by Neil Cross
The waiter sloped silently off.
Then Dryden said: ‘So. Tell me again about this magazine.’
‘It’s called Teflon Samizdat,’ said Lenny.
‘Right,’ said Dryden. ‘Good name. Where does it come from?’
‘What—the name? I made it up.’
‘Right. And it’s a—’ He took from his pocket a much-folded copy of the press release Lenny had mocked up on the Macintosh. He held it up to the light. He squinted. ‘It’s a what what?’
‘It’s an Alternative Libertarian Manifesto,’ said Lenny.
‘Is it, indeed? And what’s an alternative libertarian, when he’s at home?’
Lenny forced a smile.
‘Teflon Samizdat has a radical semiotic agenda,’ he said.
‘I see,’ said Dryden.
He nodded encouragingly.
‘—which is to expose the intellectual flaccidity of the so-called radical left and the so-called radical right.’
‘What—’ said Dryden. ‘Every month?’
‘Quarterly.’
Dryden was fighting a smile.
‘Fair enough,’ he said. Then he said: ‘You don’t look like a radical semiotician.’
‘Well, that’s sort of the point.’
‘Steady on, son,’ said Dryden. ‘We haven’t started yet.’
He boggled his eyes. Then, merrily, he held Lenny’s gaze. Lenny looked away.
The drinks arrived.
‘Right,’ said Lenny. Across the room, he and Holloway shared a glance. Dryden didn’t seem to notice. He sipped from his whiskey and ginger.
Lenny said: ‘Shall we begin?’
He placed a Dictaphone on the table.
‘Ready when you are,’ said Dryden. He reached into his own pocket and set on the table a Dictaphone of the same make and model as Lenny’s.
He savoured Lenny’s expression.
He said: ‘Nothing personal. This is a tip I picked up from Tony Benn, just to let you know what a terrible mistake it would be to misquote me. Legally, I mean. Not that you would, I know. It would upset your crusading agenda.’
Dryden and the doctor shared a glance. She picked up her wine and sipped. She looked away.
Lenny swallowed.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘We saw the Hot Zombie Revue tonight.’
‘Good stuff. Hope you enjoyed it.’
‘I’m not sure enjoyed would be the right word.’
‘Perhaps not. Did you find it stimulating?’ He grinned. So many teeth. ‘Semiotically.’
‘Certainly it made me reflect.’
Dryden laughed.
‘It did that, did it? It made you reflect? Well—I expect that’s a compliment, coming from a radical semiotician.’
Lenny blushed. His voice was weak and he had to cough and start the sentence again.
‘It’s a Wonderful Life,’ he said.
‘What?’ said Dryden.
‘The Friends of George Bailey,’ said Lenny.
Dryden tugged at his bristly grey throat.
He said: ‘Is this a Dadaist interview? Or are we playing word association?’
Lenny swallowed and licked his lips. He said: ‘The murderer of Joanne Grayling privately used various references to the 1947 Frank Capra film, It’s a Wonderful Life. For example, his email address was bedford.falls. Bedford Falls is the name of the town that features in the story, from which the hero cannot escape. That hero is called George Bailey. It is a matter of public record that the killer of Joanne Grayling signed his communications, including those from bedford.falls, as “the Friends of George Bailey”.’
Dryden’s circular eyes widened to their full button circumference. He bit down on his lower lip. His beard was grey and bristly as a boar. One meaty hand squeezed at his thigh. He seemed to be waiting. He smiled. The smile faltered. Then it spread across his face again and he barked with laughter.
‘The what of who did what?’ he said.
Lenny repeated what he’d said, word for word.
Dryden looked from left to right. He said: ‘What is this—like an Ali G thing? Candid Camera?’ He half stood in the chair and looked around the room. ‘Are you filming this, or something?’ He sat down. He looked indulgent and beguiled. He waved his hand for Lenny to proceed. He said: ‘I think I’d better let you go on with this.’
