by JOHN YORVIK
The girl in front of me was a Goth with tattoos and pink hair shaven off one side of her head so you could partially see the crown. Seeing her fawn over Rilke was a bit disconcerting. Wasn’t Rilke her antithesis? When she departed clumsily on built-up platforms, Rilke looked at me wearily. But when I placed the copy of London Underworld Uncovered on the desk, he smiled.
“My God, I thought that was out of print. Who should I dedicate it to?”
“The Pentonville Strangler, son of Jack Lewis the boxer, murdered by Jim Scott.”
I’d got Rilke’s attention. He checked his watch and then made as if to look through my tinted glasses to see who I really was.
“Well, I take it you’re not a fan,” said Rilke, putting his pen down. “Which begs the question, who are you?”
“I’m writing a book about the Pentonville Strangler. The plan is to publish the week after the trial. It could mean a revival of interest in your earlier books about London gangs. I need 30 minutes of your time...”
“Look,” said Rilke. “I don’t mind helping a young writer starting out, but you have to find your own niche. You can’t go grabbing mine. And you can’t connect everything to everything just because it makes a good story, old chap. And linking the Pentonville murders to Jim Scott and to Jack Lewis? You need evidence.”
“You must know that Jim Scott was part of the Chessington Club,” I said, realising that I was sounding excitable. “Where he recruited his gang under the guise of helping troubled youths into boxing. He had the boxer Jack Lewis killed because he wanted Jack’s girlfriend, Lillian Stewart. In June, 1971, Lillian had a son, Marty Stewart, now public enemy number one.”
“If you can substantiate any of this, you may have yourself an angle.”
“What became of Jim Scott?”
“It’s a matter of public record. Jim Scott died in the King’s Cross fire.”
“And you believe that?”
“Yes. And I’ve moved on from the mafia.”
“What happened to Scott’s gang?”
“Prison and early graves I expect, apart from the few that went on to make a living as after-dinner speakers like CrackerJack McManners and Blowtorch Billy Ryder.”
“What about Tommy Burns from the Chessington? He was a contemporary of Scott and Lewis. He now runs the private gallery and music studio at AmizFire.”
“Aha! Haven’t you read my chapter on Twilight Language? King’s Cross Fire, AmizFire, Tommy Burns,” said Rilke, stressing the thematic link with an annoying, sneering laugh.
“Are you saying Tommy Burns is really Jim Scott?”
“Read my book. I can’t do all the work for you,” said Rilke.
“Yes, it’s very interesting that you went from writing books about the mob to books about occult groups and their symbolism,” I said, pointing to the poster for Those Underground. “Now why is that?”
“Synergy,” and then Rilke sneered and said it again, “Synergy.”
“How...”
“That’s all you’re getting. Interview over,” said Rilke, closing his briefcase.
As I left the shop, I heard Rilke making comments to the staff about how you always get one ‘crazy’ at these events. I looked at my watch. It was three-thirty, but instead of leaving the area, I decided I would wait for Rilke.
* * *
After following Rilke to Pinehurst Court, coincidentally the same block, but not the same entrance as Sam McCormick, I headed over to Camden. It was six o’clock when I reached my destination and the two Polish brothers were already closing up the cafe. As I walked in, the bell jingled on the doorframe. The two brothers briefly looked at me and then got on with what they were doing. One of them was cashing up. And the other was putting all the chairs up on the tables, mopping the floor as he went. Both men were wearing skullcaps. I had seen them wearing skullcaps in the street before and wondered why they never wore them at work. Maybe they didn’t want to be known as a Jewish cafe. I took off my tinted glasses and baseball cap.
“We’re closed,” said the mopping brother. “Open tomorrow at 6.30. Goodnight.” He continued mopping with his head down throughout his speech.
“I’m not here for food,” I said.
“Then what do you want?” said the other brother, busy with the till.
“Translation. Polish to English. Just a few words.”
