“How… how did you know my name?” Mr Swaine-Taylor smiles feebly and the sight is indeed a grisly one. “We have a mutual friend, do we not?” he says. “In Mr Dickens? Besides, my master is expecting you.”
“Your master?”
“Come, Mr Collins. Let us not play games. You know who my master is just as he knows you, and just as he informed me some days past that you should be calling upon us tonight.”
“But how? How is that possible?”
“Time, to my master, is not as it appears to us. It is not a straight line. Rather it is a circle. It is a snake that swallows its tail.”
Mr Collins blinks at this extraordinary sequence of remarks and, thinking of that strange doorknocker, is in the midst of marshalling some challenge or reply when Swaine-Taylor raises one arm and beckons. “Do step inside now, sir,” he says. “Mr Cannonbridge is waiting for you.”
Everything that is in Collins—every instinct for survival, every superstitious urge for self-preservation, every impulse to flee— screams at him to remove himself from that benighted house at almost any cost. Instead, he only increases his resolve, pushes aside his imploring conscience, ignores the urging of his soul and steps over the threshold.
“Very good,” simpers Swaine-Taylor. “Now, pray sir, walk this way.”
It is gloomy within and the tapering corridor, singularly unwelcoming, along which Mr Collins now follows the ruined man, seems itself to possess a kind of malice, as though the presence of the little writer is in some sense an affront to it. Besides it is treacherous to navigate in the flickering half-light that is cast by sporadically-placed candles and Wilkie is able to catch only glimpses of the walls—shattered and crumbling, an occasional oil painting of striking ugliness hung there to disguise the worst of the decay. The floor is strangely spongy underfoot. Neither person speaks as they progress.
Eventually, a speck of light comes into view, grows steadily larger before Wilkie is ushered into a large room, lit a little better than the rest, its walls lined with books. He has been brought also, he realises, into the presence of Mr Matthew Cannonbridge.
The great man seems unchanged from those previous occasions on which Wilkie has spied him and he accords exactly, of course, with the Inimitable’s description. He stands upright in the centre of the room, arms outstretched in a rhetorical gesture of welcome, wearing both a dark dressing gown, wrapped tightly around him, and a smile which, whilst doubtless intended as that of an agreeable host, strikes Collins as quite the most sharkish that he has ever seen. There is also, he sees now, a lit cigarette smouldering in the author’s right hand, at the sight of which Collins feels a sudden stab of longing for that distinctive satisfaction which only tobacco can provide.
So caught up is he in his examination of his host (and many of the books upon the shelves are, sees Collins now, those by Cannonbridge himself) that he scarcely notices Swaine-Taylor, with a kind of croaking flourish, announce the visitor by name.
Wilkie is fully cognisant of the moment, however, and indeed is quite certain that he shall never forget it, when Matthew Cannonbridge turns his gaze upon him and says: “Mr Collins. You are most welcome.”
The smaller man, he of the ragged loping gait and the head that looks to be too big for his body, in spite of the prickling in his throat, the sweat that springs up upon his palms at the sound of these words and the concomitant ache in his head, remains determined to stand his ground. “Mr Cannonbridge,” he says, with as much graciousness as he can manage, “your creature told me I was expected.”
“That is so.” The smile is unwavering, the eyes hard and cold.
“Might I ask how that is so, sir? My enquiries were discreet, I told no-one of my intentions and I sent no word before me.”
Cannonbridge waves the question aside. “My gaze is not as other men’s.”
“How so, sir?”
At this, the smile diminishes just a little. “Now is not the time. But might I ask the reason for this call? The hour is a late one and, as you can see, I am at my leisure.” He raises the cigarette to his lips, inhales and lets loose a long, thin stream of grey smoke. Without having to be summoned, Swaine-Taylor scuttles forwards and catches the ash that has been dislodged by the motion with an inexplicable expression of the purest joy upon his face, in the palms of his upturned hands.
Trying his best to ignore the grotesquery of the scene, Collins presses on. “I am surprised, sir, given your apparent gift for prophecy, that you do not already know it.”
