by Peter James
‘May I see his body?’
‘Of course. I will take you to him. Will you stay for his funeral, tomorrow? I can give you lodgings here.’
‘Thank you, I’d appreciate it.’
‘So, tell me, Brother Pete, how are things on Mount Athos?’
‘Yup, uh-huh, all good,’ he replied, a little non-committal. ‘The number of monks is increasing for the first time in many years. In my monastery, Simonopetra, thirty years ago when the previous Abbot died, there weren’t enough monks to carry his coffin. The only way we get new monks to join us is the way I came, through word of mouth. I guess with the way the world is these days, we offer a safe future for anyone troubled by what’s happening.’
‘Our late Brother Angus talked to me about you. Your former life as a long-distance truck driver and then doing night shifts in McDonald’s restaurants. What have your years as a monk in a closed order taught you?’
‘Honestly?’ Brother Pete stared hard at him.
‘No other answer is of any value.’
‘I keep being told that to be a monk you have to believe, absolutely, unconditionally. That if you have doubts, you are in the wrong place. Have you ever had doubts, Prior?’
‘We are all born knowing one certainty, Brother Pete. That one day we will die.’
Pete nodded. ‘And the question on all our lips is what will happen after we die.’
‘Will we sit at God’s right hand?’
‘Or rot in that graveyard I can see through your window.’
The Prior smiled. Brother Pete could see his eyes looking heavenwards.
‘I pray fourteen hours a day, every day, Prior. Sometimes I feel a connection with a higher power, other times I feel – I’m sorry to say this – a total asshole. I feel like I’m just growing old without ever having lived. That one day I’m going to wake up at eighty – if I get that far – and wonder just what I did with my life. Do you ever feel that?’
The Prior shook his head. ‘My faith came to me after years of abusing my body with pleasure. Life is not a gift, it is a responsibility. Something that intelligent people are charged with. There is just one thing that God expects of us in return for His gift of life. And that is for each of us to leave the world a better place than when we arrived here. Are you able to say that, Brother Pete?’
‘I’m working on it.’
‘So am I. So was Brother Angus, God rest his soul.’
123
Monday, 20 March
The room in the La Brea Detox Sisters Rehab Center had a red tiled floor. Running around three sides were stainless-steel work surfaces. Laid out along them, like place settings in a restaurant, were neatly set-out spoons and syringes on paper napkins.
The smell in here was rank, a mixture of disinfectant and unwashed clothing. Ross stared at a man in a grungy tracksuit, with greasy, greying hair cut like a monk’s tonsure; he was probably forty but looked sixty. He sat on a stool, stooped in feverish concentration, cigarette papers lying around him, holding a lighter flame beneath a crackling fluid in his spoon.
One floor up on the observation level, Sister Marie Delacroix, dressed like an earth mother, said to Ross in a soft, southern drawl, ‘We allow them to do this. We got volunteer doctors here, twenty-four-seven. We give them clean syringes and if they overdose we can help them. We’d prefer, if they are going to take drugs, that at least they do it in an hygienic, safe environment, with medical help on hand.’
Ross stifled a yawn. He’d been awake since 4 a.m., tossing and turning, until he’d finally had enough and went for a walk in the breaking dawn. It was now just after 10 a.m.
‘And the police are OK with this?’ he asked.
‘They understand our work. Yes, they are, they turn a blind eye. I’ve seen the work done in Germany and in Holland with this kind of clinic. They save many lives.’
‘I should write a piece on them – on your work and the clinics in Europe.’
‘You should, really, we need all the good press we can get. So, what can I do for you, Mr Hunter?’
‘I’m told you have a volunteer here called Michael Delaney.’
Her reaction surprised him. She looked like she was going into rapture. ‘Mike Delaney!’ she said with deep reverence. ‘This man is – how do I say it – a saint!’
‘Really?’
‘Truly, Mr Hunter.’ She lowered her voice, conspiratorially. ‘I’ll tell you what my staff here call him – Mr Miracle Worker!’
‘Mr Miracle Worker?’