I had bought a good bottle of vodka to give them. But I was wondering if that was such a good idea what with the religious garb.
“You ever heard of a dictionary?” said the mopper.
“Not all of the words are written down. And I can’t spell in Polish.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m a journalist. North London Free Press.”
Then the two brothers started speaking in Polish. I imagined one of them was saying send him away and the other was saying help him. I heard them mention Free Press a few times.
“What happened to your eye?” said the mopper, suddenly breaking off from his argument.
“I was mugged,” I said. I wondered how he had seen it. Had I accidentally rubbed the foundation off, or had the bruising spread down my face?
“Mugged? Ah, terrible business,” said the mopper.
“Next month, you write a review of this cafe? Or give us an advert?” interjected the other brother.
“I can do that. But you hardly need the extra custom. It’s always full.”
“We want to go upmarket. More profit. We’re going to convert. You’ll see,” said the mopper.
“Okay, take a seat,” said the other, closing the till.
It was a greasy spoon. No doubt going upmarket would mean becoming a fashionable brunch bar. It was happening all over North West London.
The brothers finished their tasks at more or less the same time and came over to join me. I reached for the vodka in my bag and pulled it out.
“Polish vodka?” I said.
With this another exchange of views in Polish began, which ended after two minutes in one of the brothers going into the back room to fetch three small shot glasses. He put the glasses down on the table and I filled them up. Then they held them up to mine and said “Zdrówko!”
“Cheers,” I said.
“We say that too, cheers,” said the brother standing near the till, who introduced himself as Piotr. The mopper was called Jakub.
“Now, the guy who mugged me. I think he was Polish. He said ‘Zabeej’ or something like that.”
“Zabić?” corrected Piotr. There was some shocked laughter among the brothers. And they each said ‘Zabić’ theatrically to each other, putting on murderous tones.
“It means...” said Jakub, “I will kill you. It is a terrible thing to say. They say it in the movies.”
I imagined Bomberjacket, with his nose ripped apart, saying ‘Zabić’ in a movie. He’d remember me for the rest of his life. The word ‘Zabić’ never far from his thoughts.
“Thank you,” I said to the brothers, and filled up the glasses again.
“Zdrówko!”
I took out my notebook in which I’d transcribed the titles of the books on Natasha’s bookshelf.
Szukaj Sztuki Zagrabionych, read the first one.
Jakub and Piotr went into a scrummage to discuss that one and finally came out and said, “Search for Stolen Art”.
They looked through the rest of the list.
“They are the titles of art books. This one,” said Piotr, pointing to the first on the list, “is very famous in Poland. It is the catalogue of stolen art. Art stolen during World War Two and never recovered.”
“Are you writing a story about this?” asked Jakub.
“Yes, you could say that. Do you know anyone I could talk to about looted art in Poland?”
Jakub and Piotr started arguing again. Piotr was gesturing to the cafe and shrugging his shoulders with disappointment. Finally he answered my question.
“Too many people we know,” said Piotr. “But we’re trying to forget. It’s not
a good image. Try a university.”
I remembered the idea of a brunch restaurant replacing their greasy spoon. And realised there might have been a misunderstanding.
“I’m not going to write a story about this cafe and the Holocaust. I realise that is not the image you want.”
I took out the photos of notes I’d found written inside Natasha’s art books.
The first photo showed a painting of an androgynous youth, swathed in elegant clothes with a cape of furs over his shoulder. It was somehow reminiscent of Leonardo da Vinci. From what I could make out from the notes under the painting, it was painted by Raphael Sanzio da Urbino in 1514.
“What does it say about this painting?” I asked.
“It’s Portrait of a Young Man. It’s very famous. Belonged to Hitler’s Linz Collection. Missing since 1945. It could be worth hundred million dollar,” said Jakub, translating from the text.
“And what about these handwritten notes written on the side?”
“What do you expect us to do with this?” said Jakub.
“Translate them?”
“Impossible.”
“Bad handwriting?”
