by Ian Rankin
“It’ll do,” his friend echoed.
It was not ergotine, nor yet cocaine, but I found my imagination heightened. I was with Stevenson and his student allies, touring the taverns of Edinburgh, rubbing shoulders with slatterns and sophisticates. I was adrift in France, and sailing to Samoa, and roughing it in Silverado, having survived yet another near-fatal illness. I was weak in body but strong in spirit, and a woman loved me. I was writing Jekyll and Hyde as an exorcism of sorts, my demons vanquished, allowing me the less dangerous pleasures Kidnapped of less than a year later. External as well as internal adventures were my mainstay—I had to keep moving, ever further from the Edinburgh of my birth and formation. I had to remake myself, renew myself, heal myself, even as mortality drew close. I had to survive.
“What’s that?” Mike asked. He was slumped on the bed with his head against the wall.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Something about survival.”
“No.”
He turned to his friend. She had moved next to him so that only her bare unwashed feet now rested near me. “You heard him,” he nudged her.
“Survival,” she echoed.
“What it’s all about,” Mike agreed, nodding slowly, before pulling himself together, the better to roll another joint.
Though I was stoned, I agreed to take over from Tessa while she headed out for food. Mike and Maryse—she had eventually told me her name—decided to go with her. They had the decency to ask if I wanted anything, but I shook my head. I gulped some water from the tap and took up position. A few customers came and went. One or two regulars got comfortable with books they would never buy. Later, a writing group would hold its weekly meeting upstairs. And there she was again. Not just a glimpse this time, but a solidity in the open doorway, in the same floral dress. A willowy figure topped with long blond hair. Her eyes were on mine, but when I signaled for her to approach, she shook her head, so I walked towards her.
“I’ve seen you before,” I said.
“You’re Ronald,” she stated.
“How do you know my name?”
“Ben told me.”
“You know Benjamin Turk?”
She nodded slowly. “You mustn’t trust him. He likes playing games with people.”
“I’ve only met him twice.”
“Yet he’s already got beneath your skin—don’t try to deny it.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m Alice.”
“How do you know Mr. Turk?”
“Services rendered.”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“I run errands for him sometimes. I copied those pages he gave you.”
“You know about those?”
“You’ve already read them, I suppose?”
“Of course.”
“And you need to read more, meaning you’ll visit him again?”
“I think so.”
She had lifted her hand and was running the tips of her fingers down my cheek, as if human contact was something new and strange. I leaned back a little, but she took a step forward and pressed her lips against mine, kissing me, her eyes squeezed shut. When she opened them again, I sensed a vast lake of sadness behind them. Tears were forming as she turned and fled down the street. I stood like a statue, shocked to my very core, wondering if I should go after her, but one of the loiterers had decided to break the habit of a lifetime and pay for the book in his hands, so I shrugged off the incident and headed back to the till, not in the least surprised to find that the book being purchased was the copy of Heart of Darkness I’d taken with me to the cous-cous restaurant …
It was almost eleven by the time I found myself standing outside Benjamin Turk’s building. I stared up towards the top floor. A few lights were burning, but I couldn’t be sure which rooms were his. I pushed open the heavy door and began to climb the stairs. I could smell the aftermath of various dinners, and hear conversations—mostly, I guessed, from TV sets. There was a dog behind one door, scratching and complaining softly. Having reached the top floor, and while pausing to catch my breath, I saw a note pinned to Turk’s door.
Still out. Come in.
I tried the door. It was unlocked. The overhead light was on in the hallway, but as with most Parisian lighting it seemed woefully underpowered. I called out but received no reply. There was something lying on the floor a few yards into the apartment—further sheets of manuscript, again photocopied. I lifted them and carried them into the living room, where I settled on the same chair as before. A fresh decanter of wine had been laid out, alongside two crystal glasses.
“In for a centime,” I muttered to myself, pouring some. Then, having rolled up my shirt-sleeves, I began to read.