‘Truly! This guy is astonishing, it’s like he has some magical power. He cures everyone he talks to. Within weeks, no matter how long they’ve been taking drugs, they’re clean. He has a one hundred per cent success rate. He just walked in the door a couple of years back asking if he could help out in any way. He’s astonishing. If you believe in miracles, that’s what he is. A true miracle worker.’
‘How does he do it?’ Ross asked, trying not to let his excitement show.
‘He just lays his hands on them, honey. That’s all he does. Just lays his hands on them.’
‘When are you expecting him in?’ Ross asked.
She shrugged. ‘That’s the problem. He shows up when it suits him.’ She lowered her voice again. ‘When he hasn’t drunk too much the night before.’
‘So, he might not come here today?’ Ross pressed.
‘No, honey, he’s a little unpredictable.’
‘Do you know where he lives?’
Her demeanour changed and she looked uncomfortable. ‘He moves around, different rooming houses. But I couldn’t give out his current address, not without his consent.’
‘Of course.’
‘If he doesn’t show here today, you could try the Fairfax Lounge this evening.’
‘The Fairfax Lounge?’
‘It’s a bar a few blocks away. Mr Delaney used to be a pretty famous magician, I think until the demon drink got him.’ She held her hand up and rolled it from side to side as if it were wobbling. ‘The bar pays him a retainer to go round working the tables with his tricks. That and the tips he gets is enough to keep him in booze. We give him a pittance, too. I always try to bring him something to eat at lunchtime, a sandwich, something like that.’
‘He’s at the Fairfax Lounge every night?’
‘Most nights, so he tells me. Although I think some evenings he has so much liquor on board he doesn’t know what day of the week it is. Good luck interviewing him.’
‘Sounds like I’ll need it.’
‘You will, honey. He doesn’t speak much at all. I think he’s a pretty sad guy. No family, I don’t think. He seems a lost soul. And yet –’ She hesitated.
Ross waited patiently.
‘Sometimes when I look at him,’ she said, ‘I feel like I’m staring into a bottomless well. There’s hidden depths to him that perhaps only God can see.’
‘Perhaps,’ Ross concurred.
124
Monday, 20 March
Ross was glad to leave the oppressive smell and atmosphere of the rehab centre, and to step out into the warm sunshine. His mind was reeling.
Miracle worker!
He just lays his hands on them, honey.
He glanced around, checking, to see if anyone might be watching or following him. He was in a busy, wide street, with signs everywhere. A huge billboard on a scaffold gantry was advertising a movie. To his right the word MARKET was spelled out in flashing lights, with several bulbs blown. Suspended across a marked section of the road was a small, familiar yellow sign, PED XING.
He moved into the shade, entered ‘Fairfax Lounge’ on Google Maps, and after a few seconds it appeared, along with the option to request directions. He clicked on the button and the route appeared. It showed fourteen minutes on foot.
Following the directions on his phone, he turned into a palm-lined boulevard, with tall apartment blocks on either side. At the next intersection, he made a left into another busy street, four lanes wide, with cars parked along the fa
r side. He passed a kosher supermarket, a bakery, a Starbucks, a burger joint, a Duane Reade and a store selling creepy-looking dolls. A few minutes later he found himself on Fairfax, with the instruction to turn left.
He walked past the Farmers Market and shortly after reached the intersection with Melrose. With the Fairfax High School complex on the far side, he crossed, walking down past the school and then past the blue shack he recognized from Google Earth. There was a Council Thrift Shop on the far side, a luggage store and medical office. Then he saw it, directly across the street on the far side of a pedestrian crossing, between a bakery and deli and a lamp store with a closing-down sale sign in the window. There was a large, old neon sign on the wall, FAIRFAX LOUNGE. Below, much smaller and unlit, were the words MAGICIAN NIGHTLY!
He waited for a line of traffic to pass then strode over. The exterior didn’t look like it had seen a lick of paint in several decades, and the windows were grimy. Ross guessed the interior was going to be just as lousy.
