by JOHN YORVIK
It had been so tense back in the attic room with Dani before I left that I was glad to be the one that was going into AmizFire rather than the one waiting for news. If I didn’t return, what would Dani do then? She had no home to go to. The news of the fire bomb attack in Hackney had been devastating. She didn’t speak for a day, but then she reappeared the next morning more determined than ever to strike back at AmizFire. Thankfully, she managed to confirm that Pippa and Erika were safe and well, visiting friends in the Middle East.
The truth was neither of us would be safe until we resolved this. We wouldn’t be able to walk the streets without constantly looking over our shoulders, or do our jobs at North London Free Press again without fearing that one day we’d meet with an unfortunate accident. And with death on the menu for both of us, the only escape route was to blow the whole thing wide open. And that was what I intended to do.
When I’d got back from Newcastle two nights before, I’d walked back to Shakespeare Street through Primrose Hill park. As I was climbing the fence I noticed in the twilight there were cigarette butts on the grass on the park side of the fence. I picked one of them up and smelt it, but discerned nothing useful other than a tarry odour. Using the light from my mobile phone, I found indentations from footprints ground into the earth where the cigarettes had been stamped out. There were five butts altogether. Someone had been there for some length of time, perhaps watching the house. It could have been teenagers, but I didn’t want to take any chances, so I returned the ammunition to Dani’s bag the first chance I got.
The van pulled up to the gates of AmizFire. Kari, EgoFunk’s manager, could be heard talking with someone on an intercom. The gates opened electronically and the van lurched forward again and headed to the far end of the grounds on the opposite side to AmizFire’s public entrance. The van parked and I heard the band get out. Then someone banged twice on the back door and opened it up. Sitting on the floor holding a cheap can of punk beer, I was faced with Judas, four other rasta band members and their manager, Kari.
“C’mon Lish-mon!” said Judas. “Time to work, Robin Hood.”
I jumped up and tried to shush him.
“No names!” I hissed, sure that someone would have heard that and the game would be up already. He nodded and winked, then offered me his fist to clunk together with my own.
“Don’t worry. Every-ting be just fine,” said Judas. “Let’s get to work now.”
We began to unload the van and take the drum equipment and guitars and stack them at the back entrance of AmizFire. AmizMusic was on level −1. There were outdoor stairs leading down to the entrance doors, which were rust coloured, heavy and locked from the inside. When we’d finished unloading the van, we waited for the security staff to let us in. Kari made a quick phone call from her mobile and told us they were on their way.
It was dark now, but the car park was lit up by floodlights from the four corners of the AmizFire grounds. One of the band passed round a joint but I decided to forgo it. It stank of skunk, the kind that makes you scared and paranoid. And I was already tapping into a level of adrenaline that required no artificial boost.
We heard the doors being unlocked. They creaked as they were pushed outwards. There was one uniformed security guard, accompanied by someone in casual clothing, short bleached hair and sharp predatory eyes. It was Suedehead. He was everywhere I wanted to go. If I’d needed further proof of the Chessington Club’s links to AmizFire, then I had it. Suedehead had attacked me twice in different pubs, both times accompanied by Bomberjacket. Now, here he was: some kind of head of security. I looked downwards so that the peak of my cap obscured most of my face. If Suedehead was to accompany us to the studio, I wasn’t going to get very far into AmizFire before he recognised me. On the phone two days before, Judas had assured me that the band were usually left to their own devices. But if Judas was smoking Camden skunk all day, was he really a reliable source of information? I felt the hope draining from my complexion.
“The producer will be here in half an hour, boys and girls,” said Suedehead. “Lots of time to set up.”
Each of us grabbed an instrument and part of the drum kit and followed the guards down to the studio. The two men stood back and chatted while we did the carrying work. Suedehead seemed uninterested in me, but I didn’t make the classic mistake of looking at him to see if he was looking at me. I just kept my head down and carried the equipment, joining in with everyone else in laughing at Judas’s pranks. Thankfully his clowning around was drawing everyone’s attention.
