Bad Dreams (6 page)

The rage, the sorrow, the tangible residue of the recent slaughter. All these things made him stronger. The skin he had scraped off as he struggled to the surface grew back.

He spread the fires, lighting up an entire quarter of the city. Paper dragons caught easily, and flimsy houses burned like children’s lanterns. He laid the company’s remains where the flames would consume them totally. His duties done to the dead, he turned to revenge. With no especial joy, he destroyed his enemies.

Amid the holocaust, he found the Britisher, supervising a chain of bucket-passing coolies on the docks. He had embraced bluff Philip from behind, reaching up under his ribs and squeezing his heart with talons of ice. Giselle joined him, inflating her throat like a toad’s to accommodate the gush of blood. With seven-inch fingers, she tore chunks of flesh from the dead, and chewed them like sweetmeats. She had not spoken since the explosions, but he could feel the emotion pouring out of her. He had to shut his mind to her silent screeching, lest her newfound madness carry him off, divert him from his purpose.

When Tarr was found, the other two followed them, blinded by idiocies about herbs and crucifixes and boxes of native earth. He fled inland with Giselle, leaving human carcasses and nightmare memories at every resting place along the way. Then, they reached the shunned temple in the hills, and turned around to wait for the Pole and the Irish Jew.

The Pole came first, clad in a lancer’s greatcoat and carrying a new Winchester rifle. The least superstitious and most competent of the three, he was surprisingly easy. Afflicted with the sentimental streak of his people, he had lost much of his purpose with the death of his yellow harlot.

He took Sniezawski and changed him, pulling his neck out of true and crushing the rest of him into an eggshape. He fashioned a bony shell, like that of a Galapagos turtle, and slipped the Pole into it. The creature, its moustached head bobbing on an elongated stalk, its booted feet useless as flippers, made a spectacle of itself. Giselle howled with empty-headed laughter. In a moment of compassion, he lopped Sniezawski’s head off.

The Irish Jew was more cunning, and more dangerous. His red hair shaven and in the robes of a monk, he came to the temple and was admitted as a pilgrim to the shrine. With the wooden daggers concealed in his habit, he killed Giselle. He used a silver-edged hatchet on her corpse, quartering her beyond repair. Then he sat on a mat, surrounded by fragments of the blessed bread, and waited for the Monster.

He found the last of his three enemies surrounded by the dead but shrieking body of his wife. Baum held up a consecrated wafer.

He leaned forwards, opening wide his mouth. The hinges of his jaw dislocated, and his neck vertebrae arched. The throat gaped, and extra rows of teeth sprouted. The walls rippled with the force of the changes, as he sucked Baum into the Dream.

With his first bite, he took Baum’s arm off up to the elbow. The host disintegrated like wet paper in his gullet. He swallowed, and fingers relaxed in his belly.

Baum shrank within himself, and tried to run. But he was caught. This was not feeding. This was killing.

Then, King of the Cats no longer, he bit the Irish Jew’s head off. And was done with it.

A
nne phoned the offices from the Nellie Dean in Dean Street. She had to offload some of her responsibilities.

‘Hello. Editorial,’ said the voice she had hoped not to hear.

‘Mark?’

‘Anne. Hi,’ a long pause. ‘What happened to you? You never came back to the phone…’

She realized her receiver would be buzzing, still off the hook in the flat.

‘The policeman? I was trying to tell you that that dopey Sharon gave out your home address.’

‘It’s all right.’

‘You’re not on the electoral roll? That’s how they usually trace you.’

‘No.’ She had slipped through, three moves ago, and only now felt ashamed of it. She was committed, so she ought at least to be able to vote.

There was a fuss in the background.

‘We’ve got a crisis right now,’ Mark said before she could answer. ‘We’re trying to get the Central America thing into the Christmas issue. Can I call you back?’

‘I’m on a pay phone. Listen, my sister has died. I need some time.’

‘Lord…’

She could picture Mark not knowing what to say. She wished someone she knew less well had answered her call, someone who could take down her information like notes for a news item and tell everyone who needed to be told.

‘What are you going to do?’

‘Nothing stupid. Don’t worry. But I need to ask some questions. I can’t just let it drop, you know.’

