Disturbia

by Christopher Fowler

  ‘Thank you,’ he said softly. Esther was right; the activities of the League were not essential to his piece. Her friend’s death could have been a coincidence. Accidents happened all the time. He resolved to forget about his feud with Prometheus and concentrate instead on creating a piece of powerful journalism. He assured Esther of this, then left her office and returned to Tufnell Park.

  A few days later his agent reported that a verdict of accidental death had been decided in the case of Carol Mendacre, there being no evidence to suspect otherwise.

  For the next three weeks Vince worked late every night, often with Louie helping him.

  At the end of the third week, just as he had completed his first draft, he arrived back at his flat and found a piece of hand-delivered mail on the mat beneath the letterbox. When he tore open the envelope a small steel key fell out, along with a letter from Sebastian Wells.

  Part Two

  ‘Prepare for death if here at night you roam,

  And sign your will before you sup from home.’

  —Samuel Johnson on London

  Chapter 19

  The Challenge

  He took the letter over to the kitchen table, seated himself and began to read. When he had finished, he tried to decide if it was meant to be a joke. Outside, shopkeepers were hauling down the graffiti-sprayed steel carapaces that protected their stores, and commuters were quick-stepping from the tube station, casting apprehensive glances at the clouds above them. The day had been unseasonably warm, and a soft poisonous haze had hung in the air, blurring the edges of the buildings, modifying and improving the cityscape. Heavy rain was forecast for the evening, with the possibility of thunderstorms, and the overcast sky had grown ominously black with the departure of day, preparing to make good its threat.

  Vince reread the letter, scarcely believing his eyes. This was not possible. It had to be a joke. He reached for the telephone, then stopped.

  No phone calls. It was one of the rules, laid down right here in black and white. It is necessary, not for the League of Prometheus to prove itself to you, but for you to prove yourself to it.

  The arrogance, writing in the third person! He studied the letter once more, noting the heavy crested parchment and mock-Tudor penmanship, somewhere between an invitation to a golf club and a Pirates of the Caribbean treasure map.

  The Challenge of the Decadiurnal Nocturne

  The League of Prometheus Charges Vincent Robert Reynolds with Acting in Defiance of the League’s Basic Tenets.

  The Accused is required to make amends by performing a series of tasks to be set by the residing members of the League, said tasks to be undertaken during the period from the onset of darkness on December 6th until the arrival of daylight on the morning of December 7th.

  This Challenge will take the form of a set of tests requiring ingenuity, energy and intellect to complete, for the purpose of measuring the Accused’s supposed knowledge of his city and country, it being the belief of the League that the best form of punishment is the attainment of constructive knowledge.

  Each part of the Challenge must be completed within its time allocation.

  If the Accused refuses to accept the Challenge, he will be executed.

  If the Accused fails to survive the Challenge, innocents will suffer.

  If the Accused fails to carry out any part of the Challenge, those who are blameless will be punished.

  If the Accused chooses to go to the authorities, said action will cause loss of life.

  If the Accused attempts to speak to members of the public in order to enlist their help or attempts to communicate in any way with anyone, that person will be taken prisoner and may possibly forfeit his or her life.

  If the Accused fails to complete the entire Challenge within the allotted time, he will be executed in an appropriate manner and buried in unconsecrated ground by members of the League.

  If the Accused fails to utilise the enclosed key before the hour of seven PM he will forfeit his life.

  It is necessary not for the League of Prometheus to prove itself to you, but for you to prove yourself to it.

  When the fight begins within himself, a man’s worth something—Robert Browning

  Vince chewed a thumbnail, watching as the first fat drops of rain spotted the pavements below. They were serious, they were goddamn fucking serious about this! Sebastian had to be feeling pretty threatened to issue such a challenge—not that he would have needed much encouragement to turn the whole thing into a game. He must have figured Vince knew something that would cause lasting damage to the League. The embarrassing part was that, despite the tough tone of what he had written so far, he had uncovered no hardcore evidence of any illegal activities.

  But he knew.

  He knew they had killed the journalist, Tyler, getting him drunk and shoving him down the steps. He knew they had run Carol Mendacre off the road and watched her car burn. Just as he knew that they would kill him if he failed to obey them, and hide the evidence just as successfully.

  But this sheet in his hand was proof of their existence, solid testimony. And even as he studied it, the paper began to dry and crumble in his fingers, splintering first in half, then quarters. A faintly bitter chemical smell arose as the craquelure deepened across the broken page, and the flakes of paper drifted to the floor, disintegrating further. They would not even allow him such meagre proof as this.

  He looked at his watch. Twenty past six. He checked inside the envelope. There was nothing else except the key. How could they be watching him? The telephone was less than a metre away from his right hand. Suppose he lifted the receiver and called the police? Could Sebastian’s men somehow see into the flat? What could they possibly do, anyway? They were just trying to scare him, having a laugh at his expense.

  If only he believed that. He had seen the silent fury on their faces when they had discovered him in the chamber. They had the means to get rid of him, and now he had given them the motive. Fuck, fuck, fuck, what to do. It was coming up for six-thirty. If he accepted the challenge, he only had half an hour in which to find a use for the key.

