Disturbia

by Christopher Fowler

  ‘That’s not such a great idea, Jason. I appreciate your help but I think you’re better off in here.’

  ‘Believe me, man, I could do with the fresh air. My brain doesn’t work properly in this heat. Stay cool.’ He squeezed Vince’s arm and threaded his way through the chromium stools to the first of the stairways leading to the dance floors. Wentworth grinned happily to himself. If the man was there he would clear five or six hundred tonight, even after the club’s cut.

  The DJ’s choice pounded in his head as he stepped onto the flashing, heaving dance floor, some kind of crossover NU-NRG/trance/hardcore stuff that sounded identical to last week’s hot new crossover. He could not tell which particular end-slice of the social spectrum occupied the floor tonight, but there was an abundance of fetish-wear, rubber vests and microskirts, one of the nicer Saturday night crowds, less aggressive than the snarling image portrayed on The Grotto’s flyers.

  According to the bargirl, the man was called Denny and had bleached-white hair shaved in a No 2 crop, but Wentworth could not see him in the crowd. What he saw instead was a slim pale guy gesturing at him. He registered dark deep-set eyes, a smirking bony face and an old-fashioned public school side-parting. Wentworth looked around, pointed at his chest in a Do you mean me? gesture, and the guy smiled back and nodded, which was odd, because he looked more like a plain-clothes cop than someone who wanted to purchase a stash of pick-me-ups, especially as he was obviously wearing a wire. The damned thing was sticking out of his shirt.

  Shit, he thought, panicky now, this is a set-up. Time to get out and get lost fast. The club was supposed to have a deal going. They dealt with The Man. They were supposed to protect him.

  ‘He’s standing in front of me right now,’ said Xavier Stevens, dipping his head to avoid being seen speaking. ‘I just want to confirm that I have authorisation for this at the price we’ve just agreed.’

  ‘I’m in a position to confirm that,’ replied Sebastian.

  Stevens had once been destined for great things in the Territorials, but his attempts to intellectualise the Greek warrior spirit and instill it in his men cut against the grain of an army that saw itself strictly in terms of a peacekeeping force. His uneasy superiors had finally discharged him. Now he was the unacceptable face of the League of Prometheus, carrying out their dirty work, a Gordon Liddy to Sebastian’s Nixon. But if Sebastian thought he controlled his violent foot soldier, the reverse was actually true; Stevens had compiled quite a lengthy file on their beloved leader. Who knew when it would come in useful?

  ‘The general consensus here is that there should be no loose cannons,’ buzzed his earpiece, ‘so I guess that’s a green light to proceed.’

  ‘All I needed to know. Out.’

  Stevens pushed aside the spaced-out waif in lime Lycra who was blocking his path, and closed in on the nervous-looking dealer. Wentworth threw out his arms and began to say something, but before he could be heard above the pounding beat Stevens drew a pencil-slim blade from his jacket and slid it smoothly into his target’s gut, cutting through the padded jacket that he hoped would absorb much of the blood, and hooking the edge up, up, until he was sure he had cut so deep and so far that life would entirely depart the drug-wasted body before it fell to the floor.

  Wentworth’s mouth was still wide with his first words, but already the light in his eyes was changing. Stevens withdrew the steel as easily as he had brandished it, and allowed his cruciform victim to be borne onto the dance floor by the backs and shoulders of the hypnotised crowd.

  —

  ‘Hang on, there’s a train going past.’ Vince put a finger in one ear and looked back up at the arch as the carriages clattered by. ‘Sorry about that.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Harold Masters, ‘this time we’re ready. We have pens, dictionaries, thesauruses, encyclopediae, volumes of forgotten lore and reproductions of historical maps, not to mention Maggie’s collection of ancient burial sites. We’re ready for anything you can throw at us. Read out the clue.’

  It wasn’t until Vince felt in his pocket to locate the letter that he remembered where he had last seen it. In Jason’s hands, being refolded as he absently placed it in his coat. How long did he have before it turned itself into chemical dust?

  ‘Ah, there’s a bit of a problem with that,’ he explained. ‘I’ll call you right back.’

