by Bark, Jasper
“Not really no, I’m afraid. This is all new to me.”
“Followers of voodoo call themselves ‘Servants of the Loa.’ The Loa are the invisible entities they worship. Every follower has a like a patron Loa, a Met Tet they call it. Vince’s Met Tet is Baron Samedi, a Loa of the dead. If he likes you, he’ll let you call him Vince.”
“How will I know if he likes me?”
“You’ll know if he doesn’t like you. Seriously, this is one dangerous bastard you’re dealing with. He’s done literally hundreds of hits for different east end gangs. No one ever finds the bodies, it’s like they never existed when he’s done. That’s why he’s always in demand.”
Jimmy thought of the bodies he’d seen disappear and shuddered. “So he knows his stuff, when it comes to the dark arts, then?”
“He practices Petro-Voodoun.”
“Sounds like an 80s synth band.”
“You see, it’s comments like that, that could get you killed.”
“I’m sorry, tell me about this Petrol Voodoo.”
“That’s Petro-Voodoun, there are different schools of voodoo see, different paths you can follow as a believer, and each one has its own rites and rituals. Petro-Voodoun is the path you follow if you want to do all the dangerous stuff, and get the really big guns to help you.”
“The big guns?”
“The really powerful Loa. Look man, if you don’t know any of this shit, why are you spreading all this money around looking for a man like the Tailor?”
Jimmy looked at his watch again. “It’s kinda personal, I don’t really want to go into it. Does it matter that much, so long as I’m paying you?”
“I guess not.” Rick finished his cigarette and lit another one. There was a a tidy little pile of dog ends at his feet. Jimmy realised that for all his front, Rick was pretty nervous about seeing Vince. He wondered if he should be nervous, then decided he didn’t care so long as Vince took him to the Tailor.
“So did he learn all this voodoo stuff in Jamaica then?”
Rick scowled and shook his head with disbelief. “No, he’s not Jamaican.”
“I thought you had to be, to be a yardie.”
“You know nothing. And he’s not a yardie, he just does hits for the different gangs. He’s from Haiti, that’s where he learned about voodoo. His mother was a Mambo, a voodoo high priestess, she’s like some kind of royalty out there amongst the followers, his whole family is.”
Then, as though the mention of Vince’s family had conjured him, a beaten up, blue BMW pulled up at the curb. Neither of them had seen or heard it approach. Rick went white, dropped his cigarette and ground it out with his foot.
The back window wound down. Inside the car, Jimmy could see a tall, rangy black guy with shoulder length dreads and a leather jacket.
“So, I hear there’s a white boy flashing his cash around trying to find me,” said the guy from the backseat. He had a cockney accent, but his voice was deep and surprisingly musical.
“Yeah Vince, this is Jimmy,” said Rick. “He’s the one who’s been asking after you.”
Vince didn’t say anything to this. He just stared out of the back seat at Rick with a grim expression. Rick coughed and looked down at the floor like a schoolboy who’s just been scolded. Vince turned back to Jimmy.
“I need to find the Tailor of the True Cloth,” said Jimmy. “I’m told you can help me.”
Vince kissed his teeth and said in a perfect Jamaican accent: “Try Saville Row.” His window began to close. Jimmy reached out and placed his hand on top of the pane to stop it. Vince bristled. Jimmy suddenly realised how dangerous this was, like putting your hand into a lion’s open jaws.
“Look, I’m serious and I can pay,” he said. “If you don’t know where he is, just let me know and I’ll find someone else who does.” Jimmy was trying to sound earnest, and hide his desperation. Vince raised an eyebrow at Jimmy’s impertinence.
“I know where the Tailor is, and I know what it takes to find him. What I don’t know is whether you’re up to the job?”
“I’m up to it, and I’m good for the cash. Just tell me what I need to do and I’ll do it.”
Vince barked out a short humorous laugh. “We’ll see about that white boy. Meet me back here on Thursday, same time and bring five grand in cash.” Vince looked directly at Rick and said: “Come alone.”
