Red Gloves, Volumes I & II

by Christopher Fowler

  ‘What is this made of?’ Mark asked, studying the chased silver overlaid on the cream casing. ‘Is it ivory?’

  ‘Something far more precious. ‘

  ‘What did you do once you realised the original will had been messed up with codicils?’

  ‘I drew up one final version that would sort everything out. It was this version Andrew signed in Monaco the day before he died. In order to receive your rightful inheritance, you need to countersign it. Just a formality.’

  Lycus slipped out a thick grey sheet filled with tiny print and laid it down on his desk with great care. This page looked completely different to the others. He indicated the space at the bottom. ‘Just on the line, if you will.’ He casually waved a hand over the page.

  Mark hesitated, looking at the pen again. ‘First tell me,’ he persisted, ‘what is this?’

  ‘It’s a writing implement that was long thought lost. Your uncle used it for all his important documents. A superstition of his.’

  Mark weighed the fountain pen in his hand once more. ‘It’s made of bone. I went to art college, Lycus, I studied anatomy. It looks like it’s carved from one of the metacarpals. The bones in the wrist that connect to the fingers.’

  Lycus stepped closer. ‘You’re quite right, a rare antique, designed for necromantic purposes. Just a folk superstition,’ he said impatiently. ‘Sign.’

  Mark laid the fountain pen down. ‘No, I can’t.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘The bequests brought death to my family. If I inherit, the same thing will happen to me.’ He recapped the pen and toyed with it, balancing it between his fingers.

  ‘You have to sign, Mark,’ Lycus warned, ‘or you won’t get a thing.’

  ‘I don’t want anything.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. This will change your life. It will give you everything you ever wanted. You haven’t got a penny to your name. You’ll never have to worry about money again.’

  ‘I don’t want to receive an unearned gift. I’d rather give it away.’

  ‘But that’s absurd.’

  ‘Is it? You remember when we met after my uncle died? I kept thinking—why would a lawyer seek me out in a coffee shop, just to tell me that he thought the will had been compromised? Men like you don’t do such things without a reason, Lycus. You wanted me to become suspicious. Dissatisfied. You know what I think?’

  A faint smile traced itself on Lycus’s face. ‘No, what?’

  ‘I think everything you told me in those meetings was designed to get me here tonight.’

  ‘And why would I want to do that?’

  ‘You need me to accept my inheritance.’

  Lycus shook his head in pity. ‘How would that benefit me?’

  Mark snatched up the pen. ‘What’s the secret?’ he asked. ‘Who did this belong to?’

  ‘Give me that.’ Lycus made a lunge for it, but Mark stepped back beyond his reach.

  ‘It’s not about who it belonged to, is it? It’s who it was made from.’ Mark turned the pen’s barrel to the light and noted the inscription carved into the polished bone. Gemacht von der hand unseres herrlichen Leiters.

  ‘I think I finally understand the nature of my uncle’s will. I was his favourite nephew. He told me he was going to leave me the most precious gift of all. And he has.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Lycus moved closer, playing for time.

  ‘He gave me independence. By making sure that I was the only one who was excluded from the bequests, he protected me.’

  ‘Interesting,’ said Lycus carefully. ‘I think perhaps it’s time you knew the truth about your uncle Andrew. His cancer treatments were becoming progressively less successful. Each stay in hospital weakened him, although he hid it well. He didn’t want to cause you any pain. When he discovered he was dying, Andrew feared that in his frail state the family would try to coerce him over the will—which of course they did—so he met with me and asked me if there was a way that I could help him.’

  ‘And you had the answer. You were both collectors.’

  ‘Andrew had long ago realised what his family was really like. He wanted to see them revealed in their true colours, but he didn’t have long to live. I told him that by signing his will in the manner I prescribed, with the instrument we could purchase, his spirit could remain on earth long enough to confirm his suspicions. He would be able to see that justice was done. I told him that each family member who acted uncharitably would be destroyed by the item they were bequeathed.’

  ‘Why would he have believed you?’