‘Okay. Well, I’ve got you down to write the Poll Tax vigil piece. Clare can do that. The homelessness feature is Nigel’s baby, really. I’ll do the sidebars myself.’

‘My notes are on the computer. It’s mostly done.’

‘Fine. But there’s the Aziz inquest. You’ve been on that story from the first.’

Anne had not thought of that. She felt she owed Mrs Aziz her continued support. And Erskine was still out there, waiting to get back on the beat.

‘Don’t worry,’ Mark said, drawing in a breath, ‘I was just thinking aloud. There’s no blame involved. I’ll deal with it.’

She imagined him juggling notes on his desk, trying to find room for what he wanted to say to her.

‘Anne, about last night…’

‘I know, Mark. Look, I’m sorry, but…’

She tried to picture his expression. It was hard to tell what he was thinking face to face. The telephone disguised him completely.

‘Anne, I understand. This isn’t a normal thing. Call in when you want to come out of the cold. Can I get you at the flat?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe not. I think I’ve got a week or so left over in holiday time. And it’s Christmas the week after next, anyway.’

‘Christ yes. I’m sure the collective can get its collective head around the concept of compassionate leave. I’ll stamp it through the next magazine meeting.’

She thanked him, hearing the bustle of the newsroom in the background. Phones ringing, people laughing, typing, making tea. Life going on. She supposed she would not be at the office party this year. Just as well. It would only have meant another painfully circumspect hour or two with Mark. And she could do without the mistletoe and drunkenness jokes, or Clare trying to get everyone to dance to her old Abba records.

‘Your sister?’ he asked. ‘The one who had the trouble?’

‘Judi. Yes. Trouble.’ The pips sounded. ‘I don’t have any more change. I’ll be…’

Buzz.

She had lied; she did have two more twenty pence pieces. She dropped them in the slot, and punched the Aziz number. She owed Charlie’s mother an explanation. She could talk to the woman. As she listened to the unanswered phone ringing, she wondered how alike she and Mrs Aziz were in their reactions to death. After a full minute, she assumed everyone was out, and gave up. She must call later. She did not want Mrs Aziz to hear from Mark that she was off the story for now.

Reclaiming her coins, she collected a Perrier water and an egg salad sandwich from the bar, and sat down alone. It was not twelve yet and the pub was practically empty. A fat alternative comedian Anne had seen on television was insulting the barmaid, and she was pretending he was hilarious. The bland Christmas record she hated – ‘Christmas Caroline’ – was playing through the speakers over the bar.

The largest of Judi’s effects was a leather handbag. Anne had put all the other stuff in it and thrown away the plastic carrier the police had given her. Hollis had said that Judi’s clothes would be released later, before the funeral.

Shit, the funeral. Anne did not even know how to go about arranging that. She supposed she would just have to look up ‘Undertakers’ in Yellow Pages and go with the Acme Funeral Company or whoever was at the top of the list. The Nielsons were third generation agnostics. A critic had once said their father spent his whole life looking for God, but Anne could not see that. She knew she would go for the simplest, most secular ceremony available. She was tempted to collapse, and play on Mark’s British protectiveness to have him take care of the arrangements. He would know what to do, and be supremely efficient at it, sparing her as much of the strain as possible. But she could not do that. Anne Nielson did not use men as crutches. These were the ’90s. Besides, Mark would use it as a way of getting closer to her, and he was too close already. This was family.

Judi’s lighter had cracked, and the inside of her bag smelled flammable. There was not much to pick through, but she sorted all the items out and laid them on the table. Some plain rings; a skull earring; a studded leather armlet; a plastic bottle of codeine; a package of paper tissues; three shades of lipstick, scarlet, crimson and black; American Express and Visa cards; fifty pounds in fives; a purseful of loose change; a cardboard tube with a rocketship in it that contained two ‘Invader’ brand prophylactics, ‘Launched by Automach Peterborough’; an imitation leather-bound diary/address book; and a man’s wallet.

