Disturbia

by Christopher Fowler

  No, it had to be something personal. Sebastian was aware of several exposed chinks in his armour. The business with the girl was years ago and long forgotten. The pissed old hack who had fallen down the steps then? Or the idiot they had taught a lesson after the concert? The worst part was not knowing.

  Sebastian had been careful to show no anger or suspicion that day at the restaurant, but carried out some careful surveillance later. He persuaded St John Warner to check inside the apartment in Tufnell Park. The photocopied notes which lay in his lap made depressing reading.

  Perhaps it had been a mistake, trying quite so hard with Vincent. His conversation skills were minimal, his ambitions were low and his background was so common as to be untraceable. Encouragingly, he had a decent reputation among his night-school lecturers for—here he checked St John Warner’s notes—‘determination and tenacity’. Not especially popular (any imbecile could be popular, as five minutes spent staring at a television testified) and of course his interests were awash in a groundswell of studenty left-wing ideals, the kind that eventually got crushed out by life’s practicalities, but Vince’s deep-rooted interest in the history of London manifested itself in the passionate articles he had written. He had earned money in his spare time hosting guided tours through places of historical interest, and had worked for the pleasure of it.

  What drew him to study such an unfashionable subject? Why wasn’t he out there consuming vast quantities of drugs at raves like every other moron in his social class? Did he manifest some glimmer of originality that rendered him a worthy opponent? The hardest part of any game, of course, was finding an appropriate challenger.

  There was an additional personal element to this: Sebastian, the injured party, had been misled, which left him free to nurture a desire for revenge. Any game between them would therefore become a grudge match, for the city they loved and the deceit that had passed between them. Oh, it had the makings of a French prose poem.

  Still, there was something tenacious about Vincent that might transform him into a formidable opponent. He was hungry; that was good. The boy had envy in his eyes, and despite his high ideals would probably switch places with him if he could. His biggest flaw would doubtless prove to be his hesitancy; in the moments he wasted deciding what to do, he would forfeit the game. If Sebastian chose to issue the challenge, he would inform his opponent that he intended to play fairly, in strict accordance with the rules. The gentleman would battle the barbarian in the arena of the city they both shared; if nothing else, it would provide an interesting contrast in their playing styles.

  He drained the porter-pot and set it down on the sill. The challenge grows, he thought. It is, as yet, unformed. But it is there. It is simply a matter of planning every last detail and waiting for a window of opportunity.

  Meanwhile, it had become important to find out what exactly Vincent had uncovered, and if necessary, to stop him from exposing the information.

  Chapter 14

  Background Information

  The following afternoon, Vince visited Louie’s disgusting flat in Chalk Farm, and they posted a series of enquiries on the Internet. While they were awaiting replies Louie made coffee the colour of pre-war nicotine, which he poured into mugs bearing the lip-imprints of generations of users.

  ‘There are some serious considerations to take into account,’ said Vince. ‘If I do uncover conclusive evidence about the League and denounce Sebastian in print, I could wind up having an accident down a flight of steps. Besides, someone’s bound to point out that we were friends, and that’s going to make me look pretty stupid.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I took money from him, you bozo. He didn’t seem so bad when we first met. He wasn’t one of those toffs you instantly loathe, like Jeffrey Archer. He had a lot of charm.’

  ‘You have to expose this guy,’ Louie insisted. ‘People like him always get away with it. Doesn’t that make you angry?’

  ‘Not particularly,’ he replied. ‘It’s the way things are, the way they’ve always been and there’s not much we can do about it. Or at least,’ he added, ‘if I have to stir up trouble, I could try exposing someone who can’t afford to have me killed.’

  ‘If it worries you that much, maybe you should go back to writing nice little history pieces about London,’ said Louie sarcastically. ‘Go for a milder kind of exposé. Start with Kentish Town. Try and figure out why they put the local florist’s next door to a wet fish shop. You have to stick with the class piece, man. You’ve got the perfect way of bringing your ideas to life.’

  ‘Might I remind you that just a few days ago you were warning me to stay away from the man?’

  ‘You were his friend then. Now the gloves are off, you can make a monumentally disgusting spectacle out of him.’

