Disturbia

by Christopher Fowler

  ‘You’re not going to let it go, are you?’ Sebastian sighed. ‘For the same reason as you, to learn. Besides, you asked me if I would do it. Nobody’s ever done that before. You’re clearly a man of some insight and intelligence. I would have refused if I’d found you not to be so. My view of the world is every bit as limited as yours, I can assure you. We all need to expand our horizons, don’t you think?’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Vince made a note on his pad. ‘First of all, let’s find out what you don’t know.’

  ‘Fine. Ask me anything.’

  ‘Here’s an easy question to start with. Pulp, Oasis and Blur are all—what?’

  This was not what Sebastian had been expecting. He pursed his lips and thought for a moment. ‘Nouns?’ he asked desperately.

  ‘Wow.’ Vince was amazed. ‘They’re bands.’

  ‘Ah. Popular, I suppose?’

  ‘Very popular.’

  ‘I rarely listen to the wireless.’

  ‘Remind me to send you a tape. Now it’s your turn.’

  ‘Okay. Our family motto is Ad Astra per Aspera. Do you have one, and if so, what is it?’

  It was Vince’s turn to think. ‘Don’t Get Caught,’ he said finally. ‘And If You Do, Don’t Lag on Your Mates. When Manchester United plays Liverpool, who usually wins?’

  ‘I don’t know anything about football.’

  ‘I suppose you play rugby.’

  ‘No, polo.’

  ‘All right. If Robocop fought the Terminator, who would win?’

  ‘Ah, now I know this,’ said Sebastian confidently. ‘The Terminator. He’s a boxer, isn’t he?’

  ‘He’s more of a liquid metal cyber-android,’ Vince replied. ‘Remind me to send you another tape.’

  ‘Which after-school societies did you belong to?’

  Vince laughed. ‘You don’t mean gangs, do you?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘We didn’t have any. It was as much as the teachers could do to keep from getting stabbed during the day, without extending the risk into the twilight hours. What did you belong to?’

  ‘Oh, the usual,’ Sebastian said airily. ‘Operatic, Scientific, Debating, Badminton, Christian Union, Stampfiends, Quo Vadis—’

  ‘What was the last one?’

  ‘Oh, you know, “Whither Goest Thou”, meetings about one’s future. Gilbert and Sullivan—’

  ‘They had their own society?’

  ‘Of course. Tennis, Numismatics, Bridge, Chess—and I was a moderately empassioned Lysander in A Midsummer Night’s Dream.’

  ‘I’m surprised you had any time left over for smoking and shagging behind the bike sheds.’ Vince drained his glass. ‘Although I suppose you went to a boys-only school.’

  ‘It made no difference on that front, I can assure you. The pupils of public schools are every bit as rebellious as their counterparts. Whose turn is it?’

  ‘Yours.’

  ‘Okay. Why do so many working-class people look for handouts all the time? Why can’t you organise yourselves properly?’

  ‘Because if we did, you’d all be murdered in the streets. The French got rid of their toffs, and look at them now: a national railway that works, great grub, unspoilt countryside, gorgeous women.’ Vince nodded at his empty glass. ‘Your round.’

  Over the next hour they argued the merits of popular foodstuffs, authors, football versus polo, films, architecture, art and music, although in the last category Sebastian proved to be woefully unaware of any post-Offenbach developments. Vince carefully steered the conversation clear of politics and religion; he was wary of damaging their relationship at such an early stage.

  Sebastian seemed to especially enjoy telling Vince about his games, and launched into a series of complex abstractions about rule-making that were almost impossible to follow. Vince usually found it difficult making conversation with strangers. He lacked confidence, and yet a stubborn streak made him stick to his guns in arguments, even when he knew he was utterly, incontrovertibly wrong. This annoying character trait was an inheritance from his father, but with Sebastian it found no need to surface, because he made Vince feel that he was contributing something valuable to the conversation. Sebastian listened. Not even all of his own friends did that.

  Even so, he made a conscious effort not to be charmed. It was important not to lose sight of his intentions. He was using his subject to garner material that might damn him. He could not afford to lose his objectivity.

