Slow Motion Ghosts

by Jeff Noon

  ‘How do you like that?’

  Hobbes had begun to feel worried. Sick inside. He’d never seen his colleague acting this out of control before, and he knew the situation could only turn out bad. He’d started to say something, but then Jenkes yelled, ‘Come on, we can all take turns!’

  At that point, instantly, Hobbes lost all his feeling for Jenkes. He didn’t know who this man was, but it wasn’t his friend of the last few years. Another man had taken over, another personality. That night in Brixton had been the trigger.

  Hobbes glanced over at Len Mawley and saw the look of horror on his face. Jenkes shouted, ‘Mawley, come on! Walk the bloody line for once.’ And that was enough, the words a spark to an oily rag. Mawley moved over to help Jenkes and Boyle with the now struggling and screaming black man.

  And then the fists had rained down, the kicks came in.

  Their victim fell halfway to the floor.

  The assault continued.

  Hobbes couldn’t move. His lips parted but nothing came out, no words.

  The black man cried. The wailing sound filled the tiny stone cell.

  Blood splattered against a wall.

  Hobbes’s vision blurred.

  ‘Stop.’ That one word. And then, louder: ‘Charlie, for fuck’s sake. Stop it!’

  Jenkes turned to him, smiled, and asked if he wanted to join in.

  Hobbes moved forward, his fist already swinging, but aimed at his partner’s face. The blow was countered easily, caught in an iron grip. Hobbes was bent over backwards. His spine crackled with pain.

  Jenkes grinned. ‘Oh, you really don’t want to do that, Henry.’

  The use of Hobbes’s first name sounded like an insult.

  Jenkes threw him aside. He staggered and fell against the wall.

  The black man was staring at Hobbes now, a silent pleading. But what could he do? He was outnumbered.

  He backed away. He turned and ran up the stairs of the now empty club. Only the barman Joseph was still there. He looked at Hobbes with dead eyes, knowing full well what his establishment was being used for. Hobbes stumbled out into the darkened alleyway, and from there on to Wardour Street. He gulped for clean air.

  He ran to the phone box on the corner and dialled 999 and called in the assault. ‘Hurry. It’s an emergency.’ He replaced the handset without giving his name. Then he stepped to the gutter and threw up.

  Slowly, he made his way back to his car, past glowing neon signs, all-night coffee bars, people out enjoying themselves.

  For Detective Inspector Henry Hobbes, the night was over.

  The young black man, whose name was Michael Hennessey, suffered two broken ribs, severe bruising to the face, stomach and thighs, and a ruptured eyeball. He came to in hospital the next day to find himself blind in that eye.

  Hobbes was pained by guilt. But he’d made the call at least. He had probably saved the man’s life. Yes, he could tell himself that.

  Keep saying that. Don’t stop saying it. But …

  A week or so later he woke up early one morning without a single thought in his head. He walked into the Charing Cross police station and wrote up and signed a report describing what he’d seen that night, naming the three officers involved, everything, his own presence there, the attacks, the words said, everything he could remember.

  Then the shit came down.

  Two months later the internal affairs unit had made their results known. DS Mawley tried to take the blame on himself, as some kind of protective gesture, but the investigating officers quickly saw through that. He was let off with a slapped wrist, because his role in the actual physical assault had been minimal, but DI Jenkes and DS Boyle were found guilty of ‘unnecessary use of force in an arrest’. Hobbes wasn’t surprised at all by the phrasing. He’d expected a whitewash. But the national press, both left-and right-wing, turned on the officers; they were seen as shaming examples of a racist police force. Four days later, even before any official punishment had been doled out, Detective Inspector Charles Jenkes had slung a rope over a steel beam in his garage and hanged himself by the neck.

  His daughter, twelve years old, had found the body.

  Chief Superintendent Lockhart tapped Hobbes on the shoulder, saying, ‘Come on then. Tell me what’s on your mind.’

  Hobbes was back in the tiny cellar room once more, looking at the cleaned walls, the spotless floor. He saw the superintendent’s shoes, polished a shiny black. He always was the neatest of them all, a stickler for the details, the regulations. And yet. Hobbes bent down.

