Slow Motion Ghosts

by Jeff Noon

  ‘If they’re as mad about Lucas Bell as we think, then yes.’

  Barlow’s eyes widened. ‘Incredible.’

  Hobbes followed the constable’s gesture. ‘What is it?’

  ‘The car, sir. The Ford Capri. It’s still here.’

  The vehicle was parked halfway down the field’s slope, directly facing the sea. They moved closer to join the crowd of fans bunched around it. Barlow whispered, ‘Actually, it’s not a Capri. It’s a Cortina.’

  ‘The farmer must’ve bought it and parked it here. Good for trade, I suppose. A place of worship.’

  The blue paintwork was marked all over with graffiti, a tangle of names and dates. The driver’s window was open and the front and back seats were littered with hundreds of messages written on postcards and scraps of paper. Hobbes had never known such fervour himself, not for any person, object or god, and he couldn’t help feeling a twinge of envy.

  They walked on through the crowd. Hobbes had fixed Nikki Hauser’s features in his mind. But there were so many people here: the numerous faces blurred together. He was pressed in on all sides.

  Surely they could tell he was an unbeliever? Painted, glowering eyes stared at him, and at Barlow. In a field of self-appointed rebels and freaks they were the true outsiders. He steeled himself against the stares and returned them. Sweat made his shirt clammy against his back. The temperature seemed to go up a few notches and the crowd surged forward suddenly. There was a tussle. Hobbes almost fell as someone banged against him. His anger flared and he reached out to admonish the culprit. Barlow held him back.

  Eventually, out of the push and shove an orderly queue formed and the two officers took their place in it, without any clue as to where it might lead.

  The fields darkened slightly as the clouds crept forward and the atmosphere turned muggy. There was a peculiar tension in the air, a tightening of the skin. Fanzine sellers touted their wares along the line. Two lovers, each wearing a King Lost mask, kissed passionately as someone else, a friend or a stranger, took a photograph of them. This was a site of elemental passion.

  The queue shifted along and at last Hobbes and Barlow reached their goal. Before them stood a homemade shrine fashioned from stones, bottles, nails, string and a few lengths of wood. Fans were kneeling in front of it, in attitudes of prayer.

  A collection of votive offerings lay around the base of the shrine: a plastic necklace, dandelions in vases, a lace handkerchief, plectrums, guitar strings, locks of hair, and even what looked like slivers of fingernail. Candles flickered inside glass jars. An inscription had been carved into the central panel.

  LUCAS BELL

  9 March 1948 – 25 August 1974

  Hobbes stared at the epitaph. All around him a silence had fallen. People were holding their breaths. Somebody coughed, and the silence broke. There was nervous laughter, sobs of pain: something held captive, something else released.

  The two officers moved on. The heady smell of marijuana drifted over the scene and a gang of rowdy lads passed around a bottle of vodka and a joint, both acts in defiance of the farmer’s wishes. Hobbes thought back to the last time he’d been part of a mass of people: Brixton, four months ago. How different the passions of the crowd had been that night, anger driven by fear, poverty, racism. And yet to his surprise he felt more connection to the black teenagers and disaffected white youths he had fought against that night than he did for the people around him today.

  Just then Barlow tugged on his arm, saying, ‘Do you hear that?’

  Music was playing, an older fan singing a mid-tempo rock song accompanied by an acoustic guitar. There was no microphone or amplifier, yet the singer’s nicotine-wrecked baritone rang out like a priest’s at a service.

  Barlow whispered, ‘Do you see who that is? The singer? It’s Johnny Valentine.’

  ‘The old pop star?’

  ‘That’s the one. His name turns up in Lucas Bell’s life story. They were good friends, in the early days. In fact, when Lucas first arrived in London he got a job playing guitar in Johnny’s band. His first break, before he went solo and his own career took off.’

  Hobbes had indeed heard of Johnny Valentine, and recalled seeing him on television a few times in the late sixties.

  ‘He’s changed a fair bit, since his heyday.’