“Perhaps,” says Cannonbridge, shooing away the fawning figure of his manservant, “I wish merely to hear it directly from you.”
As the sole object of Mr Cannonbridge’s undiluted attention, Collins finds that he is shifting nervously to and fro and from foot to foot. With a considerable effort of will he rights himself. “I have been sent with a message.”
“Oh? And who has sent you?”
“Charles Dickens.”
“I see.” Cannonbridge’s tone is flat and unsurprised, leavened by the slightest suggestion of amusement. “And what does little Charles want with me?”
“This,” Wilkie says and, delving deeply into the pocket of his frock-coat, produces a thick manila envelope with the initials ‘M.C.’ inked hard upon the front of it.
Cannonbridge takes another drag on his cigarette. “And what is that?”
“Your money, sir, returned in full.”
An affectation of surprise. “My money, sir? Why, I do believe that it is more properly to be described as Mr Swaine-Taylor’s money.”
At this, the man in question leers, as if at some long-cherished private joke.
“Sir,” says Wilkie firmly, “as I understand it there is very little difference between the two.”
Cannonbridge appears to acknowledge the truth of this remark. “Perhaps,” he says. “And Charles wishes to give it back to me now, does he? My recollections of that time are, I confess it, somewhat dim and befogged but I seem to remember that he had no such qualms as a boy.” One final plume of smoke and the cigarette is done. Cannonbridge discards it upon the floor and Swaine-Taylor scrambles to collect and dispose of it.
Wilkie says nothing but only holds the envelope out before him, his arm shaking quite visibly.
Cannonbridge nods to his man. Swaine-Taylor capers over, takes the envelope from Collins’ hand and bears it, like a lap dog, to his master.
The paper is torn open. The contents are given a derisory glance.
“I think you will find, sir, that the amount is paid in full.”
Cannonbridge wrinkles his nose as if at the detection of some disagreeably pungent odour. “A pity,” he says. “Dear me. For I saw such profit in it.”
“Did you indeed, sir?”
“I did. For Mr Dickens is a phenomenon of the age, is he not? His words have become integral to our culture. Unlike, say, yours, Mr Collins. He shall surely fill every lecture hall in the kingdom. I suspect that you would struggle to do the same.”
“I do not deny it. I understand well my place in the scheme of things.”
The smile returns, broader than before. “Now that I very much doubt. You see, Mr Collins, what men like you never seem to understand is how much power there is within this envelope. Even in its return, Charles shall never truly be free of me. I will always be a part of him. As for others, well, see here…” He draws the banknotes from the envelope, raises them high above his head, tosses them into the air and watches them flutter towards the ground. He barks, once and terribly: “Fetch!”
Swaine-Taylor, subject to whatever strange enslavement it is which holds him so tightly, struggles to catch every part of that blizzard of money, performing a desperate jog in his frantic efforts.
“You may go now, Mr Collins,” says Cannonbridge against this thoroughly grotesque performance. “Tell your master that the rumours that flock about him even now shall soon solidify into infamy and scandal. Tell him that he shall be dead within the year. Your own career will end in f
ailure and disgrace.”
The last of the notes flutters to the floor. Swaine-Taylor snatches it up and clasps it, together with the rest of the booty, to his chest. A single, shrill whimper escapes him.
Cannonbridge arches an eyebrow and says to Mr Collins: “You look as though you have a question forming upon your lips.”
“Yes, sir.” Wilkie’s voice is trembling slightly. “Before I take my leave of you, I have to ask you this.”
“Go on.”
“Why? Why this squalor and degradation? You are rich and famous and, in certain quarters, somewhat inexplicably in my view, greatly admired. You could live almost anywhere you chose. Why dwell in this place of darkness and sin?”
Cannonbridge seems to think for a moment before replying. “Because,” he says, at length, “this is not where I live. Not truly. Rather it is where I hide.”
He pauses. Collins does not interrupt.