Lenny caught Holloway’s eye and nodded. Holloway folded the second-hand Daily Telegraph, which he had been twisting in his hands like a dishrag. He wiped his palms on his thighs and began to make his way across the bar. He kept out of Dryden’s line of vision.
‘The kidnapper of Joanne Grayling—’ Lenny began.
‘The kidnapper of—?’
(Shepherd heard somebody say his name. It sounded like his father.
He looked to the door.)
‘Joanne Grayling,’ said Lenny. ‘She was the victim of a murder that took place in Bristol earlier this year. Her mutilation had a certain cultic significance. Her whereabouts were successfully predicted by Mr Shepherd.’
Dryden’s gaze went from Lenny to Shepherd.
‘Successfully?’ he said.
Shepherd looked away.
‘It is also a matter of public record,’ said Lenny, ‘that the kidnapper of Joanne Grayling used the distinctive phrase “nowhere, forever” in his final communication to the Avon and Somerset Constabulary. To my knowledge, you have used this phrase twice: once, during a press conference shortly before Christmas, 1999. And once to my friend Mr Shepherd, shortly after you appeared together on—’
‘Of course I’ve used it,’ said Dryden. ‘It’s my phrase. I use it all the time. But I don’t have a monopoly on it. And I talk about It’s a Wonderful Life every night in my show. It’s my favourite film, for God’s sake. It makes me cry. You’d know that, if you’d stayed for the end.’
‘We saw enough.’
‘Enough for what?’
‘Enough to confirm our suspicions.’
Dryden’s voice had ridden up the scale.
‘Suspicions of what?’
‘In addition to emulating the murderous cultist, Jim Jones, something you later claimed to have been a joke, you head a secret, probably satanic cult, which seeks to emulate and surpass the so-called Manson Family murders of the late 1960s. These murders are seeped in your personal symbolism. It’s yet another matter of public record that in your Sussex base of operations, you daily used It’s a Wonderful Life to illustrate your apocalyptic liturgy. For whatever reason, however ironically you might claim it to be, It’s a Wonderful Life is your Helter Skelter; an allegory of Armageddon, of death and rebirth. When you dispatched your acolyte or acolytes to ritualistically slaughter the prostitute, Joanne Grayling, they were instructed to use specific references to this text. Additionally, you sought the symbolic, politically motivated sacrifice of a pig, namely a police officer, namely Detective Sergeant William Holloway.’
Dryden and the doctor exchanged looks. She widened her eyes.
Dryden pursed his lips and exhaled.
He said: ‘Is this what you mean by radical semiotics?’ He sat back in his chair. His bristled double chin receded into his neck, revealing a fold of hairy flesh.
‘Because fucking hell,’ he said. ‘It’s really good.’
Lenny wiped his palms on his trousers.
He said: ‘I’d like you to meet someone.’
Holloway took a forward step.
Dryden’s line of vision was restricted by the high, curved back of his chair and he leaned ahead a notch. His eyes flicked up.
‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Are you with us?’
Holloway shifted his weight.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Right,’ said Dryden. He stood and offered his hand. ‘Hello, there. Take a seat. The more the merrier.’
Holloway looked at the hand. He took it in his. Shook it.
‘Right,’ he said.
That was the moment when he admitted to himself that Lenny was completely wrong.
A hot flush rose from his sternum, spread to his neck and ears. His face reddened, but it was dark and he imagined Dryden couldn’t see. He pinched his nostrils and took a stealthy look round the bar. Nobody seemed to be paying them any attention.
‘Are you going to take a seat?’ Dryden asked him. ‘You’re welcome to. I don’t think Salvador Dalí here is finished yet.’
Holloway couldn’t meet Lenny’s eye. He cast around, looking for a chair.
‘Please do go on,’ said Dryden. ‘Don’t stop now, whatever you do.’
Lenny said: ‘Do you know who this man is?’
‘No,’ said Dryden. ‘But I expect you’re about to tell me. Is he a radical semiotician too?’
Holloway picked up a chair. It was unwieldy in his grip.
He was still trying to think of a reply when the door opened and a man entered the bar.
