Slow Motion Ghosts

by Jeff Noon

  ‘Who the hell knows? Crazy, maybe. She cried out, “There’s only one Lucas Bell!” It was loud, man, everyone heard it. And then she reached out and slapped Brendan. Slapped him! Right across the face.’ Tate shook his head in disbelief, reliving this moment.

  ‘How did Brendan respond?’ Hobbes asked.

  ‘Super cool. As always.’

  ‘Any idea who the teenager was?’

  ‘I reckon that journalist woman knew her. That’s all I can say.’

  Hobbes thought for a moment, and then asked, ‘Did Brendan and Simone Paige get together that night?’

  ‘Yeah. I saw them a while later, didn’t I? In the dressing room. I walked past the door and there they were, the two of them, real close.’

  ‘Close?’

  ‘Real close, you know what I’m saying?’

  ‘No. Tell me.’

  ‘They were kissing.’

  A detail Miss Paige had failed to mention in last night’s interview.

  ‘Did you hear what they were talking about, Brendan and Simone?’

  The young man wiped at his eyes. ‘No, nothing. I moved on.’

  Hobbes asked, ‘Do you know where Nikki Hauser is?’

  ‘Sure, man, She’s probably down in Hastings already, for tomorrow’s event. She never misses it. Not ever.’

  ‘What’s happening tomorrow?’

  ‘It’s the anniversary of Lucas Bell’s suicide. The exact day. The fans meet up in Witch Haven. That’s the name of the field, like, the place where Lucas did himself in. The crowds turn up there, every year.’

  Hobbes processed the information. Then he asked, ‘Why do they call you Sputnik?’

  ‘Because most of the time I’m floating in space.’

  ‘And the rest of the time?’

  ‘Playing the drums. Jesus, when I think back …’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘The early days, you know? It was me, Brendan and Nikki, the three of us against the world. In fact, Brendan rescued me.’

  ‘From where?’

  ‘From the street, man. Oh, I did some bad things, some nasty things, to get by. You see what I’m saying?’

  ‘I do, yes.’

  ‘So when Brendan started chatting to me and we got to talking about music, and I told him how I used to play drums in the Boys’ Brigade, back before everything went crazy bad for me, well that’s when my life started afresh.’

  Hobbes sat down on the stage edge. ‘Tell me, Sputnik, was Brendan working on anything special that you know of?’

  ‘Special how?’

  ‘Something to do with Lucas Bell. Apart from the gig, I mean. Anything?’

  Tate thought about it. ‘There was the fanzine. That took up a lot of his time.’

  ‘100 Splinters?’

  ‘That’s the one. You should read it. That’s where Brendan showed his true self.’

  Hobbes absorbed this and then asked, ‘Anything else going on in his life?’

  Tate grunted in dismissal. ‘He was preoccupied, I know that.’

  ‘With what?’

  ‘Who knows? Maybe with Nikki, and the trouble they were having.’

  ‘Right.’ Hobbes handed his pack of cigarettes to Tate. ‘Here. Save these for later.’

  ‘Is this a bribe?’

  Hobbes smiled. ‘No. I’m trying to give up. Did Brendan have many girlfriends?’

  ‘Brendan? No, I wouldn’t say so.’

  ‘What was the relationship like between Brendan and Nikki?’

  The young man looked at him. ‘Oh, they were all lovey-dovey to begin with, but then the hatred set in. Sheer bloody hatred.’

  ‘But they were engaged, isn’t that true?’

  ‘Yeah, but only for a short while. It was a nightmare. One minute they were all over each other, kissing and that. Practically having it away in front of me. Pardon my existence. And the next second they were spitting blood, arguing. And there I was, hiding in the corner of the van.’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  ‘The third-party blues, man. There’s none worse.’

  ‘Who called off the wedding?’

  ‘That would be Brendan.’

  Hobbes leaned in. ‘Why? Do you know?’

  ‘He told me that he learned something about her, about Nikki. Something bad. Really bad.’

  ‘Any idea what it was?’

  Tate shook his head. ‘Something to do with Lucas, I think.’ He looked disappointed. ‘You know Nikki did a session spot on King Lost. Assorted keyboards. “Extra texture”, as it says in the credits. She did some touring with him. Truth is, they had an affair, of sorts.’

