So apologies to anyone following this. It's been a while and for that I can only blame time away from technology and The Edit.
The novel that this follows is currently undergoing some tinkering, massaging, limbering-up and working-out in a word-world gymnasium, all on the extremely valuable, positive and encouraging advice of People Who Know.
Please bear with me. And it. And the story will continue before you know it.
Tuesday 24 May 2011
Tuesday 8 March 2011
The Clergyman
They must not prevail. They must not prevail and I will help to set them free. Set them free from the snares of the Devil. The snares of the Devil that will take them from this place and replace them with his satanic whores. His satanic whores who would lie and cheat and instigate an uprising of the Others. The Others who must be laid to rest and cannot be allowed to usurp the order of the Almighty. The order of the Almighty must be preserved, for it is only through its splendour and its power and its glory that the sorcerers and idolaters and all liars shall have their part in the lake which burneth. Burneth with fire and brimstone and forever may it be a warning to those who seek to challenge the rightful and the righteous. The rightful and the righteous shall worship Him and praise Him and they shall know the one true spirit and the one true spirit shall know them. Shall know them in their love and in their gratitude and they shall be free to speak His name. Speak His name in praise and adulation and give succour to Him and they shall know not of the lies of Satan. The lies of Satan must not prevail. They must not prevail.
Tuesday 1 March 2011
DI Bassett
By the time we arrived, it was already too late. No sign of forced entry. No sign of the horrors that lay within, no sign of the crime that had transformed one woman’s top floor, cosy Victorian flat into something from Stephen King’s nightmares. No sign until –
DS Taylor lets me in. ‘In the living room, Guv. It’s weird. And not pretty.’
I walk down the hallway, squeezing past a man and a woman in latex gloves wielding blusher brushes, dusting down every surface in a search for a print. A flashbulb from a pathology photographer’s camera acts like a distress flare, showing the way.
The room’s crowded. Too much furniture, too big for the space. Too many people. Too many memories. Too many lies. Too many of us, standing around, drinking sweet tea from styrofoam cups, talking into mobiles, breathing in the dark smell of musty upholstery and past their sell-by date flowers and death.
And her. The victim. The deceased. Sitting in her chintz armchair like she’s waiting for tea for two. Except the tea’s gone cold and the top of her head’s been removed like a scalped boiled egg, a yolk of blood spilling down her face that wears a look of incongruous serenity. A cap of skin and bone and long red hair sits neatly in her lap, a fright wig emblem of silent ferocity.
In front of her, a coffee table’s been overturned. In the space where it stood lies a once white sheet, now blood-spattered. And drawn onto the sheet are two circles, one inside the other. Inside the inner circle, a pointed image, like a Star of David. Around it between the two circles, more stars, crosses, what look like ancient symbols.
I force myself to look away. Which is when I see the writing on the wall. In blood. Streaks of blood. And whilst it’s still legible, it’s also as if something, someone’s, tried to wash it away. From the snares of the Devil deliver us O Lord.
I walk over to the wall and look at it. It’s wet, not just blood wet, but water wet. As if the wall is crying. Crying for the scene laid out before it. Pink rivers trickle down the wall, following geographical pathways made of raised patterns in the wallpaper to the skirting where they dribble into dirty stains, topographical rivers of blood by William Morris.
I stand looking at the wall. It’s like I’m not really here. I swear I can hear voices, indistinct, echoing voices, voices that mourn, voices that implore, voices that beseech –
‘Guv? Guv?’ A different voice. An everyday voice. Taylor’s voice. ‘You alright, Guv? You were miles away.’
I pull myself back into reality. The wall’s dry. The blood’s dry. The letters are clear. From the snares of the Devil deliver us O Lord.
DS Taylor lets me in. ‘In the living room, Guv. It’s weird. And not pretty.’
I walk down the hallway, squeezing past a man and a woman in latex gloves wielding blusher brushes, dusting down every surface in a search for a print. A flashbulb from a pathology photographer’s camera acts like a distress flare, showing the way.
The room’s crowded. Too much furniture, too big for the space. Too many people. Too many memories. Too many lies. Too many of us, standing around, drinking sweet tea from styrofoam cups, talking into mobiles, breathing in the dark smell of musty upholstery and past their sell-by date flowers and death.
And her. The victim. The deceased. Sitting in her chintz armchair like she’s waiting for tea for two. Except the tea’s gone cold and the top of her head’s been removed like a scalped boiled egg, a yolk of blood spilling down her face that wears a look of incongruous serenity. A cap of skin and bone and long red hair sits neatly in her lap, a fright wig emblem of silent ferocity.