  The screen between them beeped and started downloading typewritten material.

  ‘Whoa. Look at this shit.’

  87 Articles Located/ Prometheus League/ see searchrefs@Mosley/ Fascism/ January Club/ Disraelian Society/ Freemasonry/ Hermetic Orders/ Modern Paganism/ Crowley/ Book of Enoch/ Wheatley/ Borley Rectory/ ‘Blue Flame’/ Corpse-Blindfolding/ ‘Girl in the Lake’ mystery/ Monk’s Parlour/ NAACP Bombings/ Anti-Semitism Accusations/ CIA links/ Blunt/ Burgess/ Jack the Ripper/ Star Trek:TNG

  ‘I can see some of the links there,’ said Vince, ‘but I can’t imagine what the Bible’s lost chapter on fallen angels has to do with Sebastian.’

  ‘That’s the trouble with newsgroups,’ said Louie. ‘They spend too much time discussing crappy old sci-fi TV shows. They probably accuse the League of alien abductions somewhere. There’s no point in going through all of that conspiracy stuff. It’s knocked together by lonely fat guys who can’t get dates.’

  ‘It could happen to you.’ Vince eyed the tantalising list. ‘I think I might check out some of it, though, just for fun. You never know.’

  ‘Be my guest.’ Louie pushed his chair back from the monitor. ‘It’ll make you crazy after a while.’

  ‘I’m going to have to buy myself a modem. Meanwhile, I need you to keep looking out for related material. Anything that helps explain what the League actually does.’

  ‘Hey, what are friends for?’ asked Louie.

  —

  On the morning of October the 22nd they met up at a deserted Tex-Mex cafe in Camden Town, and after ordering beers and nachos, Louie leaned forward, checking about himself with an air of exaggerated caution. ‘So tell me, Secret Squirrel, how are your burrowings? Get any good stuff yet?’

  ‘I’m three-quarters of the way through the first draft now, about 16,000 words in.’ Vince accepted a beer, waving away a glass. ‘To think that just a short while ago I was eating off bone china. Now I’m back to drinking out of a bottle. Anything good come through on the Internet?’

  ‘I downloaded a ton of stuff, but haven’t had the chance to read much of it. It’s mostly rubbish. Users who’ve come across the odd snippet about the League and want to convince you that they’ve uncovered another Roswell conspiracy, but nobody has any hard information. It’s just the usual mystic mumbo-jumbo theoretical bullshit.’

  ‘Well, I may have something.’ Vince hunched down over his beer and gave a secretive smile. ‘My contact, the good doctor, rang me last night. He made a couple of calls and found out that the Prometheans are holding their next meeting in chambers behind St Peter’s Church, Holborn in nine days’ time.’

  Louie made a quick finger-count. ‘That’s October 31st, man. You’re not gonna tell me they’re really into witchcraft ceremonies and stuff like that.’

  ‘I don’t know, but I need to be in the room where they’re holding the meeting.’

  ‘Do you think they’ll let you attend? Hallowe’en and all. Could get strange.’

  ‘I’m not going to wait for an engraved invitation. With any luck they won’t even realise I’m there.’

  ‘Couldn’t you just put a bug in the room?’

  Vince threw up his hands. ‘How, Louie? How the fuc
k do you bug a room?’

  ‘I thought you might know.’

  ‘Well, I don’t.’

  ‘Okay, if you have to hide inside, try not to get caught, ’cause you’ll be the one who’s trespassing. They could take you to court.’

  Somehow Vince thought that would be the least of his worries.

  Chapter 15

  Ceremony

  ‘You’re not allowed to go in there,’ the porter had told him, holding up his palm. ‘Nobody’s allowed in. Nobody.’

  Vince responded well to a challenge. He had found a way in. He had entered the unassuming Holborn building to find a series of banqueting suites and meeting rooms that were leased out to special interest groups of every kind. He was surprised to find a black felt bulletin board helpfully pointing him up a broad marble staircase to the appropriate suite, but he was early and the great double doors to the meeting room were still locked.