“You see,” the saturnine man continues, “I feel—have always felt—that I am pursued. There is a shadow at my back. I have glimpsed it from the corner of my eye all of my remarkable existence. And it seems now… to be growing… more distinct.”
“I…” Collins finds—unusually, if not uniquely—that he has no notion at all of what to say. He merely gazes at the curious figure of his host, of the manservant now sunk to the ground, still clutching his money.
Cannonbridge says quietly “Go” and, when Collins does not immediately begin to move, shouts: “Get out!”, screams “Get out!”
And without hesitation and without looking back Mr Wilkie Collins takes to his heels and all but runs from that place of wickedness, down that crepuscular corridor, back over the threshold, up the treacherous path and out into the vile alley beyond. He does not begin to calm himself until he is in a cab and crossing the river once more. And, as he sits, shaking and ill at ease in that shuddering vehicle, he wonders—he shall always wonder— whether it was indeed his imagination which caused him to see, when he glanced back just at the moment when the house had disappeared from view, a bristling, many-sided shadow shuffle with terrible purpose by the door of Matthew Cannonbridge.
NOW
IT IS GROWING dark again (too soon, Toby thinks, too soon, as though there has been but a sliver of true day), former Corporal Gillingham has gone, muttering troubled apologies, and Dr Judd is alone with Gabriela again. They have made it as far as Inverness where, on her credit card, they have booked into a Holiday Inn for the night, into a beige twin room, the homogeneity of the place curiously comforting after the stark horror of the dawn. A solitary lamp provides brackish illumination.
They are lying on their single beds, separated by a patch of caramel-coloured carpet not more than one foot wide, both of them fully dressed and both exhausted. The television is on, its sound muted, as an advert for razor blades plays out in soundless idiocy.
Both seem to be on the cusp of a sleep born of profound physical fatigue, although their minds still race and churn.
“Have you any theories?” Toby asks. “About what it might have been? The… guardian?”
Gabriela sighs. “I can’t seem to focus on it. When I try to remember… it’s as if my memory recoils at the thought of it. Like it just refuses to focus on what we saw.”
“I know just what you mean.”
“Perhaps…”
Toby breathes in the clean antiseptic smell of the hotel room, finds himself hunkering down on the inexpensive, though scrupulously laundered, linen. “Yes?”
“Maybe there are some things the mind just refuses to remember in full. Like a self-preservation mechanism. Like it’s protecting itself somehow.”
“You could be right. It’s… I don’t know… Do you remember that chapter in The Wind in the Willows? It’s one that people tend to forget. They meet Pan. Remember? They meet the great god Pan.”
But Gabriela isn’t listening to him anymore. She is staring at the television screen. The adverts are over, replaced by the news, the endless rounds of information which fill the channel for twentyfour hours a day. There has been no sign of Toby’s image so far. Instead, there is a horribly familiar likeness on the screen—a nineteenth century photograph, a saturnine man dressed in black.
Then the image shifts and below the perky smile of the newscaster rolls a ticker tape of information.
‘The Cannonbridge Gala,’ it reads, ‘Growing list of dignitaries confirmed to attend. Event to be held tomorrow at the heart of Canary Wharf.’
“Good grief,” Toby breathes. “I’d lost track… I’d quite lost track of time. It’s tomorrow, isn’t it? It’s happening tomorrow?”
The woman fumbles for the remote. “Looks that way. Why do I get the feeling that everything’s about to snap violently into place?” She locates the controller, stabs at a button and the room is filled with the babble of rolling news with the rise and fall of the journalist’s robotic delivery. The words “greatest British author” are mentioned as are “politicians, pop stars, the great and the good”, as are “the best of our island nation” as, Toby notes, with something strangely almost like nostalgia, is “Dr J J Salazar.”
He is about to say something—anything—to the tired yet beautiful woman who lies almost within touching distance of him when another sound interrupts the chatter of the set: the shrill peal of a telephone.
There is such a device on the cabinet next to Gabriela’s side of the bed. She frowns and, without thinking, picks it up and places the cheap-looking receiver to one ear.
