The Alembic Valise

by John Luxton

  “In me boat”, replied Joel.

  “Bit of a change of plan,” Dave said in his most diplomatic voice.

  “Oh no!”

  “Listen I am still at the Gate. It’s Sophie’s lecture tonight and I promised her I would be there. I completely forgot. Have you passed yet?”

  “No, I am just coming up.”

  “Well, moor here for a bit, have a drink. Nobody will know you that you are on a secret mission.”

  “But I am dressed like a ninja assassin.”

  Dave laughed. “See you in a bit then.”

  “OK,” said Joel.

  Lights glowed in every window of the Gate. Joel altered his course and in a few minutes was alongside the mooring platform. He allowed a couple of metres slack in the ropes as the river level dropped quickly once the ebb tide took hold. Climbing the metal ladder he stepped onto the deserted terrace and then realised he was looking straight into the room where Sophie’s talk was taking place. It must have ended because people were standing around drinking and chatting. He saw Dave moving around the room, he looked smashed. Sophie, looking radiant in a blue dress was standing with a tall dread-locked guy. A dozen or so other people milled about. Joel was about to cover the last couple of yards to the warmth of the saloon bar when he froze. There was a man in a grey raincoat crossing the room towards the drinks table. It was Detective Z. His reflex was to step back into the darkness but as he did so his movement must have caught the detective’s eye because for a moment he seemed to be looking directly at Joel. Then his attention returned to the table and picking up what looked like a glass of orange juice he disappeared out of Joel’s field of vision.

  * * *

  Deacon had recognised him from across the park and followed along the embankment. It was not however his brother Jim he had seen but rather his father’s chauffeur and minder, Seraphim.

  Seraphim Volt had operated with the KLA in Kosovo in the nineties but his military activities had ended when a sniper’s bullet shattered his left knee as he and his comrades were attacking a Serbian police station. That put him in a wheelchair for six months. After his recovery Seraphim had come to the UK to find work as security consultant but had ended up driving limos for a living, until Cuthbert gave him a job.

  He walked briskly despite his slight limp, his shoulders hunched in a leather coat and his hands thrust in his pockets, a carrier bag swinging at his side. Deacon had trouble keeping up. Seraphim passed by the alley leading to the Gate, turned into the side street and got into a car. Deacon went straight up to it and tapped on the glass. Seraphim opened the window looking anything but startled.

  “Get in, you look really cold,” he said.

  The bag Seraphim had been carrying contained a large box of fried chicken and he shared it with Deacon. They sat in silence eating for a while.

  “Mr. Cuthbert and Jim are in there,” Seraphim gestured with a piece of chicken in the direction of the Gate. “At a lecture of some kind, your father will be so glad to see you. Why do you never come and see us, Deke? It’s been a long time.”

  Before Deacon could think of an answer there was a beeping sound and Seraphim had to hurriedly wipe the grease from his hands before extracting a phone from the pocket of his black leather coat. He winked conspiratorially at him and stepped out of the car to take the call. Two minutes later he was back. He climbed into his seat and started the car.

  “Just got to run a little errand, then we can come back here and wait for Mr Cuthbert and your brother. Are you ok with that, Deke? Here let’s have some music on.”

  “Sure,” said Deacon. “Got any Brahms?”

  As they drove off he looked across at Seraphim whose craggy features were illuminated by the cold blue light of the sat-nav screen on the dashboard. He remembered him from his teenage years, picking Jim and himself up from their boarding school in Oxfordshire on Friday afternoons in their father’s black Mercedes. When Seraphim had come to work for the family, their father had told them he was a soldier, a freedom fighter in fact. It was only years later that he found out that the KLA had a very different reputation. There is a controlled intensity about everything this man does, he thought. He’s probably got a resting heart rate of about forty BPM, even when snapping an adversary’s neck.

