The Music of the Spheres

by Allister Thompson

  Hastings reached out and lightly shook Marty’s shoulder. His eyes opened, and he looked directly into Hastings’ face. Then he let out a piercing yell and started thrashing about. “Go away, go away! I thought I got rid of you! Go back to hell with the rest of them! Go away!” He closed his eyes and passed out again, sweat running down his face.

  “He thinks you’re a nightmare,” Mallorn said.

  “Thanks for pointing out the obvious.”

  “’Ere, wot’s this?” a voice said angrily from behind them. “Disturbin’ me fuckin’ customers, eh? What did I tell ya? Clear off!” Benny shook his finger at them.

  Teresa advanced on him, the tendons in her neck standing out like cables. “Listen, you fat piece of shit! You go and mind your filthy business before I rip a few layers of blubber off you. We’re leaving, all right, and we’re taking this man with us. You got a problem with that?”

  Benny, for all his bluster, seemed to be a bit of a coward when confronted by equal aggression. He shrank away, holding his palms outward. “Awlright, dearie, no need for that sorta language. Just take yer friend and get out, there’s a good girl.” He leered and winked at her in a ghastly fashion.

  Teresa regarded him with total derision. She seemed to tower above him. “You’re a fucking vulture, Benny. You should stop taking advantage of people with problems and do something worthwhile with your life.”

  Benny’s face turned a deep shade of purple. “Don’t you preach at me, little lady. I’m runnin’ a business ’ere, plain and simple.” He gestured toward the door. “Now get out, and don’t come anywhere near ’ere again, or I can have somethin’ very nasty done to you.”

  Hastings and Mallorn lifted Marty’s rigid form with great difficulty and carried him out the door, which slammed behind them with extra emphasis.

  “Well, we won’t be able to go back there any time soon,” Hastings puffed.

  “You do have a way with people, Teresa,” Mallorn added.

  “Why would we want to?” Teresa spat. “That was one of the more depressing experiences of my life, and I’ve seen a lot of crap.”

  “We haven’t found Ed yet, have we? Just this poor sod,” Hastings grunted. Marty was heavier than his skinny frame would have suggested.

  “Now, who wants the task of getting Marty somewhere safe so he can come down?” Mallorn asked.

  “I suppose you would prefer that honor,” Teresa said, casting her penetrating eye on Mallorn’s sheepish face. “You didn’t seem to have the balls for this business.”

  “That’s enough,” Hastings said. “Daeve, you take Marty to your place and try to clean him up, and go easy with the weird healing herbs, will you?”

  “Sure, sure.” Mallorn looked hurt. “But your head does feel better now, doesn’t it?”

  Hastings was surprised to notice that the pain had indeed lessened considerably. “Why, I guess it does,” he said, smiling a little.

  “You shouldn’t put these things down,” Mallorn said, “until you’ve given them a really good go. I’ll get Marty cleaned up, don’t you worry. Come back to my place tonight. I’ll try to make up a bed for you two. And be careful. Even our pit bull here couldn’t defeat some of the people who run these places in hand-to-hand combat.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Okay, Daeve, let’s get you a taxi.”

  *

  After they had bundled Mallorn and the still unconscious Marty into a taxi (several had deliberately passed them by, presumably deterred by the sight of three long-hairs supporting what looked to be a corpse), Hastings and Teresa renewed their search of the city’s houses of sin.

  First, they visited MacPhaill’s Magick Emporium near Leicester Square. It sold ornaments and decorations but had a back room that was even dirtier and housed even more lost souls on any given night than Benny’s. There they observed the more passive ecstasies of opium eaters who lay on boards covered with rags in a dimly lit room filled with the eerie sounds of bubbling hookahs and the soft laughter of dreamers lost in their private fantasies, visions so beautiful they made a return to reality far more intolerable and undesirable. They were quickly sent packing by MacPhaill’s courteous but firm helpers, but not before they had ascertained that Ed was not among his clientele that night.