In front of her, a coffee table’s been overturned. In the space where it stood lies a once white sheet, now blood-spattered. And drawn onto the sheet are two circles, one inside the other. Inside the inner circle, a pointed image, like a Star of David. Around it between the two circles, more stars, crosses, what look like ancient symbols.
I force myself to look away. Which is when I see the writing on the wall. In blood. Streaks of blood. And whilst it’s still legible, it’s also as if something, someone’s, tried to wash it away. From the snares of the Devil deliver us O Lord.
I walk over to the wall and look at it. It’s wet, not just blood wet, but water wet. As if the wall is crying. Crying for the scene laid out before it. Pink rivers trickle down the wall, following geographical pathways made of raised patterns in the wallpaper to the skirting where they dribble into dirty stains, topographical rivers of blood by William Morris.
I stand looking at the wall. It’s like I’m not really here. I swear I can hear voices, indistinct, echoing voices, voices that mourn, voices that implore, voices that beseech –
‘Guv? Guv?’ A different voice. An everyday voice. Taylor’s voice. ‘You alright, Guv? You were miles away.’
I pull myself back into reality. The wall’s dry. The blood’s dry. The letters are clear. From the snares of the Devil deliver us O Lord.
Wednesday 16 February 2011
Kaitch
I made the call, as was the suggestion, and after playing twenty questions with an administrator, I spoke to my brother. Just writing that feels weird. Weirder than weird. My brother, Joshua Xavier Horsbrecht. Joshua Xavier Horsbrecht who officially went missing in 1985, Joshua Xavier Horsbrecht, who was officially declared dead in 1992, Joshua Xavier Horsbrecht, who I always believed was out there, somewhere.
Josh.
My brother.
Who appears to be very much alive. I confirmed my appointment
We cried, my brother and me. And then we laughed, then cried some more, all within the space of about four minutes. Neither of us can understand what’s happened so in the end it was just acceptance, knowing that it had and looking forward to seeing each other. As if one of us had just been away for a while. Which, in a way, was true.
*
I stood outside the Institute and smoked two cigarettes back to back, running my thoughts like a script through my head. Inside I was met with more bureaucracy, more form filling. This was, I guess, understandable. Things were complicated. If Josh was who he claimed to be, he was still technically a minor, having vanished at fifteen years of age and having turned up here apparently still the same over a year ago. Of course despite the checks no one really believed that. But they had nothing else to go on.
After the paperwork and some more questions, I was led down a long corridor and up a flight of stairs to another waiting area, a stark room furnished with a sofa, a small refrigerator and a low table. A large window made the room feel bigger than it actually was and outside the sky was developing a purplish shadow, like a bruise. The orderly who had led me here asked if I would like him to tell Josh I was ready to see him. I asked if he could just give me five minutes.
‘Of course,’ he said, and left the room. I stood staring out of the window. The sky seemed to be changing shade with increasing pace, as if someone was spilling new colour over an already wet painting. One second it looked as if there was a storm coming, then perhaps snow – those pinkish tints to the clouds – and then shafts of sunlight would break from behind the clouds and illuminate pathways from the sky.
As if there was a storm coming.
Something was happening, but I had no idea what. A flock of starlings gathered on the horizon, a myriad of birds, an avian cyclone that wove a swooping pattern across the sky. I fixed on the birds, concentrating on their synchronised symmetry, a poetic swarm, and then suddenly the swarm parted as if a meteor had fired through its centre and I felt sure that if a photograph had been taken at that moment, that precise moment, of the birds and the rent in their formation that it would have captured a comic book blast by an illustrator’s hand, made real by this bird-cloud’s display.
I thought I began to hear voices, indistinct, quiet voices. First one, then more. Mumbling, whispering, shouting, quietly screaming. It was like I could hear souls, a thousand souls, a million souls, travelling through the cosmos, seeking, swirling, searching for salvation, their cries echoing and bouncing off the walls of the little room inside my head where I had kept thoughts of this day shut away for over twenty years, daring only very occasionally to hold the door ajar and peek through in wonder.
‘Mr Horsbrecht? Mr Horsbrecht?’
I heard my name and turned, disoriented, blinking away a precursory tear that had formed at the corner of my eye.
‘Would you like to come with me, Mr Horsbrecht? If you’re ready. Josh is waiting for you.’
Josh.
My brother.
Who appears to be very much alive. I confirmed my appointment
We cried, my brother and me. And then we laughed, then cried some more, all within the space of about four minutes. Neither of us can understand what’s happened so in the end it was just acceptance, knowing that it had and looking forward to seeing each other. As if one of us had just been away for a while. Which, in a way, was true.