  They had to be able to see in somehow. Very slowly, he moved in front of the window and tried to look into the rooms on the other side of the street. The sudden racket of the telephone took a year off his life. He allowed it to ring three times before lifting the receiver.

  ‘I hope you haven’t forgotten about tonight,’ said Pam.

  ‘What?’ Relief flooded through him.

  ‘We’re having dinner tonight, remember? You’ve blown me out twice recently, and I’m not standing for it a third time. Amazing as it may sound, I do have a scrap of pride left, you know.’ Her tone was playful. The last thing he needed right now.

  ‘Listen, Pam, I’ve got some kind of—thing—going on here and—’

  ‘I have to win you away from that computer somehow, so I’m offering to pay for the meal. You’re allowed dessert and everything.’

  ‘I don’t think I can—’

  ‘No “no” for an answer this time, sonny boy, you promised, remember?’

  ‘You’re right,’ he admitted, ‘I promised.’

  ‘So I’ll see you at eight-thirty, as we arranged. Resistance is futile. I’m looking forward to it already. A tout à l’heure, saucepot.’ She rang off.

  He picked up the key once more and tried to think. The telephone rang again. This time he answered before the end of the first ring.

  ‘I hope you slept well last night.’ The voice was amused, male, almost playful. ‘You received your instructions, I hope. This night will require all the intellectual and physical energy at your command if you are to survive it. You really should have started by now. You’re going to miss your deadline. You’ve only until seven o’clock to use the key, or you’re out of the game.’

  ‘I’m not playing your stupid games, Sebastian, you can go fuck yourself—’

  ‘There’s that gutter language again. So limiting, when there are so many beautiful Eng
lish words to choose from. In case you had trouble with the title of the challenge, by the way, Deca—’

  ‘—diurnal means in a cycle of ten, ten challenges, yeah, I figured that part, I’m common but I’m not completely stupid.’

  ‘You’re not allowed to take anything with you that you would not normally be carrying on the street. I think we forgot to mention that.’

  ‘I’m not doing this, Sebastian, I already told you.’

  ‘If you don’t you will be killed, and others may be hurt too. We are deadly serious about this, Vincent. You’re not the first to stand accused. But you could be the first to win. Where’s your sense of gamesmanship?’

  ‘And if I win, what does my victory entitle me to?’

  ‘It grants you the title of “Grand Master of the City”. You get a badge, a hat and everything. More important, you win the right to publish. We’ll be in touch again. Right now it’s six-thirty-two precisely. You’d better get going. There’s only a short time left for you to reach the base-point of your first challenge. The time limit for each section of the night will be given to you in due course. Now, if you’re not out of that gruesome little flat in the next few minutes, we will claim our forfeit, invade your life and bury your pathetically miserable soul in pieces so far apart that no two people in the same time-zone will be able to find it.’

  The line went dead.

  It took him exactly two minutes fifty-five seconds to load his leather duffel bag and hit the street running.

  Chapter 20

  First Clue

  Vince turned the tiny steel key over in the palm of his hand, tipping it to the light. There was something engraved on either side. On one, the number 12. On the other, a longer series of numerals. He tilted it back and forth until he could read the inscription. 18371901. Some kind of serial number, perhaps. There were no other markings.

  Now what?

  He was standing in the street, outside the Hallmark card shop three doors along from his flat. The hazy winter night was sharpening with sporadic gusts of rain, finer than sea spray. He found it hard to believe that they were really watching him. That evening in the Holborn chamber he had only seen a few of their faces; he would remember Barwick’s moley features, but none of the others. And they were only the members of the inner circle. What was it Dr Masters had said about there being as many as fifty in the League? It was clear that he had to go along with this lunacy, at least until he figured out if they were just trying to scare him, or whether they really meant business.

  He tried to recall his arrangement with Pam tonight. They were going to eat, then meet up with Louie, who was heading for a gig at the Jazz Café with some people from college. If he didn’t show up she’d be annoyed with him, and might think it odd. Failure to appear was pretty normal behaviour within their group but Vince was known for reliability. He should have told her about the letter. Now it was too late. The rules forbade him from calling her back. He could feel the panic of indecision setting in.

  Concentrate on the problem instead, he decided. Look at the key.

  He studied the numbers again.

  12 and 18371901.

  They meant nothing to him. Serial numbers for a standard key, the key to anything from a bicycle lock to a petty-cash box. Big deal.

  If he was going to get through this, he knew he would have to start thinking like Sebastian.

  ‘Hey Vince, you okay, man?’

  There was a crash behind him as Mr Javneesh pulled down the shutter of the card shop window. He had installed a new display of birthday cards that celebrated the recipient’s year of birth. Each card had a montage of that year’s events depicted on its cover, and featured the date in large black letters. 1953. 1965. 1972. He had been meaning to buy one for Pam.

