Slow Motion Ghosts

by Jeff Noon

  ‘The staging.’

  ‘Exactly. This isn’t a madman. It’s not sadistic.’

  ‘I can buy that. Brendan was killed first.’

  ‘A sadist would have kept the victim alive while he carved the mask. That’s why I think it’s love. But a twisted love.’ He took a breath. ‘This scares me. It really does.’

  Third-Party Blues

  DC Fairfax rang in with an update on the musicians in Monsoon Monsoon. ‘I’ve found the drummer. But the keyboard player is proving tricky.’

  ‘Nikki Hauser?’

  ‘That’s her. No sign at her flat. There’s a flatmate, but she’s claiming Nikki hasn’t been home since the gig on Saturday. Suspicious, right?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘I’ll keep looking.’

  ‘But you’ve got the drummer at least.’

  ‘Yeah. A real piece of work. One of those peacock boys. And totally off his nut on God knows what. I’ll bring him in.’

  ‘Actually, no. I’ll meet you.’

  ‘Whereabouts?’

  ‘The Pleasure Palace.’

  Hobbes drove to Covent Garden. He found a place to park and then walked through the crowds until he reached the narrow back street where the club was situated. It wasn’t much to look at: a scuffed green doorway, a painted sign, and a few posters advertising this month’s events. Not much of a palace, and hardly any promise of pleasure. But even in the daytime a group of young women stood around, some of them with punk hairdos and ripped clothing, the others dressed up in more outlandish colours and styles. Fairfax was standing there, alongside an ill-looking young man. Fairfax was holding him by the back of his collar.

  ‘Here is he. One Matthew Tate.’

  The young man spluttered. ‘Sputnik, man. You have to call me that. Everybody does.’

  Hobbes recognized him from the photograph of the group. ‘You play the drums in Monsoon Monsoon, is that correct?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s me. What of it?’

  ‘We need a few words.’

  ‘Yeah, well, tell Miss Piggy here to get his mitts off me. This is police harassment, this is.’

  The drummer was in his early twenties. Jet-black hair, long on top, cropped at the side, gelled into a weird shape like something out of a science fiction movie. He wore a lilac shirt, a paisley silk scarf and close-fitting purple trousers, the bright colours set against the pallid grey of his face. He was fidgety, wound up, his eyes focused on an ever-moving dot some few feet ahead of him.

  ‘You dirty little scumbag,’ Fairfax was saying. ‘You make me sick, you really do.’

  ‘You keep your fucking hands off me, man. I’m warning you!’

  Tate’s voice was slurred. Hobbes knew that he would have trouble getting much out of him.

  ‘Do we have a way in?’

  ‘The owner’s here,’ Fairfax said. ‘Mr Carlisle.’

  ‘Good.’

  Hobbes examined the posters beside the door and found the listing for the Monsoon Monsoon gig. It read, The spirit of King Lost, resurrected on stage!

  Fairfax led the way inside. They passed a cloakroom and then came out on to the club floor. It was a medium-sized place with a low ceiling and a series of small alcoves around the side. A pair of cleaners were working away, mopping the dance floor, while a lone barmaid washed and stacked glasses behind the bar. Hobbes could smell the stench of stale beer and cigarette smoke even over the acrid pine scent of the floor cleaner. Despite that, the place did have a certain opulent grandeur, the ceilings hung with velvet cloths and brass lamps, and large cushions scattered here and there around the edges of the floor.

  They found Mr Carlisle waiting for them near the stage. He was a cheerful-looking man dressed in plain black trousers and a white T-shirt which was stretched tightly across his chest. And he wasn’t that old; maybe thirty. His hair hung down over his eyes, and a Freddie Mercury-style moustache dominated his face.

  Hobbes ignored the outstretched hand. ‘You’re the owner?’

  ‘Owner. General manager. All-round dogsbody and washer-up.’ He laughed to himself. ‘Andy Carlisle, at your service.’

  ‘You were here for the concert on Saturday night?’

  ‘It was a big night, the place was rammed. We had to turn punters away at the door, and I really don’t like doing that.’

  ‘Am I missing something?’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Monsoon Monsoon are hardly famous.’

