by Tanith Lee
What he plans to do with it he has no idea, but then right now he has no real plans for anything. And most of it is out of his hands.
He does not want to sleep.
He stands, bending to accommodate the sloping ceiling of the room, and watches the uneventful street.
He thinks of Pond’s comment on coincidence, how strange it is, making patterns that imply so much yet mean nothing at all; certainly something like that seems to have happened. The ivory which was not, only an inferior decoration from a handle, and Nick’s invented tale of blights and banes - but then the rest, as if the ivory had really been ivory, and operated in just that way. The mad girl Kitty, and Laurence dying like Claudia, but alone in the wild park, and the retributive gang with their obscure ‘racket’ - what was that? Gambling? Drugs? Trafficking? Christ knew. Why had they not merely killed him? Surely that would have been much tidier. Or maybe not, who could tell? But Nick has lost the flat. The window. Everything else had, despite momentary illusion, been already lost.
Nick looks round the bedroom. He can leave all of it, can he? Yes. Take the clothes, toiletries, a few books, CDs, DVDs, his own stories, and the latest one in the plundered notepad. Travel light. He could travel - that might be good. He has been nowhere for years. Re-visit the States, Paris, Holland, Italy…
But the limitless glory of the vista tires him. He closes it down. And anyway, what about the women he sees? Just leave them in the lurch? They could find other men, obviously, other escorts. But he is quite fond of them, and most deserve consideration and courtesy, even Sonia perhaps, who presumably was not indiscreet; but not Jazz, who may have meant to but did not sign off, only vanished into thin air as if – dissatisfied with Nick, in the same way loony Kitty had outlined.
Well, he will not be going quite yet. He can decide what to do. There is still money even if, with the new exciting financial chaos that seems to be looming worldwide, it may be worth a bit less next year. But that, anyway, is next year.
Suddenly Nick does want to sleep.
He sits, then lies down on the bed. A surge of oblivion comes rushing at him, terrifying in its blatant intent to mow him down. It is like - death. Like death, he thinks, and fights it away. But death could never be like that. So he relapses, and the surge recurs more quietly, as if seeing now it must woo not assault. And - and.
The buzzer from the lobby door wakes him. Then, opening his eyes the uplighter, left on, blinds him.
Nick staggers up, his body ahead of his mind or soul. While they belatedly leap from the bed behind him and try to take possession of him again. He sees from the window it is daylight.
He blunders downstairs. This is the bloody locksmith, so early - not even eight o’clock. But they are always like this.
Nick had slept fully clothed. In flesh and garments. Mind and soul have now re-entered, but seem confused as to where they are. It is only instinct that has enabled Nick to recall the appointment.
“Yes?”
The voice says something incomprehensible, but he lets it in from the street. They all get in anyway. No doubt, of all people, a locksmith can break in. Nick half laughs at this, and is cleaning his teeth in the bathroom when the flat door is knocked on.
Nick, in the bathroom mirror. Christ, he looks old. The mirror is unforgiving. Better veil the mirror…
He feels hungover, though he is not. But all he has to do is tell the guy he is moving, so no longer needs a new lock. Doubtless compensate him, cash in hand, for a wasted journey.
Nick undoes the door.
The locksmith is quite tall, and burly, smoky-skinned (“I’d send them back - taking our work…”) blue-black hair gelled in short spikes. Behind him his mate, a white guy with dreads.
“Got a delivery for you,” says the locksmith, with enormous gravitas. That was what he had said from downstairs, Nick now guesses.
“I don’t need it now,” Nick says, realising bemusedly as he does so, he and the man are very likely at cross purposes. What delivery?
“No, you need it,” says the locksmith. “And you’ll receive it. Imp…” - he hesitates a second, almost stumbles in his speech, rectifying an error he had, it seems, often made before - “peraaative,” he concludes.
Nick gapes at him. But it is the other man behind who smiles. Then the locksmith shoulders straight in, and the other one closes the door after him, so now the locksmith and Nick are together in the flat, in the room, on the polished floor, under the gigantic grey of the morning window.