  ‘Yes. There was a scandal,’ Barlow said. ‘Caught in possession of drugs, alongside a high-society debutante. Pretty much a major offence, back then, for a working-class lad. The judge made an example of him, talking about his foul influence over the youth of the day. He was locked up for half a year. Which made him all the more popular.’ Barlow shook his head. ‘But these days, well, as you can see …’

  Hobbes joined the edge of the small crowd assembled around the vocalist, who stood on a tiny makeshift stage made of wooden boxes. The image he had in mind of Valentine – a lively young rock star singing his heart out – was very different from the man present today. His brow was ridged with deep furrows and his greying hair sprayed with so much lacquer it looked like a warrior’s helmet. Part of his face was covered in a sticking plaster. Life had eaten away at him. Still, he sang well, and the people were certainly appreciative of him being here. They clapped wildly as the song ended. Valentine spoke to them: ‘Next up is one of Luke’s ballads. “Border Blossoms”.’ He paused and took a breath. ‘And this one’s in honour of our recently departed troubadour, Brendan Clarke.’

  The guitarist played the first notes of a riff. She was sitting on a stool beside the singer, her fingers skilfully picking out the chords and melodic runs. The rain started to fall, softly at first, and the song held the day in its minor-key mood. And then through the throng Hobbes saw the guitarist’s face clearly for the first time, and he recognized her.

  It was Nikki Hauser.

  ‘Barlow. Quickly!’

  The crowd bustled as the rain slanted down across the field, harsh now, fiercely driven. A late-summer storm. It flattened the flowers in the vases on the shrine and snuffed out the candles with a hiss. People scattered, some of them shrieking in surprise or glee. Only the truly faithful remained in place, hair flattened, make-up melting on their wet faces, one or two still defiantly singing. But the guitarist was already moving away towards the farm gate, with Valentine at her side. Hobbes pushed his way through the crowd and followed as best he could. His shirt was wet, the rain battered at him. He watched as Barlow caught up with Hauser and Valentine in the lane. There was an argument of some kind. Hobbes couldn’t hear, but he saw that Valentine was shouting, waving his arms in the air. Hobbes put on a sprint, battling the downpour. He was out of breath and soaked to the bone as he reached the trio, and he saw that Barlow had his warrant card out and was holding it at arm’s length to stop Valentine coming for him.

  The singer spat on the ground. His elaborate hairdo had collapsed, pink skull on view through the now exposed thinning patches. He looked more than a little drunk. The sticking plaster on his face had slid away and Hobbes saw that the scar beneath was recently made. The blood had dried, scabbing over. ‘I didn’t know you was a cop, did I?’ Valentine’s voice had a thick Liverpudlian edge to it. ‘Sorry, mate. I thought you were going for Nikki here.’

  Hobbes ignored him. He turned to the woman, saying her name: ‘Nikki Hauser?’

  She looked at him with utter contempt on her face.

  ‘We need to talk, that’s all. It won’t take long. About Brendan Clarke.’

  There was still no reply. Hobbes stared at her. But her face was set, painted stark white, a black teardrop smeared on her cheek as the rain fell on her. Her eyeshadow gave the effect of a soft blue mist around her eyes, and her short spiky black hair made her painted features stand out even more. She had the look of a magical creature, something you might glimpse in a forest at twilight.

  And then she spoke at last, venting her anger. ‘Brendan? He’s dead. I’m well shot of him!’

  They stood there in the rain, the four of them.

  Valentine g
rimaced. ‘Look, Nikki love, I’m getting soaked through here. I’ll wait in the car, all right?’ He went off before she could reply.

  Hobbes and Barlow led Hauser across the lane to where their own car was parked. They all got inside, Barlow in the driver’s seat, Nikki and Hobbes in the back. He got right into it.

  ‘What happened after the concert on Saturday night?’

  ‘I went home.’

  ‘One of my officers spoke to your flatmate, and apparently you never turned up.’

  She smiled. ‘I can explain that.’

  ‘Please do.’

  ‘I have a number of homes. Crash pads, you know? Places I can stay without asking. And Johnny always looks after me, when I’m upset.’

  ‘So you stayed the night at Mr Valentine’s house?’

  ‘Yes, at his flat, after I’d dropped Brendan and Sputnik off at their places. I don’t drink, you see, so I always get the driving job.’

  ‘You didn’t go into the house with Brendan?’

  ‘No.’ For the first time, a stab of regret entered her voice. ‘That was the last time I saw him.’