*
I stood outside the Institute and smoked two cigarettes back to back, running my thoughts like a script through my head. Inside I was met with more bureaucracy, more form filling. This was, I guess, understandable. Things were complicated. If Josh was who he claimed to be, he was still technically a minor, having vanished at fifteen years of age and having turned up here apparently still the same over a year ago. Of course despite the checks no one really believed that. But they had nothing else to go on.
After the paperwork and some more questions, I was led down a long corridor and up a flight of stairs to another waiting area, a stark room furnished with a sofa, a small refrigerator and a low table. A large window made the room feel bigger than it actually was and outside the sky was developing a purplish shadow, like a bruise. The orderly who had led me here asked if I would like him to tell Josh I was ready to see him. I asked if he could just give me five minutes.
‘Of course,’ he said, and left the room. I stood staring out of the window. The sky seemed to be changing shade with increasing pace, as if someone was spilling new colour over an already wet painting. One second it looked as if there was a storm coming, then perhaps snow – those pinkish tints to the clouds – and then shafts of sunlight would break from behind the clouds and illuminate pathways from the sky.
As if there was a storm coming.
Something was happening, but I had no idea what. A flock of starlings gathered on the horizon, a myriad of birds, an avian cyclone that wove a swooping pattern across the sky. I fixed on the birds, concentrating on their synchronised symmetry, a poetic swarm, and then suddenly the swarm parted as if a meteor had fired through its centre and I felt sure that if a photograph had been taken at that moment, that precise moment, of the birds and the rent in their formation that it would have captured a comic book blast by an illustrator’s hand, made real by this bird-cloud’s display.
I thought I began to hear voices, indistinct, quiet voices. First one, then more. Mumbling, whispering, shouting, quietly screaming. It was like I could hear souls, a thousand souls, a million souls, travelling through the cosmos, seeking, swirling, searching for salvation, their cries echoing and bouncing off the walls of the little room inside my head where I had kept thoughts of this day shut away for over twenty years, daring only very occasionally to hold the door ajar and peek through in wonder.
‘Mr Horsbrecht? Mr Horsbrecht?’
I heard my name and turned, disoriented, blinking away a precursory tear that had formed at the corner of my eye.
‘Would you like to come with me, Mr Horsbrecht? If you’re ready. Josh is waiting for you.’
Tuesday 1 February 2011
The Tape
When we looked through Alfred Dawkins’ things, trying to find out more about him, trying to establish whether there was a suicide note, a motive, we found a tape. It was tucked away in the drawer of the table that held the audio equipment in his studio. And it would have gone unnoticed, perhaps, had it not been for the fact that it had written on it, very definitely, in black marker pen, a date.
21.10.10
And when someone writes a date on a tape it means two things: first, that it’s been used, it’s unlikely to be blank; second, that it contains, or at least may contain, something significant.
It wasn’t an ordinary cassette tape. It was one of those small ones that are used in personal recording equipment, dictaphones and the like. Or rather, were used. These days everyone uses MP3 devices and records things on their mobiles, of course. But Alfred? He was a traditionalist.
This is what was on the tape when we played it back.
Muffled hiss, the sound of footsteps, feet on a gravel path –
A doorbell chimes –
A buzz – indistinct – ‘Hello?’
‘Hello, this is Alfie Dawkins. We spoke yesterday? I have an appointment.’
‘Come on up. Second floor.’
A buzzer – a door opens, then closes – footsteps –
‘Hello, you must be Alfie. I’m Wendy.’
‘Yes, hello.’
‘Well come in, come in. Can I take your jacket? Go straight through. Can I get you a drink?’
‘Um, thank you, thank you. Yes, um, just some water, please.’
Indistinct sounds, rustling, movement –
The female voice again –
‘There we are. So what can I do for you, Alfie? You mentioned your wife?’
‘Yes, she – she passed away, a couple of months ago. And – well, I just don’t know what to believe. I feel her, you know? Really feel her. Like she’s in the room with me. It’s like she’s reaching out to me and I can’t find a way to get to her. I’ve never believed in God. Never believed in ghosts. But there’s something, isn’t there? There’s something. And I just wanted to talk to someone about it who didn’t think I was crazy.’
A sigh, a sympathetic sigh –
‘Well, Alfie, you’ve come to the right place. Have you spoken to anyone else about this?’
‘One or two. People think I’m just overcome with grief, that I’m clutching at straws. It’s not that. I haven’t even really grieved for her, you know? Because I don’t feel that she’s gone. There’s one guy, a clergyman. Comes to my studio – I’m a tattoo artist – and I’ve spoken with him. But he listens and – well, it’s strange, I think he understands, but it’s like he’s always trying to persuade me against my concept of whatever an afterlife is. We come from very different perspectives, I guess.’
‘I’m afraid what’s out there doesn’t always sit very comfortably with religion.’