He opened the door and was immediately hit by the ingrained smell of stale beer. It took some moments for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. There was a long bar to the left, with an old, miserable-looking guy in shirtsleeves wiping a row of cocktail glasses. Curved banquettes to the right, the leather peeling off in places. A stage at the far end with a microphone stand and a couple of speakers. Lights, most of them switched off, hanging low, with tasselled green shades. A Sinatra song was playing through a bad sound system. The carpet felt sticky underfoot.
Next to a large NO SMOKING sign on the wall was a small, faded poster in a cheap frame. In the centre was a face he recognized from his internet trawl. The flamboyant, long-haired man in his late forties, with rays of studio light creating a halo-effect round his head. The captions read:
MICKEY MAGIC – MAN OF MYSTERY!
A NEW ABC FAMILY ORIGINAL SHOW
SUMMER PREMIERE. 16 JUNE. FRIDAYS 9 PM / 8 PM CENTRAL TIME
Ross leaned forward as far as he could over the bar counter and took a photograph on his phone. Then he turned to the barman. ‘Hi,’ he said. ‘Do you know if Mike Delaney will be here tonight?’
‘Do I look like I know?’ he replied without lifting his head.
‘You look like the only person in here,’ Ross retorted.
‘Mebbe he will, mebbe he won’t. If he’s gonna show it’ll be around cocktail time – Happy Hour.’
‘What time’s that here?’
He jerked a finger over his shoulder, and Ross saw the sign on the wall. Happy Hour was 5.30 to 7.30 p.m. Clearly really happy.
He thanked him, got an ‘Uh-huh’ grunt of a response, and went back out into the street. He was feeling badly in need of a caffeine hit and hungry, too. It was early for lunch, but a long time since he’d eaten breakfast at around 7.30 a.m. Looking about, he didn’t see anywhere that appealed. He remembered how much Imogen had liked Melrose Avenue when they’d been here together, and the numerous cool cafes and delis along it. With plenty of time to kill, he crossed back over and walked up to it, then turned right, passing the school again.
Pulling out his phone, he dialled Sally. He got her voicemail and left a message. He walked on, immersed in his thoughts but enjoying the warmth of the sunshine. Melrose Avenue. It had the kind of smart, funky neighbourhood atmosphere that reminded him of parts of Brighton. He walked past a shouty sign above a smart ladies’ clothing store, HOT PINK. Then one above its neighbour, SHOWTIME. Past a large, white CVS pharmacy and a black storefront bearing the sign TATTOO.
He was trying to remember where they’d had a Sunday brunch, with one of the best egg dishes he’d ever eaten. He saw on the far side of the road a cool-looking cafe, with an awning, and crossed over to it. Stepping past a free-standing HAPPY HOUR sign on the sidewalk outside, he stopped at the entrance, looked all around him carefully, then went inside.
It was a large room with a Bohemian feel, and was almost completely empty. He sat at a table in the window, giving him a clear view of the street – and anyone who might be following him – and ordered a double espresso, Diet Coke, cheeseburger and fries. Then he sat watching the passing traffic and collecting his thoughts. Planning what he was going to say to Mike Delaney tonight – if he showed up.
What did you say to – the Son of God?
His brain was swirling with the enormity of it, and he was trembling.
And at the same time, he was conscious of the voice inside his head telling him that this wasn’t real. Could not be real.
He looked across at the Glass Hookah Lounge, at the shop next to it, Nail Nation, at the Manic Panic Style Station and La Crème Cafe.
His vibrating phone broke into his thoughts. It was Sally.
‘Hey!’ he said.
‘So, what’s happened?’
Ross gave her a quick update.
‘Want me to come over and be there with you? Maybe two can break the ice better than one?’
‘No, that’s good of you, but I need to do this alone.’
‘Will you call me, straight after? God, this is incredible, Ross.’
‘Or an incredible let-down?’
‘I don’t think so.’
As he hung up, his drinks arrived and, shortly after, his food. He raised the salt and was about to shake some onto his fries when a woman walked past on the opposite side of the road who bore an incredible likeness to Imogen.
His arm stopped in mid-air.
She was the absolute double of Imogen.
Was he hallucinating? His tired, addled brain making things up? Impossible.