  When Vince finally announced that he had to go home, Sebastian offered to drive him in his Mercedes. The offer accepted, Vince made his chauffeur slow down as they arrived so that the bloke in the shop downstairs would see and be impressed.

  Chapter 7

  The Barrier

  Sebastian was three years older than Vince, an isolated, unfathomable man of twenty-eight who had strong opinions on all kinds of esoteric subjects, and no knowledge at all of more populist topics. He never watched television, and had missed out on all of the social phenomena associated with the medium. He had never been to a rock concert or a football match. Vince spent an amusing hour explaining the appeal of TV shows like The X Files and sorting out the scatological implications of various football fans’ songs.

  In return, Sebastian explained the structure of the House of Lords, the benefits and limitations of hereditary peerage and why Conservative MPs had to know about pigs and mooring rights in order to keep their constituents happy. His arguments convinced with a beguiling mixture of wisdom and naivety.

  Three days after they had last met, Vince invited Sebastian over for something to eat while he conducted a more formal interview at the dingy first-floor flat he rented in one of the great damp Victorian houses behind Tufnell Park tube station.

  He kept everything neat and freshly painted because he had briefly shared a flat with Louie, and their apartment had ended up looking like it was in the process of being searched by the SAS, as well as being decorated in a manner that showed influences of rave culture, A Rebours and colour blindness. While his host clattered in the kitchen, Sebastian wandered from room to room, appalled that people could actually live like this. Still, it was clean if nothing else, and the neat stack of books and videos on Vince’s bedside table revealed a bewildering array of interests: Patrick Hamilton, Virginia Woolf, The Usual Suspects, Evelyn Waugh, Irvine Welsh, Pulp Fiction, Dickens, a manga video, Mervyn Peake, Fortean Times and Viz. A quick flick through a pile of battered street-style magazines revealed a world as mysterious and lost to him as the ancient wisdom of the Pharaohs.

  One thing they shared in common was a fascination with their surroundings. Vince was captivated by the city, had been ever since his father had walked him along Shaftesbury Avenue at the age of four. He had passed his childhood lost in the delights of the printed page, his fingers remaining firmly in his ears to block the sound of his parents fighting. By doing so, he had amassed an alarming amount of detail about his habitat. Reading Pepys and Boswell had provided him with reasons for wanting to become a journalist.

  ‘So you know all about London, then?’ asked Sebastian, turning over a volume of photographs entitled The Changing Metropolis.

  ‘That’s impossible,’ Vince called back. ‘I defy anybody to do more than scratch the surface. The city is older than Christ. Dig, and all you ever find is the layer below. It’s like peeling an onion. But I had a summer job as a tour guide for London Transport once, and picked up a lot of stuff. For example, do you know what’s so special about the lamps at the corners of Trafalgar Square?’

  ‘I’ve absolutely no idea.’ Sebastian laughed.

  ‘They’re the original oil lamps from Nelson’s flagship, the Victory,’ Vince said, walking into the room. ‘Do you know why Dick Whittington had a cat?’

  ‘I have a feeling you’re about to tell me.’

  ‘It was a metaphorical feline. A “cat” was a medieval nickname for a coal-barge, and Whittington made his fortune in coal. Shit—’ There was an explosion of steam in
the kitchen. ‘I think we’re gonna be eating out.’

  Sebastian was also something of an expert on the subject, and during the interview unveiled his discoveries before Vince like a series of moves in an obscure memory game. He talked about the past, but never the future. He seemed closed off in so many ways that Vince could never tell what he was thinking—but he was always thinking.

  ‘I’ve got one for you,’ he said suddenly. ‘Officially there’s no such place as Westminster Abbey, did you know that? It’s actually the Collegiate Church in Westminster.’

  ‘All right,’ Vince countered, ‘why isn’t there a single statue of Dickens in London?’

  ‘Easy. He was a modest man, and forbade it. For many years there was a statue of a fat boy near Smithfields, marking the spot where the Great Fire finished. What did it represent?’