The two extracts did not follow on from their predecessors. They were from deeper into both books. I soon saw why Turk had chosen them, however—both recounted very similar incidents, vicious attacks on women whose bodies were for sale. In The Travelling Companion, it was the courtesan of the title who was brutalized by an unnamed stranger while passing down one of the steep inclines off Edinburgh’s High Street. In the version of Jekyll and Hyde, the victim’s attacker was Edward Hyde. But Hyde’s name had replaced another, scored through in ink until it was all but obliterated. Penciled marginalia, however, indicated that the name Stevenson had originally chosen for his monster was Edwin Hythe. Indeed, the margins of this particular page were filled with notes and comments in various hands—Stevenson’s, I felt sure, but maybe also his friend Henley’s—and Fanny’s, too? Was it she who had written in blunt capital letters “NOT HYTHE!”?
I poured myself some more wine and began deciphering the scribbles, scrawls and amendments. I was still hard at work when I heard the door at the end of the hallway open and close, footsteps drawing close. Then Benjamin Turk was standing there in the doorway, coat draped over both shoulders. He was dressed to the nines, and had obviously enjoyed his evening, his face filled with color, eyes almost fiery.
“Ah, my dear young friend,” he said, shrugging off the coat and resting his walking-stick against a pile of books.
“I hope you don’t mind,” I replied, indicating the decanter.
He landed heavily in the chair opposite, his girth straining the buttons on his shirt. “Do you still imagine you’re in the presence of a cruel hoax?” he asked, exhaling noisily.
“Not so much, perhaps.”
This caused him to smile, albeit tiredly.
“Do we know who wrote the notes in the margins?”
“The usual suspects.” He rose long enough to pour some wine. “Edwin Hythe,” he drawled.
“Yes.”
“You won’t know who he is?” Settling himself, he studied me over the rim of his glass.
“He’s Hyde.”
But Turk shook his head slowly. “He was a friend of Stevenson’s, one of the students he drank with back in the day.”
“That was his real name? And Stevenson was going to use it in the book?” I sounded skeptical because I was.
“I know.” Turk took a sip, savoring the wine. “Hythe had re-entered Stevenson’s life, visiting him in Bournemouth not long before work started on the story you’re holding. The two had fallen out at some point and not spoken for several years. There are a couple of portraits of Hythe—I’ve seen them but don’t have copies to hand. I do have this though …” He reached into his jacket and drew out a sheet of printed paper. I took it from him, unfolding it carefully. It was the front page of a newspaper of the time, the Edinburgh Evening Courant, from a February edition of 1870. The main story recounted the tale of a “young woman known to the city’s night-dwellers” who had been found “most grievously slaughtered” in an alley off Cowgate.
“Like Stevenson,” Turk was saying, “Edwin Hythe was a member of the university’s Speculative Society—though whatever speculation they did was accompanied by copious amounts of drink. And don’t forget—this was at a time when Edinburgh was noted for scientific and medical experiments, meaning
the students had access to pharmaceuticals of all kinds, most of them untested, a few probably lethal. Hythe had a larger appetite than most—for drink, and narcotics, and lively behavior. He was arrested several times, and charged once for ‘lewd and libidinous acts.’”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“You know why.”
“Hyde was Hythe? And the newspaper … ?”
“I think you know that, too.”
“Hythe killed her, is that what you’re saying? And Stevenson knew?”
“Our dear Louis was probably there, Ronald, the guilt gnawing at him until he deals with it by writing The Travelling Companion. That particular book gets spiked, but word of it reaches Hythe and he hot-foots it down to Bournemouth to make sure his old pal isn’t going to crack. Maybe he leans on him, but my hunch is he finds it a lot easier to enlist Fanny instead. She thinks she’s succeeded when Louis shows her the burning pages. He then rewrites the story, shifting location from Edinburgh to London and changing Hythe to Hyde …”
“Was he a doctor?”