  He stamped his soaked boots in the slush and studied the illuminated entrance of the club. The admission queue snaked halfway around the block now, but no one was coming out. In clubbing terms, the night was still very young. He would never be able to blag his way back in. Wentworth had probably forgotten his promise to meet him outside. Come to that, he had probably forgotten his own name and which planet he inhabited.

  Vince looked back at the garish doorway, the bitter sleet-laden air dragging at his bones. He did not have time to return and look for the art teacher–turned–dealer. He felt like going home, packing a bag and leaving the country for a few days, but flights required money, and he had none. At least the draft of his piece on the League was safe with Esther, and the other copy—

  ‘I only came here for a bit of a night out, you know? It’s not fair.’

  Vince turned to find himself facing an attractive dark-haired woman of about twenty-two who appeared to be dressed in a soul singer’s concert outfit. She was wearing elbow-length purple satin gloves.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Didn’t you see it?’ she asked incredulously, looking back at the club.

  ‘See what?’

  ‘They’ve turned the music off and put the lights up and everything. If people want to get into punch-ups they should do it outside so it doesn’t interfere with us.’ She addressed him at great speed, speaking as if she had known him all her life.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Somebody just stabbed this bloke I know. Right in the guts. I mean, right through, like lethal and everything. Blood up the walls, everywhere. They called an ambulance but they’d have been better off ordering a hearse. So he’s probably gonna die, right, so there’s no point in spoiling everyone else’s evening, right?’

  He had a horrible precognition of the victim’s identity. The coincidence was too great. ‘You saw this happen?’

  ‘Only from the other side of the room. I was up on the stage, dancing and that.’ She indicated her outfit with a resigned shrug. ‘You know, showing off a bit. It’s that time of the night. You know. After two.’

  ‘I know what you mean.’

  ‘After two’s a state of mind. Anything can happen between two and dawn, can’t it? I mean, it’s the only time when everyone is equal. Look out on the street, whores, junkies, career girls, rich businessmen. If they’re out after two, there’s no difference between any of them. It’s my favourite time. You can say what you like, do what you like, make your own rules. The barriers don’t go back up until daylight. Until then you’re like, a free spirit.’

  Great, thought Vince, do some more drugs. He returned to the club entrance but the doorman was refusing to let anyone inside. Knife wounds had to be reported to the police, and they were the last people he needed to see right now. He had no choice but to get away.

  ‘Hey, listen,’ called the stoned dancer, pushing through the crowd towards him, ‘don’t look so worried. He’s not a mate of yours, is he?’

  ‘You haven’t told me who got stabbed yet,’ he said, exasperated.

  ‘His name’s Jason, he does some work for the club, always hangs around there, skinny bloke, long blond hair in clumps.’

  Vince’s stomach twisted in a sudden plunging cramp. Someone else had been hurt, and once again it was his fault. He stared back into the crowd milling outside the club. What if Sebastian’s assassin was still here?

  ‘It’s not unusual, you know, stabbings and that. Happens all the time. There’s some pretty bad people in there.’

  ‘Dealing drugs?’

  She gave him an old-fashioned look. ‘No, dancing round their handbag
s.’

  ‘Do you know which hospital they’ll take him to?’

  She rolled her eyes at him. ‘They’re not gonna take him to a hospital, you moron. He’s carryin’ for the club, isn’t he? See the pub at the end of the next street?’ She raised a satin finger and pointed to a corner tavern lit with strings of grubby, coloured bulbs. ‘The bouncers’ll drop him off over there.’

  ‘In a pub?’

  ‘Well, he’s got mates there who’ll sort him out. If he goes to hospital it’s the start of a long chain of events ending with the club closed, the licence fucked and him inside, so what do you reckon’s the best solution? Here, my name’s Betty. Let me give you my number.’ She pulled a business card from her purple satin cleavage and pushed it into his hand. Vince read the card in his palm.

  ‘Hostess/Escort Service and Ace Van Hire?’

  ‘They’re sidelines. I also do bereavement counselling and candle-art. Turn it over, that’s my home number. No, I’ll tell you what, you look like you need a drink inside you. You wanna buy me one? Go on, be a sport, it’s the best offer you’ll get around here.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Vince. ‘You’re a bit aggressive.’