  They visited the notorious Miss Maddeford’s in Camden Town, an old-fashioned brothel that had once catered to Members of Parliament and sundry knights, lords, and barons of the realm but had fallen on harder times. It now also sold concoctions brewed by the matron on her kitchen stove to supplement business lost to the decline in the downtown upscale sex trade. These home brews had caused several deaths over the years, but since a large portion of the male members of the London constabulary (and some female) had spent a great deal of time in the welcoming bowels of the brothel, Miss Maddeford was largely left alone. She owned several houses around town and spent her weekends in a sumptuous mansion in Richmond, where her parties, still attended by many members of the empire’s richest and most famous families, were legendary. Though helpful, she was unable to remember coming across Ed or Rick Farren within the previous few months, although they had both visited within the year.

  They reluctantly stopped in at Dr. Mick’s House of Morphine, a den in a house near the University College Hospital. The proprietor was a crazed surgeon who had worked at the hospital for twenty years and had been helping himself to stimulants, antipsychotic medications, ether, opiates, and morphine for almost as long. This place was only frequented by the most hardcore boredom-driven thrill-seekers, since the doctor’s mixtures of these medications had caused countless fatalities over the years. When a customer expired, the doctor would take them discreetly with the help of associates across the road to the rear entrance of the emergency ward into the morgue, leaving a toe tag on the corpse that read Illegal Drug Addict: Accidental Death. Nothing had ever been suspected, since the hospital admitted many such cases each night, and many died in the emergency room. The doctor numbered many of his most distinguished colleagues amongst his best customers, so any potential scandal was hushed up.

  In each of these establishments, Hastings had inquired about Ed, but no one had seen him for weeks. In each place, Teresa had picked a fight with the proprietor, accusing them of taking advantage of the mentally ill. One of the girls at the brothel had taken a swing at her, but Teresa had subdued her and pacified her by telling her that she had no moral quarrel with the legal aspects of prostitution in the house, only with Madame Maddeford’s dangerous cocktails.

  This had led to an argument on the way to the next place, wherein Hastings had told her keep her bloody mouth shut, or they’d get nowhere, and what made prostitution more ethical than selling drugs anyway? Teresa had retorted by telling him that he was chauvinist swine, that selling your body of your own choice was one thing, but selling deadly mixtures of chemicals was another matter entirely.

  Now they were no longer on speaking terms as they got out of their own taxi outside of Daevid Mallorn’s flat, which was over the top of an extremely foul-smelling fish market. The pavement reeked of rotting prawns and crabs twenty-four hours a day. It was one o’clock in the morning, and they were both dead-tired. Hastings now had his splitting headache back and reminded himself that he had better go and see a legitimate GP as soon as possible. Two nasty knocks on the head in a week must not be good for a chap.

  Still not speaking, they dragged themselves up the steep, creaky stairs, finding Marty lying on the sofa, knocked out. A wet bandage had been stuck to his head. The sickly-sweet smell from it filled the room, competing with the odors of stale smoke, incense, and the fishy smell from the street. Heedless, they threw themselves down on the cushions Mallorn had placed on the floor for their bed and lay on their sides, facing away from each other. Hastings passed out immediately.

  *

  The were awakened only a few hours later by Shakti Yoni, who inadvertently stepped on Teresa’s arm on her way to the kitchen.

  “Owww!”

  “Sorry, d
ear,” flaxen-haired Shakti said in her luxuriously low-toned, soothing voice, leaning down and patting Teresa on the head. “You go back to sleep.” That, however, proved impossible as their hosts began to loudly bang pots, pans, and plates in the kitchen. Even Marty started to stir, moaning and gurgling horribly.

  “For Christ’s sake,” Hastings growled and glared at his watch, which said five thirty, but eventually he rose and went to take a shower. At least there was running water, and Mallorn had put out some clean-looking towels. It was still quite dark outside, but the first birds could be heard energetically chirping.

