B00BCLBHSA EBOK (17 page)

The gala dinner ended with everyone in good spirits.
Some of the younger members of the RWGB and their guests made plans to go on to
a club in Soho to drink overpriced drinks and mingle with television
presenters, actors and former pop stars. Others went home. Those who remained,
including most of the committee, Emily, Dr. Muriel
and Maggie, professed themselves too tired to do anything but fall into bed to
sleep, in preparation for the long day ahead.

Lex kissed Morgana
goodbye as he hailed a taxi to take him home. “What a magnificent evening. You
know I’d go to the ends of the earth to attend one of your marvelous
conferences.”

Morgana said, “I don’t believe a word of it. You old fraud!” And
then both she and Lex looked terribly embarrassed,
and Emily thought she might have an idea of the crime Lex
had once been accused of.

There was lots of kissing on both cheeks, and hugging and laughter,
and then the hotel went quiet. There was the muffled sound, now and again, of
people laughing too loudly in the street outside as they walked home or waited
to get a night bus. The thick walls of the hotel kept out most of the noise,
including the traffic sounds. As she fell asleep, Emily heard the occasional
cry of an urban fox, which sounds like the desperate call of a man being
stabbed. She dreamed of four foxes playfighting in
her garden in South London.

The toast’s burning!
thought
Emily.
I’ve got to get up before the smoke alarm goes off.

And then the alarm went off. And then she thought,
I’m not making toast.

She was awake, and outside it was pandemonium. Again.

“Fire!” someone called. “Fire! Come on, now. Everybody out. Walk,
don’t run.”

Knuckles rapped at her door, flung it open and moved on.
Don’t mind me!
thought
Emily. Fortunately, she was wearing cream-colored pajamas
with blue bunnies on them. When choosing nightwear to take with her on trips
away from home, Emily had noticed that most manufacturers seemed to think women
of her age were either sex-starved sluts or oversize toddlers who craved a
return to the nursery. Though she was aware she looked ridiculous in her
bunnies, she was glad at least that her natural prudishness had saved her the
embarrassment of running about Bloomsbury in something flimsy that showed her
nipples.

Further down the corridor Emily heard the knocking, the doors being
flung open, and the almost robotically calm repetition of the words, “Everybody
out. Walk, don’t run.”

There was the shrill, persistent sound of a fire alarm and,
underneath that, the sound of people running or walking from their rooms, doors
slamming. Emily looked at the digital display on the alarm clock provided by
the hotel at the side of her bed. It was 3:13.

Outside it was dark.

Inside there was the smell of smoke.

Outside, the darkness was now punctuated by flashing blue lights and
the terse shouts of trained men and women doing something useful.

Inside, Emily put on her shoes and grabbed her handbag and notebook.

Outside, guests were gathering in Russell Square at the designated
evacuation point.

Emily walked out of her room, walked down the emergency stairs,
walked out of the hotel.

As she crossed the street and walked toward the square, she could
see other guests waiting calmly in their nightclothes, clutching whatever was
of most value to them—handbags, notebooks (there being a lot of writers in
residence), laptop computers, armfuls of clothes. Most were wearing the
pale-blue, cotton bathrobes provided by the hotel. Some guests stood in small
groups without possessions. Their stoic expressions, and the bathrobes, gave
the impression that they were invalids from a sanatorium who had been bidden to
go into the square to get some fresh air for their health.

Once she was at the assembly point, Emily turned and looked at the
hotel, expecting to see it half up in flames with the roof crumbling in. But it
was standing imperturbably, as it had done for more than a century. There were
only a few puffs of smoke coming from a couple of second floor windows. These
were already being treated with water by the firefighters
from the fire engine underneath the windows. A second engine drew up and parked
next to it, but perhaps it wouldn’t be needed. An ambulance was parked in front
of the hotel on the other side. Emily certainly hoped that that wouldn’t be
needed.

Then one of the windows on the second floor was smashed open and a
distraught man called from inside, “Sookie! Sheena?
Sheena, where are ye, hen?”

A firefighter used a loud-hailer to call
up to him: “Sir, would you please evacuate the building.”