  ‘I know this, I know this. It’s supposed to be the sin of Gluttony, because the fire started in Pudding Lane and ended at Pie Corner. One more, come on, hit me with your best shot.’

  Sebastian thought for a moment. ‘All right. Why was St George’s Church in Southwark built with three white clock faces and one black?’

  Vince knew he was beaten. ‘I don’t know,’ he conceded.

  ‘The people of Bermondsey refused to contribute towards the church. The black clock face pointed in their direction. Impossible to read in the dark.’

  ‘Is that true?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Sebastian said and grinned.

  They met again on September the 16th, two weeks after their initial meeting.

  ‘Have you ever encountered real royalty?’ asked Vince as they sat in the lounge bar of the Queen’s Head & Artichoke with the microphone of his cassette recorder propped between them.

  ‘Oh yes, on several different occasions.’

  ‘Go on, then, who’ve you met?’

  ‘Well, Her Majesty.’

  ‘What, Liz?’

  Sebastian winced. ‘Please, Vincent, have some respect. I was presented to Queen Elizabeth the Second when I was thirteen.’

  ‘Wow, what was she like?’

  ‘Regal.’

  Vince closed his notebook. ‘Did you ever notice that whenever the Queen is asked something she doesn’t have a favourable opinion of, she replies in a single-word answer? You know, “How does ma’am find this painting?” “Disagreeable.” “And the sunset?” “Lurid.” “And the prime minister?” “Bovine.” That sort of thing. You’re like that a lot of the time. It must be a class signifier. Us proles have a hard time shutting up.’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘You see what I mean? But I figure if I keep asking you little things about yourself I can slowly build up a composite picture, like an Identikit. Tell me what you dream about.’

  Sebastian smiled mischievously. ‘Fire.’

  ‘What do you like to do most?’

  ‘Challenge.’

  ‘What are your plans for the future?’

  ‘Promethean.’

  ‘How much is your family worth?’

  ‘Oodles.’

  ‘What quality do you value above all else?’

  ‘Leadership.’

  ‘How do you get on with your father?’

  ‘Pass.’

  It was obvious that Sebastian would rather have his teeth pulled than discuss anything about his private life. It was a barrier Vince knew he would have to break down if they were to make any real connection with each other. He enjoyed his subject’s company immensely. The man never stopped explaining the rules: how to behave in a fancy restaurant, why good clothes cost so much, how to order wine, when and how much to tip, what to look for in a good cigar, how the old London streets were laid out, how to play Pelmanism, how to win at poker, chess and a host of strange games whose complex subtleties escaped him. But he adroitly sidestepped intimacies, and the one subject he never offered advice on was women. He seemed only tangentially interested in them. Perhaps he had been badly hurt in the past. Didn’t wealthy families sometimes arrange that side of things for their offspring?

  Sebastian’s town apartment overlooked the Snowdon Aviary in Regent’s Park and was stuffed with elegant impersonal furniture, more of a show flat than a home. The only room with any character was the games room, a large spare bedroom filled with board games and puzzles of every description. His ‘country pile’, he assured Vince, was an altogether more prepossessing sight, a vast Georgian estate in Hertfordshire. He occasionally rang someone called St John Warner, and someone else called Caton-James, and apparently spent evenings playing board games with his friends, but never invited Vince to meet any of them. There was little evidence of the network of powerful connections one imagined every honourable young gentleman to maintain and exploit.

  Minor caveats aside, their meetings continued to yield fascinating rewards. One cliché appeared to be true: the isolation of Sebastian’s upbringing as he passed from nanny to boarding school contrasted sharply with the warmth and chaos of Vince’s childhood home. He was particularly determined not to discuss his relationship with his father, or to set out his hopes and fears for times to come.

  Vince taped the interviews, carefully labelling each cassette and indexing it for later reference. Sebastian paid for lunches and dinners, lent cash and cabfares he clearly did not expect to be repaid, and generally behaved like a decent friend. It was a lifestyle to which Vince felt he could easily become accustomed.

