“It won’t last,” Burgess said. “Most people are embarrassed to admit to reading fantasy now, and that will only make them more so. The book you’re planning is more what they want—something they know is true. That way they don’t feel they’re indulging themselves.” He disinterred the phone at last. “Just let me call a car and we’ll go into the West End for lunch.”
Afterwards they continued drinking in Hugo’s club. Miles thought Hugo was trying to midwife the book. Later he dined alone, then lingered for a while in the hotel bar; his spotlessly impersonal room had made him feel isolated. Over the incessant trickle of muzak he kept hearing Burgess: “I wonder how soon you’ll be able to let me have sample chapters…”
Next morning he was surprised how refreshed he felt, especially once he’d taken a shower. Over lunch he unburdened himself to his agent. “I just don’t know when I’ll be able to deliver the book. I don’t know how much research may be involved.”
“Now look, you mustn’t worry about Hugo. I’ll speak to him. I know he won’t mind waiting if he knows it’s for the good of the book.” Susie Barker patted his hand; her bangles sounded like silver castanets. “Now here’s an idea for you. Why don’t you do up a sample chapter or two on the West Derby case? That way we’ll keep Hugo happy, and I’ll do my best to sell it as an article.”
When they’d kissed goodbye Miles strolled along Charing Cross Road, composing the chapter in his head and looking for himself in bookshop displays. Miles, Miles, books said in a window stacked with crime novels. NIGHT OF ATROCITIES, headlines cried on an adjacent newspaper stand.
He dodged into Foyles. That was better: he occupied half a shelf, though his earliest titles looked faded and dusty. When he emerged he was content to drift with the rush-hour crowds—until a newsvendor’s placard stopped him. BRITAIN’S NIGHT OF HORROR, it said.
It didn’t matter, it had nothing to do with him. In that case, why couldn’t he find out what had happened? He didn’t need to buy a paper, he could read the report as the newsvendor snatched the top copy to reveal the same beneath. “Last night was Britain’s worst night of murders in living memory…”
Before he’d read halfway down the column the noise of the crowd seemed to close in, to grow incomprehensible and menacing. The newsprint was snatched away again and again as if he were the victim of a macabre card trick. He sidled away from the newsstand as though from the scene of a crime, but already he’d recognised every detail. If he hadn’t repressed them on the way to London he could have written the reports himself. He even knew what the newspaper had omitted to report: that one of the victims had been forced to eat parts of herself.
Weeks later the newspapers were still in an uproar. Though the moderates pointed out that the murders had been unrelated and unmotivated, committed by people with no previous history of violence or of any kind of crime, for most of the papers that only made it worse. They used the most unpleasant photographs of the criminals that they could find, and presented the crimes as evidence of the impotence of the law, of a total collapse of standards. Opinion polls declared that the majority was in favour of an immediate return of the death penalty. “MEN LIKE THESE MUST NOT GO UNPUNISHED,” a headline said, pretending it was quoting: Miles grew hot with frustration and guilt—for he felt he could have prevented the crimes.
All too soon after he’d come back from London, the nightmares had returned. His mind had already felt raw from brooding, and he had been unable to resist; he’d known only that he must get rid of them somehow. They were worse than the others: more urgent, more appalling.
He’d scribbled them out as though he was inspired, then he’d glared blindly at the blackened page. It hadn’t been enough. The seething in his head, the crawling of his scalp, had not been relieved even slightly. This time he had to develop the ideas, imagine them fully, or they would cling and fester in his mind.
He’d spent the day and half the night writing, drinking tea until he hardly knew what he was doing. He’d invented character after character, building them like Frankenstein out of fragments of people, only to subject them to gloatingly prolonged atrocities, both the victims and the perpetrators.