“No,” said Piotr. “Wrong language. It’s not Polish.”
“You know what it is?”
The two brothers shook their heads.
We looked through the other five photos, translating the text as we went. The brothers recognised Aleksander Gierymski’s Jewish Woman With Oranges and Jewish Woman Selling Lemons which started up a Polish debate between Jakub and Piotr. When they’d finished, they told me they were both considered priceless masterpieces and both had been part of Hitler’s collection.
The final photo was not of a painting but a statue. It was a profile shot of a man with an animal’s head holding a triangular symbol in one hand and doing something that resembled a Nazi salute with the other. He looked to be wearing an Egyptian headpiece.
Piotr read the text and discussed it with Jakub. He then explained that this had been in the collection of a Polish aristocrat. The Nazis had set out to destroy the Polish ruling class by confiscating their property. The photo showed an ancient statue of the Egyptian god Set, known as Set the Destroyer, god of storms, desert and chaos. It went missing in Krakow in 1944 and it hadn’t been seen since. I hesitated and then thought better about asking the brothers if they thought Set was giving a Nazi salute. I put the photos back in my bag and poured out some more vodka and we said a final “Zdrówko!”
Saying our goodbyes, I placed one of my cards on the table with my new mobile number scrawled across the back. Then I put on my baseball cap and tinted glasses and walked out the door.
* * *
“That’s what Rilke said?” Dani asked, exasperated. “Synergy?”
“Yes, synergy,” I repeated.
The keyboard on Dani’s laptop rattled as she banged a search term into Google. A few seconds later she read out some of the results.
“Synergy: the creation of a whole greater than the sum of its parts. Here’s another: The beauty of synergy is that it serves only to add, never subtract.”
“The creation of a whole, meaning some kind of merger took place. What could he have meant?”
“Maybe he meant to confuse you,” said Dani.
I decided I would let that percolate for a while. In the meantime, I had some reading to do. I’d picked up a selection of Rilke’s books in Camden earlier. I opened, Those Underground, his tome on the occult, took a seat and started reading:
The light bearers have been carriers of knowledge for 6000 years. From the early civilisation of ancient Sumer to the decadence of post-industrial London, they have safeguarded the ruling principles that have guaranteed their dominance for millennia, passing them down through bloodlines like the Olympic torch. The Freemasons, Opus Dei, The Templars, Scientology, Cabalists and the Nazis have all coveted this knowledge, but only...
I read for two hours before I was interrupted by Dani handing me a plate of Chinese food that she’d got from the takeaway round the corner.
“Look at these,” I said to Dani, showing her photos of obelisks across the world said to represent the sun god Ra. “Like the one outside the AmizFire building. Doesn’t mean anything, though. You have them everywhere. The Washington Monument is an obelisk and you’ve got Cleopatra’s Needle in London.”
“Don’t forget. You also had the Isis statue in the foyer of AmizFire,” said Dani.
“Isis is here,” I said, pointing at another photo. I quoted from the caption: “Her cult was not extinguished with the other Egyptian gods, but was embraced by the Greeks and Romans, her worship has lasted until the present day.”
I found the appropriate section of the text and read out selected lines: “Isis, protector of the dead, conceived Horus with her dead brother, Osiris, who had been dismembered by their jealous brother Set.”
“Makes Jerry Springer seem tame,” said Dani. “Still, never underestimate the power of jealousy.”
“Listen to this,” I said, nudging Dani awake with my foot some hours later: “The ghosts of this ancient cult now manifesting itself in the underworld of our great capital city believe that to break the shackles of mental slavery, man must become not only master over his own nature, his basest instincts and desires, but master nature itself. Man must for all intents and purposes replace God and, in doing so, not shy away from making the decisions that a god would make. When nature kills its most feeble, it does so to ensure the survival of the species, for the greater good... To this end, man must become the master player rather than an unseeing pawn in the game.”