  Still, an unspoken barrier remained firmly in place between them, preventing any true closeness from developing.

  Chapter 8

  Research

  ‘Constitutionally, England no longer exists. It is not mentioned in the title of its sovereign. The English people have no special rights, not even a separate set of official statistics. England retains its separate identity in just two areas: religion—the Church of England—and sport—cricket, rugby and soccer. England occupies more than half of the United Kingdom’s land mass and contains over four-fifths of the population. It is one of the most densely populated countries in the world. And yet Scotland and Wales have both been more successful in securing their own institutions. For example, the BBC has special Scottish and Welsh broadcasting councils, but England has none. So how do we define Englishness? By history, by art, by character? What is the spirit of England, and how can we embody it, empower it?’

  Vince didn’t like the sound of the last part. He had been digging out old speeches in an effort to uncover something more substantial on Sebastian. He knew virtually nothing about his subject’s immediate past and had hoped to unearth details about the Wells family background, but this was not entirely what he had expected to find. Turning to the front of the article, he checked the author’s name again. Sebastian Wells, right there in black and white. There was even a moody little photograph that looked as if it had been taken at university.

  ‘England is a compact country. All its destinations are within a day’s land travel. Consequently it maintains a national character despite the extraordinary diversity of its people. It is dominated by the vast central city of London, a city older than Christianity itself, but almost completely reinvented in the New Elizabethan age. For the Blitz caused far more destruction than mere damage to bricks and mortar. In 1939, London was still the greatest city in the world. This rich royal capital, so absolutely sure of itself, was changed forever by the incessant rain of bombs. Its traditions were lost, its centuries-old sense of national mission replaced with confusion, loss of civic responsibility, bureaucratic muddle and argument, a state of chaos from which it has never fully recovered. It is no coincidence that the post-war years saw a rise in factors contributing to that chaos: immigration, divorce, motiveless crime.’

  Vince knew a little about the so-called New Elizabethans, the first generation of post-war university graduates. The name had never really caught on. Closing the book, he recalled seeing Sebastian’s name somewhere else, on another item culled earlier from the Political Science section. The curse of a photographic memory.
A glance at the clock confirmed that the library would be closing in fifteen minutes. Just enough time.

  He found what he was looking for in the sidebar of an article about political extremism that he had photocopied for his original course essay on London and the class system. Sebastian Wells had been thrown out of Oxford for something referred to as ‘Incitement to Hatred’, which presumably meant encouraging racism. If that was the case, what on earth was he doing answering Vince’s questions?

  It was hard to believe that the two people were actually one and the same. In person Sebastian was perfectly reasonable and rational. On paper he was a torch-wielding fanatic. According to the press he was billed as one of the emerging new leaders of the intellectual far right, but his birthright seemed to deny him as much as it offered. As an MP he would have had the power to promote his ideas. As an Honourable destined to adopt his father’s title, his only power lay in preventing the ideas of others.

  An alarming new picture of Sebastian Wells drew into focus. He had certainly covered the far-right corners of the political waterfront in his brief life. He considered both the Monday Club and the Disraelian Society too liberal and ‘wishy-washy’. He advocated forced repatriation, an end to the Health Service, the return of capital punishment, further tax incentives for big business. More sinister motives were hinted at.

  Sebastian had not advanced a single extreme opinion in any of their interviews. On the contrary, he had evinced such naive courtesy that it was tempting to avoid the dark areas of his psyche, to enjoy his easy charm, his louche manner, his casually reckless expenditure. Vince was ashamed to admit that it was fun hanging out with someone who wasn’t penniless for a change, someone with a car and money to spend. This was what half of him had always wanted: stability, order, respect, social standing. So what if it required making a few moral sacrifices?

  He had not even begun his professional career as a writer, and already the question of compromise was slapping him in the face. He decided that Sebastian would have to be told about his misgivings. He would give him a chance to explain, warn him, possibly even stop the interviews. In a way, finding out something like this was exactly what he had hoped for. But he liked the man, for God’s sake.