Pretend We're Dead

by Mark Timlin

  ‘Are you published?’ I asked.

  ‘Under various names. Paperback originals. You know. I don’t make much money at it, but since Dad died and left me a few bob and this place, I don’t need to. Anything so I don’t have to get a steady job.’

  I knew the feeling and warmed to the guy immediately.

  ‘You live here alone?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes. Criminal, isn’t it? All this space. I was one of the lucky few who did well out of the poll tax. The rates on this property were crippling.’

  ‘You’re not married?’ asked Dawn.

  He shook his head. ‘Used to be. She left because I wasn’t making anything of myself. I used to drive a laundry van. But when the old man kicked off, I could do what I wanted. And what I wanted to do was write.’

  He saw the look on our faces.

  ‘No. We never got on, my father and I. He was another who thought I wasn’t making enough of myself. But he had nobody else to leave the place to. The funny thing is, he’d’ve been proud to have a published writer as a son, but he never saw it.’ Clive Cousins looked towards the ceiling. ‘But maybe he’s up there somewhere looking down. A big believer in the afterlife was my old man… And talking of that, let me tell you what I know about Jay Harrison’s brief afterlife at Grandfather’s place.’

  ‘Go ahead,’ I said.

  ‘Thinking back, which I did last night, after your call, it was weird, you know. I was still at school. About fourteen when it happened. I’d been a big Dog Soldier fan. They had that gothic thing about them. Death and destruction. I was well into that in those days, what with working with dead bodies and all. Still am, I suppose, considering what I write about. Grandad wanted me to come into the firm, but it was all the other things about the job I couldn’t stand. Dressing in black, pretending to be sorry. Walking around with a long face all the time. That wasn’t for me. But anyway. I can remember hearing Dad say that they were preparing this rock star to be buried, and when he told me who it was I couldn’t wait to get round to Grandad’s to take a look. The funeral was all done in a rush. I remember that. His girlfriend handled it. Harrison’s that is. No one much went. He was well past his prime by then. But I sneaked in on the evening before the funeral to see him…’ He paused.

  ‘And?’ I said.

  ‘And the coffin lid was bolted down tight. They used Allen screws. You need a special tool to open them. Normally, even on a closed-casket ceremony, the coffin’s only secured by finger-tight nuts. I mean, who would want to peep…’

  ‘A curious fourteen-year-old boy,’ interrupted Dawn, and Cousins gave her a big smile.

  ‘Touché,’ he said.

  ‘Maybe they were worried that fans might get in, or newspapermen,’ she said.

  ‘Maybe. But I don’t think so. Like I said, Harrison was a forgotten man by then. His records weren’t selling. I can remember it as clear as day. I’d moved on to The Mothers and Velvet Underground by then myself.’

  I nodded in agreement. So had I.

  ‘So why do you think the coffin was so tightly sealed?’ I asked.

  He shrugged. ‘I honestly haven’t got a clue. And with Dad and Grandad both gone, I doubt we’ll ever know. Unless of course you can dig the body up.’

  ‘There is that, of course,’ I said.

  ‘But if there was something odd, I wonder why he wasn’t cremated,’ said Cousins.

  ‘That’s been bothering me too,’ I replied.

  ‘Have you seen where he’s buried?’ he asked.

  ‘Not yet,’ I said. ‘As a matter of fact, we’re going to have a look now.’

  ‘It’s weird round there,’ he said. ‘Spooky.’

  ‘You’ve been yourself?’ I asked.

  He nodded. ‘Sure. Lots of times. I like to go out walking when I’m stuck on a story, or just bored with writing. And the cemetery is a peaceful place. Except where Harrison is buried. It gives me the creeps.’

  I put down my cup and stood up. ‘Thanks for talking to us, Mr Cousins,’ I said. ‘We’ll be off now, we don’t want to waste any more of your time.’

  ‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘It’s been a pleasure. I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help.’

  ‘You have been, believe me,’ I said, and Dawn stood up too, and he showed us out of the house.