“Sounds like Social Darwinism by any other name,” Dani said, trying hard to mask her tiredness.
“The Master Player, according to Amy, Marty was reading a chess book called The Master Player.”
“More coincidence theory?” said Dani.
“Coincidence wrapped up in enigma. It seems that this whole case is surrounded by semiotic moats, word puzzles, mythology and chess. Let’s try to think our way beyond it and cut the Gordian knot.”
“With reference to more mythology?”
“It’s a vicious circle. Rilke says there’s a cult, that’s been around for thousands of years in various forms and has resurfaced in post-9/11 London. But you’re right, it sounds like it’s straight out of Nietzsche. The same old white man’s burden dressed up in lederhosen. Then he’s chucked in everything that’s ever been written in the last 50 years about cults in general and, hey presto, he’s got himself a bestseller.”
“Give the people what they want,” said Dani, yawning. And she curled up into a ball at the other end of the sofa and drifted off to sleep.
Chapter Fourteen
I woke up from the now recurring dream of sitting in the AmBar, replaying the moment I saw Marty walk across the chequered floor. Each time I tried to make a different move to the one I made, that of leaving with Natasha Rok.
Staring across the room, Dani came into focus. She was on her laptop scrolling quickly through documents and taking notes. Several Rilke books were open.
“What happened, Dani?” I asked.
“I got a second wind,” she said as if on fast-forward.
“Didn’t we agree, we weren’t going down that route?”
“Did you know that the Masons are not the only ones who like to play with words and numerology? Talking about the Cabala.”
I reached for the red Marlboro packet and lit a cigarette to help me with the waking process. I noticed two cans of Red Bull beside Dani’s feet, alongside the remnants of a packet of chocolate biscuits. Dani was on a conspiracy sugar high.
“Slow down, Dani. How do you mean?” I said, holding up my hands to give the slow signal. “About the Cabala?”
She took a deep breath, attempted to speak slowly, but soon speeded up again. “I read Rilke’s chapter on Twilight Language. It’s fascinating. 9/11 for example. 911...” she paused as she tried to stifle some wind. “911 is the emergency phone number in the U.S
. 9+1+1 is 11. 11 is Cabalistic code for a new beginning. 11 represents the twin towers…”
“So the events of September 11 were a Cabalistic conspiracy? Or Masonic?”
“It’s all the same. See it’s fun, isn’t it?”
“It’s a form of entertainment,” I agreed. “And it’s reading. Better than watching TV at least.”
“Exactly. No-one ever says, he’s clever, he watches a lot of TV. Conspiracy theorists are clever.”
“Did you find anything useful?” Again, I gave the signal for her to slow down. Dani took a deep breath before speaking.
“AmizFire is code. Fire is Pyra in Greek and Amiz is vessel more or less if you switch the z for an s. And if you switch it for a d you get ‘amid fire’ or ‘amid pyra’ and if you reverse them you get...”
“Pyramid.”
“Exactly. Pyramid, the burial chambers of ancient Egyptian Pharaohs. Or at least that’s what people think. And Isis is the guardian of the dead. Although, Isis also means throne. Pyramids are also featured in the architecture of many Masonic Lodges.”
“Christ Dani, how many coffees have you had?”
“Four or five. Plus two cans of Red Bull.”
“So, let me get this straight, everything about AmizFire points to Masonic or Egyptian symbolism? What about Tommy Burns?”
“To my Burns? Some kind of burnt offering.”
“Whoa. This is not the way out of Wonderland. It’s the way further down the rabbit hole, ultimately leading us nowhere. Playing Rilke’s games will only make us pawns.”
“I’m shot to pieces with all this stuff,” admitted Dani, now perching on the edge of the sofa.
I went to make myself a cup of black coffee and get Dani a glass of water from the kitchen tap. I handed it over and she drank it down thirstily then lay back on the sofa, trying to slow down, but her hands and fingers were flexing and drumming as if anxious to get back to the keyboard of her laptop.