When we’d finished carrying equipment into the studio, Suedehead and the security guard locked the outside doors and then without saying anything, walked off along a corridor. The band set about reconstructing their drum kit and tuning their guitars.
Judas approached me and said, “Now’s your chance, Lish-mon, investigational journa-list. You have two hours.”
“I’ll be back before 11,” I said, clunking his fist again, and crept off down the corridor in the opposite direction to the security guards.
* * *
Turning the corner from the AmizMusic studios, the corridor was lit by bright flashes of acetylene torches from rooms on either side of me as I walked. There was banging, drilling, lifting and shouting as workmen hurried, perhaps on early completion bonuses, to have the AmizMusic studios set up and working as soon as possible. It was the perfect cover for my expedition.
The corridor was at least ten foot wide and smelt dank and sulphurous. I wondered if it was a chemical smell left over from its days as a match factory or from the current construction. I stopped and acted worn out, like a tired worker. I lit a cigarette, saying hello to a passing tradesman, who was carrying a large hacksaw. Acting casually, I pushed through a set of double fire doors, which creaked noisily. There were no lights on the stairs, so I flashed my torch on and off for a second. It gave me just enough light to see the worn stones of the first flight of steps. Then I switched to the weaker light of my mobile phone to see my way down to level −2.
At the bottom of the stairs, I walked forward into the darkness and noticed the sound of my footsteps had changed. There was an echo. The sulphurous smell had been replaced by the smell of wax. I flashed on the light and saw, as Judas had explained, that I was in a vast hall.
Checking around with the torch, I could see the pyramid symbols and Egyptian theme from above had been continued below. At one end, there was a large Isis statue at least five-foot tall and, at the other end, a statue of a giant beast with a wide open mouth big enough to swallow a man. It took the form of an animal, half bull and half owl. In the centre of the hall, was a large round stone table, encircled with 13 ornate oaken chairs.
I froze when I heard the creaking of the double doors I’d just come through. Counter-intuitively, I lit a cigarette and sat down in one of the chairs. If it was anyone else but Suedehead, I could pretend I was just a worker, skiving on an extended break. As I waited, my pulse thumped out a rhythm in my temple as regular and loud as any EgoFunk track. And I wrestled with trying to appear casual, concentrating on looking sullen and smoking my cigarette.
A minute later, I heard the double doors creak again, the noise of the workmen leaked out for a second from above before the doors closed. I listened intently for the sound of footsteps, but heard nothing. Had they really gone?
When I was finally satisfied that no-one was coming, I walked the four corners of the hall. It took up the entire floor of level −2 and could be accessed from level −1 by four staircases. Unfortunately, the map Dani had found was right: there was no staircase going down to level −3. If there was a level −3, its entrance was hidden.
I walked the perimeter of the hall, knocking on the wall as I went with the hope I would find a hollow panel, but the entire room was solid brick. I checked my mobile for the time. Thirty minutes had passed already. I could hear EgoFunk’s loud bass guitar banging away in the distance. I hoped that Suedehead and the guards hadn’t returned to the studio to do
a head count. If they had, I was sure they’d come looking for me.
I tried to calm my thoughts and think of a way of getting to level −3. I thought about Sherlock Holmes. One of his maxims was something about ruling out the possible, all you’re left with is the impossible. No that wasn’t it. And why was I trying to remember the words of a fictional character as I stood in an occult palace, facing almost certain death if I got caught. I sat on the floor in the absolute darkness and took deep breaths to calm myself down and get my mind working on the problem. Had I mistranslated Natasha’s notes? What else could they have meant? Maybe Natasha had been trying to trick Marty and lead him to be trapped in this hall, just like I was. More speculation. Maybe there was no level −3. I breathed deeply trying to pull my legs into the lotus position. I tried to forget where I was. It was then that the words of Sherlock Holmes popped into my head:
When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.
