by John Luxton
The Alembic Valise
Volume 1 of the Hammersmith Trilogy
By John Luxton
Copyright: John Luxton 2011 - All Rights Reserved
This book is a work of fiction and the characters therein are fictional creations and not based in any way upon real people, living or dead, any resemblance is purely coincidental. This book contains adult content.
The 3 books consisting The Hammersmith Trilogy may be read in any order – they are stand-alone stories that are set in the locale of Hammersmith, West London, with some characters in common.
“Leave us you thing of bane. Serpent, we trample upon thy head.”
St. Seraphim of Sarov
Chapter 1
Joel loved the crunch of the frost under his running shoes as he began his morning run; concentrating on the first strides, feeling the cold air flowing into his lungs, loosening the shoulders and then raising his eyes from the towpath to see Hammersmith Bridge spanning the misty river. This was his routine now, ever since he fetched up here, and in his therapist’s words, gifted himself this new life. Began to drag his sorry self from a slough of misery and self-pity, was more the way he saw it. But he let it go; anyway, running helped.
Other runners were already out, but Joel ignored them; jealously ring-fencing that fertile dimension between sleep and waking, where the fading tendrils of dreams still held sway. Meanwhile out on the river there was worse; rowing crews, their coaches yelling unintelligible instructions through miniature loud hailers; the urgency and shrillness of their voices piercing his mood and precipitating him reluctantly into the bleak, breaking dawn.
After crossing the bridge Joel descended onto the southern riverbank where after lengthening his stride, he settled into a steady rhythm. Here the recent high tide had left some parts of the pathway muddy and whilst avoiding the worst he glanced across the river to where his houseboat was moored. Over the past two years he had adapted to river dwelling, and found comfort and inspiration in equal measure. The rhythm of the tides, the wide expanse of ever changing sky, being in the centre of the city and yet close to nature, the list of positives was extensive.
Twenty-five minutes later his fatigue was tangible but not uncomfortable as the endorphins scrubbed away the pain and lifted his mood. The tide had turned, the sun would soon rise, he was feeling good and looking forward to a leisurely breakfast. But as he reached the floating jetty where his boat was moored he saw a flashing light up ahead. Curiosity overcame exhaustion, and Joel paused on the first of the floodwall steps, noticing now that there was more than one emergency vehicle on the scene, their blue lights diluted by the rays of the now risen sun.
The bridge underpass had been closed and two police officers were standing behind yellow cordon tape, but Joel could see that traffic was still crossing the bridge so he began to jog up the side street to loop around and look down on the incident area from above. As the police car and an ambulance were right under the bridge nothing could be seen from the parapet, so Joel trotted out over the river to where benches were built into the bridges structure. He had sat here many times to admire the views and knew that one could look down through a slot beneath to the river below; a curious design he had always thought, imagining keys, wallet or phone slipping from a hand or pocket into the swiftly flowing water.
By actually laying down under the green wooden seats, he was able to look down through the opening and see… exactly nothing. Oh well, he thought and stood up to retrace his steps back to his boat and that overdue breakfast. Momentarily dizzy from his exertions he reached out to steady himself on the handrail rail and saw in the road beside him a police car. The window was being wound down and the man in the passenger seat was pointing at him.
“Excuse me, sir. Could you follow me, please?” It was not a question but a command. The car moved off slowly and Joel followed.
On reaching the turning that took traffic down to the riverfront Joel saw his captor standing on the pavement smoking a cigarette and talking on a phone. He looked Joel up and down.
"May I ask what you were doing, back there on the bridge?”
“Just curious as to what’s going on, I was out for a run and I live just along from here, what is going on?” Joel answered, trying but failing to sound bright and breezy.
The detective pulled out a wallet and flashed his ID.
“Do you know we video onlookers at incident scenes these days?” he said. “Fires, murders, missing kids, that kind of thing; occasions where a perpetrator may wish to return in order to admire the impact of their actions.” He seemed to study Joel closely for a moment.
“Your name please?”
“But I haven’t seen anything,” said Joel in what sounded like a whiney voice.
Whilst standing on the kerb giving his explanation to the detective Joel began to feel himself sinking into a junior shame spiral, his fragile confidence unravelling in the presence of authority. The exchange ended with the detective handing him a card and telling him to attend Shepherds Bush Police Station before midday, for further questioning. The detective then turned on his heel and walked down the stone steps leading to the underpass. Joel was about to head back to his boat, necessitating the detour to avoid the police cordon, but instead he too did an about-turn, deciding to go to the Café Valdez on the other side of the river. There he knew he would find good coffee and the morning’s newspapers. It seemed a better option than going home and starting to cook for himself. As he began to walk he noticed that the aperture under the bench that he had earlier peered through, was in fact replicated at the beginning of the bridge.
He could have kept his gaze on the sky or even on the river curving away above the wooden handrail. He could have easily resisted the impulse to take a downward glance as he passed the opening but his curiosity won out and he paused and looked down. On the foreshore there were three men wearing oilskins and waders struggling to lay planking across the greenish mud. There was also a small white tent sitting on a patch of shingle across from them. He could not help wondering what or who was in the tent.