Jimmy heard a slight sizzle then felt a searing pain across the palm of his hand. The window was suddenly white hot. He jerked his hand away in agony. The window slowly closed to the sound of Vince’s mirthless chuckle.
The blue beamer pulled away from the curb. Jimmy hugged his hand to his chest as the pain shot up his arm. The car disappeared.
Rick was breathing so heavily he was about to hyperventilate. He pulled out his cigarettes but his hands were shaking too much to light one.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Jimmy didn’t know Peckham well, it was a part of London he’d never been to. In fact, he never really went south of the river Thames. It had taken him all night to find the shebeen.
It was in the basement of an abandoned warehouse, at the bottom of a set of concrete steps that stank of piss. He pushed open the battered steel fire door and peered inside.
He saw nothing, at first, it was so dark. But he could hear muttering voices, the clink of glasses and the scraping of chairs. He wondered if we would find Vince here, or whether this would be another fruitless search.
As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, Jimmy saw a tall, lean figure, with shoulder length dreads, sitting alone with his back to the far wall. Vince didn’t see Jimmy as he entered the drinking den, a long thin room with a rubble strewn floor, littered with a collection of near broken furniture. Dim figures sat about makeshift tables and an obese bar man stood behind a ramshackle bar.
Vince looked up as Jimmy approached him and flashed a broad, dangerous smile, showing off his three gold teeth.
“Careful now,” said Vince. “White boy like you is like to get shivved in a place like this.”
Jimmy found he couldn’t control his temper as he sidled up to Vince. “What the fuck happened to you?” he said. “I waited ages and you never showed up.”
Vince dropped the smile and sat bolt upright at this. “You gwan disrespeck I white boy? Nuff men die fi less!”
Jimmy held his hands up in apology. Vince was talking in patois, that wasn’t a good sign. Jimmy was the only white face in the whole place. He was not in the best position to assert himself.
“Sorry,” he said. “I’m not trying to disrespect you. It’s just . . . y’know . . . you didn’t turn up, and I paid you a lot of money.”
Vince stared hard at Jimmy. His eyes bulged and his lips were set. He radiated murderous intent, like a wild beast about to strike. It was hard to endure. Jimmy neither wanted to look away nor at Vince. He was afraid that any reaction might result in a quick and painful death. No-one in the whole shebeen said a word or made a noise.
Just as this became unbearable, Vince threw back his head and let out a deep, throaty laugh, banging the table and pointing at Jimmy. The laughter spread out around the basement, everyone chuckling at Jimmy from the shadows. Jimmy nearly let go of his bladder he was so relieved.
“Sit down blood,” Vince said, in a broad east end accent. “Drink some Sammi.”
Vince called out to the huge barman in an African language Jimmy didn’t recognise. It was some sort of Khosian dialect with lots of tongue clicking, Vince sounded as though he’d been speaking it all his life. It was disconcerting the way a supposedly Haitian guy could switch so effortlessly between so many voices and identities. Jimmy supposed that’s why he did it.
“What happened?” said Jimmy. “I gave you the five grand like you asked. I waited on that street corner for hours, freezing my butt off. You pulled up in your beamer and took the money. But the place you told me to meet you at, the next day, doesn’t exist. It’s taken me days to find you. Why’d you rip me off?”
“I didn’t rip you off, you simply passed the first test.”
“What do you mean?”
“The knowledge I have, the knowledge you want, does not come cheap and it does not come easily. You have to earn it and you have to prove that you are worthy of it. I am just as hard to find as this knowledge, yet you sought me out. You passed the first test. The next one won’t be so simple or so cheap.”
“I don’t consider five grand to be cheap.”
“Then you don’t know what my knowledge costs.”
The barman arrived with two chipped mugs and an old plastic bottle full of clear liquid. Vince handed Jimmy a mug and poured some of the liquid into it. Jimmy took a sip and started coughing violently. It tasted like marzipan melted in battery acid.
Vince laughed. “You don’t like Sammi? You’ll never be a rude boy.”
“I can live with that.”
“So tell me, why do want to find the Tailor?”