“I’m sorry?”
I met Turk’s look. “Was Edwin Hythe a doctor?”
I watched him shake his head. I had emptied my glass and refilled it without thinking. “How do you know all this?”
“It’s a tale passed down through my family.”
“Why, though?”
“As a warning maybe.”
“You’re a Hythe,” I stated, maintaining eye contact.
He eventually let out a snort of laughter. “I sincerely hope not.” And he raised his own glass in a toast.
“Can I see the whole story?”
“Which one?”
“Both.”
“In good time.”
“Why not now?”
“Because I’m not sure you’re ready.”
“I don’t understand.”
But he just shook his head.
“It’s like water torture,” I ploughed on. “One page, two pages, three …”
“When I said that you weren’t ready, I meant me—I’m not ready to let go, not just yet.”
“And after all these generations, why me?”
He offered a tired shrug. “I’m the last of my line. Maybe that’s reason enough. How about you?”
“Me?”
“Brothers … ? Sisters … ?”
“An only child.”
“We have that in common, too, then.” He yawned and stretched. “Forgive me, I think I need some sleep.”
“I could stay here and read.”
He shook his head again. “Perhaps tomorrow.” He rose to his feet and gestured for me to do the same. As he accompanied me down the hall, helping me into my jacket, I felt the negative mirror image of his fatigue. I was crackling with energy, a need to be in movement, a need for activity and exertion.
“I saw your friend,” I told him. “She was passing the shop.”
“Oh?”
“Alice, with the blond hair.”
“Alice,” he echoed.
“I just thought I’d say.”
“Thank you.” He pulled open the door and I skipped out, almost dancing down the stone stairs. She was waiting, of course—at the same spot across the street, wearing her floral dress and looking cold. I slipped off my jacket and placed it around her, then led her by the hand.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“The river. I feel like walking.”
There were no tourist boats at this hour, just a few silent lovers and noisy drunks.
“Do you live with him?” I asked her.
“No.”
“So where do you live?”
“Not far.”
“Can we go there?”
“No.” She sounded almost aghast at the idea.
“My room back at the shop then,” I offered.
“Why would I go anywhere with you?”
“Because you kissed me.”
“I shouldn’t have done that.”
“I’m glad you did though.” I came to a halt, facing her. “I’d like it to happen again.”
She took a few moments to make her mind up, then stroked my face again, this time with both hands, as though checking that I really was flesh and blood. I leaned in and our lips met, mouths opening. But partway through, she started to laugh, easing away from me. I tried for a disappointed look, and she had the good grace to look slightly ashamed.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s just …”
“What?”
“Nothing.” She shook her head, but then perked up and grabbed my hand, leading me along the riverfront towards the nearest brightly-lit bridge. “We can cross to the other side.”
“Why would we do that?”
“It’s quieter there. Do you have any dope?”
“Just this.” I showed her the remains of the cannabis. “I don’t have any cigarettes or papers though.”
“That doesn’t matter.” She peeled away the cellophane and nibbled at a corner. “You can just eat it. It’s almost nice.”
“Almost?” I smiled and bit into the gritty cube. “Will it have the same effect?”
“We’ll know the answer soon enough. Did Harry sell you this?”
“You know him?”
“If you’ve not paid, offer him half of whatever he asks.”
“What if he doesn’t like that?”
She looked me up and down. “You’re bigger than him.”
“He has friends though.”
“So pull a knife.” She mimed the action of drawing a blade from its sheath and lunging with it. “Straight into his gut and his friends will run for the hills.” She saw the look on my face and burst out laughing, hiding her mouth behind the palm of her hand. I grabbed both her arms and pulled her towards me, waiting until she was ready for our next kiss.
“Keep your eyes open this time,” I said in a whisper. “I want to see whatever’s in them …”
For the next week, whenever I walked out of Shakespeare and Company, she was waiting. In deference to the dress she always wore, I’d stopped changing my own clothes, even though Mike had complained, wrinkling his nose as he made show of sniffing my shoulder.