  ‘No, no, not at all. And to be honest we weren’t expecting much, but then the tickets began selling like there was no tomorrow – you know, once the rumours started flying around.’

  ‘Rumours?’

  ‘About what the group were going to do. About what the singer had planned.’

  Hobbes asked, ‘And what was that?’

  ‘He was going to conjure up the ghost. Like a séance.’

  ‘You mean the ghost of Lucas Bell?’

  ‘No. I mean the ghost of King Lost. That’s two different people. Very different. Living in the same body.’

  The manager’s expression was entirely serious.

  Hobbes scanned the space, picturing the empty club crowded with people. He saw Matthew Tate sitting on a cushion with his back against the wall, smoking a roll-up.

  Carlisle asked, ‘What do you need from me?’

  ‘Are you aware that the singer of Monsoon Monsoon is dead? Murdered?’

  ‘Yes, I heard that. Such a drag.’

  ‘What do you remember of the concert that night?’

  Carlisle thought for a moment. ‘Not much, in detail. I tend to work the whole place, keep myself moving, checking on things. But the climax of the gig was amazing. I had to stop and stare. One of those nights where you think: is this going to be an orgy, or a riot?’

  ‘Yeah, man!’ This was Tate, piping up. ‘It was a fucking magic spell. We filled the room with phantoms, believe me!’

  ‘In yer box, sunshine,’ Fairfax said. ‘We’ll come to you.’

  Hobbes kept on at Carlisle. ‘Are there any photos?’

  ‘Well, there were a number of rock journos in, and a few photographers.’

  ‘Any in particular?’

  ‘The best of them is Neville Briggs.’

  Fairfax took a note of the name.

  Carlisle smiled. ‘You know, without Lucas Bell there would be no Pleasure Palace.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  The manager looked thoughtful. ‘My friends and I all hated punk. We hated its naff left-wing politics, and its so-called “authenticity”. Absolute hypocritical bollocks. We thought that pop music was essentially about glamour, and romance. It’s a fantasy. An escape from the daily toil. And we were old enough to remember the years of glam rock, so we were playing David Bowie records, T. Rex, Roxy Music, Sparks. And Lucas Bell. This was late 1979, when we started out, in a back-room club off Wardour Street, no bigger than a cupboard. But word spread and soon we found ourselves surrounded by like-minded people, many of them younger than us. The kids began dressing up in fancy outfits, following the lead of the glam rock singers. In fact, we only let people inside if they were dressed in some unique fashion. No punks, no hippies, no bores. You know, just how Lucas Bell sang it; the border blossoms.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘The outsiders, the people on the edges of society. The beautiful flowers that grow in ditches and concrete.’

  Hobbes shifted his focus. ‘Did anyone threaten Brendan Clarke that night?’

  ‘There was some kind of incident outside, I believe.’

  ‘After the gig?’

  Carlisle nodded. ‘I didn’t see it myself, but apparently one of the Lucas Bell fans shouted at him, tried to hit him.’

  ‘You’ve no idea who that was?’

  ‘No. I only heard about it later on.’

  Hobbes thanked Carlisle for his help, and gestured for Matthew Tate to get up and move to the centre of the floor. With a shock he realized that the young drummer was crying, t
ears streaming down his ashen face.

  ‘What the hell?’ Fairfax said, seeing this. ‘What’s up with him now?’

  ‘He’s distressed.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Tate said, his eyes fixing on Hobbes momentarily with some kind of gratitude. ‘That’s it, see. I’m distressed. It’s too much to take in. Way too much. What can I do? I mean, he’s dead. Brendan is dead!’ He spun round, crying out to the room. ‘You see, what I’m saying is … I’m saying … who’s going to do the singing now? That’s my question, see. That is the question.’

  Hobbes brought the young man under control. ‘You liked Brendan, did you?’

  ‘Oh yeah. A top geezer. Well, you know, a bit stuck-up and all that. But smart with it. And I thought he was going places, I really did.’

  Hobbes could see that Fairfax was getting restless, shuffling around as the questions continued. He tried to ignore him, setting his sights on Matthew Tate alone.

  ‘So Brendan was ambitious? He wanted to be successful?’

  Tate scratched at his face idly. Hobbes noted that his fingernails were painted with a glossy purple lacquer.