“You are Nick?” asks the locksmith.
Nick only stares.
“Yes, you are Nick. How she exactly describes you. Nick Loose.” That is the pronunciation; clearly the locksmith does not see he has made another mistake. “You know a lady called Jasmina, yes? He has said to tell you, she is with him. Not with you. His. Once he has learned it all, we have called you, leaving message, so you know. But you never pick up, still go to meet her. So now you are to take receipt.”
“Jazz? What message?” Nick says, astonished. “What delivery?”
“This,” says the locksmith. His hand is abruptly a blur then punched hard into Nick’s side. The hand feels very strange, as if it has grown very long and icily hot, and pierced Nick, penetrated him through. And when the hand next draws swiftly back, it seems it has, for it has one long straight steely claw on which a thick deep scarlet runs and shines.
“Shit,” Nick says. He is not aware he has said it.
“Shit for shit,” exemplifies the locksmith. And then he slides away backward, down a long tunnel where all the lights are calmly, mildly, redly smouldering out. Nick does not hear the door reopen, or close. He feels a vague impact, and sees the sheen of the wooden floor under his cheek, and then sinks into the brown lake of it. No, sleep was not, is not, like death. Nothing is like death.
Bookmark
Without total concentration, the road seemed wide enough and well enough lit by its pale yellow lamps, to offer no hazard. There was no other moving traffic, only a few vehicles parked either side. Then the shining shadow of the car slid out into his path.
He braked, cursing. He had not been driving much faster than the limit; of course, dawdling a little now maybe, not especially eager to get back. But he had been drinking. And God knew, a maniac could drive on the wrong side of the road and crash right into you, and if you had a single vodka in your gut you got the fine and the points on your licence. Or, the way things were now, you probably ended up in the can. Aside from that too, there was the other worry he had - was it now confirmed?
Laurence felt the two cars touch. The collision was minimal, but it jerked him forward and back and the bloody seat-belt cut into him. He was angry again. He glanced instinctively about for benign corroboration of his own innocence. But on either side very large houses, closed as nunneries behind high walls and evergreens, had paid no heed.
There was no easy way by, the intruding car had now blocked his path. He could only sit, or should he…? Then the car’s door flew open and the other driver was out and moving quickly towards him. Even in the half dark between the lamps Laurence saw the idiot raised his hands in an expansive gesture of contrite peace, and mouthed Sorry, sorry. A complete bloody prat.
So Laurence put down his window.
“That was your fucking fault,” Laurence informed him coldly, presumably without need. “But you seem at least to have the sense to realise that.”
The man was bending near, now looking at him intently. He was quite thickset, with a solid bulldog sort of persona about him that had nothing to do with Churchill, either the WW2 P.M. or the advert. No doubt a good thing he could see he was to blame; Laurence was not in the mood for a fist fight.
“Had to get somewhere in a hurry, didn’t think,” said the man. He put both hands on the lowered window. He was wearing gloves that appeared rather bulky. “You’re Laurence Lewis?” he asked. “The writer? Makes the TV programmes?”
Oh Jesus. Just what Laurence wanted right now. A fan.
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“Yes. However…”
“Just making sure,” said the man, in a flat matter-of-fact voice. “Now I’m going to get in.”
“You’re what?” Laurence assumed he had misheard.
“Get in. The passenger door - undo it.”
“You are bloody jo…”
“No.” The man stayed flatly reasonable. And to explain further, he moved his right hand slightly, to reveal more clearly the little handgun he held, pointing at Laurence’s head.
Laurence took a moment – thoughtless, instinctual - to evaluate if it was worth trying to send the window back up. But obviously it was not. This was not the telly recreation of some threatful act from the past. They had not had guns then either. What gun was it? Like a movie gun, certainly, a James Bond gun, the Walther PPK, best friend to the Nazis - No. Better not try any…
“All right.”
