White Corridor

by Christopher Fowler

  Madeline looked on in awe as a pair of angular fashion models in white mink coats paraded before a crouching photographer.

  ‘Don’t be fooled by all of this,’ said Johann. ‘I read that the average resident here has seven bank accounts, but you won’t see any of them around town. They’re up in the hills. This is just a display for tourists.’

  But it was obvious to Madeline that Monte Carlo was geared to amusing thin white rich people. As she passed a silver Baby Bentley, its licence plate carrying the blue and white Monaco coat of arms, she felt herself shrinking into insignificance. The policemen looked like male models, and the streets were as clean as expensive restaurants. Down in the bay, elderly couples watched television on gleaming yachts in the world’s most expensive floating trailer park. This was Old Europe at its richest and creepiest, attracting serious wealth while simultaneously fish-eyeing the tourist classes, pocketing money while making you feel like a grateful nonentity.

  Ryan had taken to holding their escort’s hand as they walked. Shafts of sunlight slanted between the green cliff peaks, tilting the town even further towards the sea.

  ‘I don’t think this is my kind of place,’ said Madeline. ‘I don’t feel comfortable here.’

  ‘I like it.’ Johann pointed up to the lampposts. ‘The cameras? Everything that happens here is filmed by the security system. There is no crime. They see everything.’

  ‘I suppose that’s a good thing,’ said Madeline doubtfully.

  The cameras simultaneously protected and threatened. Johann liked that. They watched for petty crime and bad behaviour, but missed the fact that he had broken the law. It was the beauty of Europe; so many countries with different rules and moral codes, butted up against one another, and none of them communicating. Paradoxically, he felt safer here than anywhere else, knowing that the technology was more efficient than those who operated it.

  ‘Let’s go back.’ He took up the hands on either side of him and led them back to the underground car park where the shining floors squeaked and the walls played music.

  She watched the passing lights through the windscreen as they passed out of town towards Cap-d’Ail. ‘What happened to your other car?’ she asked, touching the polished dashboard of the silver Mercedes.

  ‘There was a problem with the gearbox.’ He did not take his eyes from the road. Ryan was asleep in the back.

  ‘Really? It seemed fine to me.’ She knew quite a bit about cars; Jack had always discussed his work with her. ‘Where did you get this?’

  ‘My brother has a half share in a secondhand-car dealership. He lends me vehicles from time to time.’ The lies came easily. They always had.

  ‘I thought you said you were an only child, Johann.’

  ‘I call him brother. Our family adopted him to raise as their own.’

  ‘Does he live nearby?’

  She was asking too many questions. Impatiently, he floored the car and allowed it to glide around the angle of the cliff road. ‘He is in Ventimiglia.’

  ‘He must trust your driving ability.’

  She was thinking things through; he could see something going on behind her eyes. He changed the subject. ‘Why did you not pick Spain for your vacation here? I thought the English preferred the Spanish coast.’

  ‘A certain type of English, I think.’ She looked back at the sleeping boy. ‘Maybe I should have taken Ryan there. He’d have more friends, and we’d have been able to save money. Things are more expensive here.’

  ‘I have money. I can lend you some.’

  ‘No, it wouldn’t be right.’

  ‘It is only money. You must not misunderstand my purpose, Madeline. I mean, it would help you to stay. I will miss you if you go.’

  ‘I didn’t mean—it’s very kind of you to offer, Johann.’ She placed her hand on his and smiled. The barrier between them thawed a little further.

  ‘Tonight I take you to El Morocco. You like couscous?’

  ‘I don’t think I’ve ever had it.’

  ‘Then I show you what you are missing. Then we put Ryan to bed and I take you for a drink.’

  ‘Only at my hotel.’ It was not a refusal. This time he was unable to keep the smile from his face. Perhaps he worried too much about hiding his feelings. Where was the harm? He could feel she was genuinely starting to care about him. He allowed himself to dream about her a little.