Meanwhile the city was coming alive; planes passed overhead and commuter traffic nervously jockeyed for road space. Sunlight had burnt away the morning fog. And yet there was darkness. It was just a step away.
With a shudder he thought of the detective’s observation about perp onlookers at such scenes. He already knew that the police routinely and surreptitiously filmed the rubbernecking crowd, so to have been caught crawling around under a bench by an investigating officer was not good. Surely, he thought, I am guilty of an abhorrent display of voyeuristic curiosity, at the very least. With these dark thoughts he continued over the bridge towards the coffee shop and did not once turn and look back.
Chapter 2
A 419 metro bus sped Joel back over the river after a sombre breakfast. Once aboard his boat he shaved, showered and checked his email. Forty minutes later, stepping out onto the gangplank and flicking down his shades he saw the detective advancing towards him, an implausibly amiable smile now stuck on his face. Behind his shades Joel rolled his eyes.
“Ah Mr Barlow, the modern publishing sensation, I believe.” In his left hand the transformed detective was holding a book, Joel’s book. “I sent my DC to buy a copy. My daughter is a big fan of yours. I thought that maybe you could sign it for her.”
He suddenly realised that the detective trusted him to turn up at the police station because he recognised him. There had been profiles in several of the Sunday magazines recently, complete with pictures of him aboard his houseboat, the Alembic Valise. The same words were etched in green on the cover of the book the detective was holding.
“I was just heading up to make my statement”, said Joel to the now beaming visito
r.
“Not necessary now I am here. May I come aboard?”
A strong wind was now pushing the incoming tide and the boat, was free of the mud and moving slightly on her moorings as Joel crossed the sun deck and unlocked the door leading to the galley. Quickly punching in the security code he stood aside to let his visitor in. The dining area was spick and span, just his laptop and a folder of design ideas for a new book cover that his publisher had couriered over to him were on the table.
“Tea?” said Joel. The detective nodded, sat down and looked around the cabin.
“Actually Mr Barlow there is a serious side to my visit.” That got Joel’s attention. The detective’s piercing blue eyes had finished their sweep of the cabin and were now back on him. “We think the deceased…”
“The deceased?” Joel interrupted.
“Yes, we found a body on the foreshore this morning.”
“OK, but what has this to do with me?”
“It, the body, was found on the foreshore, shortly after low tide.”
Joel’s mind was in overdrive. The foreshore was uncovered for about two hours on either side of low tide. Was the body already there when he started his run all those hours ago?
“Anyway we are of course interviewing people living alongside the river or indeed on it as you do.” Joel tried to smile accommodatingly but he was pretty sure it was more of a grimace. “Anyway let’s have that cup of tea, then I have something to show you,” said the Detective.
Joel poured the water into two white mugs then watched as his guest took a phone out and began expertly flicking through menus using the touch screen. He looked up and caught Joel’s eye.
“My daughter, she insisted I get this when I last upgraded. Ah! Here we are, now this is what I wanted to show you. Recognise it?” For the second time of the day Joel felt momentarily dizzy. As he looked from the phone screen to the man holding it he could hear the low thrum from the engines of a boat passing by, probably a dredger, but he did not look out of the window. Instead he met the eyes of the detective before replying.
“So your first question was going to be – did I see anyone being murdered when I was out on my run this morning? But somehow we got sidetracked on that and now you want to know about Map Turtle?” said Joel, the cadence of his voice rising.
“Exactly right, no sugar for me thanks,” said the detective, ignoring Joel’s attempt at sarcasm and replacing his phone in his pocket. “And please do not say the word murder. You writers! I suppose an overactive imagination is a professional necessity but look, there are between eighty to hundred bodies in the Thames every year and eighty percent of those are suicides.”
The detective pushed the book across the table, and began to pat his pockets in search of a pen, but Joel already had one in his hand. Opening the cover he wrote and then passed it back to the detective.
“So to get back to this tortoise, is it from your book?” asked the detective whilst carefully putting the freshly signed copy of Joel’s bestseller into a plastic bag that he had taken from his pocket.
Joel thought for a moment before replying. “All the elements of the book were turned into symbols when the game developers became involved, and this is one of them.”
There were actually twin turtles in Joel’s story, Map Turtle (Graptemys Geographica) and the False Map Turtle (Graptemys Pseudogeographica), the names coming from the markings on their shells. One or other appeared at opportune moments in the dreams of the book’s hero to give guidance, or misguidance.
“Got it,” said the detective. “So for me the really interesting thing, and something I would appreciate your help understanding is - why has our corpse got a tattoo of this tortoise on his arm?”
“Turtle,” said Joel, the hollow feeling returning to his chest.
He paused and drank some of his tea, then explained that the synergy between the book and the game meant that readers of the book went on to play the game and vice versa, resulting in thousands of game players interacting online with one another. There were also spin-off products – including posters, tee shirts and jewellery. Joel was uncertain if there was even such a thing as tattoo templates but supplied the appropriate contact details.