When he’d finished, his head felt like an empty rusty can. He might have vomited if he had been able to stand. His gaze had fallen on a paragraph he’d written, and he’d swept the pages onto the floor, snarling with disgust. “Next morning he couldn’t remember what he’d done—but when he reached in his pocket and touched the soft object his hand came out covered with blood…”
He’d stumbled across the landing to his bedroom, desperate to forget his ravings. When he’d awakened next morning he had been astonished to find that he’d fallen asleep as soon as he had gone to bed. As he’d lain there, feeling purged, an insight so powerful it was impossible to doubt had seized him. If he hadn’t written out these things they would have happened in reality.
But he had written them out: they were no longer part of him. In fact they had never been so, however they had felt. That made him feel cleaner, absolved him of responsibility. He stuffed the sloganeering newspapers into the wastebasket and arranged his desk for work.
By God, there was nothing so enjoyable as feeling ready to write. While a pot of tea brewed he strolled about the house and revelled in the sunlight, his release from the nightmares, his surge of energy. Next door a man with a beard of shaving foam dodged out of sight like a timid Santa Claus.
Miles had composed the first paragraph before he sat down to write, a trick that always helped him write more fluently—but a week later he was still struggling to get the chapter into publishable shape. All that he found crucial about his research—the idea that by staying in the West Derby house he had tapped a source of utter madness, which had probably caused the original murder—he’d had to suppress. Why, if he said any of that in print they would think he was mad himself. Indeed, once he’d thought of writing it, it no longer seemed convincing.
When he could no longer bear the sight of the article, he typed a fresh copy and sent it to Susie. She called the following day, which seemed encouragingly quick. Had he been so aware of what he was failing to write that he hadn’t noticed what he’d achieved?
“Well, Jonathan, I have to say this,” she said as soon as she’d greeted him. “It isn’t up to your standard. Frankly, I think you ought to scrap it and start again.”
“Oh.” After a considerable pause he could think of nothing to say except “All right.”
“You sound exhausted. Perhaps that’s the trouble.” When he didn’t answer she said “You listen to your Auntie Susie. Forget the whole thing for a fortnight and go away on holiday. You’ve been driving yourself too hard—you looked tired the last time I saw you. I’ll explain to Hugo, and I’ll see if 1 can’t talk up the article you’re going to write when you come back.”
She chatted reassuringly for a while, then left him staring at the phone. He was realising how much he’d counted on selling the article. Apart from royalties, which never amounted to as much as he expected, when had he last had the reassurance of a cheque? He couldn’t go on holiday, for he would feel he hadn’t earned it; if he spent the time worrying about the extravagance, that would be no holiday at all.
But wasn’t he being unfair to himself? Weren’t there stories he could sell?
He turned the idea over gingerly in his mind, as though something might crawl out from beneath—but really, he could see no arguments against it. Writing out the nightmares had drained them of power; they were just stories now. As he dialled Hugo’s number, to ask him for the address of the magazine, he was already thinking up a pseudonym for himself.
For a fortnight he walked around Anglesey. Everything was hallucinatorily intense: beyond cracks in the island’s grassy coastline, the sea glittered as though crystallising and shattering; across the sea, Welsh hills and mist appeared to be creating each other. Beaches were composed of rocks like brown crusty loaves decorated with shells. Anemones unfurled deep in glassy pools. When night fell he
lay on a slab of rock and watched the stars begin to swarm.
As he strolled he was improving the chapters in his mind, now that the first version had clarified his themes. He wrote the article in three days, and was sure it was publishable. Not only was it the fullest description yet of the murder, but he’d managed to explain the way the neighbours had behaved: they’d needed to dramatize their repudiation of all that had been done in the house, they’d used him as a scapegoat to cast out, to proclaim that it had nothing to do with them.
When he’d sent the manuscript to Susie he felt pleasantly tired. The houses of Neston grew silver in the evening, the horizon was turning to ash. Once the room was so dark that he couldn’t read, he went to bed. As he drifted towards sleep he heard next door’s drain bubbling to itself.
But what was causing bubbles to form in the greyish substance that resembled fluid less than flesh? They were slower and thicker than tar, and took longer to form. Their source was rushing upwards to confront him face to face. The surface was quivering, ready to erupt, when he awoke.