  ‘Her and Lucas?’

  ‘Spot on. And that’s why Brendan asked her to form Monsoon Monsoon with him, because of that connection, And of course …’

  ‘Of course?’

  ‘You know what I’m saying, Mr Detective. Do your job.’

  ‘And that’s why he fell in love with her?’

  ‘Bang on! Nikki’s the direct line back to the source. She’s spoken to Bell, which is something Brendan has never done. She’s shared a stage with him, a tour bus, cheap hotel accommodation, the works. Sexola. Rumpy pumpy. So kissing Nikki is a bit like kissing Lucas! Creepy, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. Very.’

  ‘And so when I saw him chatting up that Simone woman, the journalist, I thought, here we go again, Brendan’s up to his old tricks.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Simone Paige was another one of Lucas Bell’s squeezes. In fact, she was probably the greatest of them.’

  ‘I didn’t know that.’

  ‘The grand passion of his life, apparently. So no wonder Brendan fell for her.’

  Hobbes nodded. ‘You’ve been very helpful, Sputnik.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. Sure. Whatever, man.’

  ‘Do you think Nikki could’ve killed Brendan?’

  Tate stared into the distance. Hobbes thought he wasn’t going to answer. But then he spoke in a low voice: ‘She’d have to be roused.’

  ‘Angry, you mean?’

  ‘Yeah. Like really, truly pissed off.’

  ‘And then? Would she be capable?’

  Tate nodded gleefully. ‘Easily, man. With great fucking pleasure.’

  The Woman in the Car

  Back at Kew Road station Hobbes spent an hour looking through the copies of 100 Splinters he’d taken from Brendan Clarke’s house. The homemade magazine was A4 format in size, with sixteen pages, the text typewritten, photocopied and held together with a couple of staples. The subject matter ranged across the whole of Bell’s life and work, with nothing deemed too trivial for analysis. Simone Paige’s name was mentioned in several issues. One article examined in detail her relationship with Bell: first meeting, falling in love, imagined sex life, the break-up. Brendan called her the ‘last major passion in Bell’s life’. Although the writer made no direct claim himself, he did note that Simone’s ‘… cruel and selfish rejection of Lucas Bell’s love was seen by many as a major factor in his subsequent decision to take his own life’. The piece ended with a look at Paige’s drug problem, and the period she spent in a private clinic after Bell’s death.

  Reading all this, Hobbes couldn’t help but think about the message Simone had left on his cassette tape, thinking she was talking to herself alone.

  He would speak to her about that later today, if he got the chance.

  Turning his attention to the most recent issue, the seventh-anniversary special, his eye was drawn immediately to an article entitled, ‘Lucas Bell’s Final Hours: Who was the Mystery Woman?’ Here Brendan Clarke claimed to have located and interviewed a witness who had seen Bell on the night the singer killed himself. This witness was Danny Webster, a ‘self-employed plumber’ in his mid thirties, a resident of Hastings, who had known Lucas as a teenager. The article took the form of a verbatim interview. It began with Brendan Clarke asking about Webster’s knowledge of Lucas Bell’s life, and his music.

  Danny Webster: I was ne
ver a massive fan, or anything like that. I was more into heavy metal. But I did buy that last album, the famous one.

  100 Splinters: King Lost?

  DW: Yeah. I listened to that a fair bit. It was good, some good tunes, but a bit over my head, most of it. The lyrics and such.

  100S: It’s a concept album. It tells a story, of a character called King Lost.

  DW: Sure. I picked up on some of the references in the lyrics to Hastings, landmarks and all that. And then there’s the cover. That fish and chip shop he’s photographed outside? Duffy’s? That’s in Hastings.

  100S: So you’ve lived there all your life?

  DW: That I have. Yes.

  100S: And did you know Lucas Bell at all, from when you were a kid?

  DW: I knew him when he was younger, at school, like. We were the same age, in the same year.

  100S: What was Lucas like at school?

  DW: He always looked a bit weird, but maybe that’s just me looking back, with what I know now, I mean. To be honest, he wasn’t part of my crowd. He hung around with the outsider kids. The losers. Sorry, but that’s how we thought of them.