  ‘Nice car,’ he said as we walked to the Caprice. ‘A bit heavy on petrol, isn’t it?’

  ‘With a car like that, petrol is the least of your problems,’ I said. ‘If you worry about things like that you should buy a Mini-Metro.’

  He smiled again. ‘Well I hope you get to the bottom of all this,’ he said, and Dawn and I got into the car, switched on the engine, put the column change into ‘drive’, and pulled out into the street in the direction of the cemetery.

  ‘He was dishy,’ said Dawn as we went.

  ‘Down, girl,’ I said.

  ‘A man of independent means with a beautiful big house like that… A writer too. Intelligent. Witty. Unattached. And so obviously in need of a woman’s touch around the place. It needed taking in hand. And so did he.’

  ‘And I suppose you’d be just the woman to do the job. Are you trying to make me jealous?’ I asked.

  I saw her nod. ‘Am I succeeding?’

  ‘You would be if I didn’t know how crazy you are about me.’

  ‘Says who?’

  ‘Says you last night on the kitchen floor with your dress up round your neck.’

  At least she had the grace to blush.

  ‘Well, apart from meeting the handsome, witty, intelligent and unattached Clive, what did you think?’ I asked.

  ‘Apart from all that, I think it was a waste of time,’ she said back.

  ‘Not at all,’ I said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because for the first time we’ve got a handle that there was something strange about Harrison’s death. All that locking the coffin top down. This is the first definite evidence that there was something going on that shouldn’t have been.’

  ‘It’s not much help though,’ she said. ‘Not after all this time. And if there was, why didn’t they cremate the body like Clive said, and not leave the evidence buried for all these years?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said, and glanced over at her. ‘But it does beg one question.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘If it wasn’t his body in the casket, what did Jasper and Jake bury all those years ago?… Or who?’ I added.

  12

  An attendant was on duty at the front gates of the cemetery as we drove up, and I asked him for directions to Jay Harrison’s tomb. He looked up at me from under the brim of his dark blue cap, and his eyes registered nothing as he pointed me down one of the narrow tracks that ran between the gravestones.

  The mausoleum was in one corner of the graveyard, behind an old brick building that could have been a crematorium, a stable, or a storehouse for Christ knows what in the old days. But now it was half derelict, with ivy clinging to the weathered brick, and a lot of slates missing from the roof, exposing the rotten timbers to the weather.

  The storm I’d predicted seemed to loom even closer as the Caprice bounced over the rutted road towards Jay Harrison’s last resting place. The sky was an uncomfortable shade of yellow that reminded me of stale piss, and somewhere over the other side of London heat lightning flared, and I heard a dull rumble of thunder drifting over the still, heavy air as Dawn and I left the car.

  ‘I see what Clive Cousins meant about creepy,’ said Dawn. ‘I don’t think I like this place much.’

  ‘Me neither,’ I replied. ‘We won’t stay long. Just take a shufti, then leave. It’s going to rain soon. Looks like a bad storm coming.’

  Dawn looked at the sky and nodded in agreement. ‘What do you think we’re going to find here?’

  ‘Nothing, probably. That’s
what half this lark is about. Going places you don’t want to go, and coming back none the wiser. Still, who knows what we might find? At least it’ll be something to tell our grandchildren.’

  I saw the sorrow well up into Dawn’s eyes immediately, and I could have kicked myself. Why couldn’t I learn to shut up? I put my hand on to her shoulder and said, ‘Sorry, babe. Just me and my big mouth again.’

  She smiled crookedly up at me. ‘Don’t be. It’s just that places like this remind me…’

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘A quick in and out, and away. I promise.’

  I locked the front doors of the car and we walked towards the tomb. It was surrounded on the three sides facing the building by a black iron railing, broken at one point by an iron gate which stood open. More ivy and creepers with sickly-looking white flowers snaked over the railing. For all the royalties that had accrued for Harrison in Los Angeles, no one was taking much care of the place where he lay on this side of the Atlantic.