  On the opposite side of the corridor someone else’s meeting was preparing to get under way. Vince had made himself known to the secretary of the Enrico Caruso Appreciation Society, and had borrowed the cleaner’s keys he found hanging from their door long enough to unlock the room. After that, it was simply a matter of finding a hiding place in the chamber and closing the door behind him. He was nervous now, of course, but more in pain than dread. After he had been hiding under the table for almost an hour, his left thigh developed an agonising cramp. He tried massaging the muscle but it stayed locked, tightening further. Just at this moment, as bad luck would have it, they started filing into the chamber.

  Ignoring knife-point prickles of pain, he forced the searing leg beneath him and peered out from beneath the crimson altar-cloth. There were twelve of them in all, males of course, no women allowed, and they were clad in rather boring grey suits and sashes. He had been hoping for more exotic attire, something between the Freemasons and the Sons of the Desert, a scarlet fez and a robe for each member at least. The sashes, in opal satin with a silver trim, were particularly camp and inappropriate. Instead of lending them an aura of mystery it made them look like a group of rejected beauty queens. If his leg had not been stinging so badly, he might have started laughing out loud.

  What was it with ‘clubbable’ men? Why did they need to join societies and create funny little rules that only they could obey and understand? Was it a territorial king-of-the-castle thing, or were they so scared of women that they needed to build safe enclaves from them? Why did they need to keep secrets anyway? Who were they hiding them from? The Inland Revenue? At first Vince had assumed it was a class thing, but he remembered his father once taking him to a working-man’s club where the wives were not allowed to buy their own drinks.

  They were making speeches now, each taking a turn to read phrases from a little leather book that they passed between them. Ritual greetings, a lot of Hail Brother in the Name of Astaroth gobbledygook. They would be reading the Lord’s Prayer backwards next. He had meant to take notes, but the chamber was dark, the space beneath the altar was too damned small, and besides, his Dictaphone had packed up for some reason and he had forgotten to bring a notepad; not a good start to his professional literary career.

  Six emerald green uplighters illuminated the wood-panelled room so that everything below waist-level was in virtual darkness. The decor in the chamber was telling: Edwardian master-of-the-house (hardwoods, armchairs of green studded leather, tables and chairs with inlaid brass trims), a few Tudor touches (the stone floor, the big gas-powered fireplace with the painted shield), some kind of sporting trophy fixed on the mantelpiece, a bit of fifties homeliness (cut-glass scotch decanters, tasselled lamp-shades), a bit of eighties yuppie (the uplighters, the huge desk, Charles Saatchi crossed with Albert Speer), a bit of spooky mystical bullshit (the ornately carved altar, the brass astrological symbols adorning the walls)—and the moth-eaten embroidered banners. The banners.

  Be Sure Your Sins Will Find You Out.

  Honour Shows the Man.

  Of Cowards No History Is Written.

  Danger Is Next-Door Neighbour to Security.

  Severity Is Better than Gentleness.

  He that Cannot Obey Cannot Command.

  The chamber was rampant with hormonal arrogance. Vince knew for a fact that no woman had ever set foot in here. It was the sort of place where members of a rugby club might come and throw buns at each other before going home to duff up their wives. There was also only one door to the chamber. He wondered if he would be able to get out as easily as he had entered.

  There were twelve of them. Was that significant? Zodiac signs, months of the year? Although he could not see clearly from his hiding place, he could tell exactly where Sebastian was standing; their leader was taller than any of the others, and wore a black and silver armband that presumably indicated his higher rank. He looked different from the rest of the gathering; attractive enough to represent their public face, with a fluorescent smile too sincere to be trusted, tall and fashionably pale and very sure of himself. From his vantage point, Vince watched Sebastian standing with his legs planted firmly apart and his muscular arms folded, quietly discussing business with his colleagues. He didn’t so much ooze confidence as laser-beam it from every pore. It was the stance of a man who was determined to be taken seriously.