  ‘Successful? Nah, man. He was into the music, you know, just the tunes. Mind you, he was rolling in it, wasn’t he, loaded parents and all, he never had no struggles. Not like me …’

  The young man’s voice trailed off as he lost track of his thoughts.

  Fairfax prowled the floor. ‘Ah, I’ve had enough of this.’ He moved in on Tate. ‘What the hell are you saying?’

  Tate spun off in a new direction. ‘You gotta keep playing, haven’t you? Keep the beat going.’ He banged out rhythms on an imagined drum kit, sending a pulse of energy around the room. ‘Here we go. Wallop! Yes, sir. Very nice.’

  Fairfax grabbed hold of Tate by the wrists, stopping his movement.

  ‘Hey! That’s persecution, that is.’

  Fairfax laughed. ‘You kids are all the same. Little pasty-faced rebels dressed up in yer mummy’s blouses.’

  Hobbes decided to let Fairfax carry on for a while, if only to see whether the heavy approach would lead to anything useful.

  The detective constable asked, ‘When was the last time you saw Brendan Clarke?’

  ‘Right here, man. Where else? At the gig. Singing, like.’

  ‘You didn’t go round to his house?’

  ‘We dropped him off, sure.’

  ‘After the gig? You drove him home?’

  ‘Nikki did that. Nikki always drives. She doesn’t drink, see.’

  ‘But you saw him go into the house?’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’

  ‘Was he alone?’

  Tate wet his lips.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Sure, he was alone. What else?’ His eyes widened. ‘Hey man, what’re you saying? I never killed him! It wasn’t me.’

  Hobbes stepped forward, asking, ‘How was the gig?’

  ‘Ah, it was a riot, man, A fucking explosion! The crowd were loving it, crazy all the way.’

  Fairfax grunted. ‘This is a waste of time. He’s a fuck-up.’

  ‘You go on then. Find the photographer.’

  The two detectives stared at each other. Hobbes waited for a rejoinder of some kind. But none came.

  ‘Yeah, I can do that. But listen, guv …’ Fairfax drew Hobbes to the side. ‘I was out of order this morning, at the meeting. I was being a bit of a twat.’

  Hobbes was surprised. He looked at his colleague with interest. ‘That’s all right. I get the same way, sometimes.’

  ‘Yeah, we all do.’

  Fairfax sauntered off towards the exit door, grinning at the barmaid on his way out, and getting a smile in return.

  The cleaners and the manager had moved on. Hobbes sat down at a table and nudged a chair out for Tate, an invitation. They sat adjacent to each other. ‘Here you go, have one of these.’ He pushed his pack of Embassy across the tabletop.

  ‘Oh right, cheers. Nice one.’ Tate reached into the pack with trembling fingers. He lit the cigarette from the flame of Hobbes’s lighter, and sucked in the smoke like this was his last day alive. His breath made a high whistling sound.

  ‘That other copper’s a bit heavy-handed, if you ask me.’

  ‘He can be. I agree.’

  Tate nodded. ‘Sure. Yeah. Some people, normal people like, they just don’t get what’s at stake, see? It’s important: how you do things, how you look, and how you fucking well compose yourself, you know what I’m saying?’

  Hobbes nodded. ‘At your own pace. Tell me what you remember about Saturday night.’

  Tate smiled, the first gesture that came from within, rather than being an effect of the drugs. ‘You’re not a bad bloke, like, for a rozzer.’ He breathed out smoke and collected his wits as best he could.

  ‘It was all meant to be for Lucas,’ he began. ‘For Lucas Bell. The whole gig. It was a tribute to him.’

  ‘And this was Brendan’s idea?’

  ‘Oh yeah. Bang on. He fucking loved Lucas. Sorry … for the swearing, like.’

  ‘That’s all right.’

  Tate took two quick drags of the cigarette, one after another. Hobbes could see that he was starting to relax.

  ‘Brendan was mad keen, and Nikki, she was well up for it as well.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Oh man, they were talking up some shit together. To conjure up Luke’s spirit.’

  ‘That’s how they put it?’

  Tate nodded his head, and once started he couldn’t stop the movement. He looked like a bird pecking at a seed and missing it every time. The young man’s eyes had now taken on a feverish glow as he brought the gig to mind. Suddenly he stood up and walked on to the dance floor. He jumped up on to the stage. His eyes were open wide in wonder as he spoke.