  ‘You’ve got to be,’ she replied. ‘Didn’t you notice? Girls outnumber blokes two to one in there. You need to find an original angle just to get a bit of chat out of someone.’

  Striking up a conversation about who’s been stabbed lately should do it, thought Vince. Betty was an extremely attractive woman, although she seemed to be suffering from battle-fatigue. It was hard work meeting new people these days.

  ‘Look, I’ve got to say goodbye to my friends. Go on, go over there and wait for me. I’ll have a large Black Death vodka and grapefruit. I’ll see you in two minutes. Honest. God, I’m freezing my tits off.’ She pulled at her décolletage, but goose-pimples were stippling her pale breasts. ‘I knew this would be one of those fucking trouble-nights.’

  Vince watched in wonder as she tottered away through the slush on three-inch heels. Then, helpless until he could locate the envelope containing the sixth challenge, he set off in the direction of the tavern.

  Chapter 32

  The Source of Barbarism

  ‘I wonder if you understand what has happened to your country,’ said Sebastian, pulling out a pine chair and reversing the seat so that he could sit astride it, facing Pam. He had sent St John Warner, Caton-James and the others up to the top of the house to monitor Vince’s progress more carefully. Accorded the status of a dog, Barwick was allowed to remain.

  Christ, thought Pam, he’s got a captive audience. I’m going to get a speech.

  ‘I believe the start of this city’s decline into barbarism occurred between 1941 and 1943. Up until then we were a disciplined race. Did you know, they set up psychiatric clinics to deal with Londoners’ neurotic illnesses during the Blitz, but hardly anybody attended? People stayed calm, drank tea and chatted about their problems with friends. No, it wasn’t the bombing raids that broke our will, it was the silences between them.’

  Sebastian shifted his chair closer. ‘Three years of just getting by, surviving on rations, clearing rubble, making and mending. Londoners grew fractious, tired by the shoddiness of it all. The Regency buildings that typified this city—and there were a great number of them—decayed and disappeared. They couldn’t ring church bells for fear the belfries would collapse. Soldiers were everywhere, trampling the parks. The only thing that rose from these ashes was London Rocket, the flower that sprang up on bombsites.’ His eyes lost their focus. He looked past her to the night beyond the mullioned windows.

  ‘And gradually, it changed. People lost their cheeriness, sleepwalking through their lives, no longer surprised by any deprivation. Delivered into chaos, their young became difficult to control. Vandalism was born. Women rebelled, worked alongside men, entered public houses unescorted. The LCC-controlled British Restaurant chain that provided cheap meals for those remaining in the city gave rise to a national reputation for poor cuisine. Temporary housing became permanent. A shabby wrecked city and its exhausted populace were poorly patched up and packed off into the next decade. Which leaves us where we are today, not seeking out inner peace and spiritual improvement but “competing in the world market-place”. In short, dear lady, we won the war and lost ourselves.’

  Pam had been released from her post for Sebastian’s visit, and was still rubbing her chafed wrists. She felt like a character from a prisoner-of-war movie, except that prisoner-of-war movies didn’t usually make you sit through lectures about the good old days. She sensed a change of mood occurring; Sebastian had snapped out of his reverie.

  ‘Time for you to answer some questions, I think,’ he told her, rubbing at his eyes. He looked tired. ‘Why were you following your friend?’

  Pam thought it was obvious. ‘I wanted to make sure he wouldn’t get into trouble.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ Sebastian was incredulous. ‘He got into trouble when he decided to break into our premises and access private information. He has no further rights of his own, and he’s certainly violated ours. I think we’ve been very fair under the circumstances.’

  ‘By scaring the life out of him with this ridiculous game?’ Pam snapped back. ‘What do you want from him?’

  ‘I thought I’d made that pretty clear. Your friend needs to be shown that the city is not his personal playground. There are parts he is simply not qualified to enter.’ He held up his hand and ticked off each point on his fingers. ‘He is not free to publish whatever he feels like writing. We could simply wait for him to try and then sue his publisher for libel, but that’s not the Promethean way. We intend this challenge to be instructive. I hope that eventually it will teach him how to behave in a once-civilised society such as ours. I was prepared to give him a fighting chance of publishing his book. I told him that if he completed all ten challenges successfully, he would be released from his contract with us—’

  ‘Vince signed no contract.’