The man was perhaps fifty, with the bearing of a sitcom brigadeer. He was short, and wore his neat, dark hair—dyed? A wig?—in a precise side parting.
He walked quickly, unevenly, reaching inside his jacket with his right hand. In the other hand he carried a large petrol canister.
In a way, Shepherd had been expecting him.
He’d been prepared for the day when the dreams found him again.
He watched Lenny as he leaned over the kidney-shaped table, his hands clutching his knees, his face pale and his hair sticking up at all angles. He saw Rex Dryden perching like Buddha in his chair, laughing. Fiona Wright glancing from one to the other: William Holloway pausing in the act of lifting an absurd, overdesigned, high-backed chair with an awkward centre of gravity.
He knew the dreams had led them all to this moment.
He was content.
The man drew up to the table.
He was such an angry little man. He had a pale, moon face and his plump lips mashed venomously together. In his hand was a pistol.
Dryden looked up. His bright little eyes went briefly circular.
On a cracked, rising inflection, he said: ‘Henry?’
Holloway paused. He still held the chair.
He said: ‘Derek?’
Holloway and Dryden looked at each other, then back at the little man with the gun.
Dryden half laughed, half swallowed.
‘Henry,’ he said. ‘What are you doing?’
There was a long, still moment.
The hands of Lenny, Shepherd and Fiona fell to their laps. Their eyes were fixed on Henry. But his attention was monopolized by Dryden. He seemed hardly aware of their presence.
Henry kept the pistol at Dryden’s chest and looked round the bar. He ran his tongue over his upper teeth. Looked back to Dryden. He had yet to speak.
While Henry surveyed the room, Lenny reached for the half-smoked roll-up that smouldered in the corner of his mouth. Henry jerked as if prodded. He turned and brought the gun to bear on Lenny. Its muzzle drew figure eights in the air.
Lenny held his hands at shoulder height.
He said: ‘Steady on, Henry. Derek. Whatever.’
‘Please keep still,’ said Henry. He stared at Lenny. Then he said: ‘Right,’ and waved the gun between Lenny and Shepherd. ‘You and you. Block the doorway with that sofa.’
Lenny and Shepherd stood gradually and uncertainly, as if on arthritic limbs. After a confirmatory nod from Holloway, they went to the wall and lifted one of the opulent velvet sofas. They hoisted it awkwardly and carried it towards the doorway. Because Shepherd was taller and stronger than Lenny, they bore it at a steep angle.
‘Wedge it firmly,’ said Henry.
They dried their hands, then shoved and elbowed and heaved until the sofa was firmly wedged in the doorframe.
Then they took a step back and saw what they had done.
Because the door opened inwards, it would be necessary to remove the sofa before escaping from the room in that direction. And it was jammed in well. Two men would struggle to remove it. There were two further exits: one behind the bar, by which the barman and waiter entered and left, and a fire door in the dark, far corner. An EXIT sign glowed red in a box above it. But in order to reach either door, it would be necessary to cross the room without Henry noticing. That did not seem possible.
Henry scanned the bar. His tongue moistened his upper lip.
Holloway remained on his feet. He buttressed himself with the silly chair. Surprise and bewilderment had truncated his logical faculties. In those first seconds, he could not imagine how Derek Bliss had come to be there. Something was wrong: but for the moment Holloway was unable to articulate what it might be. He stared at Henry.
Then he turned. Keeping his weight on the chair, he reckoned the number of other people in the room. There were seven; six men and one woman, including the waiter and the barman. In the rich semi-darkness, their faces were blank with shock. They had watched in silent, passive disbelief as Lenny and Shepherd blocked the doorway.
Something in their helplessness galvanized him.
He said: ‘Derek?’
His arms were shaking.
Henry looked at him. He frowned.
He said: ‘Call me Henry. I’m not Derek any more.’
Holloway cupped his hands over his mouth. He could hear his breath, as through a respirator. He could not link the faint memory of a connection between the two names. Derek and Henry. But he knew he would. As soon as his mind cleared.