‘No, no, I suppose it doesn’t. You said “what’s out there”?’
‘There are many things that are out there, Alfie, many things. And we can’t possibly begin to understand most of them. But you see, I am able to see things, hear things, feel things, that can at least allow me to have some semblance of understanding.’
‘Go on.’
‘You said you don’t believe in ghosts.’
‘No, I – ’
‘What do you mean by ghosts, Alfie?’
‘Well, I – spirits, I suppose. Rising out of graveyards, floating. Dickensian things.’
‘And yet would you call your wife a ghost? You can sense her, after all.’
‘No, not a ghost. Well, not as I think of them. More of a – an – an other. Whatever that is.’
‘Because to me, you see Alfie, ghosts, or spirits, or phantoms, or poltergeists even, well, they’re as real as you and me. But we’ve mythologised them, we’ve created a story for them which means that we can’t see them for what they are.’
‘Which is?’
‘Spirits are love, Alfie, love. And yes, they can be hatred too. But all that emotion, all that feeling; if it’s real then it can’t just die, it can’t just stop.’
‘But how can they be real if they’re just a feeling?’
‘It’s not just a feeling. Feeling is what makes us human, Alfie. Feelings made up of electricity, feelings from the heart, the soul.’
‘So how come everyone can’t see and feel these spirits? Everybody loves somebody.’
‘Do they? Do they really? I’m not so sure. I think that many people have lost the ability to love, to truly love, unconditionally. We live in a society that walks round in blinkers, Alfie. We don’t see. We don’t feel. We kid ourselves that we do. But we feel in a way that’s dictated to us. We react to things in ways that feel appropriate, rather than natural. And I think this has taken away most people’s ability to connect with true love.’
‘And that’s why most people don’t believe in ghosts?’
‘It’s part of it, Alfie. Now. Are you sure you wouldn’t like some tea?’
‘Um, yes, that would be nice. Thank you.’
Click –
And that’s it. Either he turned the thing off, accidentally or deliberately, or he ran out of batteries, or – well, whatever, it stopped recording. And I don’t know why, but I think that there’s something significant on that tape. Don’t know what. Yet. Bloody ghosts, and whatnot.
A guy who has recently lost his wife, goes to see someone. This Wendy. What is she? A councillor? A spiritualist? I think we need to start with her. She might be able to shed some light on what happened next, some light on Alfie Dawkins. Because we’ve had the lab reports back. And it’s inconclusive. But I’ll give you ten to one that this was not a suicide. No way, José.
21.10.10
And when someone writes a date on a tape it means two things: first, that it’s been used, it’s unlikely to be blank; second, that it contains, or at least may contain, something significant.
It wasn’t an ordinary cassette tape. It was one of those small ones that are used in personal recording equipment, dictaphones and the like. Or rather, were used. These days everyone uses MP3 devices and records things on their mobiles, of course. But Alfred? He was a traditionalist.
This is what was on the tape when we played it back.
Muffled hiss, the sound of footsteps, feet on a gravel path –
A doorbell chimes –
A buzz – indistinct – ‘Hello?’
‘Hello, this is Alfie Dawkins. We spoke yesterday? I have an appointment.’
‘Come on up. Second floor.’
A buzzer – a door opens, then closes – footsteps –
‘Hello, you must be Alfie. I’m Wendy.’
‘Yes, hello.’
‘Well come in, come in. Can I take your jacket? Go straight through. Can I get you a drink?’
‘Um, thank you, thank you. Yes, um, just some water, please.’
Indistinct sounds, rustling, movement –
The female voice again –
‘There we are. So what can I do for you, Alfie? You mentioned your wife?’
‘Yes, she – she passed away, a couple of months ago. And – well, I just don’t know what to believe. I feel her, you know? Really feel her. Like she’s in the room with me. It’s like she’s reaching out to me and I can’t find a way to get to her. I’ve never believed in God. Never believed in ghosts. But there’s something, isn’t there? There’s something. And I just wanted to talk to someone about it who didn’t think I was crazy.’
A sigh, a sympathetic sigh –
‘Well, Alfie, you’ve come to the right place. Have you spoken to anyone else about this?’
‘One or two. People think I’m just overcome with grief, that I’m clutching at straws. It’s not that. I haven’t even really grieved for her, you know? Because I don’t feel that she’s gone. There’s one guy, a clergyman. Comes to my studio – I’m a tattoo artist – and I’ve spoken with him. But he listens and – well, it’s strange, I think he understands, but it’s like he’s always trying to persuade me against my concept of whatever an afterlife is. We come from very different perspectives, I guess.’
‘I’m afraid what’s out there doesn’t always sit very comfortably with religion.’