  ‘Released from his contract,’ he said, talking over her, ‘and allowed to enter a modified version of his report for publication.’

  ‘What do you mean a modified version? One that you’ve censored and rewritten?’

  ‘I intend to fact-check it, yes,’ he agreed. ‘Which brings me to the main purpose of this meeting. We know he made two hard copies of his manuscript. Where are they? Who has them?’

  ‘Why don’t you ask him?’

  ‘I’m asking you, Pamela. Is one of them in your charming Primrose Hill apartment?’

  She had not told them her name, or where she lived. How the hell did they know?

  ‘Look, I don’t know what you think you’re playing at—’ she began.

  ‘Oh for fuck’s sake just tell me where I can find the fucking manuscripts!’ he shouted in her face. ‘Do you have either of them, and if you don’t, where do you suppose they are? I can’t be any plainer than that.’

  His sudden change of mood alarmed her. Pam tried to think clearly. She knew the location of both manuscripts, but there might be even more than two. Vince had meticulously covered his tracks. Esther Goldstone had one copy. There could conceivably be another at the college or in Vince’s apartment. Anyway, there was bound to be a version of it on disk somewhere. She doubted there was much point in trying to bluff Sebastian. His diatribe against declining standards had failed to explain the night’s entertainment or his pleasure in finding a worthy opponent, and there was something in his defensive attitude that suggested another more mysterious purpose behind his bursts of self-righteous anger. If this was just a diversion for bored rich kids, it was an absurdly baroque one.

  ‘I thought you valued your sense of fair play,’ said Pam. ‘If you destroy Vince’s manuscript, you’ll have cheated him.’

  ‘I have no intention of destroying it. He will still be allowed to publish, but the version we’ll produce together will be more balanced. I wish to prevent his earlier version from being released, that’s all.’


  Pam eyed him balefully. ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘I’m hardly fascinated by your beliefs, Pamela. Earlier this evening my men took Vince’s apartment to pieces. We found the manuscript on the hard-drive of his computer and wiped it, then destroyed all his disks. We searched his college locker and wiped both of the back-up copies we found there. I’m afraid all his coursework was destroyed in the process. All his research. All his previous writings.’

  ‘Oh no—’

  ‘You forget that I know how he thinks, Pamela. I know his mind. He trusted me. I know how he works, how he researches, how many copies he keeps, and I’m sure he struck two hard copies from the disks. He told me he always does. Now, there were no copies in his apartment, so what has he done with them? Given one to his agent, presumably, so we can get hold of that easily enough. But the other one, there’s the mystery. Perhaps that’s something you can shed some light on.’ Poor Carol Mendacre hadn’t been in possession of it. Or if she had, it had burned with her.

  ‘You have no right to involve other people in this,’ she said.

  ‘Vince’s agent helped to plan these half-baked books, Pamela. She encouraged Vince to spy on us. I think she has every right to be involved. But perhaps you can dissuade the members of the League from upsetting her too badly.’ He leaned forwards, his generous smile filling her vision. ‘All you have to do is tell us where the remaining copy is.’

  ‘I don’t know where Vince would have put it.’

  ‘Then I suggest you start thinking fast.’ A door at the rear of the room opened and closed. Sebastian rose to his feet. ‘Ah, good. There’s someone I want you to meet.’

  Pam looked up at Barwick, who was performing a hasty shamefaced shuffle out of the way. The pale, hollow-cheeked man who came and stood before her was clad from neck to toe in black, and although he was physically large seemed insubstantial, as if a beam of bright light might be able to penetrate him like a wraith.

  ‘This gentleman is Mr Xavier Stevens, Pamela, and it pays to be his friend. He’s here to help find out if you’re telling us less than you know. And, I think it’s time’—he checked his Cartier Panthère—‘to raise the stakes a little. Vincent is still breaking the rules. He’s enlisting outside help. So we’re going to do the same. And if he fails to meet any one of the remaining challenges, there’s going to be a forfeit. You, Pamela.’ Sebastian gave Stevens a gentle pat on the shoulder. ‘Xavier will forfeit you.’