  Hobbes gave her space to breathe. The rain drummed on the roof of the car, splattered against the windows.

  ‘Did you go back to see Brendan later that night, or in the morning?’

  ‘No. Why would I do that?’

  He tried his luck. ‘What if I told you that you’d been seen, leaving the house in the early morning.’

  ‘What? That’s crazy! Who said that?’

  ‘But you were close to Brendan, were you not? Engaged, I believe?’

  ‘Oh, you know what they say in the fairy tales. Once upon a time, and all that.’

  He looked at her intently, searching for insight. Hauser was, he now saw, older than she first appeared; she must be thirty or more. Beneath the rain-streaked make-up and the boyish haircut lived a woman slowly growing tired. Of what, he could not yet say. Her skin was peppered with tiny marks, a vestige of some long-ago disease, and her lips were thin, almost bloodless where the lipstick had been washed away. She’d travelled a long journey in life, Hobbes imagined, leaving her exposed now, and raw.

  ‘Poor stupid Johnny,’ she remarked, looking out through the side window. Hobbes followed her gaze and saw Valentine struggling to get inside a blue Hillman Avenger. The singer had dropped the car keys and was scrabbling in the mud looking for them.

  ‘Barlow. Go and help the poor bugger.’

  The constable set about his task, leaving Hobbes and Nikki alone on the back seat.

  ‘What happened to Valentine’s face?’ he asked. ‘The scar?’

  ‘Oh Johnny. He’s always in the wars.’

  ‘Someone attacked him?’

  ‘Yes, his worst enemy.’

  Hobbes could see a genuine love in her eyes. ‘How do you know Valentine?’ he asked.

  ‘We go back. I play keyboards in his band, when he can be bothered touring, that is. He’s always hoping for one final hit.’ She gave a little laugh. ‘Aren’t we all.’ Her eyes closed. A few drops of rain fell from her hair, down her face. They looked like tears as they travelled the sharp ridge of her nose.

  Hobbes decided to level with her. ‘Nikki, I’m having trouble with the murder of Brendan Clarke, and I believe you can help me.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to hurt him, to kill him?’

  Now she looked his way, and whispered, ‘I wanted to. I surely did. I wanted to punish Brendan. I thought often of stabbing him through the heart.’

  ‘For what he did to you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what was that?’

  She smiled but refused to speak.

  ‘His mother thinks that you had an affair with another man.’

  ‘Oh, but Johnny hardly counts. I don’t think he’s got it up, not properly, since his last number one. It’s comfort, that’s all it is. Against the night, the demons, the old despairs. Still, Brendan was jealous, he wanted me all for himself.’

  Hobbes frowned. ‘Yes, fiancés tend to think that way.’

  Her eyes narrowed within their halos of mascara and blue shadow. ‘You’re as lonely as the rest of us, whatever your name is.’

  ‘Hobbes. Detective Inspector.’

  ‘We all need something to help us through the night – isn’t that true? Booze, drugs, sex. If we’re fortunate, a loving companion.’

  ‘Had you found that in Brendan?’

  ‘Yes. I believe I loved him, for a while, at least. Until he …’

  ‘Go on.’

  For a moment he thought she was going to speak, but her mouth trembled, and closed. Hobbes watched her. She looked away from his stare.

  The rain stopped as suddenly as it had started: summer turning itself off and on. The car’s windows had steamed up. A dark shape appeared at one. It was Barlow. Hobbes wound down the glass to speak to him.

  ‘How’s Mr Valentine doing?’

  Barlow had pulled his blouson jacket up over his head to create a makeshift hood.

  ‘Drunk. Pissed off at God knows what. Picking at the scab on his face. Drawing blood. He’s in no fit state to drive, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Good. I might have a word with him.’

  Barlow put a hand on the door handle. ‘I’m drenched.’

  ‘No. Stay with him. Don’t let him drive away.’

  Nikki was stricken with worry. ‘Johnny’s in trouble. He needs my help. I have to look after him!’

  ‘We’ll be done soon enough,’ Hobbes told her.

  Barlow frowned but moved away, back to Valentine’s car.

