Delirium (London Psychic) (19 page)

With a gloved hand, Jamie turned the brochure over. The painting was called
Labyrinth
but there was no name of the artist shown. She glanced around the gallery again, but she knew the painting wasn't there. The piece was stunning, and she would have noticed it as they walked in.
 

There was an empty space on the wall opposite where the body had been secured. In a gallery with so few paintings, it seemed strange that the area had been left unadorned and Arthur Tindale would have died gazing at that exact spot.

"Al, can you find out whether there was any artwork on this wall? The assistant should know."

Missinghall nodded, getting his phone out of his pocket. "She's still with a female officer going over her statement. I'll find out."

Jamie looked around the office space, but there seemed to be no obvious records of the artists and their work. After the SOCOs had finished, they would be able to process all this paperwork. She looked down again. The painting disturbed her, and she recognized something of the colors in it.
 

Missinghall caught her eye as he finished his phone call, his face serious.
 

"You're right. There was a painting in that space yesterday. It was called
Labyrinth.
The artist was Lyssa Osborne."

"We need to find Matthew," Jamie said, remembering the look on his face when he had talked about his sister. She glanced at her watch. "His Bill on mental health is due to be debated later, but if we go straight to his flat, we should just catch him."

The rain began as Matthew Osborne reached the gates of Kensal Green Cemetery. He lifted his head to taste the first drops, remembering the tip of Lyssa's chin and her laugh as she used to do just that. She had loved the rain, and the sound of it calmed her even in the rollercoaster of mania. He had installed a skylight in her bedroom so she could listen to the rain at night, the lull of it soothing her to sleep. Now, he let the water trickle down inside the collar of his coat, wanting the sensation of cold fingers on his spine, wanting to shiver. Anything to feel again.
 

Matthew walked through the graveyard, accustomed to the path now, the tombs familiar sentinels on his routine visits. He wanted to talk to Lyssa once more, now that his course was set. Finally, there would be justice.
 

In the maelstrom of his plans and the deaths of those who had betrayed the mad, he still found peace here, a haven for the dead and the people who loved them. It was one of London's oldest graveyards, and the resonance of emotions tied to the dead remained, hovering, brooding.
 

Matthew looked up at the struts of the gas works behind the cemetery, like the ribs of a skinless drum, a skeleton of a building that looked down upon these many dead. He walked down the wide boulevard, past the rows of graves jostling for real estate in the crowded space. Kensal Green Cemetery was an eclectic mixture of historic graves, faded names etched with dates of years past and new monuments with garish colors and kitsch ornaments. Matthew looked down at one tomb, decorated with the wet remains of tinsel and a garden gnome dressed as Santa Claus. In many cultures, the living came to eat and party at the graveside, sharing food and wine in memory of those who had passed on. In London, those cultures sat side by side with the British sense of decorum and repression of emotion, the hidden depths of grief smothered by a downcast look and silent tears.
 

The newly dead still had people to mourn them, but Matthew knew that the majority were forgotten within three generations. People said they lived on through their children, but that was just genetics, nothing else. Most people left no trace upon the earth. Many didn't even know the names of their great grandparents, but his Lyssa deserved more than this silent grief, and today he would wreak havoc in her memory.
 

He stared at the rows of graves, a dominance of crosses against the pale blue sky, interspersed with melancholic angels. Was it all about legacy in the end? Only deeds remain, as our bodies disappear into the earth, rotting away. Whatever the truth, Matthew found peace here, as he had always done in graveyards. Back in the days when their parents fought after too many drinks, he and Lyssa used to sneak off to the nearby churchyard. He would recite to her from the graves, teaching her to read that way and the old-style lettering became her favorite font in later life. They had stayed there late into the night sometimes, curled up and sheltered from the wind by the heavy stones and cradled in the lush grass on the older graves. Sometimes they slept there, and Matthew remembered waking early one morning, in the first rays of sun. He had looked down at his sister's blonde hair, her long eyelashes against perfect skin and he had vowed to do anything to protect her.
 

He passed the grand graves either side of the main walkway, the most expensive plots in this fight for celestial real estate. Those inside were all the same in death, rotting corpses with memorials tattooed in platitudes. He 'fell asleep,' she 'rests in peace,' they all 'sleep with the angels.' Everyone was described in glowing terms: beloved husband, devoted wife, perfect father, true friend. There were no sinners in the graveyard, all were cleansed of individual personality, reduced to a name, a date and the relationship to those who buried them.
 

Matthew walked on through the riot of stone crosses, gravestones and small monuments. Nature was on the edge of reclaiming this land, tendrils of ivy growing up around the feet of the angels, moss on the roof of the mausoleum, the cracking tombstones and listing monuments, sinking into the earth. The limbs of trees stretched out like a blessing, shielding their charges from the rain above, the noise on the stones a soft drip. He passed a grave with an inscription from Revelation:
God will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away. I am making everything anew.
Matthew felt a strengthening of his resolve, for he had only to go forward now. To pave the way for a new order of understanding, he had to destroy the old order, and God wasn't the only one who could accomplish that. He reached out to touch an angel guarding a tomb, a gesture he found himself repeating every visit. The angel stood in a modest pose, head and eyes down, wings folded, hands clasped with a wreath between her fingers. Behind its watchful gaze, his sister lay sleeping.
 

Her stone was modest.
Lyssa, Beloved Sister.
Nothing more, for that defined her on this earth in his eyes. Her art had been but an outpouring of her name: mad, crazy goddess. Matthew knelt by the plain granite headstone, next to the mound of earth that marked the recent grave. He imagined her precious body beneath the dark soil, the worms that curled between her ribs, the insects that ate her flesh. It didn't matter, for her physical body had never been the remarkable thing about her. It was her mind that had soared above mere mortals.