“Emily, m’dear. Glad to see you’re safe.”
Emily turned to see Dr. Muriel in a sensible pair of
navy pajamas and a quilted, maroon dressing gown,
carrying a large bar of fruit and nut chocolate and her silver-topped cane. “Is
that Archie?”

They heard the man’s voice again. It was almost a shriek. “Sheena!”

“You think I should go back in for him?”

“I’d say that rather exceeds the scope of your terms of employment.”

“I know. But—”

“I don’t think he’s in danger. He woke from a nightmare, I expect.
He’ll come down presently.” She removed the wrapper from her bar of chocolate
and broke it into pieces, apportioning four squares each to whoever nearby put
their hand out for it. Emily had some and it was very nice, though she could
have done with a cup of tea to wash it down.

Polly strolled up. She was wearing dark-blue, cotton pajamas and a mannish, sensible, dark-blue robe tied tight
at the waist. She held a packet of cheddar-cheese-flavored
biscuits, a bottle of opened red wine, and two of the stubby porcelain cups
that were provided in the guest bathrooms by the hotel for the storage of
toothbrushes. “This is like boarding school. All it lacks is a bottle of rum
and some playing cards. And some naughty sixth-form boys.”

Emily caught sight of Des standing alone to one side of the square.
If he’d had a flaming torch in his hand, she wouldn’t have blamed him. But he
wasn’t responsible for the fire. His fists clenched and unclenched at nothing,
and he looked down at the ground almost oblivious to what was going on around
him. He didn’t look as though he wanted company, and Emily didn’t go over and
offer it.

“Polly,” said Emily, “Des said someone from the RWGB contributed a
thousand dollars to Winnie’s online fund.”

“You think it looks like blood money? I wanted to provide some
practical help on behalf of all of us. Don’t worry, I can afford it.” She
grinned. “Just don’t tell Zena. She’ll think I’m
being flash.”

The crowd in the square murmured appreciatively as two firefighters appeared at the entrance to the hotel with a
large black woman on a stretcher and carried her toward the ambulance. The
woman appeared to be conscious. The purple-polished fingertips of one hand
gripped the oxygen mask that had been strapped to her head. It was Zena.

“Thank Christ for that! She looks all right, doesn’t she? Bit of
smoke inhalation, maybe? Least she’s not burned to a crisp.” Cerys had joined them, in a silk kimono and fluffy, red,
high-heeled mules, all her diamond rings on her fingers. Either she slept in
them or she’d had the good sense not to leave them behind on the dressing table
in an unlocked room. She was carrying three shopping bags of clothes and
smoking a cigarette. “Doesn’t seem right to be chuffing on this, under the
circumstances,” she admitted with a shrug. But she didn’t put the cigarette out.
“Oh my…look at that!”

Another murmur from the crowd. Standing at the entrance to the hotel, framed for a moment by the
light behind him in an almost parodic silhouette of a
hero, was a slender man in white silk pajama bottoms
and bare feet, naked from the waist up. Slung across his shoulders was the even
more slender figure of a woman in a smart jacket and skirt.

“Can’t see who it is,” Dr. Muriel said.
“Is it a ninja, Emily?”

His coppery-red hair hung damply over one eye, and as he began to
move toward them and into the light of the street lamps outside the hotel, they
saw his face and chest were streaked with sooty dirt. It was Archie.

Cerys provided a
commentary. “Archie, carrying a woman. She seems to be alive, thanks be. Is
that Sheena, you think? He’s found his Sheena? Aww.
Bless him. I didn’t realize he’d brought anyone with him this weekend. Who’d
have thought? Oh, look out! He’s coming this way.”

In fact, Archie had not found Sheena. Sheena was the name of his
long-dead sister and, though he often searched for her in his dreams and his
nightmares, he would never find her. Nor his sister Sookie,
either. The woman whose body was slung across his shoulders was Miss Wendy
Chen, who had been on night duty on the hotel’s Reception desk and hadn’t
needed rescuing. She was thoroughly drilled in evacuation techniques and had
only recently completed all necessary components of the Hotel Evac Refresher Course, a prerequisite for joining this
hotel from the one where she had recently been posted in Singapore.