“Not like that. Open the passenger door by hand,” the man said.
Slowly Laurence leant across and undid the door, letting it swing wide. The terror hit him then. Everything had gone too fast until that instant for it to catch up.
And had he been right, before…?
He sat back, and told himself, He only wants money, or the car. And then, If he wants those why not just take them?
The man was already in the Volvo. Despite first appearances, he could move like lightning. He shut the door himself. He did not do up the belt. He was turned half way towards Laurence, the gun resting but not sleeping in his grasp. Now it only pointed at Laurence’s thigh - or his crotch. No, no advantage that way.
“Now what?” Laurence said. He had thought he might be able to sound authoritative, still in command of himself. But he had only sounded bolshie and nervous.
“Now you drive to Richmond Park,” said the man.
“Am I allowed to ask why?”
“You can ask,” said the man.
Laurence gestured at the road. “Your car’s in the way…”
“Go carefully. You’ll manage.”
Laurence said, “Look, if you want money, I’ve got plenty on me…”
“No.”
“…and I can get you more. Quite a lot…”
“I’ve told you I want you to drive. I’ve told you where.” The voice was stony now, detached. Implacable. “Get on with it.”
The drive from Kensington to Richmond seemed to take a long time, but not by the watch on Laurence’s wrist, (the stupid watch Angela had bought him, and which he had switched, preparatorily, with the good one when still at Nick’s.) By the stupid watch then, the drive lasted only half an hour, which was not bad considering the traffic by Putney Bridge.
Laurence knew Richmond somewhat, though not the area of it he now entered at his passenger’s direction.
The journey had passed for him in a sort, of watery, wavering, waking limbo. He had not tried to talk to his captor again, only obeyed his occasional driving instructions.
Laurence was running on auto anyhow, he believed. But the drink was wearing off too. He was starting to tremble in an irregular if rigid way. He felt sick and, in dismal inappropriate horror, prayed he would not piss himself from fear.
Almost certainly his abductor was mental. (There was some bloody loony bin round here was there not - or was that Putney?) Why else wanting to be driven here? And yes, he probably was some kind of warped fan, the kind who had made a study of every book Laurence had written, and TV project Laurence had been involved in, and now wanted to take issue with him about something. Perhaps he was a Harold-Last-Saxon-King fanatic, with a personal grudge against William the Conqueror - Laurence had once been cornered on location in a Sussex pub by two of those. Or there had been the guy who thought the Roman legions had never visited Britain - that cornering had been at Hadrian’s Wall. Madmen though could sometimes be talked round if you went along with them. Admittedly the TV crew had also both times been on hand. Now Laurence was alone. And this lunatic was armed. But there had to be some way out… Laurence was firm with himself. However grim the situation, it was survivable - his body did not believe him. It went on trembling, and nausea and urgent pressure roiled in his bowels and bladder.
“Turn left here.”
Laurence turned the Volvo left.
“If you want the park,” Laurence said, his voice coming out too loud, rather too high - why - why does this psycho want Richmond Park? - “the best car park is by the…”
“No. Not there. Now right.”
They swerved right.
A narrow by-road unwound, lit only sporadically by four or five cold whitish lights. “Up there.”
Presently a shoulder of what must be parkland showed, bulging over a high gateless fence. Above massed the tangle of skeleton trees, but they had come out past the fencing too, down to meet the road. Darkness clubbed the car.
“Stop.”
Through the first line of trees this side of the fence ran a square of beaten earth. Two other cars sat there, well tucked into the dark. They were banged-up old jalopies, one with a nearly flat back tyre. Perhaps even abandoned… No lights on them, or anywhere. Just that icy moon fighting its slow way through the towering branches above, seeming clawed at by them, sometimes snagged, impeded.
“Turn the engine off.”