He said: ‘OK. Henry. Is that right? Henry.’
‘Yes. What do you want?’
‘Let me speak to them.’
Henry said nothing.
‘It’ll keep them calm,’ said Holloway. ‘If they know I’m a police officer. If I let them know you’re in absolute control.’
Henry’s grin touched the corner of his eyes.
He made an indulgent face.
‘Very well,’ he said.
Holloway turned. He cleared his throat. The sound rang out, absurdly loud. Everyone looked at him.
He spoke slowly and clearly. He hoped he was projecting more authority than he felt.
‘Everybody,’ he said. ‘Please listen. My name is Detective Sergeant William Holloway. I’m a police officer.’ For a second he fought an implausible smile and he looked down, privately, at his shoes. ‘Now,’ he said. ‘I know you’re alarmed. But I’m going to ask you to remain calm. This man has not come here to hurt anybody. He and I have known each other for a long time. So please: remain calm. Let’s all do as we’re told. I’m sure this situation will resolve itself.’
Henry’s smile seemed pinned to his eyes. He said: ‘Tell them to disable their telephones and leave them on the bar. Then they can go and sit in the corner.’
Holloway told them. He watched as the perplexed, scared patrons moved in exaggerated slow motion, like a modern dance company, removing mobile telephones from their pockets, their briefcases: unsnapping batteries from their housing, then filing to the bar to set them down. When they had done so, Holloway told them to move to the far corner. They ducked their heads and moved as if expecting sniper fire from every direction.
Holloway waited until they were in place. Then he said: ‘Now, I’m going to say it once more. It’s imperative that you all remain absolutely calm, and absolutely silent. Do you understand me?’
He caught the eye of the Australian barman. On their behalf he nodded once.
‘Right,’ said Holloway. He turned to Henry.
‘Derek,’ he said. ‘May I sit?’
‘Yes,’ said Henry. ‘And call me Henry.’
‘And will you join me? Henry.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘You’ll be more comfortable.’
‘No.’
‘Then at least put down the gun.’
‘I’ll put down the gun when I choose to. You’re not in command here.’
‘Henry,’ said Holloway, with empathic tenderness. He smiled like the Virgin Mary.
Henry’s face knotted with rage.
He screamed: ‘Shut up and sit down.’
Tiny beads of spittle left his lips and described falling-star parabolas.
Holloway shut up. He sat down. He pressed himself down on the sofa between Dryden and Fiona Wright. Their thighs nudged his. He drew consolation from their proximity. The feeling appeared to be reciprocated: when Holloway spoke, both Dryden and Wright encouragingly pressed their legs tighter to his.
Henry gestured to Lenny and Shepherd, propped up in the doorway, to join him. They sat on the floor and hugged their knees. They said nothing.
‘Derek,’ said Holloway. ‘This is between you and me. Why not let these people go? Then you and I can talk this whole thing through in private.’
Henry looked down on Holloway with a blank stare.
He said: ‘What do you mean?’
‘You know what I mean,’ said Holloway. ‘We’ve got unfinished business.’
Henry frowned.
‘We have nothing of the sort,’ he said. ‘This has nothing to do with you. I don’t even know why you came here. So sit still and shut up.’
Holloway sat heavily in his chair. He put his head to one side. He was about to speak: thought better of it. Sat back.
Henry said: ‘You’re not even a trained negotiator. You don’t know what you’re doing. You have no technique.’ He pointed the gun at Dryden. ‘Tell them what this is about,’ he said.
‘Henry,’ said Dryden. ‘I don’t know what this is about.’
Henry’s cheeks quivered.
‘It’s about you,’ he said. ‘You liar.’
Dryden sagged, as if punctured in the midriff. He rubbed a slow, broad palm over his bristling pate. He groaned. Then he put his head in his hands. He looked up. Spatulate fingers tugged at rheumy lower lids.
He said: ‘Henry. Please.’
Henry cut him off.
‘I won’t be laughed at,’ he said.
Dryden took this in.