As she had completed the last checks on the rooms on the second
floor this evening, Wendy was astonished to find herself grabbed out of the
smoky darkness and carried down two flights of stairs. She had wriggled and
slapped Archie on his bare shoulders, furious at the effrontery. She was aware
that some Western men subscribed to the myth that Asian women were docile or
acquiescent. She didn’t intend to start her career in this country being
plundered
by a Scottish pirate. But then
he’d staggered about with her on his shoulders bellowing “Sookie!
Sookie! Where are ye, hen?” and she’d come to
understand that he was searching for lost poultry and was therefore insane, and
she’d stopped struggling, and stopped worrying about antifeminist Western
myths, and started to calculate whether it made better sense financially to sue
the hotel management for compensation for kidnap, or simply to demand a much
more senior job when this crisis was over. If the former, then she needed to
act hysterical and injured. If the latter, then she should remain calm, and take
control of the situation as soon as she could.

Fortunately for Archie, she decided on the latter course. After he
set her down on the grass in Russell Square, he began shouting for Sookie again.

“He’s going back in,” someone said admiringly—a fan of American
disaster films, perhaps.

The crowd in Russell Square weren’t the only ones watching his
antics. A voice came over the loud-hailer again. “Sir! Sir, please do
not
endanger yourself.
Do
not
attempt to regain entry to the
premises until someone from the London Fire Brigade has given the all clear.”

“Sookie! Ahm
coming tae get ye.”

Wendy Chen composed herself. She drew back her left elbow and
floored Archie with a magnificent left hook. “Not a good idea to endanger
yourself for a chicken,” she said. She went over to talk to the most senior
London Fire Brigade officer on duty to see what should be done next.

As she left, several women in their nightdresses rushed forward from
the crowd to tend to Archie’s fallen body. With his handsome, sensitive, high-cheekboned face, his sorrowful eyes fluttering open toward
consciousness, he looked like a shell-shocked, poetry-writing infantry officer
from World War I.

“What was Archie in prison for, anyone remember?” asked Cerys. “It wasn’t arson, was it?”

The ambulance set off for the hospital, Zena aboard, blue lights flashing, sirens
silent out of respect for those sleeping in this mainly residential area.
Morgana now came out to the square to check up on the RWGB members that she
could pick out in the crowd.

Across the street Emily saw Det. James, obviously not long out of
bed himself, though fully dressed. He got out of an unmarked squad car and went
up the steps into the hotel. He was followed by uniformed officers who arrived
in another car.

“What’s the news, M?” asked Cerys as
Morgana reached her side. “Can we go back in?”

“What a ghastly night. Yes, they said we can make our way back in.
All the rooms can be occupied, except Zena’s. They
may keep her overnight in the hospital for observation. But if not, the hotel
will find her another room. They’re prepared to move anyone else who asks,
particularly if they’re on the second floor. Just speak to Wendy Chen at
Reception.”

Emily said, “What happened, has anyone told you?”

“The fire started in Zena’s room, that’s
all I know. Seems she unscrewed the smoke detector on the ceiling. Probably
wanted to smoke in her room. You have to be so
careful
about that sort of thing. You know, someone once tried to
teach me a technique for smoking in an airplane toilet that involves flushing
the loo and simultaneously exhaling, but if you don’t time it right—well,
either you get sucked half-out of the plane or you set off the alarms. Either
way it’s an ignominious way to draw attention to yourself.
Not that I’ve tried it. I’ve only thought about it. I wish Zena
had only thought about doing this.”

Dr. Muriel said,
“I vote we go back in and try and get some sleep. I don’t want anyone missing
my Ethics in Literature session first thing. On that note, can we meet
beforehand, Emily? Over breakfast? Nine o’clock? I’d like to discuss a few
ideas with you.”

It was nearly five o’clock now. Dawn was opening up the gray tin can of the London skyline, and the birds in the
trees were starting to sing. Quite loudly.

“Listen to that! I could gladly shoot the lot of them,” said Cerys.

“Imagine a world without birds,” said Polly. “It doesn’t bear
thinking about. Mao tried it, and when the birds dropped out of the sky with
exhaustion and a plague of locusts came, the people were soon sorry.” She
walked quickly toward the hotel empty-handed, leaving the remnants of her boarding-school-style
midnight feast discarded at the foot of a tree in the square.