‘No, no, I suppose it doesn’t. You said “what’s out there”?’
‘There are many things that are out there, Alfie, many things. And we can’t possibly begin to understand most of them. But you see, I am able to see things, hear things, feel things, that can at least allow me to have some semblance of understanding.’
‘Go on.’
‘You said you don’t believe in ghosts.’
‘No, I – ’
‘What do you mean by ghosts, Alfie?’
‘Well, I – spirits, I suppose. Rising out of graveyards, floating. Dickensian things.’
‘And yet would you call your wife a ghost? You can sense her, after all.’
‘No, not a ghost. Well, not as I think of them. More of a – an – an other. Whatever that is.’
‘Because to me, you see Alfie, ghosts, or spirits, or phantoms, or poltergeists even, well, they’re as real as you and me. But we’ve mythologised them, we’ve created a story for them which means that we can’t see them for what they are.’
‘Which is?’
‘Spirits are love, Alfie, love. And yes, they can be hatred too. But all that emotion, all that feeling; if it’s real then it can’t just die, it can’t just stop.’
‘But how can they be real if they’re just a feeling?’
‘It’s not just a feeling. Feeling is what makes us human, Alfie. Feelings made up of electricity, feelings from the heart, the soul.’
‘So how come everyone can’t see and feel these spirits? Everybody loves somebody.’
‘Do they? Do they really? I’m not so sure. I think that many people have lost the ability to love, to truly love, unconditionally. We live in a society that walks round in blinkers, Alfie. We don’t see. We don’t feel. We kid ourselves that we do. But we feel in a way that’s dictated to us. We react to things in ways that feel appropriate, rather than natural. And I think this has taken away most people’s ability to connect with true love.’
‘And that’s why most people don’t believe in ghosts?’
‘It’s part of it, Alfie. Now. Are you sure you wouldn’t like some tea?’
‘Um, yes, that would be nice. Thank you.’
Click –
And that’s it. Either he turned the thing off, accidentally or deliberately, or he ran out of batteries, or – well, whatever, it stopped recording. And I don’t know why, but I think that there’s something significant on that tape. Don’t know what. Yet. Bloody ghosts, and whatnot.
A guy who has recently lost his wife, goes to see someone. This Wendy. What is she? A councillor? A spiritualist? I think we need to start with her. She might be able to shed some light on what happened next, some light on Alfie Dawkins. Because we’ve had the lab reports back. And it’s inconclusive. But I’ll give you ten to one that this was not a suicide. No way, José.
Wednesday 26 January 2011
Josh
The psychiatrist seemed undecided. Performed a number of tests, asked lots of questions, scribbled a lot, sucked the end of his pen. I figure he thinks I’m either as mad as the proverbial Hatter or I’ve got a serious eighties retro trip thing going on. He said the word ‘interesting’ a lot. The care worker didn’t seem to know why I was here. Or why she was here, for that matter. I asked her, ‘do you think I’m schizophrenic?’
‘Well, the preliminary report from Doctor Feltz – ’ she began. Then stopped. Doctor Feltz was the pen-sucker. Then she added, ‘It’s not really for me to say. But do I think you’re a danger to anyone or to yourself? No, I don’t. But if you’re going to get back into society, we need to ascertain some care provisions. Or at least, establish how old you are.’ Which was something.
And the priest? Man, he was something, too. Something else. The way he looked at me. The way he smiled. He smiled a lot. Most of the time his voice was very precise. Particular, soft. Then he’d look away and mumble pieces of scripture to himself, much as I had with the song lyrics months ago, whereas I was trying to see if I could get a reaction and I swear he couldn’t help it. It was like some kind of religious tourettes. I remember thinking, either I’m going to get out of here or I’m going to get you as a room mate. More than once, he asked me if I thought I’d come from an other. Or rather, an Other. Like it was a noun. A place. I thought, what the – ? And he’d gaze at me with his big, unblinking brown eyes and he’d smile his smile that veered from patronising to away-with-the-fairies weird and that showed his yellow teeth and I’d get all creeped out and clam up. All in all, I don’t think that my spiritual well-being took much comfort from our encounter. In fact, given that this trio have been the first outsiders I’ve seen in a year, they weren’t exactly a barrel load of fun.
But.
Kyle’s coming.
Soon.
They said, they promised, they’re setting it up.
And it’s then that I’ll find out just how fecked up I really am. How crazy. How deluded. How true. How real. Because Kyle will take one look at me and he’ll know, I’ll know, we’ll know and then we can start to rebuild, then we can start to untangle whatever unholy mess this is. Then we can start. Again.