Afterwards the detective thanked him for signing the book and then went ashore. To continue attempting to identify the mud guy, Joel supposed. It seemed strangely coincidental to him that a hardcore gamer with a tattoo of one of his most paradoxical creations should meet his end so close to his boat. The twin turtles were identical, so there was no clear way to know if their advice was wisdom or folly. It was intended to be humorous but also to illustrate the more serious idea that in the end you could only ever trust your own judgement. Had mud guy been led astray by his own tattoo? Joel’s uneasiness began to escalate into dark foreboding. He went inside to retrieve his coat, set the alarm, locked up and then walked briskly along the jetty to the embankment.
Now that he did not have to go to the police station and being in no mood to work he was at a loose end. Heading away from the river he crossed the park, the hum of the traffic increasing with each step. In the sunken flower garden some men, ragged and red faced, were drinking from cans and passing round a bottle in a brown paper bag. The grass around the benches they sat on was covered with drifts of leaves the autumn wind had scoured from the surrounding trees and driven to the lowest point in the park, creating the effect of a comfortable nest.
One man in a long overcoat detached himself from the group and began walking along the path towards him. Half expecting to be asked for money Joel quickened his pace. But as they drew level to one another he saw that the man was looking straight ahead and his whole body seemed to be angled forward, as if he were leaning into an invisible hurricane. Joel left the park and descended into the underpass.
Chapter 3
Joel’s mood was no better as the evening approached. Walking along the embankment, heading west he had to twice wait for returning rowing crews to carry their fragile looking craft across the road. This part of the river always puzzled him; the houses were picturesque and had fabulous river views and yet mostly seemed to be deserted. Here the spring tides regularly flooded the low-lying roads adjacent to the river. Many of the houses had either raised entrances or some kind of flood defence system in place. Often unsuspecting visitors to the area returned to their parked cars to find them full of water.
Cutting down an alley Joel found himself at his destination, the Gate, an old riverside pub. Entering, he approached the bar and ordered a pint of lager with a whisky shot, which he then took out onto the terrace, just in time to see the sun dipping down behind the old brewery upstream.
He swatted away a mosquito and murmured the refrain – Jesus T F Christ – to himself, partially initialised to avoid offending those within earshot. If anyone had asked what it meant he would have suggested that they should Google it. He threw the scotch down his throat, took a swig of beer and sighed deeply. Looking up he was confronted with the quizzical face of his friend Dave Trulock, proprietor of the Gate, and previous owner of the boat that was now Joel’s home.
“Well, it has been a strange day,” said Joel by way of explanation.
“How so, old friend?” returned Dave in a voice redolent with fake sincerity.
“You heard about the body on the foreshore?” Dave nodded. “Well I probably jogged past it this morning; which gave the police one reason to want to talk to me. Then they caught me rubbernecking at their incident scene and that gave them another.”
He told him all that had occurred, except the part about the tattoo. Dave nodded sagely throughout the tale. The sky was now a deep red colour and some geese flew over the river heading towards the nature reserve. Dave took a final puff on his cigarette and flicked it over the rail. It left a trail of sparks as it arced downwards. The Gate was famous for it’s extensive collection of single malts, so as the breeze had now turned bitterly cold they retreated to the saloon bar where an open fire was burning, and got with the pr
ogramme.
When they first met several years earlier Dave had just bought the Gate and was renovating the then derelict pub whilst living nearby on his houseboat. When the rebuild was completed Dave moved into the apartment on the top floor and Joel bought the houseboat from him, renaming it Alembic Valise. Dave now looked across the table at him.
“Is this detective’s daughter really a fan of yours? Or is it a ruse to get a sample of your handwriting?” Joel looked confused. “You know, to compare with the fake suicide note they found on the body,” said Dave with a grin.
“Let’s talk about something else”, replied Joel.
“Well”, said Dave, “Those two at the bar look like they have been stood up. Let’s see if you have still got it.” Joel turned to discretely look and saw the two women. One was a red haired woman who Joel immediately recognised. She was a locum at the doctor’s surgery in Fulham where he was a patient. She had prescribed a steroid cream for his eczema a while ago. He tried to remember her name.
“Women don’t get stood up anymore. They hunt in packs,” said Joel. “Besides, they probably bat for the other side or …” he trailed off, realising he was dangerously close to a ‘women are the enemy’ rant.
“Let’s ask them if they want to come and sit by the fire, anyway,” suggested Dave.
“You get the redhead. That woman knows my medical history,” said Joel grumpily.
After introductions and some small talk and then another round of drinks Dave insisted on taking Siobhan, who did not seem to remember Joel or his skin condition, for a tour of the historic pub, whilst her friend stayed with Joel.
The passing moments took on a dreamlike quality. In the flickering firelight his companion seemed a vision of angelic perfection. She was Asian, with high cheekbones and the blackest hair. Was a musician and lived in Paris. She was also very attractive and Joel could not recall how to act in a situation such as this, so he fell silent. The day that had started so unexpectedly badly now seemed have delivered up it’s inverse. Perhaps it is all from the same vortex of possibility he thought. At least I know I am alive. Realising he was drifting into his inner world, he caught himself, looked across at Mai, and smiled.