  It was a dream that did not include the boy. He had always imagined that true love would arrive in the form of a virgin, not a single mother as old as himself. He knew he would have to adjust. Nothing was ever what you expected. That was the beauty and the terror of life.

  Smiling to himself, he pushed down on the accelerator, and the Mercedes crested the curve of the Moyenne Corniche with a wealthy roar.

  10

  EMBARKATION

  Very early on Tuesday morning, John May arrived at his partner’s house in Chalk Farm to find him already outside, trying to close the doors of Alma’s van.

  ‘There’s a mile of string tied around this engine,’ he said, peering beneath the bonnet of the old white Bedford. ‘It looks like it’s holding the distributor cap on.’

  ‘Your obsession with reliability is misguided,’ Bryant replied cheerfully, opening the passenger door and checking the musty interior. ‘My father used to make deliveries all across London in one of these, right through the 1950s. It took them ages to catch him.’ This was the sort of annoying remark Bryant was wont to make, in that it obscured as much information as it illuminated. ‘Do you think it will hold the Garden of Eden?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ May looked up from under the hood. His partner’s conversation always left you feeling you’d missed something.

  ‘The closing night show is taking comparative religious myths as its theme. We need to get a hardboard Garden of Eden in the back, along with several apple trees, a horn of plenty, two plastic gazelles and a partial view of a mountain built for Alma’s church production of The Sound of Music that’s still covered in goat pellets. We’re staging the fall from grace without a volcano, as our Adam had to be taken to the infirmary suffering from smoke inhalation last time we ignited it. It wasn’t my fault; the ventilation in St Peter’s Holborn is a disgrace. I suppose I made the production a touch too theatrical. When the snake turned into Satan accompanied by the detonation of an Ariel Bombshell, the ladies in the front row looked as if they’d just given birth.’

  The news that Bryant had reenacted the Creation in a city church came as no surprise to May. At this time of the year, and at a time in life when most men were fantasising about spending their afternoons in a soft armchair, Arthur was more likely to be found organising a conference for ufologists or leading a hunt across the East End in search of the Dagenham Strangler. He seemed able to draw on reserves of strength that powered him through the winter and propelled him towards another spring, much as a vehicle low on petrol might charge a hill in order to coast the next down slope.

  ‘At least you won’t need to pack costumes.’ May chuckled.

  ‘Oh, we will. There’s Ganesh and Shiva, Buddha and Mohammad, plus robes, hats and props for their followers. We take a quick canter through all the major myths and legends. We usually manage to incorporate Arthurian and Celtic tales, too, if we’ve room to take the dragon. Sometimes we chuck in a bit of Hans Christian Andersen. It’s all for charity, you see, Children in Poverty. We get the local school to help out, although never the Catholic ones, as they’re not keen on having their Lady of Grace sharing the stage with half a dozen trolls and an elephant-headed god covered in sparklers. Those who take their religion too literally can be very narrow-minded about such things. We try to show that whether you’re pagan or Protestant, you can still learn something from those who draw strength from faith.’

  ‘Are you telling me you’ve discovered faith in your old age?’ asked May.

  ‘Good heavens, no.’ Bryant readjusted his spectacles and squinted up at his partner with watery wide eyes. ‘I just like a ni
ce bit of theatre. Doesn’t everyone?’

  ‘When are we leaving?’

  ‘Just as soon as we get these doors shut and I remember where I left my hearing aid batteries. We should be able to reach Plymouth by late afternoon, which will give us time to unload the van and set up for the start of the convention on Wednesday morning. It only lasts two days, climaxing with the awards ceremony and the show on Thursday evening. We can either stay overnight and set back first thing Friday morning, or leave the night before. Can I trust you to be captain of our supply team? I’ve got enough to do just sorting out my pills.’

  ‘What do I have to do?’

  ‘Alma has manufactured a hundredweight of sandwiches for us to take along, and some of her special “thick” pea-and-ham soup that might come in handy for fixing radiator leaks. She’ll give you the full list of comestibles.’