“Mate, when was the last time you saw the inside of a shower?”
But Alice didn’t seem to mind. We would buy a plastic bottle of the cheapest wine and head for the river or the Louvre or the Arc de Triomphe, laughing at the tourists as they posed for their little photos. On one occasion, we indulged in a five-liter cubitainer of red, sharing it with the tramps who congregated near one of the bridges, until a fight broke out and the arrival of the gendarmes sent us scurrying. I had stopped shaving, and Alice would run her hands down my cheeks and across my chin, calling me her “bit of rough.” There was a folded letter in my pocket from my father. I hadn’t opened it, and hadn’t troubled to call Charlotte. Theirs was another world entirely. I could feel myself changing, growing. When Harry grabbed me one night outside the restaurant to remind me of the money I owed, I laid him out with a single punch, after which I had to keep my distance from the restaurant. Not that this mattered—Alice never ate a thing, and that seemed to suit both of us. With money from the bookshop till, I bought us a few grams of cocaine from an African dealer, which killed any appetite remaining. And when Mike nagged me for missing a shift which he had been obliged to cover, I gave as good as I got, until he backed away, hands held in front of him, fear in his eyes at my clenched fists and gritted teeth.
Oh, yes, I was changing.
I’d been back to Benjamin Turk’s apartment, but its door remained locked and unanswered. Alice had advised a shoulder-charge, which had left me with nothing other than a large bruise and a slight deflation of ego.
“I could scale the front wall, window to window,” I’d muttered over more pavement wine, receiving an indulgent smile and a hug.
“He’s often gone for a few days,” she’d sympathized. “He’ll be back soon enough.”
And then she’d kisse
d me.
There hadn’t been any sex as yet, which suited both of us. We were happy to wait for the right moment, the most intense moment. Hugs and kisses, the holding of hands, fingers stroking an arm, cheek or the nape of the neck. She seemed to have no other friends, or none she wouldn’t give up in order to spend time with me, and I felt the same. I wasn’t about to share what we had with Mike or anyone else. Every moment I could, I spent with her.
Until the day I walked downstairs into the shop groggy with sleep and saw Charlotte standing there. She carried a rucksack and a wide-brimmed straw hat and looked hot from walking. Her smile was hesitant.
“Hello, you,” she said. “We were getting worried.”
“Oh?”
“I phone but you’re never here. And your mum and dad …” She broke off. “Well, do I get a hug?”
I stepped forward and took her by the shoulders, my lips brushing against her damp red hair.
“Bloody hell, Ronnie, look at the state of you. When did you last eat?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re really not. Your friend Mike …”
“Mike?”
“He answered the phone yesterday.”
“And told you to come running? Probably just wanted to size you up as another notch on his bed-post.”
“He was right though; you look ill. Have you seen a doctor?”
“I don’t need a doctor. What I need is for everyone to stop bothering me.”
She was silent for a moment, glaring at me. Then she turned her eyes away. “A lovely warm welcome for your girlfriend,” she muttered, pretending to study one of the shelves.
I ran a hand through my matted hair. “Look, I had a bit to drink last night. And the shock of seeing you here …” I broke off. I’d been about to say that I was sorry, but part of me resisted. “What time is it?”
“Nearly one.”
“I’ll buy you something at the café.” I opened the till and lifted out a few notes.
“Is that allowed?” Charlotte asked as I stuffed the money into my pocket.
“I’ll put it back later,” I lied.
When we stepped outside there was—for once—no sign of Alice, but Maryse was setting out boxes of cheap paperbacks on the pavement.
“Tell Mike I’ll be having a word with him later,” I said, my face set like stone. Then I led Charlotte a few meters along the road, entering the café and taking up position by the counter. Charlotte slid the rucksack from her shoulders.