‘Well, the preliminary report from Doctor Feltz – ’ she began. Then stopped. Doctor Feltz was the pen-sucker. Then she added, ‘It’s not really for me to say. But do I think you’re a danger to anyone or to yourself? No, I don’t. But if you’re going to get back into society, we need to ascertain some care provisions. Or at least, establish how old you are.’ Which was something.
And the priest? Man, he was something, too. Something else. The way he looked at me. The way he smiled. He smiled a lot. Most of the time his voice was very precise. Particular, soft. Then he’d look away and mumble pieces of scripture to himself, much as I had with the song lyrics months ago, whereas I was trying to see if I could get a reaction and I swear he couldn’t help it. It was like some kind of religious tourettes. I remember thinking, either I’m going to get out of here or I’m going to get you as a room mate. More than once, he asked me if I thought I’d come from an other. Or rather, an Other. Like it was a noun. A place. I thought, what the – ? And he’d gaze at me with his big, unblinking brown eyes and he’d smile his smile that veered from patronising to away-with-the-fairies weird and that showed his yellow teeth and I’d get all creeped out and clam up. All in all, I don’t think that my spiritual well-being took much comfort from our encounter. In fact, given that this trio have been the first outsiders I’ve seen in a year, they weren’t exactly a barrel load of fun.
But.
Kyle’s coming.
Soon.
They said, they promised, they’re setting it up.
And it’s then that I’ll find out just how fecked up I really am. How crazy. How deluded. How true. How real. Because Kyle will take one look at me and he’ll know, I’ll know, we’ll know and then we can start to rebuild, then we can start to untangle whatever unholy mess this is. Then we can start. Again.
Monday 17 January 2011
Kaitch
Time to let the cat out of the bag. Out of the box.
I made the call. Started the ball rolling. Requested an appointment. Deep breath.
Twenty-five years of belief, twenty-five years of refusing to accept, twenty-five years of immersing myself in the theories of the cosmos, the universe, looking for clues, looking for signs, looking for – what? Looking for Josh. And now I might have found him. Or rather, he might have found me.
If I’m right, then this is going to blow people away. If I’m right, then we’re going to incur a witch hunt, a miasma. If I’m right, then the hounds of hell will be let loose, the righteous and the narrowminds will shake their heads and shake their fists and call us crazy. If I’m right, then this will make the Elephant Man look like a sideshow. If I’m right, then the world just changed. If I’m right. If he’s right.
So I’m sitting here, looking out of the window at the bleached-out London sky, looking at it shedding its dirty rain, watching the pools of water form on the courtyard down below, and everything’s grey and everything’s quiet save for the soft pit-pat-slap, and everything’s still save for the raindrops, falling and bouncing, and everything that’s going through my mind is focussed on a wood on the edge of a paddock, dappled in summer sunshine, the greens and the yellows cutting through the grey like swathes of iridescent paint splashed onto the now, and I’m squinting into the sunlight as I emerge from the backdoor of a cottage that stands next to the paddock and I’m carrying two bottles of icy Coke and I’m walking down the stony path, past the flowers that stretch up and sun their faces, past the two bicycles that lie carelessly on the lawn, out of the ancient gate and down to the wood at the edge of the paddock, and the sweat’s sticking my T-shirt to my fifteen year old back and I’m walking through the long, rustling grass and I’m at the edge of the wood and I’m calling to Josh in that moment before –
There’s a phone ringing. It takes a moment before I realise it’s mine. It’s The Institute. Confirming the appointment. And suggesting that perhaps I’d like to speak to the one calling himself Josh a day or two before the meeting. Perhaps it would be beneficial to call. I say that that’s fine and that I’ll call. They say sometime between four and six would be preferable. I say that I’ll remember that. I thank them for the call and hang up. And I look out of the window as the sky cries its tears and I smile.
I made the call. Started the ball rolling. Requested an appointment. Deep breath.
Twenty-five years of belief, twenty-five years of refusing to accept, twenty-five years of immersing myself in the theories of the cosmos, the universe, looking for clues, looking for signs, looking for – what? Looking for Josh. And now I might have found him. Or rather, he might have found me.
If I’m right, then this is going to blow people away. If I’m right, then we’re going to incur a witch hunt, a miasma. If I’m right, then the hounds of hell will be let loose, the righteous and the narrowminds will shake their heads and shake their fists and call us crazy. If I’m right, then this will make the Elephant Man look like a sideshow. If I’m right, then the world just changed. If I’m right. If he’s right.