  * * *

  Numerous times in his life Joel had been accused of being irresponsible, immature, unreliable or just plain flaky. This ire that he had in the past earned from disappointed girlfriends, wives, colleagues and friends was based upon one simple action that he had often performed when experiencing situational ambiguity. He left. This time though it was different, it was clear that hiding-out was an act devoid of integrity. Furthermore he resolved that come hell or high water he would not leave Alembic Valise. It was his home. And so he crossed back across the terrace, climbed back into his boat, cast off and started to row back, pausing only to phone Dave and leave a message on his voicemail to the effect that he was aborting tonight’s mission. Once back on board the Val he removed his hat and tried to call Dave again. Dave did not answer and so he left another message.

  As he sat by the stove drinking tea, gradually beginning to warm up, his cell phone made a warbling sound and he saw he had a text message from Dave. It said - Gotta problem here, come quick. Joel quickly put his jacket back on, grabbed his motorcycle crash helmet and made for the door. He paused before opening it and took out his phone once again and dialled.

  “Hello Sophie.”

  “Hey Joel, long time no speak.”

  “I know. Listen, have you seen Dave? He’s not answering his phone.”

  “Earlier yes, then he went off. He was being very mysterious. Said he had to go to the boathouse. Siobhan is here and starting to fret.”

  “Listen Sophie, is the guy in the grey raincoat who was at your lecture still around?”

  “What’s this all about, Joel?”

  “Dave’s maybe in trouble, that guy is a cop, is he there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Put him on the phone.”

  Joel sprinted up the gangway to where his Vespa was parked; he tore off the cover and stuffed it behind a nearby bin. Now came the moment of truth. He had not used the scooter for over a month and therefore dared not use the electric starter. Fortunately there was a kick-start fitted and he used it. The engine caught on the third kick and he jumped aboard. And although illegal to do so, he rode along the embankment path. At the park exit he negotiated the bollards and turned into the narrow street. The river had encroached leaving it slick and although the snow had ceased, fog was now beginning to roll in. Joel rode as fast as he dared.

  * * *

  Detective Z had first confirmed the exact location of the boathouse with Sophie and then called the local police station to get a car to attend. He was still waiting at the end of alley when he heard the whine of an approaching motorcycle. It was Joel. Rather than continue waiting for the patrol car, he flagged Joel down and jumped on the back of the scooter. He could feel the back wheel fishtail from side to side as they sped off. He wished he were dressed more warmly as he felt the wind chill rapidly lowering his body’s core temperature. He held tightly to Joel’s jacket.

  Joel slewed the scooter to a stop, kicking out the side-stand and jumping off all in one movement; his numb fingers scrabbling at the strap on his helmet as he moved towards the metal door, calling out Dave’s name. There were no lights showing from the upstairs window and the place looked deserted. Calling Dave’s name once more he pushed on the door and it swung open on well-oiled hinges.

  Detective Z was much slower in getting off the scooter, his knees seemed to have seized up and he was shivering uncontrollably. Ten minutes ago he was discussing the archaeological marvels of the area following Sophie’s compelling exposition, in the warmth of the Gate. Now he seemed to be experiencing the onset of frostbite. Must get a grip, he thought as he stumbled after Joel. In the distance he could hear a police siren.

  When Joel finally found the light switch
Detective Z was at the threshold alongside him. The florescent lighting stuttered and flashed several times before light flooded the long room. At the far end curled up on a green tarpaulin next to his motorbike, was Dave. The place stunk of marijuana. Both men moved quickly over to where he lay with his eyes closed. Joel shook his shoulder gently while Detective Z stood over him with a strange look on his face.

  Dave stirred and then opened his eyes.

  “Gentlemen, welcome to my playroom,” he slurred.

  “Are you alright, man? What was with your alarmist text?”

  “Gave you a scare, did I?” said Dave with a crafty look in his eyes.

  With a deep sigh Detective Z turned away, to head-off the police car that was skidding to a halt outside, lights flashing and siren wailing. In a moment he was back.