Jimmy wasn’t sure if he could fully trust Vince, but he figured he didn’t have much of a choice, and he might learn something from him. “It’s a means to an ends really. I have something I need to take to him and that’s supposed to help me get in contact with a guy called Mr Isimud.”
Vince inhaled sharply, pursed his lips and shook his head. He looked tense. It was the first time Jimmy had seen him act anything but nonchalant.
“You want to contact Mr Isimud, that’s a whole other matter.”
“Wait, you know him?”
“He is a man of power. I know everyone with power in this city.”
“You mean politicians, fixers, that sort of thing?”
“No, I’m talking about real power, the power to change things forever. I would be very careful if I were you. If you’re looking for Mr Isimud, you can guarantee he already knows.”
“He knows I’m coming?”
“Oh yes. And it’s not likely to end well for you.”
“I’ll take my chances. So, if you know this Isimud character, could you take me directly to him?”
“No, once he’s chosen the route for you to find him, you have to stick to it. I wouldn’t go against that.”
Jimmy was surprised to see the tiniest glimmer of fear in Vince’s eyes when talking about Mr Isimud.
“So there’s no other way to find Mr Isimud except through the Tailor?”
“No.”
“Can he really make someone immortal?”
“You’d have to ask him. He’s certainly been alive for thousands of years.”
“Thousands of years, is that possible?”
“So you doubt my words now, white boy?”
“No, no, not at all, I just wondered how that was possible?”
“He conjured up some powerful forces and he created something monstrous, something that’s kept him alive ever since.”
“Something monstrous?”
“Yes, you’re too ignorant to realise, but you’ve already met it. You carry its scent.” Something in the way Vince said this, made Jimmy cold all over.
“Okay,” he said. “So let’s get back to this Tailor guy. What’s his angle? What does his name mean? What exactly is the ‘True Cloth?’”
“What do you think it is? There’s only one true cloth, the one thing that clothes everything in existence—the fabric of reality. It’s what the whole of the universe is cut from and it’s the material he chooses to work with.”
“Okay, now you’ve totally lost me. Are you telling me he makes like . . . reality suits?”
Vince sighed. “No, that’s not what I’m saying. He offers a unique service to a very select clientele. But first they have to find him.”
“That’s where you come in.”
“Exactly.”
“And what is this ‘unique service?’”
“He can make a garment out of anything, and I don’t just mean any type of fabric. He can fashion dresses from murderous intent and suits from endless longing. He can dress you in the jealous rage of a jilted lover or the bitter lies of a prosecution witness. He can take the dying breath of your newborn son, and weave it into a scarf to choke the life from the woman who killed him. He’s an alchemist of human couture, an artist without equal or equivalent.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously. Though his wares are rarely put to good use. For this reason his business is rather shady and his prices rule out all but a handful of people.”
“You’re talking metaphorically, right? Either that, or this is some ‘emperor’s new clothes’ scam I haven’t heard about.”
Vince put down his drink and gave Jimmy such a withering look he felt his scrotum shrivel.
“If that’s what you think,” said Vince. “Then our business is done. Be careful on your way out, this is a dangerous neighbourhood.”
“Alright,” said Jimmy. “I’m not saying that’s what I think, but what you’re saying is quite far out there, you have to admit.”
“And yet this is the man you want to track down. Why? It’s not just curiosity is it? Something violent and completely unbelievable happened to you, didn’t it? I knew it the moment I saw you. That’s why I let you find me. But if you’re going to find the Tailor, you’re going to have to start believing in him and everything he can do. You won’t find him any other way.”
Jimmy felt trapped by Vince’s logic. It occurred to him his scepticism was a defence mechanism. The part of him that was afraid to believe, because that meant he’d have to accept everything that had happened to him.
“Okay,” Jimmy said. “Tell me what I have to do.”
“Meet me at 2pm tomorrow at the top of Deptford High street. Bring whatever you have for the Tailor and ten grand in cash.”
“Ten Grand! I already paid you five.”