  Inside the railing were flat paving stones, from which the tomb rose like a giant concrete coffin. At one end was a bust of what I imagined must have been Harrison’s head. But it was unrecognizable. It had been chipped at and broken until it resembled nothing more than a large, grey, pock-marked turnip. At the other end of the tomb were two stone urns containing dead flowers. Every inch of the monument itself, the wall behind and the flagstones was covered in graffiti and messages from fans, in thick, multi-coloured spray paint, or spidery felt tip, or scratched into the stone. Not that you could see much of what was beneath our feet because it was inches deep in litter. Cigarette ends, fag packets, roaches, used condoms, sweet papers, McDonald’s cartons, and beer and softdrink cans that the strengthening breeze tossed with a faint rustle like the breath of a dying man. Each of the spikes of the railing had a can of its own forced down over the metal. It was right depressing. A panic-in-needle-park job, and it made me shiver.

  Standing against the wall was a rough wooden bench, also covered with messages, plus three still figures. Two girls and a young bloke. None of them looked more than fifteen or sixteen. They were possibly even more depressing than the place itself. They sat and stared at Dawn and me as if we’d arrived from Mars. The girls were proto-punks, with dyed black hair in Mohawks with shaved sides, and long dreadlocks at the back. They were identically dressed in black leather jackets, black micro skirts, black fishnet stockings and high-heeled black boots fastened with silver buckles. They book-ended a whacked-out-looking skinhead who was holding a plastic bag full of glue in his tattooed and nail-bitten right hand.

  Welcome to the pleasure dome. Kubla Khan, you’ve got a lot to answer for.

  I looked at the trio, and two of them looked back at me with dark, dead eyes. ‘What do you want?’ said the girl on the right.

  ‘Just looking,’ I replied.

  ‘Well fuck off. This is our place.’

  ‘I thought anyone could come here,’ I replied.

  ‘It’ll cost ya,’ said the other girl.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Got any fags?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Give us then.’

  I took a half-empty packet of Silk Cut from the pocket of my jacket, opened it, offered the packet to Dawn, who shook her head, took out one cigarette and stuck it in my mouth, and tossed the carton to the girl on the left. She caught it one-handed, looked inside, shrugged and said, ‘Got any cash?’

  I lit my cigarette. ‘Yes thanks,’ I replied.

  ‘Give us some.’

  I found a handful of change, about three quid’s worth, and walked over and put it into the dirty palm of her hand.

  I stepped back and she counted it, pulled another face, and was about to say something else when I interrupted.

  ‘That’s all for now,’ I said.

  She didn’t argue. Just stuck the money into one of the zippered pockets of her jacket, took out two of the cigarettes, passed one to the other girl, and lit them both from a book of matches. I was worried in case she set fire to the fumes from the glue that the skin was holding, but she didn’t.

  ‘You a fan?’ the girl on the right asked through a mouthful of smoke.

  ‘I used to be,’ I replied truthfully. ‘You?’

  She shrugged. ‘He was all right,’ she said. ‘I prefer Marc Bolan meself.’

  ‘Bollocks to that,’ said the other girl. ‘He was great. A right rebel.’

  ‘Do you come here a lot?’ I asked.

  ‘Every day, nearly,’ said the girl on the right.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s somewhere to go,’ she replied.

  ‘What’s your name?’ I asked.

  ‘Bird,’ she replied. ‘That’s Chrissie.’ She poked a thumb at the other girl. ‘And this is my bloke Malcolm.’

  Malcolm just sat through the introductions and stared into another dimension.

  ‘I’m Nick,’ I said. ‘This is Dawn.’

  I saw two pairs of eyes move in my wife’s direction, then back to me. ‘You Old Bill?’ asked Chrissie.

  I shook my head.

  ‘’E could be, Bird, couldn’t ’e?’ she remarked.

  Bird nodded wisely. And as she did so I realised where she’d got her nickname. She did look like a bird. A black-plumed bird of paradise washed up on to a rubbish heap.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Just a punter.’

  ‘Punting for what?’ asked Bird. ‘Anything we can do for you?’ And she smiled lasciviously, looking much older than her age all of a sudden.

