This was particularly true for Arthur Bryant, who had just discovered (not for the first time, but he was prone to forgetfulness) that escaping your own death instantly repaints the world in vibrant hues.
He stood in the middle of Waterloo Bridge with John May, just as he’d done on the lunchtime of the day they had first met all those centuries ago, and looked down into the fast-flowing river. At these reaches the Thames does not break into waves but appears to mushroom and blossom from beneath, a warning sign of the lethal currents that pulse below its surface.
Bryant leaned over the railings and breathed the rich damp air. He was the only one on the bridge dressed in an overcoat, scarf, jumper, shirt, braces, undershirt, vest and mittens. ‘Do you think there’s an element of truth in all legends?’ he asked.
‘I imagine so. Some small grain around which the stories accumulate, yes,’ replied May.
‘I was thinking about the legend of the Bleeding Heart,’ he said, ‘and the death of Alice Hatton. I could find no evidence that she ever existed.’
‘Didn’t that story involve dancing with the Devil?’ said May. ‘I’m not surprised you didn’t find anything.’
‘It’s just that there’s a condition – Giles was telling me – it’s called takotsubo cardiomyopathy, or stress-induced cardiomyopathy. It’s a sudden weakening of the heart muscles caused by temporary stress. And because it could be brought on by news of the death of a loved one, it became known as broken heart syndrome, or bleeding heart. I wonder if that’s how the yard got its name. And I wonder if it’s why Martin Wallace chose to kill with a crossbow. He had to pass the yard and the tavern sign every time he went to archery practice.’
‘I think you’re romancing again, Arthur. He shot Stephen Emes through the eye.’
‘Only because it was dark and he made a mistake. And those youngsters, infatuated with one another, but all with the wrong partners: more bleeding hearts. I think if things had been different, Martin Wallace and Romain Curtis would have been friends. None of this would have happened if Vanessa Wallace hadn’t acted impulsively. The whole thing was a house of cards that would have collapsed if just one person had been completely honest.’
‘I feel sorriest for Shirone Estanza. In the law’s eyes her crime starts with not having a driving licence and goes on to manslaughter.’
‘Youth and mitigating circumstances are on her side,’ said Bryant.
‘She might be lucky. You have to hope for compassion. We have to put in a recommendation.’
‘One thing still puzzles me, John. Why did Mr Merry tip his hand by showing me the evidence of apotropaic magic? It’s almost as if he was testing me, to see if I could work it out.’
‘I think he was arrogant enough to think that you wouldn’t. I suspect such men set tests of strength for themselves. So,’ said May, ‘taphophobia, fear of being buried alive. Necrophobia, fear of death. Isolophobia, fear of being alone. I looked them up. Which one were you suffering from?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘For most of the week you avoided me and behaved like you’d seen your own ghost.’
‘Perhaps I had,’ said Bryant. ‘For years I’ve had this strange feeling: when I’m alone it’s as though I cease to exist. I thought to myself, what am I? A repository of useless knowledge. A walking history book. I’ve no social skills, nothing to offer anyone. London’s rushing past me to a brave new future. I’m just an obstacle.’
‘No, said May, ‘you’re a touchstone. If others can’t see that, it’s their loss.’
The seagull that dived past them was a piercing white against the olivine water. Its feral shriek broke the mood. Bryant threw it a piece of sausage sandwich he’d been saving in his pocket.
‘Look at the Thames,’ May said. ‘It’s the only thing in this city that doesn’t change.’
‘Oh, it changes,’ Bryant replied, happy to be back on solid conversational ground. ‘The composition alters from Teddington to Tilbury, from the Roman occupation to the sovereignty of bankers. There are no more frost fairs, no more carcasses of cows and cats, fewer pollutants, fewer ships. It was once wider at the Tower of London and harder to cross. There were nineteen arches supporting London Bridge, and the current was so strong that it pulled boats under. Can you imagine? Severed heads dipped in tar and placed on spikes, the stench of the tanneries, plague and cholera and everywhere, every day, the most astonishing, wonderful sights. They said when London laughed, the world laughed.’ He turned away. ‘I was born in the wrong time.’
‘That’s not it,’ said May. ‘The trouble with you is that you want to see it all, the entire two-thousand-year history. And you’d quite like to stay with it into the distant future. But you can’t. None of us can. We each get our own particular slice of London life, and that’s all. You have to make the most of it, Arthur. And you weren’t born in the wrong time. When you were a baby there were still horses on this bridge. There was war and malnourishment and capital punishment. You’ve seen the greatest changes in the city’s entire history. And it’s a better place now, even though it’s getting a little too crowded for my tastes.’
‘I’m not complaining,’ said Bryant, loosening his scarf a little. ‘Did you know, after the Blitz, the city employed two PCs full time to take pictures of the burned-out buildings? Arthur Cross and Fred Tibb – they built up a complete record of what needed to be reconstructed. There have always been people in London who care and make a difference. That’s all I ever wanted to be, one of those people, like the copper who freed me from my childhood prison. I don’t know if I’ve managed it.’
‘I think you know the answer to that,’ said May, leading him away by the arm. ‘Come on, I’ll buy you a pint and you can tell me some more implausible legends.’
‘Is it me, or is it getting hot?’ Bryant asked suddenly.
‘It can’t be you,’ said May. ‘You’re never hot.’
‘Well, I feel it today.’ He untangled his scarf and pulled off his mittens, turning his hands cautiously to feel the summer breeze. ‘My goodness, that’s rather nice.’
‘Oh, this is priceless,’ said May, pulling out his mobile. ‘Hang on.’
‘What are you doing?’ Bryant demanded to know.
‘Putting this online.’ May took the shot before Bryant could stop him.
The photograph shows a funny old man with too-large false teeth, standing in the middle of a bridge, grinning into the camera and wiggling his fingers.
About the Author
Christopher Fowler is the multi-award-winning author of many novels and short-story collections, including Roofworld, Spanky, Psychoville, Hell Train, Plastic and eleven Bryant & May mystery novels. His memoir, Paperboy, won the Green Carnation Prize, and he recently published a second acclaimed autobiographical volume, Film Freak. Chris writes a weekly column in the Independent on Sunday and lives in King’s Cross in London. To find out more, visit www.christopherfowler.co.uk.
Also by Christopher Fowler,
featuring Bryant & May
FULL DARK HOUSE
THE WATER ROOM
SEVENTY-SEVEN CLOCKS
TEN-SECOND STAIRCASE
WHITE CORRIDOR
THE VICTORIA VANISHES
BRYANT & MAY ON THE LOOSE
BRYANT & MAY OFF THE RAILS
BRYANT & MAY AND THE MEMORY OF BLOOD
BRYANT & MAY AND THE INVISIBLE CODE
PAPERBOY: A MEMOIR
FILM FREAK
For more information on Christopher Fowler and his books, see his websites at www.christopherfowler.co.uk and www.peculiarcrimesunit.com
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First published in Great Britain
in 2014 by Doubleday
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Copyright © Christopher Fowler 2014
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