  ‘Good heavens, we’re not going to the North Pole, Arthur.’

  ‘Just as well, because it’s not there anymore,’ said Bryant gloomily. ‘Global warming. I read in the paper that it’s melted clean away. I don’t suppose I’ll see a frozen landscape again in my lifetime.’

  ‘You’re wrong about that, Mr Bryant.’ Alma Sorrowbridge had come into the yard behind their home waving a copy of the Daily Mail. ‘Blizzards, it says here, turning very nasty. Look at the forecast, the coldest winter in fifty years. It’s snowing in Somerset, and going to get worse. The gritters are going on strike and the roads will be like ice. Decent people will freeze to death in their beds.’

  ‘Always the bearer of cheering news, aren’t you?’ Bryant sighed, slamming the van doors with finality. ‘She just wants me to cancel the trip because she doesn’t approve of my multifaith approach to spiritualism. That, and the fact that last year we made a chapter of her evangelists’ gospel choir share their dressing room with a pair of Brahmins and some Hasidic Jews.’ Bryant neglected to mention that the choir had brought a family bucket of pork ribs into the dressing room and had almost started a war.

  ‘The doctrine of salvation by faith is the essence of gospel teaching,’ said Alma hotly. ‘It’s Protestant, not Pick ‘n’ Mix. I don’t approve of throwing all these religions together with nonbelievers.’

  ‘There’s no such thing as a nonbeliever,’ Bryant stated. ‘Everyone believes in something, whether it involves alien visitations or simply being nice to each other and repairing a fractured world with good deeds, a cabalistic lesson you might learn the next time you consider torturing me with your culinary experiments. Now be so kind as to go and finish packing my warm clothes.’

  It was a little after 8:15 A.M. when they embarked on their journey. John May had agreed to come along partly because his partner was not to be trusted with directions, but also because he had never shown an interest in Bryant’s enthusiasms, and had decided it was about time he did.

  ‘I’ve planned our route,’ said Bryant, settling into the passenger seat and pulling the collar of an enormous astrakhan overcoat up around his ears. ‘We need the A38, possibly via Bittaford and Moorhaven, assuming those villages are still there after two world wars. Perhaps we should stop and buy a more recent map. Do you think I should put a satellite navigation system in my Mini Cooper?’

  ‘You are the last person in the world to be trusted with SatNav,’ May retorted. ‘Remember what happened when you borrowed Dan Banbury’s car?’

  ‘Oh, er, vaguely.’ Bryant sank further into his overcoat, recalling his flustered response to the insistent electronic voice warning him to turn right. It had led him into a closed street where work on the London Underground system was under way. Bryant surprised the railway workers by shooting Banbury’s vehicle into a trench filled with exposed electrical cabling for the Northern line. He had managed to shut down the City Branch during rush hour, and since then none of the electronic readouts in Banbury’s car had ever worked properly.

  ‘So what’s our route?’ asked May.

  ‘We make our way to Hammersmith and get onto the M3 as far as Winchester, then head for Salisbury and Yeovil on the A30, switch to the A303, past Exmouth and Newton Abbot, skirt the southern edge of Dartmoor on the A38 and hit Plymouth by teatime. If we’re running ahead of schedule, we could visit my Auntie Dolly in Weymouth. She just had her telegram from the queen, and still does her own shopping, although some of the things she comes back with take some explaining.’

  ‘All right, I’ll handle the M3 and you can take the back roads. Let’s find a garage first. No doubt you’ll want to stock up on boiled sweets.’

  ‘No, I’ve taken to buying them wholesale. I’ve got a pound of Rhubarb and Custards in the back, some Jelly Tots, and a half of Chocolate Limes. Do you want a Pear Drop?’

  ‘No, acetone takes the roof off my mouth. You think Janice can manage looking after the PCU? We’ve never left her in charge before.’

  ‘She’ll probably be better than you or I,’ Bryant told him. ‘We’ll only be away for a couple of days. What could go wrong in that time?’