  When he emerged dressed in an Indian tunic that Mallorn had laid out for him, he went to the kitchen and found a bizarre spread set out on the tabletop. There were at least ten bowls filled with unidentifiable fruits and grains. Teresa, dressed in a crimson sari, and Marty were seated at the table. Marty looked terrible. There were huge bags under his eyes, which were so bloodshot, the whites looked solid red. He had also changed into some of Mallorn’s Indian garb, which was nothing like what he would normally wear.

  “Simon,” he croaked flatly, staring down at the table.

  “Well, well, well,” Hastings said, glancing from Marty to the “food” on the table. He could not for the life of him figure out what most of it was. “Fancy meeting you at Benny’s, eh?”

  Hearing the hostility in Hastings’ voice, Mallorn tried to smooth over the situation. “We’ve prepared some real delicacies for you to put some spring back in your step this morning, Simon. The bowl here’s what the citizens of the South Pacific Jersey Island chain eat for breakfast every morning. It’s a fruit called pikkupo, and it’s as tasty as can be.”

  Hastings gingerly placed a segment of the soggy yellow fruit in his mouth and swallowed. It was horrible.

  “And here’s some organic oatmeal with dried beets, a delicacy from the steppes, quinoa with bean sprouts, and some black tea with clarified butter. Help yourself.” Mallorn beamed and planted a kiss on Shakti’s head.

  Hastings cast a baleful eye at Marty. “Well, well,” he said again. “Glad we found you before you enjoyed too many more cocktails. What about your mum?”

  Marty curled his lips into a ghastly smirk. “Yes, well, that was my original intention. Instead, I got off the plane like a robot and headed straight to good ol’ Benny’s. Hadn’t been there in years. Lost my luggage, too.”

  “How long had you been there?”

  “Only a day and a half, actually. But as you can see, I’d been going at it pretty heavy. I suppose I was more down than I thought.”

  “I’ll say!” Teresa cut in. “You could have killed yourself.”

  “Maybe that was the point,” Mallorn said calmly. “But don’t worry, Marty, you’re back with friends now.”

  “Well, I was grateful this morning to wake up and see your ugly mug over me instead of Benny’s. Thanks, chaps — and ladies,” he added with a smile in Teresa’s direction, then popped some beets into his mouth.

  “You’d better get cleaned up, sunshine, because we have work to do,” she said. “The man who killed Guy is probably in town, and Simon found evidence in Colombia that both of you were on his mysterious hit list.”

  “Really?” Marty went a shade paler still, almost dead white. “I suppose I’ve had a couple of close scrapes, then. I knew I’d come close to death. Maybe it was the shock that sent me over the edge.”

  Hastings reached over and clapped him on the shoulder. “Looks like you’ll be joining my detective work after all. And it won’t be easy finding this slippery character. Now,” he said, turning to Mallorn, “how’s about some eggs and toast, eh — and coffee!”

  “I’m afraid we don’t consume such poisons,” Mallorn said mildly but firmly. “These things are hellish for your digestion. But I’ve got some organic spelt bread. Would you like that?”

  Hastings laughed. “Don’t worry about it. We’ll find a bite on the way. We have work to do!”

  From The Young Person’s Guide to the Music Business

  by Archie Richardson (Your Best You! Press, 1970)

  No business offers the enterprising young man or woman more exciting career opportunities than the world of pop music. You don’t have to be an extroverted rock star to reap the benefits of involvement in this exploding global industry. There’s money to be made and prestige to be won through careers in music production and engineering, artist development and relations, marketing and promotion, concert bookings, and stage management — something for everyone!

  Hob-nob with the greatest musicians in the world today while contributing to their success! Learn how to manipulate the public’s taste and exploit opportunities within the cultural marketplace! Be a part of the wildest, most happening party scenes in the world today! And I mean WILD!

  The music industry has doubled its sales of LPs, eight-tracks, and cassettes within the last three years. In my role as Promotion Director for Columbus Records, the world’s leading record manufacturer and distributor, I have helped to break the careers of the Kidney Stones, the Sugar Pops, the Georgia Sludge Monster, Judee Sill, and Grovel, to name but five of the diverse million-selling acts I have guided to the top of the international charts. This book and my experience can be your guide to sure success in a world of glamor and luxury. Read on and learn!