So I’m sitting here, looking out of the window at the bleached-out London sky, looking at it shedding its dirty rain, watching the pools of water form on the courtyard down below, and everything’s grey and everything’s quiet save for the soft pit-pat-slap, and everything’s still save for the raindrops, falling and bouncing, and everything that’s going through my mind is focussed on a wood on the edge of a paddock, dappled in summer sunshine, the greens and the yellows cutting through the grey like swathes of iridescent paint splashed onto the now, and I’m squinting into the sunlight as I emerge from the backdoor of a cottage that stands next to the paddock and I’m carrying two bottles of icy Coke and I’m walking down the stony path, past the flowers that stretch up and sun their faces, past the two bicycles that lie carelessly on the lawn, out of the ancient gate and down to the wood at the edge of the paddock, and the sweat’s sticking my T-shirt to my fifteen year old back and I’m walking through the long, rustling grass and I’m at the edge of the wood and I’m calling to Josh in that moment before –
There’s a phone ringing. It takes a moment before I realise it’s mine. It’s The Institute. Confirming the appointment. And suggesting that perhaps I’d like to speak to the one calling himself Josh a day or two before the meeting. Perhaps it would be beneficial to call. I say that that’s fine and that I’ll call. They say sometime between four and six would be preferable. I say that I’ll remember that. I thank them for the call and hang up. And I look out of the window as the sky cries its tears and I smile.
Monday 10 January 2011
DI Bassett
I’m trying to keep an open mind about this one but something keeps nagging me, telling me I’m missing something. A dead body, looks like a suicide. Certainly the first two coppers on the scene thought it was. But I got a call from my DS about ten, saying that he’d talked it through with the SOCO and they both felt that it merited further investigation and would I come and take a look? Something about the blood splatter pattern. Something about the position of the hand around the gun. Something About Mary was beginning to grate on me anyway, so I left the wife and kids to the rest of the DVD and the last of the Chinese takeaway and headed on down to Clerkenwell.
Usual scene when I arrived. Blue flashing lights and a load of blue and white tape, stretched across the entrance to a tattoo parlour. DS Taylor shows me in. A small reception area lined with posters and photographs of famous clients. Ex-clients. One of them I used to know. Joe da Flo. Played with that band, VivaFish. Don’t hear so much about them now. I looked closely at his picture, remembering. Back in the day. That was a strange case.
To Alfie, No Fear, All Love, Joe da Flo. That’s what it said across the bottom of his picture in black felt tip. Alfie. Alfred Valentine Henry Dawkins. Tattoo artist, seemingly to the stars, judging by the framed rogues’ gallery. Alfred Valentine Henry Dawkins. The Deceased.
Just off the reception, there’s a room separated from the entrance area by a red velvet curtain. DS Taylor holds it open for me and we duck through.
Inside it’s like a cross between a dentists and a church with Aleister Crowley as the presiding minister. Fat candles on ornate candelabras and a large gilt crucifix stand among skulls and a couple of ceremonial swords. One wall’s lined with classical music CDs, another has an old tin sign advertising long-gone motorbikes besides which sits what looks like a German helmet from World War One. I double take as I realise that the helmet’s become a hat for another grinning skull.
In the middle of all this are three leather chairs, the sort you’d get to sit in whilst having a filling. Appropriate, jokes Taylor, reckoning that getting a tattoo must be like root canal work. And in one of the chairs sits Alfred Dawkins, half his face blown away.
He’s clutching a gun, a small army-issue pistol. Blood and brain have done a Jackson Pollack to the wall behind him. Drying blood patches on the floor. So it looks like a straightforward, if messy, suicide, right? Wrong. There’s something that doesn’t add up. The angle of his arm’s all wrong. The bullet’s gone into the side of his head. I’ve seen cases like this before, not many, but enough. Three or four. And the gun’s always been fired up into the mouth. No danger of missing from there, see.
I tell Taylor to get the forensics boys and girls and a photographer down here pronto. He says they’re on their way. I have a look around. There’s a few pieces of hi-fi equipment sitting on a wooden bench, old stuff, like it would be familiar with the eighties. A turntable. A CD player. A tuner. A cassette tape machine. The tape machine’s open. No tape.
A uniform comes in carrying two cups of coffee. He passes one to me, one to Taylor.
‘What do you reckon, Guv?’ Taylor asks, slurping noisily on his coffee.
‘I reckon it looks odd,’ I reply. ‘My antenna’s twitching, Taylor. And you know what that means, don’t you?’
‘A long night, Guv,’ Taylor replies.
Usual scene when I arrived. Blue flashing lights and a load of blue and white tape, stretched across the entrance to a tattoo parlour. DS Taylor shows me in. A small reception area lined with posters and photographs of famous clients. Ex-clients. One of them I used to know. Joe da Flo. Played with that band, VivaFish. Don’t hear so much about them now. I looked closely at his picture, remembering. Back in the day. That was a strange case.