He felt hot and grimy, and somehow ashamed. The dream had been a distortion of the last thing he’d heard, that was all; surely it wouldn’t prevent him from sleeping. A moment later he was clinging to it desperately; its dreaminess was comforting, and it was preferable by far to the ideas that were crowding into his mind. He knew now why he felt grimy.
He couldn’t lose himself in sleep; the nightmares were embedded there, minute, precise and appalling. When he switched on the light it seemed to isolate him. Night had bricked up all the windows. He couldn’t bear to be alone with the nightmares—but there was only one way to be rid of them.
The following night he woke, having fallen asleep at his desk. His last line met his eyes: “Hours later he sat back on his haunches, still chewing doggedly…” When he gulped the lukewarm tea it tasted rusty as blood. His surroundings seemed remote, and he could regain them only by purging his mind. His task wasn’t even half finished. His eyes felt like dusty pebbles. The pen jerked in his hand, spattering the page.
Next morning Susie rang, wrenching him awake at his desk. “Your article is tremendous. I’m sure we’ll do well with it. Now I wonder if you can let me have a chapter breakdown of the rest of the book to show Hugo?”
Miles was fully awake now, and appalled by what had happened in his mind while he had been sleeping. “No,” he muttered.
“Are there any problems you’d like to tell me about?”
If only he could! But he couldn’t tell her that while he had been asleep, having nearly discharged his task, a new crowd of nightmares had gathered in his mind and were clamouring to be written. Perhaps now they would never end. “Come and see me if it would help,” Susie said.
How could he when his mind was screaming to be purged? But if he didn’t force himself to leave his desk, perhaps he never would. “All right,” he said dully. “I’ll come down tomorrow.”
When tomorrow came it meant only that he could switch off his desk lamp; he was nowhere near finishing. He barely managed to find a seat on the train, which was crowded with football fans. Opened beer cans spat; the air grew rusty with the smell of beer. The train emerged roaring from a tunnel, but Miles was still in his own, which was far darker and more oppressive. Around him they were chanting football songs, which sounded distant as a waveband buried in static. He wrote under cover of his briefcase, so that nobody would glimpse what he was writing.
Though he still hadn’t finished when he reached London, he no longer cared. The chatter of the wheels, the incessant chanting, the pounding of blood and nightmares in his skull had numbed him. He sat for a while in Euston. The white tiles glared like ice, a huge voice loomed above him.
As soon as she saw him Susie demanded “Have you seen a doctor?”
Even a psychiatrist couldn’t help him. “I’ll be all right,” he said, hiding behind a bright false smile.
“I’ve thought of some possibilities for your book,” she said over lunch. “What about that house in Edinburgh where almost the same murder was committed twice, fifty years apart? The man who did the second always said he hadn’t known about the first…”
She obviously hoped to revive him with ideas—but the nightmare that was replaying itself, endless as a loop of film, would let nothing else into his skull. The victim had managed to tear one hand free and was trying to protect herself.
“And isn’t there the lady in Sutton who collects bricks from the scenes of crimes? She was meaning to use them to build a miniature Black Museum. She ought to be worth tracing,” Susie said as the man seized the flailing hand by its wrist. “And then if you want to extend the scope of the book there’s the mother of the Meathook Murder victims, who still gets letters pretending to be from her children.”
The man had captured the wrist now. Slowly and deliberately, with a grin that looked pale as a crack in clay, he— Miles was barely able to swallow; his head, and every sound in the restaurant, was pounding. “They sound like good ideas,” he mumbled to shut Susie up.
Back at her office, a royalty fee had arrived. She wrote him a cheque at once, as though that might cure him. As he slipped it into his briefcase, she caught sight of the notebooks in which he’d written on the train. “Are they something I can look at?” she said.
His surge of guilt was so intense that it was panic. “No, it’s nothing, it’s just something, no,” he stammered.