  ‘You looking to grovel, Henry?’

  ‘You know what I’m looking for.’

  ‘I think I do. A spot of red paint, perhaps?’ Lockhart smiled coldly. ‘But you know I wouldn’t be that lax. I gave them a clean afterwards.’

  Hobbes came back up. He looked Lockhart in the eye. ‘You wrote that word on my door?’

  ‘That I did.’

  ‘Why?’

  Lockhart stared back at him.

  Hobbes worked it out. ‘You goaded me. You knew I’d come here.’

  ‘Aye. I wanted to see if you still had it in you. If you still had the guts. And it seems that you do.’

  Hobbes shook his head to clear it. He could hardly breathe.

  ‘What do you want from me?’

  Lockhart’s face set into a hard, fierce look.

  ‘I want you to find out who killed Charlie Jenkes.’

  Tethered

  Hobbes woke up shocked by a feeling or an event he couldn’t remember one second later, as he sat up in the clammy sheets. The dream slipped away from his grasp. In this desolate bedroom, silence reigned. Not a thing moved. He became aware of his own laboured breathing.

  He thought about his wife, Glenda. The days they’d spent together, the nights. The child they’d made together, a son, Martin. Current whereabouts unknown. And even when love’s fire had dimmed, still the idea that he and Glenda would be there for each other into old age seemed as strong as ever. But it turned out that was too much to ask; being a copper’s wife was a specialist job. The constant fear was one thing, the crazy messed-up hours another, but worst of all was the hatred sent a family’s way when things went wrong.

  Hobbes was to blame for a fellow officer’s death, for his suicide.

  Not just a fellow officer, but his long-time partner. His supposed friend.

  That’s all his colleagues believed.

  Close up the ranks, support the team. No matter what. That was the rule. And Hobbes had broken it. He’d gone his own way. It was stupid. His was a single voice in the dark, in the cold heartless night. And he knew more than anything it was his own guilt that had caused him to speak out; guilt for not doing enough that night.

  And then the chief superintendent’s words came back to him, hinting at some other truth that he’d never even considered before. Lockhart wanted Hobbes to work on the case in secret, in his own time. ‘For the sake of the force, Hobbes. And if not for Charlie’s sake, then for his family’s sake. For the sake of that poor kid who found him strung up like that.’ What else could Hobbes do, but agree to look into it? He was from the Central London squad after all; he was used to crimes coming at him from all directions, all at once.

  And then Hobbes heard the voice. It came from the next room, the box room. The place where he’d stored all the things he couldn’t bring himself to get rid of when he’d moved. Personal things. Things that stirred memories.

  Slowly, he moved his legs and sat up on the side of the bed. He got to his feet.

  Listened.

  Nothing. Had he been mistaken? No, there it was again. Quiet, persistent. A cry. It sounded plaintive, almost in pain.

  He stepped forward, moving slowly, carefully, holding his breath. He could feel the carpet under his bare feet.

  Another step. One more. And then he stopped. Something was wrong. He couldn’t move any further. Was it fear? His heart pounded.

  He tried again. No, it was no good, he was trapped, held
in place.

  Then he looked down and saw the string tied around his ankle.

  Damn it. Not again.

  He was awake now, properly, fully.

  There was nobody in the house, only himself. Himself and his fears, his loneliness. A police officer – trained, experienced on the street, supposedly in charge – who had to take this stupid precaution every single night against sleepwalking. Tethered like a dog. It had started after the riot. And had grown even worse after his wife had asked him to leave. A few times he’d woken up to find his hand on the front door of his flat, struggling to get it open, to escape. Once, at three in the morning, he’d actually come awake standing on the pavement outside, pyjama-clad, staring down the empty lamp-lit road.

  Where the hell did he think he was going?

  What would he find when he got there?

  TUESDAY

  25 AUGUST 1981

  Available Light

  Neville Briggs lived in a mews cottage in Notting Hill. In a spotless, immaculately furnished living room, surrounded by framed prints of his own works on the walls, he showed Hobbes and Barlow photographs taken at the Monsoon Monsoon gig on Saturday night. The members of the audience were young on the whole, too young to have been into Lucas Bell when he was alive. But they were true fans, that was obvious; many were dressed as their hero, in shiny fabrics, long silk scarves, velvet jackets, their features speckled with glitter. A good number of them had decorated their faces with the King Lost mask.