  ‘What about April? Do you think she’ll be all right? I mean, now that we’ve talked about her mother’s death.’

  ‘I don’t see why not. For heaven’s sake, stop fretting about everyone.’ Bryant’s thoughts were generally so abstracted that he found it hard to empathise with other people’s personal problems. ‘April can call you if there’s anything on her mind. Put your foot down, I have my heart set on a pint of scrumpy tonight.’

  May turned the ignition key. There was a grinding noise beneath the hood, then a peculiar squeaking sound.

  ‘Wait!’ Alma came running out. ‘Open the bonnet!’ May did as he was told, and the landlady reappeared from beneath the hood with an armful of mewling kittens. ‘They were keeping warm under there. I’m minding them for a neighbour.’

  This time, the van started.

  ‘I’m sure I’m going to regret this,’ muttered May as he pulled out into the peristaltic column of traffic passing slowly through Chalk Farm.

  ‘Look at it this way,’ said Bryant, leafing through pages of villages that no longer existed. ‘For the next three days you won’t have to think about solving a single crime.’

  11

  REVELATION

  ‘Come with me, I want to show you something.’

  ‘Are you sure it’s safe?’ Madeline asked. ‘Isn’t it private property?’

  ‘A rich old guy used to own it, but he died. Now some Swiss property developers want to turn it into a hotel, but the mayor won’t allow them. He’s probably holding out for a bigger bribe, and until he gets it, the place stays empty. Give me your hand.’ He outstretched his arm and hauled her onto the granite wall beside him. ‘Be careful of this plant,’ he warned, indicating the purple bougainvillea that had overgrown the garden of the chateau. ‘It has pairs of sharp thorns.’ He placed his hands around her waist and lifted her into the long grass. ‘The ground slopes down to the sea. Hold onto me.’

  The sun had just sunk behind the cliffs, and Ryan had passed out in his hotel room, exhausted after a day spent racing up and down the shingle beach with Johann. Madeline allowed Johann’s hand to stay on her waist even after she had steadied herself.

  The chateau’s vermilion tiled roof had partially collapsed. Olive trees and agaves had broken through the plaster on the ground-floor walls. The grand old house had been empty for many years. Between the pines and date palms she could glimpse an indigo triangle of ocean. Rotting tangerines littered the grassy slope. Their sharp citrus scent made her mouth water.

  ‘Over here, you have to see this.’ He pushed back the branches and allowed her to climb through. There, in a small clearing behind the chateau, was a white stone summerhouse, its roof decorated with stencilled fleurs-de-lis clipped from green tin. A band might have played there on warm summer evenings. He climbed up the steps of the rotunda and swayed from side to side, his head tilted. ‘Listen, you can almost hear the accordion playing.’

  ‘I don’t hear anything.’ She laughed, joining him.


  ‘No, really, there is music all around us. There are ghosts in the trees. Look.’ He pointed upward and she smiled in surprise. ‘Fireflies. They always gather here at dusk.’

  ‘How do you know this place?’ she asked.

  ‘I came here as a child. I was forbidden to visit the chateau—the old man was still living here then. He was a wealthy member of the old Monaco family, a genuine Grimaldi, but—’ He tapped the side of his head. ‘Crazy, you know? One day I found a crack in the wall and climbed through. My mother could not find me. It became my secret place. Everyone needs such a place, where they can be alone with their thoughts.’

  In London she was hardly ever alone, passing her days in the steam of tumble dryers and nights in the warm beery fug of the bar, rushing from the Laundromat to pick Ryan up from school or coming in at midnight to release her neighbour from guardian duty. She had never made enough time for herself. Now, though, perhaps there was a chance. She picked up his hand and held it in hers. They sat beside each other on the dusty bandstand floor, and he lightly touched the nape of her neck with tanned fingers. Great grey-blue clouds hung low, leaving a golden ribbon of light above the line of the sea. Their backs prickled with cold. He wanted to give her his jacket, but she refused.