  I looked at Dawn, wondering what she’d make of me being blatantly propositioned in front of her, but she didn’t turn a hair. Where she’d been for so many years I guessed that she’d heard worse, from women who could eat Chrissie and Bird for breakfast. Mohawks and all. And scarf up Malcolm for afters.

  ‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘But not what you’re thinking. I’m looking for information.’

  ‘What?’ said Chrissie.

  ‘Information,’ I repeated.

  ‘What kind of information?’

  ‘About this place. And him.’ I gestured with my cigarette at Harrison’s tomb, then dropped it among the other rubbish and stubbed it out. ‘You’re here a lot. Are there any other regular visitors? Older people?’

  ‘Like you?’ she said.

  I grinned. I was asking for the rise to be taken. ‘Older,’ I said. ‘People that would be Jay Harrison’s age now if he’d lived.’

  ‘You sure you ain’t Old Bill?’ asked Bird.

  ‘I’m a private detective,’ I explained, and fished out one of my cards and passed it to her. She looked at it then gave it to Chrissie who did the same, then put it in another of her many pockets. She’d probably use it for a roach later.

  ‘Loads,’ she said. ‘Wankers. Fuckin’ old freaks with nothing better to do. Why’d you wanna know?’

  ‘Just interested,’ I said.

  ‘You’re the fuckin’ same as them if you ask me,’ said Bird. ‘Why don’t you get lost?’

  ‘Don’t be so hostile,’ said Dawn suddenly, and the two girls and I looked at her again. ‘You could mess up a good thing.’

  ‘What kind of good thing?’ asked Chrissie.

  Dawn smiled. ‘A nice little result. A few quid for you and your friend. And a little something for Malcolm too. He looks like he could use a little something.’

  Chrissie’s eyes narrowed. Dawn was obviously talking her language. Like I said. She’d been there.

  ‘How much?’

  ‘That depends,’ said Dawn. ‘On what you know.’

  Chrissie looked at Bird and then back at Dawn. She seemed to have forgotten all about me. ‘Know about what?’

  ‘What he asked you. About the people who come here regularly.’

  ‘There’s loads,’ said Bird. “Specially in the summertime. They come and hang out. T
hen they go away again.’

  ‘How about the ones that don’t go away,’ asked Dawn.

  Bird and Chrissie both shrugged. ‘Dunno,’ said Bird. ‘But we know a man who might know.’

  ‘Who?’ I asked. I was beginning to feel left out.

  ‘Dandy.’ Bird again.

  ‘Who’s he?’ I asked.

  ‘He lives here,’ said Chrissie.

  ‘What, here?’ I asked, looking round the dismal place that Dawn and I had found ourselves in.

  The two girls nodded as one.

  ‘Where does he sleep?’ I asked.

  ‘In there,’ said Bird, using her thumb again to indicate the building behind her. ‘He keeps this place tidy.’

  I looked round once more at the mess that was Harrison’s tomb. ‘Not doing a very good job, is he?’ I said.

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Chrissie. ‘Homely.’

  If this was homely, I hated to think what her front room was like. ‘Is he about?’ I asked.

  ‘Gone to get his breakfast, and some Cokes for us. He’ll be back soon,’ replied Bird.

  ‘You’ll have to pay him too,’ said Chrissie.

  ‘Depends what he knows,’ I said. ‘And no porkies.’

  ‘He’ll know if anyone does,’ said Chrissie. ‘And we don’t tell lies.’

  She sounded deeply affronted at the suggestion, and all of a sudden I saw through the disguise she was wearing to how she must have been as a little girl, and the kind of matron she’d probably become when she stopped being a punk. If the glue and other drugs didn’t get her first.

  ‘I believe you,’ I said.

  Just then I heard movement behind me, and a very tall, thin boy of about sixteen wearing a multi-coloured shirt and leather trousers, with long, floppy hair and a fringe that covered his eyes, appeared through the undergrowth. He was carrying a greasy package in one hand, and four cans of Coke, held together by loops of plastic, in the other. He stopped when he saw me.