  “I should do you for wasting police time, and being in possession of a controlled substance. I will be outside to take your friend home,” he said addressing the final part to Joel.

  Dave made it to the police car while Joel locked up the boathouse with the keys he had taken from him. Joel and the police car then set off in procession, through the fog, back to the Gate. Everybody had dispersed in the function room except Siobhan, who took Dave off like a naughty schoolboy to his bed, and Lorna and Sophie who were talking by the window.

  “So what’s the story,” said Sophie to Joel when they were alone.

  “I do not know, something isn’t right, seemed like an act to me, and I know something has been stressing him out lately.”

  “You know Dave, he will tell us when he’s ready. So you were going to stay at the boathouse?” said Sophie changing the subject.

  “Yes, this is where all this began. But I had a change of heart.” Joel explained what had been happening to him over the last couple of weeks.

  “What do you mean?” said Sophie with a puzzled look.

  “It means I ran away from running away. Or rather I am standing my ground, as I should have in the first place.”

  “Good for you. You seem different.”

  Joel smiled then shrugged his shoulders, “life goes on, and you too, you seem good.”

  “Well I am happier than I have been for ages.”

  “So how did this evening’s talk go?”

  “Really well, and I got some great feedback.”

  “Sorry I missed it,” said Joel turning to pick up his crash helmet. “Look, do you mind if I call you tomorrow about Dave. I’m worried about him?”

  “Sure.”

  “Good to see you Sophie.”

  “Goodbye Joel, take care in the fog.” Sophie started turning out the lights one by one whilst singing softly to herself. It was an old country and western song that she remembered her father playing on the Dansette.

  * * *

  Deacon returned to his flat without having seen either his brother or his father. He had gone with Seraphim on his errand which involved driving slowly along the riverside road until all the houses seemed to stop. Then there was only one solitary building, set back a little from the river and surrounded by trees. It was hard to tell where they were in the fog and even Seraphim seemed uncertain.

  He had waited in the car as Seraphim had gone into the building; a dull light was visible from the half open door. But after a few minutes, feeling constrained sitting in the overheated car he got out to have a stretch. He then heard raised voices and walked closer to the source. It was two men arguing, and then a name from the past uttered by an emotion-choked voice emerged from the boathouse – ‘Electra’. Deacon turned away and set off walking into the fog. Walking, until eventually he arrived home. The flat was cold because the timer had shut off the heating hours ago. He flicked the thermostat on and the boiler coughed into life, and then stood in the kitchen still wearing his damp overcoat as he waited for the kettle to boil. Beginning to warm up he hung his coat on a hook inside the kitchen door then went to run a bath.

  Half an hour later, wearing a dressing gown over his pyjamas he took the rest of the tea, which he had earlier put into a flask and went to the living room. From behind the sofa he pulled a battered case and gently removed from it a small bodied acoustic guitar. Then for a while he drank his tea whilst cradling the guitar on his knee. One of the candles on the heavy oak table began to crackle so he snuffed out the unsteady flame. Switching on a small table light at his side he was surprised to see his own reflection in the glass of framed print on the wall.

  He took a blue glass tube from the table, slipped it onto the ring finger of his left hand and began to play a slow haunting blues. When the second candle began to burn low he lay down his guitar, blew out the candle and turned out the light. As he passed the kitchen he paused and reached into the pocket of his coat that was still hanging there. He took out an A5 size poster that he had picked up from the foot-well of Seraphim’s car. It advertised Sophie’s talk about the causeway and there was a picture of her above the main body of text. He put on his reading glasses, studied the creased piece of paper then placed it carefully on the kitchen table before finally going to bed.

  Chapter 12

  Joel felt a soft ache in his shoulders from having rowed, yet again, up to the Gate. He had scanned the embankment from the sundeck of The Val before setting off, and had seen nothing to suggest that he was going to be door-stepped by the press. But why take the risk? So he had decided to row up to the Gate. The intention had been for he and Sophie to confront Dave; an intervention. It was not going well though, because Dave seemed intent in getting shit-faced before lunch, and Sophie was still busy in the kitchen.