  The inspector turned to Hauser. ‘I can’t find out who murdered Brendan unless I have all the details. Whatever’s necessary for a true understanding. Do you see that?’

  She nodded.

  ‘I was talking to your drummer, Sputnik. And he told me that Brendan was upset because he’d found something out about you. Something bad. And that’s why he’d broken off the engagement.’

  She drew a pattern in the condensation on the window. An oval shape.

  ‘Nikki? Do you have any idea what Sputnik was talking about?’

  She smiled. ‘He can barely keep a steady beat. He has no truth in him.’

  Hobbes was getting frustrated. She was hiding herself away, behind the words, and her cleverness.

  ‘Nikki, I’m afraid you will have to answer me.’

  ‘Oh, it’s quite simple. I told Brendan the truth about his dear, beloved Lucas, about the kind of man Lucas really was.’ Once started on this track she could not stop, and the words tumbled out. ‘I told him about the pain Lucas had caused. And the stupid, stupid things he’d done. The people he’d hurt, stepped on, cast aside to get where he was.’

  ‘I thought you liked Lucas Bell?’

  ‘I did. I do. But my love is based on the truth, not a fantasy. Whereas Brendan …’

  ‘Brendan couldn’t take the truth?’

  ‘Brendan wanted the dream, the make-believe. He loved King Lost, above all else. Not Lucas.’ She made a dismissive sound. ‘You know he was crying when he came off stage after the gig on Saturday. Brendan was crying because he’d damaged the precious mask. How ridiculous is that?’

  ‘And all this was enough to make you split up? To call off a wedding? I don’t get it.’

  ‘Well, you don’t know what I told him. And what’s more, you never will.’

  ‘I’m afraid—’

  ‘Lucas revealed certain truths to me, about his past. But he swore me to secrecy.’

  ‘Nikki—’

  ‘Oh fuck off. I’ve already caused enough trouble as it is.’

  It was hot inside the car now that the rain had stopped. Hobbes was sweltering; he was too close to the woman. He wished that he’d taken the front seat instead.

  ‘And what about the Fool card?’ he asked.

  She turned to him, a curious look on her face. ‘What about it?’

  ‘We found on
e placed on Brendan’s body.’

  Her eyes fluttered. She was nervous, he could see that. Her hands twitched on her lap.

  He insisted: ‘What’s the meaning of the card?’

  ‘Lucas held one on the King Lost sleeve.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve seen that. But why do you think the murderer marked his victim with it?’

  Nikki didn’t answer. Hobbes tried pushing her further: ‘How certain are you that Lucas Bell killed himself?’

  ‘As opposed to?’

  ‘Someone else killing him.’

  A cruel twist came to her lips. With a quick gesture she wiped the last of the painted black tear off her cheek.

  ‘I need to get out of this car. Please. The walls are closing in. Also, you’re starting to smell.’

  ‘Yes,’ Hobbes said. ‘I’m aware of that. Thank you.’

  She looked at him, and smiled despite her animosity, and for the first time a trace of simple human kindness was seen in her face.

  ‘I can’t let you go yet, Nikki. I might even have to take you into the station – is that what you want?’

  She shook her head and whispered, ‘No.’

  ‘I thought not. None of us want that. So why don’t you tell me what you know.’

  ‘I don’t know everything. Only what Lucas told me.’

  ‘That’s enough.’

  She looked sideways at him and said, ‘I believe the Fool has something to do with Edenville.’ A pause. ‘They used tarot symbols, to identify themselves.’

  The inspector’s mind raced ahead, as though a needle had entered a vein and shot him full of a drug. Here, here was the flicker of light!

  He turned on the seat to face Hauser full on. ‘What is Edenville?’

  ‘It goes back to Hastings, to when Lucas was young, a teenager. A number of them got together and formed a group.’

  ‘You mean a band? Musicians?’

  ‘No. A group of … of outsiders. Some kind of secret society. Almost like a coven.’

  ‘And Edenville?’

  ‘That’s where they lived.’

  ‘The name of a house, you mean? Or a meeting place?’

  Nikki’s eyes narrowed. ‘Maybe. Something like that.’

  Hobbes tried to think; what did this mean in terms of the murder investigation? ‘Tell me, was Brendan Clarke connected to Edenville in some way?’