  Hobbes saw Simone Paige among the crowd.

  Briggs had framed her slightly off-centre, illuminated by a yellow glow from above. She looked different from those around her: unadorned, without a costume or a mask other than her own style. Her eyes, which looked even stranger under the club lights, were hooded, creased with worry. It was impossible to know what she was thinking or feeling, but it wasn’t anything good, that was for sure. A girl nearby was staring at Simone with a look of obvious hatred on her face.

  The photographer smiled. ‘Simone is a fascinating subject.’

  ‘What do you have of the band on stage?’

  Briggs showed them a series of shots, each from a different time of the night: Sputnik at the rear of the stage behind his drum kit, Nikki Hauser at the keyboards, and Brendan Clarke standing centre stage, spotlit, the King Lost mask resplendent on his face.

  In subsequent photographs the singer’s make-up had started to run as the place heated up. The sweat was dripping down his features.

  The crowd was going wild with passion. One image showed a teenage girl clambering on to the stage to embrace the singer. It made Hobbes wonder just who she thought she was embracing: Brendan Clarke or Lucas Bell? A man or a ghost?

  The final photographs depicted the climax of the gig: the first showed Brendan Clarke with a knife in his hand, holding it against his painted face. And then the face itself in close-up, dripping with red. The make-up, the sweat, the fake blood. The stark white of the stage lights.

  ‘It truly was remarkable,’ Briggs said. ‘I felt that I was being dragged back in time, back to 1974.’

  ‘To Lucas Bell’s final concert?’ PC Barlow said.

  ‘I was Bell’s unofficial photographer. Tobias employed me.’

  ‘You mean Toby Lear?’ Hobbes asked.

  ‘Yeah. Bell’s manager. He used me on a good number of occasions.’

  ‘So you were friends with Lucas?’

  Briggs smiled. It wavered on his lips. ‘Oh yes, we were close. Well, as close as you can get to a rock star on the rise.’

  He seemed to lose himself in the act of contemplation as he looked over the images of Brendan Clarke in the damaged mask. Then he cleared his throat and said, ‘It’s a terrible affliction, to be someone who can’t stop taking photographs, who can’t stop recording the thing that’s happening right in front of their eyes.’ Briggs shook his head in despair. ‘There’s no stopping it. The camera has to click away, no matter the pain on view. The subject has to be captured.’ His mouth was set in a fierce line. ‘Oh yes, I’m a voyeur. That’s my burden.’

  Hobbes asked, ‘What did you do after the gig on Saturday?’

  ‘I went home alone, as per usual. I suppose that puts me under suspicion?’

  ‘What about immediately after the gig?’

  ‘I went outside to talk to Simone. And then Brendan Clarke turned up.’

  ‘Did that make you jealous?’

  The photographer looked at Hobbes. ‘No, why should it?’

  ‘But you like Simone, I take it?’

  ‘She’s a friend, nothing more.’

  Hobbes looked at him. Was he lying?

  ‘To be honest, she got in the way.’

  ‘Of what?’

  Now he looked at both Hobbes and Barlow, one to the other, without speaking.

  ‘You mean,’ Hobbes said, ‘that she got in the way between you and Lucas Bell?’

  Briggs nodded. ‘She ruined it for me. She took him from me. She stole him. And Lucas was never the same afterwards.’

  ‘You mean he went straight?’

  The remark brought a look of anger to Briggs’s face. His lips moved to form a rebuff, but none came. Instead, his eyes closed for a second. Some distant memory stirred in his mind. And then he said, ‘Ah well, I’ve forgiven her now.’

  ‘And you think that Lucas had love for you?’

  He smiled. ‘Oh yes. He travelled both ways.’

  Barlow made a noise. Hobbes raised a hand to quieten him.