But what on earth did that mean? It was impossible that there was an entrance to level −3 around the perimeter of the hall. Then the entrance must be in the centre under the table. That was reasonable. I stood up, my legs already cramping with the discomfort of the hard stone floor, and approached the stone table. I checked the floor under the table to see if there had been evidence of movement, any signs of scraping. I took hold of one side of the table and tried to yank it. Then I leant against it and pushed as hard as I could, but it was immovable. There must be something more hi-tech, I thought. I checked under the table to see if there were any buttons, but again found nothing.
I sat down on one of the oak chairs and checked my phone again to see if I could get a message to Dani. There was no signal. I checked calls. The last call was from Mickey Riley. He had called to give me an update on Ransom Amusements. Namely that Tommy Burns had been one of their chief negotiators in the deal to buy what was left of the Jazz Cafe. Ransom was of course a poorly disguised anagram for Mason. The Masons. Undoubtedly something that would get Matthew Rilke’s pseudo-intellectual blood pumping. When you have eliminated the impossible... Well, it seemed that nothing was impossible. So nothing could be ruled out. Marty may have been working for Tommy Burns if and when he burnt down the Jazz Cafe. Had he discovered then that Tommy Burns had been ordered to kill his father? Had he been instructed to intercept Natasha Rokitzky? None of those ideas could be proved impossible from where I was standing. Prince Hamlet, the first literary conspiracy theorist, had the same problem, an abundance of evidence, but none of it convincing to a modern mind. But Hamlet was a tragedy because he didn’t make a judgment call until events overtook him and it was too late. One way or another, I had to make the call. I was betting that Marty was on Natasha’s side. And that he had a score to settle with the people behind AmizFire, Ransom and the Chessington Club.
With a new sense of conviction, I walked over to the Isis statue and checked for buttons or levers that I hoped might open up the floor and reveal a staircase. No joy, I approached the owl/bull monster and found to my dismay that there was no way through the bottom of the beast’s mouth to the floor beneath.
When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.
The improbable. I had a sudden revelation. The improbable would be that you had to go up to go down.
* * *
With only an hour left before security began patrolling, I made progress. On the southeast staircase, tucked into a dark nook on the first landing, I found a small iron door. It was badly corroded and fastened shut with an old padlock.
I stuck the heaviest screwdriver I had into the gap between the stone doorframe and the door. By pushing and pulling, I managed to lever it open, breaking the fastener from the wall. I yanked the door open in one go, hoping to minimise the noise, but it let out a deafening scrape that set my teeth on edge.
Crossing the threshold, I was hit by the pungent smell of black rot. Against all instincts, I pulled the door shut behind me and, switching on my torch, headed down into the depths. Only seconds into my descent, I threw myself against the wall in horror as a large wet rat came bounding up the steps towards me. It paused at my feet and began sniffing my shoes. I kicked out at it and it ran, squealing, to the top of the steps, where it turned right and squeezed through a small hole in the wall.
At the foot of the steps, I came to a room. I flashed my torch around and saw that there was a stack of old oars and nets on sticks leant against one wall. It was some kind of boathouse with a very low ceiling. At the opposite corner was the beginning of another tunnel. I stooped low, entered the room and flashed the torch into the tunnel. It veered off to the right, so it was impossible to see how long it was or where it ended.
Fifty yards into the tunnel, I froze. Had I heard the iron door being opened? If I had, I reasoned, I wouldn’t be asking that question. After a minute more of strained listening, I continued walking.
I was quickly approaching an archway, so I switched off the torch and listened. I could hear the gentle sloshing of water nearby. I passed under the archway with the torch dimmed right down and came to a stone jetty. There was a long canal boat moored to an iron anvil next to my feet. The Pearly Queen was painted in white on the boat’s hull.
To my left, there was a thick metal door with a wheel lock of the kind usually seen in bank vaults. I approached the door and saw that it was slightly ajar. To the left of the door was the entrance to another tunnel. It was much higher and wider than the first tunnel and was lit by small ceiling lights.
I heard something move behind me so span round with the torch. I saw nothing. I swore something had moved in the tunnel. I shone the torch through the archway, but saw nothing. The rats, I thought. There must be hundreds of them.