Anne played with the wallet. It was stuffed with photographs and newspaper clippings. There was an old snapshot of the sisters, as children, with a pony, somewhere in New England; Anne was standing, smiling, holding the bridle while Judi, little more than a baby, perched fat and fed-up on the saddle, dress ridden up over her thighs. A photo booth strip of a young man Anne did not recognize. Judi grown up, with two other girls, caught in a flashbulb glare, trying to look deliriously abandoned in a nightclub. The last shot made Anne shiver.

The cuttings were an odd selection: a piece from
The Guardian
about father’s stroke, a favourable review of one of Cam’s concerts at the Pompidou Centre, a
Radio Times
listing for a late night screening of
On the Graveyard Shift at Sam’s Bar-B-Q and Grill
, and samples of Anne’s work from various papers and magazines. There was also an ancient anonymous letter Anne remembered arriving at the house and upsetting Dad. It called him a fink for informing on fellow travellers in ’57. It had disappeared, and only now she realized Judi must have sent it herself, and that Dad must have known: over the years, there had been a steady trickle of abuse, but this one had really nettled their father. The only thing there that was about Judi was a report on a coroner’s hearing she had given evidence at. Anne had not heard of the dead man, a stabbing victim, and could not work out what his connection with Judi had been.

‘Checking the loot, eh, love?’ said the comedian, laughing. ‘Funny how the muggers get younger and prettier every day, innit?’

Anne looked up at the man. His chins were shaking, and he had a beerfoam moustache.

‘Fuck off,’ she said, her eyes fixed. His grin froze, and fell apart. He turned back to the barmaid, and made a remark Anne did not catch, laughing again.

Anne looked again at the items on the table, and tried in her mind to connect them with Judi.

As soon as Judi had arrived in London, she had telephoned her sister, but only to cadge some money. That had been two years ago. The sisters had not met since. Like Anne, Judi had right of residence thanks to their English mother. Two years was time enough to make a whole life. She picked up the armlet. The leather was cracked, and a few of the studs were missing, leaving tiny wounds. Not for the first time, Anne wondered how exactly her sister had lived.

And what was she looking for anyway? Keepsakes? Messages from the grave? Clues?

She had saved the book until last. It was such an obvious source of information. Under today’s date was neatly printed ‘N. Club D.E. 1.00’. N? A name? One o’clock? Morning or afternoon? Club D.E.? Going through the addresses at the back of the book, she found any number of people with N for a first or second initial, and addresses for several clubs, among them the Club Des Esseintes. That was in Brewer Street, just around the corner.

The Club Des Esseintes.

H
is haircut cost more than the average suit, and his suits individually cost more than the average good-condition second-hand car. Clive Broome had the Business sussed, and the first thing he had learned was the importance of always being well turned-out. If transactions needed to be made in venues where his style would be suspicious, he could always buy some spiky-haired lout to handle it. He preferred not to get too close to the retail end of the trade anyway. He was moving up the pyramid, and he wanted everyone he dealt with to know it.

Most nights of the week, Clive liked to screw somebody. But he insisted on sleeping alone. He hated the thought of waking up with a pair of alien elbows in his ribs and the sheets in a mess. After they had done the business, he had shifted last night’s cunt into the spare room. By the time he was ready to get up, she was long gone. He also liked to sleep late.

As far as he could tell, nothing was missing. Gretchen, from Barnet, with a butterfly tattoo. She should not be hard to find. If any of his things had taken a walk, he would have the Sergeant Major cut one of her boobs off. Or give her to Mr Skinner.

He went cold, fast-forwarding through yesterday’s business. The call from Mr Skinner, the deliveries, the white faces of the girls, the disposal. That was not over yet. One down, he told himself, one to go. He should not really get involved in deals like that. But they were useful. The Games Master was such a strange customer. It was well worth the risk of the disposal job to have Mr Skinner wrapped up and tied in with something messy. The man was monied enough to have some pull somewhere, and Clive could always use someone with pull. After the disposal, Mr Skinner owed him plenty. Still, Judi’s face had been a frightener.

After dressing, he sat down in his work-room to go through the post and deal with the morning’s telephone messages. Most of the letters were Christmas cards, from Business contacts and sentimental cunts, but there was also a whingeing note from his mother and his subscription copies of
Viz
and
The Economist.
Most of the people who had called him up had not left any sort of message, but Mink said that he had received the shipment of Brussels sprouts he had been expecting.