“That was for your first lesson. Your second costs more”
“I don’t know, ten grand’s a bit steep. I can give you another five.”
“You’ll bring ten or I won’t be there, you’ll never find me again and you’ll never see the Tailor. Got that?”
Jimmy’s shoulders sagged and he took another sip from of Sammi to console himself. It didn’t taste any better. “Yeah, I’ve got that,” he said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Vince was late. But Jimmy expected that. He didn’t know Deptford at all. It was south of the river, between Greenwich and Blackheath, the poor cousin to those well to do areas. It was supposed to be up and coming, shedding its reputation for being rough as arseholes, but Jimmy couldn’t see any difference.
He felt vulnerable and out of place as he loitered at the top of the high street. The laptop, with the last surviving copy of the footage, felt unnaturally heavy in its shoulder bag. It bumped his hip as he checked his watch for the hundredth time.
Finally, Vince sauntered into view and greeted Jimmy with a simple nod. He stood at the top of the street and tilted his head at odd angles, as though he was trying to see or hear things that Jimmy couldn’t.
“So, does this Tailor have a shop around here?” Jimmy asked.
Vince shook his head. “The Tailor has no fixed address. He manifests all over the city.”
“So why pick a shithole like this?”
Vince gave Jimmy another withering look. “Deptford is an ancient and magical place. It calls to every visionary and mystic who lives in London.”
“For real?”
“Yes, long before the Romans came and built Londinium, Deptford was here. The Knights Templar owned it for a long time. Dr John Dee, Queen Elizabeth’s conjurer, visited many times with Edward Kelly. Kit Marlowe, Shakespeare’s biggest rival, was sacrificed here when someone put a knife through his eye in a boarding house by the river. His bones lie in an unmarked grave, in a Templar church whose gate posts have statues of skull and crossbones. You’ve heard of Chaos Magick right? Born right here in Deptford, when a man named Peter J. Carroll met Ray Sherwin and founded the Illuminates of Thanateros. Many hidden paths lead here and many unseen do
ors might open.”
“Doors to the city beneath the city?”
Vince nodded. “The most dangerous place to travel.”
Vince knelt and produced a leather pouch and a strange looking rattle from his pocket. “My asson,” he said holding up the rattle for Jimmy to see. The pouch contained flour, which he sprinkled on the ground, drawing an intricate pattern. Jimmy glanced around him, expecting strange looks from the passers by.
“They won’t see us if we don’t we look at them directly,” Vince said as if he read Jimmy’s mind. “No one ever notices, unless they know what they’re looking for.” Jimmy stopped looking about and gave Vince his full attention.
“This is a Vèvè,” said Vince, pointing at the flour pattern. “To summon the Orisha Elegguá, Lord of the Crossroads, opener of doors.”
“Is an Orisha like a Loa?”
“Yes, but they come from Africa, not Haiti. Elegguá manifests both as a child and an old man. You need a child’s curiosity to find the city beneath the city, but you need an old man’s wisdom to walk its streets.”
Vince brought a dark green leaf from his pocket. It was dried and rolled into a cigar shape. He lit the leaf with a zippo. It burned rapidly, flaking to ash, giving off thick billows of smoke. Vince dropped the ash on the Vèvè and inhaled the smoke, muttering an incantation under his breath.
He grabbed the back of Jimmy’s neck, and pulled his face down into the smoke. Jimmy breathed it in. It smelled resinous and tasted bitter. He wanted to retch and cough his lungs up at the same time, but he couldn’t do either.
Vince let go and Jimmy reeled back. The pavement turned to rubber beneath his feet and, for a brief moment, seemed to stretch infinitely in both directions. A sudden breeze tore round the corner and hit his back, nearly knocking him off his feet. Jimmy came back to himself and the street appeared as normal once again.
The breeze became stronger and began to swirl in the space between Vince and Jimmy. It formed a tiny, freak whirlwind and lifted up the flour and ashes from the pavement, scattering them in a sudden burst that travelled ahead of them down the high street.
“What now?” said Jimmy, surprised at how strange and hollow his voice sounded.