“Yes?” She frowns again. “He’s here.” She looks over. “Toby? It’s for you.”
“Reception?” he asks hopefully, though he knows, of course, that it isn’t, that, given what his life has become, it can’t be anything so prosaic as that.
He gets up, hurries over, accepts the call. “Who is this?”
The line is crackly, the voice on the other end female and unfamiliar. “Dr Toby Judd?”
“Yes,” he says. “Who are you?”
“My name is Jenny Blessborough.”
“What?”
“I understand that you’ve been investigating my grandfather’s work.”
“Yes. But how did you possibly—”
“Judd, you need to get out of that hotel room. We are waiting for you outside. We’re in the white van. Looks like it needs a clean. You need to take your girlfriend and get out of there at once.”
“Why? I mean, why should we possibly trust you? Even if you are who you say you are?”
“There’s a man on your trail. A man named Mr Keen. Until now he’s only been watching and biding his time. But the order’s obviously been given.”
“Who? What order?”
“The order to take you in. We’ve seen his car. We’ve seen the Saab. For all we know, he might already be inside the hotel. So I say again: you need to get out of there now.”
And the phone goes dead.
“Who was that?” Gabriela is on her feet, tense and alarmed.
“She said her name was Blessborough…”
“What? What on earth did she want?”
“She said there’s someone after us. And that she’d be waiting for us outside. And that—”
Too late. He is interrupted before he can say more, not this time by any electronic sound but by something far earthier and utterly unmistakable. The door to their room is kicked—literally kicked—open with a single, contemptuous gesture and there is a man standing on the threshold, a neat and smiling man whose eyes seethe nonetheless with insanity. He grins with gruesome relish. And he is chewing, Toby realises, chewing something soft.
“Dr Judd,” says the man with murderous certainty, but rather too loud, as if his hearing is obscured in some way and he is no longer certain of the volume of his speech. “Get on the floor now. You–” He points at Gabriela. “You do the same.” Almost nonchalantly, he reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a long, serrated knife.
My God, thinks Toby, my God, but there’s something… there’s some
thing encrusted on the blade.
He is surprised by what happens next although he ought, perhaps, not to be.
Wordlessly, wasting no time nor giving her opponent any opportunity to react, Gabriela rushes at the man in the doorway, throwing her whole body hard against him. Even so, the knifeman does not fall but only stumbles. She takes advantage of this momentary distraction by forcing the blade from his hand and onto the hotel floor.
“Run!” she shouts. “Toby! Run!”
The fight begins in earnest then, vicious hand-to-hand combat. Gabriela striking with supple, determined art, the stranger parrying her blows with the sick delight of the professional who discovers a worthy opponent at last after months of encountering only amateurs, dilettantes and pushovers.
“Run!” the woman shouts again. “I’ll follow! I promise. This is too important. You need to get away.” At this speech, the man laughs—a thick, glutinous chuckle.
“I can’t… Can’t leave you to this.”
“Go, Toby! Go!”
“Gabriela, I—”
“Run! I beg you. Run! Now!”
Toby hesitates, thinking that he should stay, knowing that he ought by rights to at least try to help but then he sees the fierce command on the woman’s face and he does as he is told. Filled with regret and shame, he leaves them battling on, each offering the other no respite nor any possibility of mercy.
He runs, down the corridor, down the stairs and into the soulless lobby. As he sprints, he hears, in short succession, the guttural sound of male pain and then a woman’s high cry. He stops, hesitates, thinks about going back. Then, remembering the Sergeant’s order, runs on.
Outside the hotel, a white van is waiting, engine running, door open.
The window is wound down, the driver, a stout, dark-haired woman in early middle age, leaning anxiously out.
“Hurry up!” she shouts. “Come on!”
Panting, his little body jolted onwards by fresh adrenaline, Toby clambers inside the van almost without thinking. He glimpses a couple of mattresses, a few boxes and, in the shadows, a low, prone, motionless shape.
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