Hours later he was walking. Men loitered behind boys playing pinball; the machines flashed like fireworks, splashing the men’s masks. Addicts were gathering outside the all-night chemist’s on Piccadilly; in the subterranean Gents’, a starved youth washed blood from a syringe. Off Regent Street, Soho glared like an amusement arcade. On Oxford Street figures in expensive dresses, their bald heads gleaming, gestured broken-wristed in windows.
He had no idea why he was walking. Was he hoping the crowds would distract him? Was that why he peered at their faces, more and more desperately? Nobody looked at all reassuring. Women were perfect as corpses, men seemed to glow with concealed aggression; some were dragons, their mouths full of smoke.
He’d walked past the girl before he reacted. Gasping, he struggled through a knot of people on the corner of Dean Street and dashed across, against the lights. In the moments before she realised that he’d dodged ahead of her and was staring, he saw her bright quick eyes, the delicate web of veins beneath them, the freckles that peppered the bridge of her nose, the pulsing of blood in her neck. She was so intensely present to him that it was appalling.
Then she stepped aside, annoyed by him, whatever he was. He reached out, but couldn’t quite seize her arm. He had to stop her somehow. “Don’t,” he cried.
At that, she fled. He’d started after her when two policemen blocked his path. Perhaps they hadn’t noticed him, perhaps they wouldn’t grab him—but it was too late; she was lost in the Oxford Street crowd. He turned and ran, fleeing the police, fleeing back to his hotel.
As soon as he reached his room he began writing. His head felt stuffed with hot ash. He was scribbling so fast that he hardly knew what he was saying. How much time did he have? His hand was cramped and shaking, his writing was surrounded by a spittle of ink.
He was halfway through a sentence when, quite without warning, his mind went blank. His pen was clawing spasmodically at the page, but the urgency had gone; the nightmare had left him. He lay in the anonymous bed in the dark, hoping he was wrong.
In the morning he went down to the lobby as late as he could bear. The face of the girl he’d seen in Oxford Street stared up at him from a newspaper. In the photograph her eyes looked dull and reproachful, though perhaps they seemed so only to him. He fled upstairs without reading the report. He already knew more than the newspaper would have been able to tell.
Eventually he went home to Neston. It didn’t matter where he went; the nightmares would find him. He was an outcast from surrounding reality. He was focused inwards on his raw wound of a mind, waiting
for the next outbreak of horrors to infest him.
Next day he sat at his desk. The sunlit houses opposite glared back like empty pages. Even to think of writing made his skin prickle. He went walking, but it was no good: beyond the marshes, factories coughed into the sky; grass blades whipped the air like razors; birds swooped, shrieking knives with wings. The sunlight seemed violent and pitiless, vampirising the landscape.
There seemed no reason why the nightmares should ever stop. Either he would be forced to write them out, to involve himself more and more deeply in them, or they would be acted out in reality. In any case he was at their mercy; there was nothing he could do.
But wasn’t he avoiding the truth? It hadn’t been coincidence that had given him the chance he’d missed in Oxford Street. Perhaps he had been capable of intervention all along, if he had on1y known. However dismaying the responsibility was, surely it was preferable to helplessness. His glimpse in Oxford Street had made all the victims unbearably human.
He sat waiting. Pale waves snaked across the surface of the grass; in the heat-haze they looked as though water were welling up from the marshes. His scalp felt shrunken, but that was only nervousness and the storm that was clotting overhead. When eventually the clouds moved on, unbroken, they left a sediment of twilight that clung to him as he trudged home.
No, it was more than that. His skin felt grimy, unclean. The nightmares were close. He hurried to let his car out of the garage, then he sat like a private detective in the driver’s seat outside his house. His hands clenched on the steering wheel. His head began to crawl, to swarm.
He mustn’t be trapped into self-disgust. He reminded himself that the nightmares weren’t coming from him, and forced his mind to grasp them, to be guided by them. Shame made him feel coated in hot grease. When at last the car coasted forward, was it acting out his urge to flee? Should he follow that street sign, or that one?
Dark Companions Page 9