  100S: It reminds me of some of Bell’s lyrical concerns. How King Lost isn’t only a lost king, he’s also the King of the Lost.

  DW: Yeah, sure. I suppose.

  100S: Let’s talk about the night of Lucas’s death. That would be August twenty-fifth, 1974. A Sunday. You claim that you saw Lucas that night?

  DW: I did, yes.

  100S: Tell me about that.

  DW: Well, I was standing on Sedlescombe Road, to the north of the town, waiting to cross the road. I’d just come out of the pub. A car stopped up the road from me, and a man got out from the front passenger seat. He looked dazed, like he was drunk or something. He walked a few paces towards me and then stopped. And that’s when I realized. It was Lucas Bell.

  100S: You’re sure it was him?

  DW: Absolutely.

  100S: Who was driving the vehicle?

  DW: A woman.

  100S: What happened next?

  DW: Well, like I said, Lucas walked towards me and then stopped. He stared at me. Then the car moved forward a little way to catch up with him, and the driver shouted through the open window at him.

  100S: What did she say?

  DW: She told him to get back in the car.

  100S: How did Lucas respond?

  DW: He seemed not to hear her at first, but then … it was like he’d come out of a trance or a coma of some kind, and he reacted. He must’ve heard her because he got back inside.

  100S: And then?

  DW: The car carried on along Sedlescombe Road. That’s it.

  100S: In which direction was it travelling?

  DW: Away from the town, northwards.

  100S: Towards open country?

  DW: Yes. Towards … where he was … where his body was found.

  100S: Can you remember what kind of car it was?

  DW: That’s easy. It was a Ford Capri. I know my cars. Bit of a hobby of mine. Yes, a blue Ford Capri. Very nice.

  100S: And what time of night would this be?

  DW: After eleven, definitely. Hang on, you said it was a Sunday, right? So that would have been early closing. Maybe a bit earlier …

  100S: Why didn’t you mention all this to the police at the time?

  DW: I did. Or at least I tried to. But they didn’t seem that interested.

  100S: Really? That’s weird.

  DW: I didn’t think about it for a while. Lucas was buried by then. I wasn’t a hundred per cent sure of what I’d seen at the actual time, because I was a bit drunk you know, but later, when the funeral was on the news and all that, with the crowds gathered, well that’s when I started to put the pieces together. That’s when I knew it was him. It was Lucas Bell. Because he’d stared directly at me.

  100S: What else can you tell us about the driver, the woman?

  DW: I didn’t see much of her, but I caught a glimpse as the car passed by.

  100S: Did you notice anything distinctive about her? Her age? The colour of her hair, maybe? You didn’t recognize her?

  DW: Sorry, no.

  100S: You couldn’t see her face?

  DW: No. Not clearly.

  100S: Let me ask again, to make sure. How certain are you that it was Lucas Bell that you saw?

  DW: He stopped under a street lamp when he got out. I saw him clearly. Well, let me say this: if it wasn’t him, I’d be severely surprised. I’d be gobsmacked.

  100S: And by the time you came forward, what do you think, had the police already worked out all the details in their heads?

  DW: Yeah. The coroner had made his verdict. ‘Death by his own hand’, and all that. I read it in the Sun. Everyone was so sure that he’d acted alone. After all, he’d tried it once before, right?

  100S: Lucas Bell’s previous suicide attempt?

  DW: Yeah. And he’d acted alone that time, hadn’t he?

  100S: We think so, yes.

  DW: So there it is. Cut and dried. I guess I was the only person to see this woman. What else can I say?

  100S: One final question. You said that Lucas looked ‘dazed’. Tell me, what did you mean by that?

  DW: His eyes were all glazed over. And he was swaying a bit.

  100S: Could he have been on drugs?

  DW: I guess so.

  100S: Do you have anything more to add?

  DW: I will never forget that face, not now, not knowing who he was, and what he was about to do. It will stay with me. It will haunt me.

  100S: Thank you for your help.