I pulled open the heavy door of the safe room and went inside. I could see five empty shelves on the back wall. I crouched down in the corner and found a little bead of polystyrene packaging. I picked it up and rolled it between my fingers until it crackled but didn’t break.
As far as I could see, there was no security, but no art either. I checked the time on my mobile phone. I had forty minutes to get back to EgoFunk. It looked like I’d be returning empty handed.
Before exploring the lit tunnel, I decided to check the boat. I walked out to the jetty and carefully boarded The Pearly Queen. First, I checked the cabin but found nothing. So then I opened the door to the berths.
On the floor between the bunk beds were several tea chests. I placed the torch on one of the lower bunks so it was angled at the top of the boxes. I took out my screwdriver and jimmied open the lid of the first tea chest. It was full to the brim with polystyrene beads. I plunged my hand in and gently pulled out an object swaddled with tissue paper. I unwrapped it and drew out a small figurine. It was Set, brother of Isis, as pictured in Natasha’s book. My heart was thumping against my ribcage. I would leave the other tea chests for the Commission to open. I had the evidence I came for. Now to get out of there.
I reached into my pocket, pulled out a small cloth sling bag that Dani had given me and placed the statue inside. Then I took handfuls of beads from the box and packed the areas around the statue. I took off my jacket, slung the cloth sling bag around my neck, then put the jacket back on. My instinct to run was hardwired. But I knew the best way to get out was to bury my anxiety and walk calmly back to EgoFunk.
Just as I was about to disembark the Pearly Queen, a bright light came on illuminating the jetty. Then a bell rang, the sound of a lift reaching its destination.
I darted back into the berth and hid behind the boxes. The first thing I heard, as I crouched down beside the tea boxes clutching the screwdriver in my hand, was the unmistakable voice of Tommy Burns. He was explaining something I couldn’t make out. I could hear another man speaking in Polish. Then another man responding in Polish. They came closer.
“Where is that fucking Anton?” yelled Burns. “This is not a fucking joke.”
�
��He is watching merchandise,” said the Pole, “don’t worry. He is there.”
I stood up slowly and sure enough on the top bunk was a sleeping giant, clutching a half empty bottle of vodka to his chest with one hand. In the other was some kind of shotgun. He shifted in his sleep. I sunk down and shifted back into a corner.
“You get stopped by the river police, you flash these cards,” said Burns, handing something over to the men outside. “They’ll leave you be. They won’t do noffink. Now the plan is simple. Remind me, where’s the rendezvous point?”
There was some discussion between the two Polish men and then one of them said: “Canvey Island.”
“That’s right. Pull up alongside the Count of Barcelona at dawn and then wait. They’ll come down to you. Anything goes wrong and we’ll find you. And if we can’t find you, we’ll find your family. Understood?”
“Understood,” said the English-speaking Pole, with some weariness in his voice.
“And this is for you three,” said Burns, “don’t spend it all at once. And tell that fuckin’ Anton to get out on deck and make himself useful.”
The giant stirred in his bunk on hearing his name and shouted, “I’m here Mr Burns. Watching the boxes.”
“You lazy bastard, Anton,” shouted Burns, with a degree of levity. “Are you fuckin’ drinking? Lazy Polish bastard.”
At that, the Polish men all laughed, including Anton in the bunk above me. Tommy Burns’ voice decreased in volume as he walked away, swearing at the Poles. A minute later the lift bell sounded again. The Polish men chatted very near to the boat, but Anton was silent. I didn’t dare move to check he was sleeping.
Then there was a huge thud as Anton’s feet hit the ground just a few yards in front of me. He was swaying with the effects of the vodka. One glance to the right and he would see me. But no, he turned, faced the doors. He was halfway through the doors when he stopped. At some level he knew I was there. I held my breath and got ready to attack. He turned to the bunk and took hold of his shotgun. It was too late. He had me. But then he grabbed his vodka bottle and walked out on deck. There was shouting and laughter from his countrymen as he appeared.