against the glass. The window shattered apart. She quickly smashed the remaining shards from the frame. She leaned out of the opening: just a short drop to the metal platform below. She laid the mink across the sill, stepped up on the edge of the tub and leaned through the window. She dropped her bag on the fire escape and then pulled herself through. She tumbled down on to the fire escape.
She tossed on her coat, grabbed her bag and quickly climbed down the stairs. Looking up, seeing if she was being followed …
Keep going! Keep going!
… the stairs ended at the first floor. A metal ladder needed to be released to get to the ground. The release handle wouldn’t shift.
‘Motherfucker!’ She sat on the landing, put her back against the wall and kicked at the handle again and again. ‘Motherfucker! Motherfuck—’
The release snapped and the ladder dropped to the ground. Katherine climbed on, looked up to the window again. Still no one. She flew down the ladder, falling to the snow-covered ground. She picked up her bag, was halfway down the alley before she realized she was heading to the dead end.
She turned back, saw the street at the other end of the alley, saw a taxi stopping at a red light. She was about to scream at the taxi when she looked up and saw a shadow at the broken window. She froze …
Fuck it! Run!
… she bolted for the street …
Don’t stop! Don’t look back!
… her bare feet pounding through the snow, her eyes seeing the red light go yellow, seeing the driver put the taxi into gear …
‘Wait! Wait!’
nineteen
Rochat had been shovelling snow from the balconies and dumping it on the cathedral roof all night. Madame La Lombarde, Couvre-feu and their three sisters in the upper carpentry appreciated his company and acted like long-lost aunties. Lots of ‘Why, hello, Marc!’ and ‘We don’t see enough of you!’ But in the lower timbers, Clémence and Marie complained he made far too much racket with his shovel. Marie was even more upset Rochat had unmade the snowman on the south balcony, only to reassemble him in the corner of the timber cage where she lived.
‘And what do you expect me to do, madame? Chop him up and dump him on the roof? I was told to get rid of him, no one told me where to rid him to.’
Marie responded by ringing for two o’clock.
Rochat dropped the shovel and hurried to the loge. Monsieur Booty was curled in a ball on the bed, he opened one eye. Rochat gave him a mocking bow.
‘Sorry to disturb you, your royal catness, but some of us have important work to do and can’t be sleeping on the job.’
He lit the lantern and shuffled round the tower, raising the lantern and calling the hour. He looked out over Lausanne to make sure all was well. Low, grey clouds had settled in and icy rain was beginning to fall. He hooked the lantern to the railings and resumed his shovelling duties. Marie’s fading voice still hummed with displeasure at the continuing racket.
‘Well, I’m very sorry I’m disturbing you, madame, but if I don’t clear the balconies of snow, this rain will turn everything to ice and I could end up bidding y
ou adieu as I go sliding over the railings, and wouldn’t you feel bad then?’
The great bell didn’t answer.
‘Bells. You work and you slave and this is the thanks you get.’
He shovelled the last clump of snow and dumped it on the roof. He shuffled back to the loge, collecting his lantern from the railings and resting the shovel next to the door.
‘And by the way, don’t you go wandering off like you did last year. I have lots of work for you yet. Can’t spend my time looking for you, you just stay by the door.’
He stomped his boots of snow and ice, slapped snow from his overcoat and stepped inside the candle-lit loge. He hung his coat and hat on the hook behind the door, blew out the lantern and set it on the table. Monsieur Booty heard the racket and sat up for a stretch.
‘So, you miserable beast, I’ve finished the balconies. Tomorrow, I’ll attack the roof. Difficult battles ahead yet.’ Monsieur Booty wasn’t interested. He rolled on his back, stretching his paws to all four corners of the bed. Rochat took off his hat and scratched his head. ‘Cats and bells, bells and cats. There’s got to be more to life.’
Rochat brewed a cup of tea, picked up his plate from Café du Grütli and sat on the tiny patch of bed Monsieur Booty hadn’t managed to claim as his own. He picked at the pommes frites left on the plate, dabbing them in the last of the mushroom sauce. Monsieur Booty perked up, realizing food was being consumed.
‘Forget it, you look like a big fat furry balloon already. You’re going on a diet when we get home.’
Mew.
‘Non, I can’t have you eating me out of house and home. Or belfry, come to think of it.’
He reached up and turned on the radio in the old wood box. He waited for the tubes to warm up. He always knew when the tubes were ready by the yellow light glowing from the back of the radio. The light was the same colour as the burning candles set about the loge. He tuned through wavy voices in the air. Paris, Belgrade, Berlin. When the needle pointed to Rome, a woman’s voice filled the room. She was singing a very sad song and the candles about the loge seemed to move with her voice. Rochat sipped his tea and watched the candles. He scratched Monsieur Booty’s belly as a man began to sing with the woman, sounding as if he was trying to hold her with his voice.