Or was it?
He put down the salt, picked up his phone and dialled Imogen’s number. Seconds later the woman stopped in her tracks, pulled her phone out of her handbag and peered at it. He watched her stab a button, keeping it well away from her ear, and return it to her bag.
She had redirected the call straight to voicemail.
125
Monday, 20 March
Ross jumped up from his seat, about to run for the door and chase after Imogen. But instead he sat back down, mystified.
His number would have shown on her phone display, for sure. So she saw it and hung up on him, why? Because she was out on a busy Los Angeles street instead of in the quiet of rural Sussex with her sister.
Her being here explained why she had called him – at what he thought was around 1 a.m. UK time – last night. Why was she here then? What was she playing at? What was her agenda?
He felt totally and utterly baffled.
The sheer coincidence of even seeing her in this vast city was massive. Although on reflection, perhaps not such big odds, as this had been one of their favourite areas when they’d been here together, so perhaps it was natural she would gravitate to it.
But coincidences seemed to be racking up, one after the other. The coincidence of meeting Sally Hughes, whose uncle was a trustee of Chalice Well, the day after he’d met Harry Cook for the first time. The coincidence, if that’s what it was, of being on the same flight as her, one row apart. Now the coincidence of seeing Imogen walk past. Just five minutes later and he might not have seen her.
Or might have bumped into her in the street.
Einstein’s words on coincidence came back to him again.
God’s calling cards.
He ate his meal, barely noticing the taste of the food. He was totally immersed in his thoughts.
What was going on? What on earth was Imogen doing here? Was she spying on him? Suspicious about his reasons for coming here? The last conversation they’d had was all about danger. What had changed? Just what was she doing? And why hadn’t she told him?
Still fretting, he left the diner, looking around, carefully, for any sign of Imogen before stepping out. This felt very weird, hiding from his wife. But then he thought, what the hell. If they bumped into each other it would be mightily interesting, and he’d look forward to her explanation – especially as she had been going on about how tight money was for them. Not so tight she couldn’t buy
an airline ticket to Los Angeles?
With a few hours to kill before there was any point in going to the Fairfax Lounge, he took a walk around the Farmers Market, got tempted by a huge doughnut, ate it and immediately regretted it, big time. He left the market and walked up towards the Hollywood Hills, keeping a fast pace on the increasingly steep incline, trying to burn the damned doughnut off. But an hour and a half later he still had a dull ache in his stomach, and the sensation of having swallowed a cannonball.
As he walked back towards his car, parked in a far corner in a lot off La Brea, a text pinged in from Sally.
Be careful he doesn’t recruit you to be one of his disciples. Though I’m sure you’d look great with a beard and sandals LOL ☺ XX
He grinned and replied.
Ha ha! XX
126
Monday, 20 March
Ross climbed into his car and closed the door. The clock on the dash read 3.50 p.m.
Happy Hour at the gloomy Fairfax Lounge began at 5.30 p.m. Would Mike Delaney show up today?
A wave of tiredness washed over him. He could do with a catnap, but his mind was whirring too much.
Imogen had flown all this way – when money was tight – without telling him. Was she planning to surprise him in some way? Well, she sure had.
He looked on his phone at the list of recent numbers dialled. Imogen Mob was at the top. He hovered his finger over the dial button.
It was almost midnight, UK time. Would she answer pretending to sound all sleepy? Or again not answer at all? And what would he say if she did pick up?
He still had not decided as he pushed the button.
It rang four times then he got her voicemail message. Short and no-nonsense.
‘Hi, it’s Imogen, leave me a message.’
‘It’s me,’ he said, tersely. Then, sarcastically, ‘Sorry it’s so late. Give me a call.’
For the next ten minutes he checked his emails on his phone; there was one from his editor asking if he had arrived OK and how it was going. He looked at Twitter and Facebook, then at Sky News. A London tube strike was looming, along with another Southern Railways strike that would hit trains to Brighton. Hitler’s wartime telephone was coming up for auction. Great, he wondered – who would want such a ghastly trophy? Church of England weekly attendance had fallen below one million for the first time.