Laurence did so. Heat ebbed at once from the car. Ice entered his chest. Confused, he saw that, although the fence was gateless, it was broken back in one place, allowing entrance after all to the inner regions of the park. There was a track as well, cutting straight up the hill and in under the higher trees. A crazy memory of other parks by night veered through his mind. Purposeless, it did not help. “Look, I…”
“Shut up,” expressionlessly said the man with the gun. “Get out of the car when I do.”
Laurence did as he had been told.
Now the freezing night clutched him. Conversely his head throbbed with heat. He considered running, attempting to run, but his legs were leaden.
“Can we talk about this?” he said. What did he even mean? Could this have anything to do with the Augusta Pin? But how could it? Not like this… He said, “Is it you think I have something - you might want? If I say the Coreley dig - does that… Yes?”
The man now did not respond. He only said, “Walk uphill. Stay under the trees. Remember I’m right behind you.”
They walked, Laurence, and the man, as he had said, right behind him.
Thin fallen branches split and crackled underfoot. Frost or only damp caught the moon, gleaming in white highlights. Something darted away through the dead ferns.
Laurence’s shoes were going to be ruined. Christ - God - shoes - as if that…
Is it the Pin? How can it be? What is it? Please let him tell me - Do I need to… ? Don’t let him hurt me. God - don’t let him…
Christ. He had wet himself. Oh God, what the fuck did that matter? Laurence felt so sick now he was choking on bile. He spat, and nearly stumbled. The whole wood spun.
And incongruously the man said “Steady, Mr Lewis. Nearly there.”
The shadows closed right round them eventually. Even the moon barely shone into this spot.
“Stop,” said the man again. There was a faint crisp rustling, and Laurence swung round to see what was happening. He saw the man, already straightening, had bent and picked up in his gloved left hand a broken stone from the ground. The stone was large, about the size of a coconut, Laurence wildly thought. The man held it, hefted it, getting it just right in his grip.
“What are you…?”
“What do you think, Mr Lewis? Turn round again now. And then kneel down.”
“What - why?”
“Just do as I say. You’ll find it easier. Quicker.”
“Easier for you to kill me - No - for Christ’s…”
Laurence after all turned and began to run. It was mindless impulse. He could not resist it. He slipped, staggered. He expected a bullet to enter his brain immediately.
And it seemed one did.
After abou
t five seconds the man ran forward and kicked Laurence hard in the side, testingly. He might have passed out. Or even be faking. But Laurence did not stir. The dark red his face had gradually turned in the car seemed very congested, very fixed. The man crouched down then, and swiftly examined Laurence more intimately, using his gloved hands. Presently he drew off the right outer glove, leaving on only the plastic one. He checked once more for pulse and heartbeat. None. He had put the gun in his pocket by then. That was how sure he had already become that he would not need it. Nor the preferred stone intended to bash in the back of Laurence’s skull.
The Man had been in the business for several years, and before that in various military outfits around the world. He knew dead well enough, and how to make dead by now even better. But never before, in his long and professional career, had death itself stepped in and struck the blow for him. It will be a story to tell one day, somewhere or other. For now, the client would be very pleased. Natural causes, not even a spurious mugging.
As a rule, at this post-mortem point, the hit man, for good measure, would pocket any money left on his victim. But under these circumstances it was better to leave it.
Besides, something had begun to make him feel wary. It was not the curious means of his success, but a faintly nagging trained nerve, which had begun, off and on, to tick ever since Laurence pulled the Volvo on to the Lower Richmond Road. For it had seemed to The Man then that someone, after all, however inexplicably, might in turn be tailing them. Needing to concentrate on his subject, the man had not been able either to confirm or cancel this idea. Now, mission accomplished so abruptly – he could be off, and this seemed wise.
There came an augmentation.
Just as he straightened up, a sudden stampeding rush of noises erupted to his left along the slope, and every moon-reflection there shattered and shook. He had no notion as to what caused this, but without hesitation, in a surge of nearly uncanny speed, he sprang away, up and under the trees. He was gone. Next moment instead, a kind of demon leapt from the darkness, smashing to smaller pieces the scattering fragments of the night.