  Briggs, emboldened by his confession, carried on. ‘I have always liked, and loved, boys and girls equally. And a few years after Lucas died, we had a bit of a fling. But—’

  ‘You and Simone?’

  ‘Yes. We clung to each other in the night. It was a melodramatic episode. But she’s always been hung up on Lucas, far more than is good for her. He’s never … well, Lucas has never really died for her.’

  ‘I see.’ Hobbes thought for a moment. ‘Simone told you, I believe, about the state of Brendan’s face. The cuts.’ Briggs nodded. ‘What do you think about that?’

  ‘It’s terrible. That mask always brings bad luck with it.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘It’s cursed, isn’t it? I wish Luke had never invented it. He’d still be alive today if he hadn’t, I’m certain of it.’

  Hobbes made Briggs promise not to tell anyone about the wounds to the victim’s face. Then he asked, ‘Did you see anyone threaten Brendan on the night?’

  ‘Sure. That super weirdo bitch, Morgan. She slapped him across the face, pure fifties style.’ He pointed to a figure in one of the photographs of the audience. ‘This is her.’

  Morgan Yorke looked young, her face still soft with puppy fat. The painted teardrop under her eye glistened, caught in a beam of silver light. Her whole face was screwed up in distaste as she stared at Monsoon Monsoon on stage. It was strange to see such an expression among those who surrounded her, all the other revellers clearly enjoying themselves, giving themselves to the night, to the blissful moment. Morgan’s hatred shone through.

  ‘It’s sad, really,’ Briggs said. ‘She and Brendan were both idiots, both of them fighting over who loves Lucas Bell the best, who knew the most about him, down to the tiniest morsel. Fucking hell! The guy’s been dead for seven years, can’t they let him lie in peace?’ He paused, sighed, and then asked, ‘Do you know the song “Slow Motion Ghosts” by any chance?’

  Barlow spoke up. ‘I do. It’s off the second album. It’s a good song.’

  ‘It’s a very good song. And I always think that was Lucas predicting the after-effects of his own death.’ The photographer fell silent. Then he made a rueful laugh. ‘Don’t you see? Lucas is still here. His ghost is still affecting us.’

  Hobbes held his stare.

  ‘Tell me, Mr Briggs, what do you make of Lucas Bell’s suicide?’

  ‘What do I make of it?’

  Hobbes didn’t want to give too much away, so he simply said, ‘You knew h
im fairly well. Why do you think he did it?’

  ‘Well, that’s the big question.’

  ‘And what’s your answer?’

  Briggs took a moment to reflect. ‘Lucas rang me a few days prior … well, before it happened.’

  ‘He telephoned you?’

  ‘Yes. He sounded terrible. Obviously upset about something. In fact, he wanted me to come down there, and save him.’

  ‘And what did he mean by that?’

  ‘I wish I knew.’

  ‘So he told you where he was staying?’

  Briggs shook his head. ‘No. Not exactly. But he did say he was in his home town.’

  ‘Hastings?’

  ‘Yes. The dark was closing in.’

  Hobbes looked him in the eye. ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘That’s what Lucas said to me, Inspector. The dark is closing in. His exact words.’

  Hobbes’s mind worked at the information. ‘Did you think someone was threatening him?’

  ‘No. I knew he was suffering. After all, he’d only recently killed off King Lost, live on stage. So I took it to mean he was getting his act together. Facing up to things, to his troubles, whatever they might be.’

  ‘Yet you didn’t go down to see him.’

  ‘Oh, but I did. A couple of days later. I was feeling terribly guilty.’

  ‘You said you didn’t have an address.’

  Briggs shook his head. ‘I didn’t. I thought I’d have a look around, ask some people, see if I could find him. I booked into a bed and breakfast, stayed overnight. Hastings isn’t that big a town. It was a pretty conservative place back then. And Lucas was a very distinctive-looking man, and he was famous, so I thought he’d stand out. No luck. No one had seen him. I even tried his family home. He’d shown it to me when we did the cover shoot for the King Lost album. But the woman who answered the door wouldn’t even give me the time of day. And anyway …’

  ‘You were too late?’

  Briggs couldn’t answer. He looked down and spoke quietly. ‘There was a place.’