Reaching into his pocket, Matthew pulled out a slim paperback. Lyssa had loved to read, loved to perform, so he still brought her books. There were other rain-sodden texts here, the remains of words that dripped ink into her grave, trickling through the earth to write his love on her corpse.
 

"Oh, for a muse of fire," Matthew whispered as he laid down a new volume, the words from Shakespeare's
Henry V
, the last play they had seen together. It had become his regular prayer, for she had been his muse, and now her light was gone. But he still had time to make others see as she had.
 

"It worked, Lyssa," he whispered, patting a little of the earth back into place, as he placed the book on her grave. "The drug worked, and the sane became moonstruck in St Paul's. The effects are long lasting, and my hope is that some of them won't ever return to mundanity but will stay in that other place." He bent to stroke her headstone, his voice full of regret. "You know that other place, you chose it over me after all. Now it's time to finish what I started and I'll be with you soon enough."
 

Matthew stood, looking down at the plot next to her. The double headstone was only half filled with her name, the space for his still empty. The mason had refused to carve it, calling it bad luck to inscribe a name while he was still living. Matthew felt an almost overwhelming compulsion to lie down next to Lyssa's grave, to coat himself in the earth that covered her. He desired only to lie in peace with her now, but there was one thing left to finish.
 

A massive sepulcher squatted behind Lyssa's grave, a giant stone edifice with letters carved in its side.
Dominus dedit. Dominus abstulit.
The Lord gives and the Lord takes away. The words were from Job, the story of a man tortured by Satan, while God allowed his faith to be tested. The sepulcher's main door had been sealed when the last of the family had been laid to rest here a generation ago, but in the recent storms the ground under the tomb had subsided. The strain on the door had cracked the entrance and Matthew had managed to lever it open.

Looking around to check no one was nearby, he removed the crowbar from his rucksack and went to the door of the mausoleum. Gently, he pried it open, slipping behind it into the dark. The space smelled of damp earth, and the bodies that had once lain here were dust long ago. The dead were not the ones to fear, anyway; this graveyard was far safer than the housing estates just down the road, where violence terrorized children as once it had him and Lyssa. Here there was only quiet, the soft patter of rain on leaves and stone outside, the sounds that would outlast all who visited here.

Matthew pulled a camping lantern from his pack and switched it on, the fluorescent bulb lighting the inside of the tomb. For all its exterior ornate decoration, inside was just a rack of shelves covered in the dust of corpses. A whisper of memory lingered here and Matthew was careful not to disturb what remained.
 

He bent down, kneeling on the floor. He reached under the bottom shelf, feeling his way to the back, and pulled out a small case, the type that could hold a musical instrument. The type that you wouldn't think of questioning in this city of ultimate acceptance. He opened it to reveal ten test tubes and two empty spots for the vials he had used at St Paul's. Plenty left for what he planned today.

Walking across Westminster Bridge, the sun warm on his skin, Matthew smiled. A champagne fizz thrummed in his veins, anticipation of what was to come. Today was the Second Reading of his proposed Bill on changes to the Mental Health Act in the House of Commons. Today, he was supposed to debate the merits of the clauses with those Ministers who cared enough to speak. But Matthew knew the truth. There was no way this Bill would go any further, no way that the media and the public would find out what he wanted, what he needed them to know. There were too many who protected their own interests, who had constituents that were more powerful, lobbying groups that wanted the mentally ill to disappear and stop being a drain on taxpayers' money. Even when most of the mentally ill were taxpayers anyway.
 

Christian Monro's research had galvanized support for extreme right-wing views, meaning that this Bill, generous to those in need, would be quashed by stronger voices than his. But the Bill would make the news tonight, Matthew would make sure of that, and the politicians who scoffed at the mentally ill might finally experience a slice of their pain.

He looked up at the Palace of Westminster, the cool stone blessed by sunlight. He never failed to be in awe of its grandeur. The Elizabeth Tower, named Big Ben after its bell, towered above the Thames, its clock face marking time for the nation. Originally a medieval palace, the buildings had been destroyed by fire a number of times and the present design had been constructed in the mid-nineteenth century. The Gothic architecture was dominated by vertical lines, as if a giant beast had raked its claws down the outside of the building, anchoring the spires to the banks of the river that nurtured the great city of London. Matthew dodged around the tourists on the bridge, understanding their need to capture its architectural beauty. This was his city, and pride swelled his throat as he glanced east towards the London Eye, the Shard and onwards, imagining the Thames Barrier and the ocean beyond.

London had always been a refuge for those on the perimeter of society, and every kind of outsider could find a niche in its maelstrom. Those who didn't fit into provincial towns could lose themselves here in anonymity, those rejected as wrong somehow could be welcomed into a community. There was a place for all here, but Westminster didn't truly represent the people of London. It still stood for the elite, those who sat above the marginalized and judged them for what they didn't have and couldn't get. Matthew had tried to break through the barriers of class and attitude, but the group he represented had too many disparate voices, weakened by years of their own suffering. They were too busy trying to survive each day, and couldn't spare the energy to convince others they were worthy of higher regard. But today these men of power – and they were mostly men – would understand.
 

Matthew approached the Parliament entrance for MPs and other regular visitors, and pulled the small rucksack from his shoulder, readying himself for the security protocol. The area was set up like an airport, with clearance machines for bags and a metal detector to walk through. He exhaled to try and control his fast heartbeat.
 

"Good morning, Jen." He smiled at the middle-aged security guard who worked here most mornings.
 

"Is it a good one?" Jen frowned, exhaustion evident in her stance and a dullness in her eyes.
 

"Are you alright?" Matthew asked, part of him desperate to run past her as fast as possible, but holding himself back. He was known to be a bit chatty in the mornings, more friendly than most of the MPs who rushed by, oblivious to those who served them.