  Fifteen

  It was evening when they finally gave up the search. They had spent the last thirteen hours visiting not only drug dens, but almost every bar, club, and café in the area, with no success. A few people reported Barrett sightings within the last couple of weeks, but no one knew his present whereabouts. The Peuce Frank boys, who had also been combing the underworld as far east as Limehouse, had experienced the same results. Mallorn had been given the task of phoning around to all of their friends on the music scene, as well as Ed’s mum and sister. As Hastings, Marty, and Teresa trooped wearily through the door of the apartment, he shook his head and sadly took a bite of his unflavored soy yoghurt.

  “No news, I’m afraid. Shakti even went as far as going to the police, who of course sent her packing, even though she changed into her navy business suit, which we only use in absolute emergencies. And Steve called; it’s the same situation with Rick Farren. It’s like they’ve both disappeared off the face of the Earth.”

  Hastings’ face was grim as he slumped down on a kitchen chair. “Let’s hope that’s not too close to the truth.”

  “Now, Simon, I don’t want to upset you, but after another day of this, we may have to, well, devote a little less of our time to this. Aside from meditating hopefully in anticipation of their safe return, naturally.”

  “What the hell do you mean?” Hastings glowered at him.

  “What he means, Simon, and I happen to agree,” Teresa said gently, “is that, although we’re not saying we think you’re obsessed or anything like that, and we do understand your need to avenge Guy’s death and prevent new ones, we do have to try to get back to normal soon. Marty’s here now, and as he said to you at lunch, he’ll be ready to start playing again soon. Your record company is probably wondering what to do with you. We’ll keep an eye out for the missing guys and this assassin character you’ve talked about, but it’s time to think about the future. Ed will turn up eventually; he always does. If we can’t find him, it’s doubtful the killer will be able to.”

  Marty nodded. “Simon, I cared as much about Guy as you did, and I’m just as pissed off as you that there’s some hitman out there waiting to poison us, or worse. But since there’s no justice system for us to call upon here, our hands are pretty much tied. We’ll just have to be watchful.”

  Hastings considered these comments for a minute then nodded slowly. “Maybe you’re right. We won’t give up the search, but it’s time I thought a bit about myself. And maybe if the police won’t help us — and we know they won’t — it’s time we enlisted the help of the greater community.”

  “What, you mean like putting up posters?” Marty looked skeptical.


  “Well, there aren’t really a lot of chaps in London who would fit the appearance of Ramón Rosas, are there? There’s no way the authorities will ever take us seriously, so it can’t really hurt things. We don’t have to specify exactly why we’re looking for him or mention him by name.”

  That is what they did, although your narrator is ashamed to admit that he never noticed anything of the like about town. In my defense, I did leave that week for a short stay at the family estate near Aberdeen. And aside from the one phone call described earlier, no one ever really enlisted my aid in this case. I heard rumors in the succeeding year, but I never really did have any idea of these events until Hastings finally filled me in. More’s the pity.

  The posters contained no details about why Rosas was wanted, only that he was a criminal who had seriously hurt members of the community. The citizens of the West End looked after their own, being used to indifferent treatment by law enforcement agencies, and would respond if the man was seen. Aside from keeping an eye out themselves, there was little else Hastings, Marty, and their friends could do. They briefly discussed hiring an investigator, but Hastings left that in Mallorn’s hands; he had lost his taste for cloak-and-dagger sleuthing since his Colombian misadventure.

  He was in a position where he needed to make a decision for the sake of his own mental health, and though his burning desire for revenge and his wish to protect his people had not abated, he could see there was little else to do. He agreed reluctantly that the next day he and Marty would visit the corporate offices of Aureola Records to find out if they still had a recording contract. Some source of income was needed; since his early teens, there had been no occupation other than musician he had ever visualized making him happy.

  Hastings was certain of two things: he had not seen the last of Ramón Rosas, and the mystery of who ordered the killings would someday be solved.