To Alfie, No Fear, All Love, Joe da Flo. That’s what it said across the bottom of his picture in black felt tip. Alfie. Alfred Valentine Henry Dawkins. Tattoo artist, seemingly to the stars, judging by the framed rogues’ gallery. Alfred Valentine Henry Dawkins. The Deceased.
Just off the reception, there’s a room separated from the entrance area by a red velvet curtain. DS Taylor holds it open for me and we duck through.
Inside it’s like a cross between a dentists and a church with Aleister Crowley as the presiding minister. Fat candles on ornate candelabras and a large gilt crucifix stand among skulls and a couple of ceremonial swords. One wall’s lined with classical music CDs, another has an old tin sign advertising long-gone motorbikes besides which sits what looks like a German helmet from World War One. I double take as I realise that the helmet’s become a hat for another grinning skull.
In the middle of all this are three leather chairs, the sort you’d get to sit in whilst having a filling. Appropriate, jokes Taylor, reckoning that getting a tattoo must be like root canal work. And in one of the chairs sits Alfred Dawkins, half his face blown away.
He’s clutching a gun, a small army-issue pistol. Blood and brain have done a Jackson Pollack to the wall behind him. Drying blood patches on the floor. So it looks like a straightforward, if messy, suicide, right? Wrong. There’s something that doesn’t add up. The angle of his arm’s all wrong. The bullet’s gone into the side of his head. I’ve seen cases like this before, not many, but enough. Three or four. And the gun’s always been fired up into the mouth. No danger of missing from there, see.
I tell Taylor to get the forensics boys and girls and a photographer down here pronto. He says they’re on their way. I have a look around. There’s a few pieces of hi-fi equipment sitting on a wooden bench, old stuff, like it would be familiar with the eighties. A turntable. A CD player. A tuner. A cassette tape machine. The tape machine’s open. No tape.
A uniform comes in carrying two cups of coffee. He passes one to me, one to Taylor.
‘What do you reckon, Guv?’ Taylor asks, slurping noisily on his coffee.
‘I reckon it looks odd,’ I reply. ‘My antenna’s twitching, Taylor. And you know what that means, don’t you?’
‘A long night, Guv,’ Taylor replies.
Tuesday 4 January 2011
Joe
Tail lights glow red like wounds in the night. A sky as dark as the road spits sleet. Red, dark busses loom out of their lanes, belching mammoths carrying the disaffected and the blind, their sides adorned with panels promoting the acceptance of meaningless bland mediocrity. Don’t stop to think, baby, life’s too short, gratification’s only a card swipe away. If you haven't maxed it out. If they haven't barred your pin. Join the Revolution! Storm the barricades? Uh-uh. Just a mobile phone with 3D resolution.
Happy New Year. Happy new triple dip. The many and the few. The few that have. The many that have not. I’m one of the few. I feel like one of the many. Welcome to 2012. Follow the rubies shining wetly through the dark.
I’m on the way to see her. On the way to feel whole again. On the way to our own little bubble. Driving through roads that swish and roar. Black serpents’ tails to the motorway rush, bordered by trees whose black branches clutch and beckon, come hither my pretty, the few, few stars white knuckles on a demon’s claw.
Turn on the stereo, turn up the sounds. Soundtrack to a different time. A reminder of light somewhere in this dark world, where the sun shines hot and the cerveza’s on tap and the golden dancers sway in bikinis on the golden sands. Got to get away, baby, away from this, away from here. Get two tickets for an aeroplane, ain’t got time to take a fast train. Because something’s closing in and if you get left behind, you won’t be taken prisoner. No hostages to virtue, no hostages to fortune. And fortune favours the brave. Let’s start walking on sunshine. Turn these dark, dank days into the sweet summertime.
Happy New Year. Happy new triple dip. The many and the few. The few that have. The many that have not. I’m one of the few. I feel like one of the many. Welcome to 2012. Follow the rubies shining wetly through the dark.
I’m on the way to see her. On the way to feel whole again. On the way to our own little bubble. Driving through roads that swish and roar. Black serpents’ tails to the motorway rush, bordered by trees whose black branches clutch and beckon, come hither my pretty, the few, few stars white knuckles on a demon’s claw.
Turn on the stereo, turn up the sounds. Soundtrack to a different time. A reminder of light somewhere in this dark world, where the sun shines hot and the cerveza’s on tap and the golden dancers sway in bikinis on the golden sands. Got to get away, baby, away from this, away from here. Get two tickets for an aeroplane, ain’t got time to take a fast train. Because something’s closing in and if you get left behind, you won’t be taken prisoner. No hostages to virtue, no hostages to fortune. And fortune favours the brave. Let’s start walking on sunshine. Turn these dark, dank days into the sweet summertime.
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