“Well, that’s me told!” said Cerys.

Emily was so tired she thought that if she were a bird, she’d drop
like a stone from the sky. She said to Dr. Muriel,
“Shall we say nine thirty?”

Dr. Muriel nodded
and rushed ahead. No doubt she could sleep anywhere. She was an intrepid traveler who had told Emily she was happy enough with
third-class accommodation on foreign trains. Emily imagined her friend propping
herself into a corner, folding her arms and sleeping with the untroubled dreams
of someone who thought very deeply about things when she was awake.

Emily hung back a little to keep pace with Morgana. She wanted to
ask her a question. They went into the hotel and began to climb the stairs.

“Is it true that Archie’s been in prison?”

“Hmm? Yes. That’s where I met him. My creative
writing program Write Back Where You Belong. I teach some of the
classes. Lex is a patron. Good night, Emily, and
thanks for everything. You’ll be glad to get back to the nine-to-five after
this, won’t you?”

Morgana darted off into the corridor on the first floor where her
bedroom was located. Emily tramped up to the second floor. She was fit, but she
wasn’t used to climbing stairs. She thought she might have a rest. And what
better way to rest than to loiter here on the second floor for a bit, and then
have a quick look at Zena’s burned-out room? Though
she shouldn’t have been on the second floor, Emily didn’t attract attention.
There were plenty of people coming and going, fetching washbags
and a few clothes for the next day from their smoke-damaged rooms: most of the
guests who had been staying on the second floor had been allocated rooms on
other floors.

As she was officially helping Morgana at the conference, Emily had
seen a list with all the RWGB guests’ room numbers. She knew Zena’s room was along the end here, something like 236 or
238—though she didn’t really need to know the number. All she had to do was
follow the smoke.

The door to Zena’s room was open and Emily
peeped in. She saw the charred, damp remains of many purple fashion accessories, including a trilby hat which she had never seen
Zena wearing. In the corner of the room, on the
dressing table, was the most blackened item. It was shaped like a miniature
playhouse or a diorama. At first Emily could only think that it was some kind
of apparatus that Zena used to develop her stories,
though the objects inside it seemed like strange choices if they were to
represent characters in a play. There was a very small glazed pot and a small
silver bell, of the kind that a very polite, bedridden invalid might ring to
summon help from a family member. In the middle of this diorama was something
melted that Emily recognized by its nylon, yellow hair as the remains of Barbie
doll. A few scraps of the doll’s clothes were now fused to her misshapen body:
she had once been dressed in pink.

Emily looked at the bell and the Barbie doll, and she suddenly knew
what this “diorama” must be. It was Zena’s altar. If
the Barbie doll represented who she thought it represented, then somewhere in
this room…Yes, over there! A Topshop
bag. And, inside it, a little pink cardigan with a piece cut out of it,
the size roughly suitable to be used to fashion a crude costume for a doll.

She heard Det. Rory James’s voice, in earnest discussion with other
voices she didn’t recognize, heading in her direction, and she stuffed the
ruined cardigan back in the bag. As the voices drew nearer, she found it easier
to make out the words. One of Det. James’s colleagues was saying “…blueprint
for murder. Stabbing. Arson. Dogs attacking…Notebook…Seems to make the case for
a propensity to violence against women…”

She darted out of Zena’s room and walked
back along the corridor, as nonchalantly as possible. Rory nodded at her in
greeting but continued his conversation with his two colleagues without
breaking his stride. The three of them stopped when they reached Zena’s room, and one of the uniformed officers got out some
blue-and-white tape, and began to seal off the area.

As Emily continued walking along the corridor toward the stairs, Dr. Muriel poked her head out of her room.

“Emily!”

“Isn’t it too smoky for you here? I could ask the hotel to find you
another room.”

“That’s fine, m’dear. Reminds me of
Tibet.” Dr. Muriel jerked her head in the direction
of Zena’s room. “Been having a
look? Got everything you need for tomorrow, I hope?”

“What’s happening tomorrow?”

“Ah. I thought you’d realized when I asked if we could move my
session to kick off the conference. Tomorrow’s the denouement.”