  The interview ended there. A blurry photograph showed a man standing near a set of traffic lights at a road junction. A caption read, Danny Webster on Sedlescombe Road, Hastings. Brendan Clarke went on to ask the reader, ‘Who was this woman? Was she an old friend or colleague, or somebody new in his life? A fan? A lover? A relative? What role did she play in his suicide, if any?’ The article ended with the statement, ‘Only by finding this mystery woman, the driver of the car, can the singer’s final hours be pieced together. We may yet know the truth of that night and the reasons for Lucas ending his life.’ To finish, he listed the more obvious candidates for the role, nine of them, with details of their relationship to Bell – guitarist, publicist, stylist, friend, and so on. Hobbes had heard of only two candidates.

  Nikki Hauser (Keyboard Player, Lover)

  Simone Paige (Journalist, Lover)

  On the magazine’s final pages, Clarke talked about his upcoming gig with Monsoon Monsoon, where he hoped to take on the spirit of King Lost. The final paragraph read:

  The ghost of Lucas Bell hovers close by, ready to be called down as needed. And we surely need him now more than ever. Our times are dark, our country divided by riots and strikes, as our rulers tighten their grip. 1981 is splintered, torn to shreds. But Lucas was and always will be the torch that leads us forward. I pray that King Lost welcomes me, that he takes possession of my body. The mask awaits. Paradise awaits!

  Hobbes couldn’t help seeing Clarke’s face as it was at the end, sliced up, bloodied, transformed.

  The mask killed him.

  Caught on Tape

  Barlow talked as he drove, relating his findings about Lucas Bell: the singer’s short life and career, his tragic demise. Dead by his own hand at the age of twenty-six. It was, Hobbes noted, the same age as Brendan Clarke.

  Bell’s story was a mystery in itself. He’d released two long-playing records to moderate success in the early seventies. And then for his third album he had suddenly appeared as a new character, King Lost. His appearance on Top of the Pops in October 1973, where he sang the album’s first single dressed in full costume and mask, had electrified and shocked the living rooms of Great Britain. His louche, ambiguous sexuality held a new kind of appeal for a new generation. Parents were outraged, the kids rejoiced.

  ‘King Lost was a tragic rock and roll clown, a Pierrot figure. Hence the white face and the teardrop. And the alb
um tells of his adventures in life, in love, and so on. And in the last song on side two, his death.’

  ‘Suicide?’ Hobbes asked.

  ‘It’s not entirely clear. But that’s how people have read it, in the light of subsequent events.’

  The car moved on. Night was falling over London, softening the edges of houses, bus shelters, shops, phone boxes.

  ‘And then at the peak of his worldwide success, Bell kills himself. Such a waste.’

  Hobbes lit a cigarette. ‘Do we have any clue why?’

  ‘The story goes that Bell invented King Lost as a mask to hide behind. But he was messed up inside, drugs, booze, endless touring, the whole rock star curse. You know how it goes, sir – loved by millions, but lonely when the stage lights go dark.’

  Hobbes glanced at the dashboard clock. It was past eight. The early morning visit to the victim’s house was taking its toll. He felt grit rubbing at his eyes, and he promised himself a good night’s sleep when he got home. It had been a long, long day, and not much to show for it. Latimer had checked out the Clarkes’ alibis, and confirmed they were at home in Maidstone at the time of their son’s murder. She’d also shown a photograph of Nikki Hauser to Mrs Newley: no definite recognition, but the witness couldn’t be entirely sure. So Hauser could still be Miss X. Meanwhile, Fairfax had tracked down the address of the photographer, Neville Briggs, only to find no one at home.

  The car stopped at a zebra crossing to allow a young couple to cross the road, arm in arm. Hobbes stared at them with a twinge of envy; they seemed to be utterly lost in love. It made him think of his wife. And his son. The old family home in Willesden. There might still be a chance, yes, perhaps. If he could just get his career back on track.

  The car moved on, along Camden High Street. The warm evening air had brought them all out, the weird and wonderful, the damaged, the lost, the dreamers: mohicanned punks and dreadlocked rastas, drug addicts, dealers, gaudy boys and girls, all vying for attention in a clash of colours and styles. The littered pavements were stacked with all kinds of goods for sale. Every surface was covered in layers of fly posters: Steel Pulse at Dingwalls, Visage at the Electric Ballroom, Soft Cell at the Music Machine. On a personal level, Hobbes enjoyed the sights and sounds. But as a policeman, he saw it in an entirely different light. In fact, there was a heavy presence of uniformed officers on the streets that evening. They were stopping people, and searching them.