  ‘You should get inside, man. Looks like rain.’ Mr Javneesh zipped up his jacket and headed off towards his car. Vince looked back at the numbers on the key. 18371901.

  Could they be dates? 1837–1901?

  Sixty-odd years. He looked back at the cards. Sixty glorious years. Queen Victoria’s reign. Victoria. His fingers gripped the key. A locker key. The left-luggage lockers at Victoria station.

  He was on his way.

  The litter-filled ticket hall at Tufnell Park tube station was crowded with loitering drunks and wild-haired kids. As he punched coins into the ticket machine he wondered if members of the League were watching him.

  ‘Oi, you got any spare change?’ A sixteen-year-old white boy with dreadlocked yellow hair and a blue nylon sleeping bag wrapped around his shoulders was tapping him on the back. He stared at the boy in alarm. What would happen if he replied? Would they hurt the boy? He bolted for the escalator and the safety of the underground platform, unable to shake the feeling of being monitored. There were closed circuit security cameras mounted at either end of the platform. Who was studying their screens?

  Mercifully, a southbound train arrived within a minute. At Victoria he made his way through the homebound commuters and reached the racks of grey metal lockers, locating number 12 at the end nearest the platforms. Four minutes to seven.

  As he fumbled with the key, he checked about him, but it was hopeless. Everyone looked suspicious. Scanning the station forecourt, he noticed more tiny black lenses peering down at him from the steel superstructure, more robot periscopes jutting from shadowed corners. Now that he thought about it, the city was filled with cameras. Traffic, security, safety. Who was watching?

  The key turned smoothly, raising tumblers. Inside the locker was another envelope, identical to the first—nothing else.

  He tried to tear it open, but his bitten nails would not catch under the flap. Slow down, he told himself, take it easy. You made it here in time. The station clock read 6:58 p.m. He managed to rip open the envelope and partially tore the letter inside. You’ve got about thirty seconds to memorise the letter before it starts falling apart.

  There were two sheets of paper inside, folded in half. The first read:

  Dear Vincent,

  The ten members of the Inner Circle of the League of Prometheus have been allowed to set you one problem each.

  Welcome to your starter challenge, posed by our youngest member, the Hon. Barnabus Hewlett. I trust you will find it easy enough to afford you some small enjoyment, and you are allowed an apéritif upon reaching its solution.

  Good luck, and may the best man win.

  In God and Honour,

  —Sebastian

  He turned to the second sheet of paper. At the top were a few neatly printed lines, three quotes, and beneath them, a piece of poetry. My God, he thought, I’ll never be able to retain so much information before the paper starts to self-destruct. He hastily scanned the page.

  The Challenge of Outraged Society

  ‘I don’t want any music. My husband has threatened to kill me tonight.’

  ‘She made one great mistake, possibly the greatest mistake a woman of the West can make. She married an Oriental.’

  ‘A person who honestly believes that his life is in danger is entitled to kill his assailant if it is the only way he honestly and reasonably believes he can protect himself.’

  ‘Mine are horrible, social ghosts—

  Speeches and women and guests and hosts,

  Weddings and morning calls and toasts,

  In every bad variety:

  Ghosts who hover about the grave

  Of all that’s manly, free and brave:

  You’ll find their names on the architrave

  Of that charnel house, Society.’

  Time Allocated: 1 Hour

  There was nothing else.

  He could smell the bitter chemicals rising from the pages. Clutching the envelope and its desiccating contents, he slammed the locker door shut and set off across the crowded concourse. His mind was swimming. He could not think lucidly, not in the way they expected him to. What if he did nothing? Would they really carry out their threats? He needed a place to sit, to clear his head.

  H
e found an empty bench in a relatively quiet corner of the station and watched the commuters streaming past to their trains, their homes, their loved ones, oblivious to his ludicrous dilemma. They would think him deranged if he reached out to ask them for help. Everyone was guarded these days. It was absurd—how could he suddenly find himself so alone in such an immense city?

  And that, Vince realised, was what Sebastian and the other members of the League had intended for him. They aimed to render him as helpless as if he had been stranded on a barren moor without a map. They planned to make an example of him, to show him up for what they felt he was, vulgar, uneducated, stupid, blind, paralysed.

  Obviously, he had no choice but to thrash them. Working-class men had more logical minds, better intuition, firmer resolve, everyone knew that. Perhaps the news hadn’t filtered through to Sebastian and his friends yet.

  If only he believed it. Vince turned his attention to the second sheet of paper and reread the quotes, reminding himself that he was seeking a location somewhere within the city. Sebastian’s personal note had already crumbled through his fingers, but the clue sheet appeared to have been treated with a milder solution. It was drying out and starting to crack, but at a much slower rate. He concentrated on the words.

  ‘My husband has threatened to kill me…’ The site of a female victim, then, something prescient she might have said, just prior to her husband attacking her, perhaps.

  No ‘music’. Were they in a public place? Not talking to her husband, but about him to another. A lover?

  ‘She made one great mistake…She married an Oriental.’ A piece of hindsight, this one, uttered by whom, a judge, a lawyer, a biographer?