  ‘The lights go up, right? All crimson and gold, really spooky. And then Brendan comes out wearing the full mask, the full King Lost regalia.’

  He looked down at Hobbes, who had stood up himself now.

  ‘You mean he’d painted his face?’

  Tate nodded. ‘Man, it was scary to behold. White face, the lips extended and painted ruby red, the teardrop just here.’ He touched his left cheek. ‘The cross on the forehead. The whole shebang.’

  ‘What was the crowd’s reaction?’

  ‘They went mental!’ Tate began to sway from side to side. ‘At first there was just shock. But then as Nikki started up the chords of the first song on her synth, and I came in with the drum lick …’ His hands tapped out a beat. ‘I had them. I had them moving! And then Brendan started to sing. Man, it could’ve been Lucas Bell himself, I swear!’

  ‘So it was going well?’ Hobbes asked.

  ‘Ah, it was incredible. Totally fucking incredible, the best gig ever.’

  Tate fell silent, his body coming to a rest. He seemed to have gained focus. Hobbes pressed on.

  ‘What happened next?’

  ‘It just built and built. You see, after a few numbers people realized that we were copying the exact set list that Lucas did at the Rainbow all those years before, on his last ever gig. The exact same songs in the same order. Like I said, we were raising up spirits. This was our night and the ghost of Lucas Bell, I swear, he joined us there on the stage. And then it all took off, crazy like.’

  ‘Yes?’

  Tate stared down at Hobbes. ‘We started up the final song. The last song from the very last album, where King Lost takes his overdose and rises into rock and roll heaven to be accepted by angels with electric guitars and day-glo wings.’ The drummer suddenly stopped talking. He looked terrified.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  Tate shivered. ‘At the end of the song, Brendan brought out a knife.’

  ‘A knife?’

  ‘It was there in his hand, I dunno where it came from.’

  Tate’s own hand was outstretched, as though the knife was there before him, held in his own grasp. Hobbes didn’t need to urge him on, not now.

  ‘We’d stopped playing, N
ikki and I. Even she looked shocked. And a bit scared. There was silence in the club. Everyone was just standing there, staring ahead. And then … and then Brendan cut into his own face.’ Tate’s eyes fluttered. The imagined knife shuddered in his hand. ‘He cut the mask away.’ Tate paused for a second to gather his breath. The next words came in a series of gasps. ‘It’s all a daze … all a daze … I can’t see … the mask … his face … all bloody … all red in the lights …’

  Now he fell silent. His body was drained of energy.

  Hobbes clambered up on to the stage to join him. ‘Brendan did this for real?’

  ‘No, no. It was a trick. A fake knife, fake blood. I don’t know how he did it, but I saw him backstage, and he was all right again.’

  ‘How did the audience react, when he did this?’

  Tate looked directly at Hobbes. ‘That was the thing, they fuckin’ loved it. Because Brendan had copied exactly what Lucas Bell had done, seven years ago, when he’d destroyed the mask of King Lost, in front of the crowd at the Rainbow. Nobody knew it at the time, but that was Lucas killing off his own image, just weeks before he killed himself.’ A spasm went through Tate’s body. ‘Brendan did the same. The exact same thing. And now …’

  ‘Yes,’ Hobbes said. ‘And now he’s dead.’

  Tate shook his head in disbelief. His mood had changed. He looked like a fragile young man, someone genuinely saddened by his friend’s death. ‘How can it be?’ he asked in a quiet voice. ‘How can it be? It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘Everything makes sense, eventually,’ Hobbes replied. ‘I’ll find out.’

  Tate sat down on the edge of the stage. Hobbes knelt beside him.

  ‘So what happened after the gig? Did you see him speaking with Simone Paige?’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘A journalist.’

  ‘Oh right, yeah. I know her. I saw them later on, outside. Brendan, Simone, and this other kid, a girl. There was some kind of argument.’

  ‘Between Simone and Brendan?’

  ‘No, man. This girl.’

  ‘A teenage girl?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. She was shouting at Brendan, calling him a fake.’

  ‘Why would she say that?’