  ‘All right, gentlemen, let’s get down to the evening’s main business. Who wishes to start the activity reports?’ His clear bass tone cut through the general susurration, silencing the room. Vince tilted his head and tried to hear, but the heavy embroidered altar-cloth muffled the replies of the group. Something about ‘European treason’. Something about ‘initiative’. Snatches of sentences. ‘Without borders.’ ‘Imposing the penalty.’ ‘Inappropriate behaviour.’ ‘Breaching acceptable codes of honour.’ ‘Considerable personal risk.’ And then the tone lowered to discuss something that sounded far more serious…but he could hear no more.

  Great, wasn’t it, he thought, that two thousand years of civilisation could bring about this scene: a penniless young man crouched beneath a table, hiding from a gathering of privilege and prejudice. He gripped the hem of the altar-cloth and gently pulled it to one side so that he could see between the legs of the nearest participant. It was hardly the lair of Beelzebub he had been expecting. Where was the dungeon filled with burning torches? Where was the screaming bare-breasted virgin, bound for sacrifice? He had been hoping for the set of a Hammer horror film, but this was more like a mystic sports club, and considering everyone in the room was in their twenties, alarmingly middle-aged in attitude.

  Sebastian was standing at the front of the damp-smelling chamber on a raised platform, gravely intoning a list of misdemeanours from the typed page in his hand. Vince leaned forward to try to see more. Unfortunately, by doing so he had one of his Norman Wisdom moments, pulling forward a large Victorian copper bowl that had been set on the edge of the altar. It inched forward and finally fell onto the stone floor with a spectacular ringing clatter. In the shocked silence that followed he froze, desperately trying to think of a response. Moments later hands reached in and grabbed him beneath the arms, dragging him from his hiding place.

  Vince realised that his relationship with Sebastian was about to take an interesting and alarming new turn. Some things were dangerous; this much he knew. Being here tonight with these people was one of them.

  Chapter 16

  Civilised Men

  ‘And so here you are,’ said Sebastian, looking him up and down. ‘It might have helped if you’d asked to attend one of our meetings rather than just barging in.’

  ‘I tried that and you wouldn’t let me, remember?’ He attempted to disentangle himself from the grip of the two men who held him down. ‘Frankly, it’s a bit of a letdown. This is sort of like an adult version of a tree house. I could run it a whole lot better. Get nicer uniforms, modernise the place.’

  ‘How did you get in here?’ Sebastian stalked down the platform steps towards him. ‘You disappoint me, Vincent, you really do. You have no secre
ts from us. We know everything about you.’

  ‘You like to think you do.’

  Sebastian exchanged a smile with a smarmy-looking man on his left. ‘No, I think it’s safe to say that we do. Where has he stored his work-notes, Barwick?’

  Barwick, a man who could have modelled for E. H. Shepherd’s Wind in the Willows drawings of Mole, studied Vince through thick spectacles that shielded watery eyes the size of drawing pins. A second chin waxed above his shirt collar as he frowned. ‘You mean the ring binder labelled “City of Night and Day”?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘On the table beside his bed.’

  ‘Oh, very secure. Left- or right-hand side?’

  ‘Left.’

  ‘You bastard,’ Vince shouted, ‘that’s bloody illegal, breaking and entering, I’ll take you to—’

  ‘You didn’t even notice anyone had been into your flat, so how do you expect the police to find anything? What are they going to do, dust for fingerprints? For God’s sake, sit him down, someone. Give him a glass of port.’

  ‘Sebastian,’ cautioned Barwick, ‘you know it’s against the rules.’

  ‘Sod the rules for once. He managed to get in here, didn’t he?’

  The two men holding him pulled a tall oak chair forward and made him sit. He thought of kicking them both in the balls, shouting his head off and making a run for it, but knew that the only way of gathering hard information now was by complying with their wishes. Besides, he was interested in what Sebastian had to say.

  ‘We made a copy of your work to date. I don’t think your ideas are going to stun anyone with their originality. All that stuff about conspiracies. Civilisation is, by its very nature, a conspiracy. “Modern life is the silent compact of comfortable folk to keep up pretences. The pity is that the reformers do not know, and those who know are too idle to reform. Some day there will come a marriage of knowledge and will, and then the world will march.” Buchan wrote that as long ago as 1915. Still, I shall keep your notes. Better to be prepared when an enemy is planning to attack. You are the enemy, aren’t you?’