  Dave paused and reached for his glass of Peroni. The beer looked good, the tall glass beaded with silver droplets that caught the sunlight. Joel was tempted to join him although it was not yet lunchtime. Enticing food smells were wafting up from the kitchen below, which Joel found equally distracting. But it seemed that maybe Dave was on the verge of disclosing something important. Right here, right now, as the saying goes, sitting on the terrace with the sun beating down upon them and last nights fog just a memory.

  “Do you know what the nidus is?” asked Dave whilst lighting a cigarette from the burnt down end of previous one, which he then flicked over the railings into the brown water below.

  “Greek for nest?” volunteered Joel.

  “It is the dark cradle where a tumour grows. It is the locus of an infection. It is also the nest where the cuckoo lays its tainted egg. Have you ever thought about the cuckoo? Sure it is parasitic but you cannot really call it evil. Although once hatched it will kill all the other fledglings; then all that is left is the alien presence. Nature is kind however, as the feathered couple can try again next season. The same is true for humans I suppose. Anyway what I am trying to say is that some secrets can be bad for your health when they are hidden, but they can be even worse when they come out.”

  Joel rubbed his shoulder again and tried to concentrate. He had slept badly and was in reality more focused on the imminent return of Mai than Dave’s elliptical exposition on mankind’s dark unconscious.

  “So why was your tame detective here last night?” said Dave, having drained his glass of beer and looking round belligerently.

  “He really just came with his daughter for Sophie’s talk.”

  “Spying on us all more like,” Dave slammed his glass down to punctuate his assertion.

  When Joel explained about the police being more worried about crazed level nine gamers trying to kill him, than suspecting him of anything, Dave exclaimed, “Holy fuck!” and began to laugh.

  He was still laughing when Sophie finally showed up a few minutes later. She looked from Joel to Dave and then back at Joel, who attempted an eyebrow shrug but as he was wearing his aviators it was unlikely she could see this. Dave wiped the tears from his eyes and looked up at his sister.

  “Level fucking nine,” he said.

  * * *

  Deacon had woken in the mid morning and formulated a plan for the day. Instead of going to the day
centre where he ran an art group he walked towards the river. Soon he found himself passing by the causeway; he stopped to read the information board, and then walked down onto the apron of shingle. For a while he stood and watched the river water running over the stones, and listened for voices from the past. But he heard nothing save the occasional honk of geese and the jets passing along their flight path to Heathrow.

  Hearing footsteps he turned and saw a small boy in yellow wellingtons, followed by a woman carrying the child’s scooter. Without even glancing at Deacon the boy walked into the shallow water and defiantly stood there with his mittened hand on his hips.

  “Watch out for deep mud, called the woman.

  Deacon walked back up the causeway and along the path to the Gate. He entered the bar, it was cool and shaded but he could see doors leading to a terrace and beyond that the glint of the sun on water. Nobody paid him any attention as he crossed the room and stepped out onto the terrace. He stood at the edge and took in the views. The Gate was positioned on the apex of a large sweeping bend in the river, to the east the city, and rolling meadows to the west.

  Deacon saw that he was on the middle tier of the Gates three terraces. He looked down and saw a dozen tables with pale yellow tablecloths, the edges of which moved slightly in the breeze.

  He shivered and realised that it was the wrong time of year to eat outside. There was in fact only one table being used. The tables must be for hardcore smokers only, he thought. In fact there was a guy down there smoking. He was expounding about something and jabbing the air with the hand that held the cigarette and Deacon was shocked to recognise the timbre of the man’s voice as one he had heard the previous night at the boathouse; a tormented voice that had called out his dead sister’s name. He then leaned forward to look more closely at the smoker’s companions.