  ‘I told you, he was a collector of the arcane. A will is the one document everyone needs to sign. What happens if such a document could truly decide your afterlife? Wouldn’t you want to know? Especially if you had no other choice? Andrew believed me because it was I who found the pen.’

  ‘That was why he went to France. The two of you bought it in Monte Carlo. The one thing I know about Monaco is that it’s a tax haven, a place where private items are secretly traded.’

  ‘Your uncle and I purchased the pen, and he used it to sign a final version of the will—a version only he and I ever witnessed. This one.’ He tapped the grey page on the desk. ‘Feel it. It’s extraordinarily delicate to the touch. We rewrote the will on the flayed skin of a concentration camp victim, and signed it with the Fuhrer’s own hand—or at least, a part of it. Imagine the power we created! The very next day your uncle died, and became a creature of the shadow-world.’

  ‘My uncle wasn’t a vindictive man. He would never have wanted his entire family to suffer.’

  ‘Perhaps not, but he was embittered by the thought of his impending death. He could watch what happened after, but couldn’t intervene.’

  Mark thought for a moment. ‘My uncle Gabriel phoned to tell me he’d seen Andrew, and then he died. What if Andrew was trying to warn him?’

  ‘Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps the real tragedy of Andrew’s deal was that his bitterness left him as he expired, and he no longer wanted revenge. Instead he was forced to watch, powerless to intervene, while his relatives gave in to their base instincts, cruelly dying one after the other. He saw how all men can be brought down to animal behaviour.’

  ‘It’s you, isn’t it? You want what everyone who collects this kind of stuff wants. Proof of the soul.’

  ‘I merely carried out your uncle’s wishes. Of course I wanted proof of the soul’s immortality. The Fuhrer was an occultist, but that isn’t what gives the pen its power. It holds his life essence. Just as all of the other items hold the souls of their owners.’

  ‘You mean the jewellery.’

  ‘I mean everything!’ Lycus shouted. ‘Everything your uncle left behind came from our collection. The steering wheel of Gabriel’s car once belonged to Joseph Goebbels. Cheryl Bayer’s flat had been the home of Aleister Crowley. The emerald necklace was made for Ilse Koch, the so-called Butcher of Buchenwald. The cufflinks had belonged to the serial killer Peter Kurten. The money, too, laundered from generations of Nazi looters through Swiss banks. Everything I persuaded your uncle to leave in his will had been purchased from collectors, often at a terrible cost. Even the rope on Olivia Bayer’s boat had once been part of a hangman’s noose.’

  ‘What about Catherine Bayer’s house?’

  ‘That hadn’t belonged to anyone notorious. But she had. Before she met your uncle, she had been the mistress of a notorious Washington warmonger. Your family was right about her. She had an evil heart. I introduced them.’ He sounded rather proud of the fact. ‘You see, getting the pen and the parchment wasn’t enough. The inheritances had to be filled with the same kind of dark energy. It was a brave experiment, to be sure, but one that paid off. A curious mind is a wonderful thing, Mark. Your uncle shared my fascination with the idea.’

  Mark pretended to continue studying the will. His hands were trembling. ‘Tell me something, Lycus. Did my uncle know he was going to die that morning on the cliffs?’

  ‘Oh
, he knew the cancer would catch up with him soon enough. But you know as well as I do, every gain must be met with a certain amount of sacrifice. Using the pen shaved a few weeks off his life, that’s all. I think I really underestimated its power. It wasn’t the only relic removed from the Fuhrer’s bunker, but it’s the only one that was used in necromantic ceremonies after the war. Now, I think it’s time for you to countersign the will, if you would.’

  Mark made a show of bending over the parchment. Lycus leaned closer, his lips slightly parted in anticipation. Mark prepared to place the nib against the sheet of flesh.

  And, with the flick of his wrist, he sent the bone-pen curving behind him, towards the heat of the fireplace.

  ‘No!’ Lycus dived for it but Mark met him, punching him hard in the stomach. As they fought, the pen fell into the hottest part of the charcoal and began to burn. ‘Get it out!’ Lycus screamed. ‘You don’t understand!’ But Mark slammed the lawyer onto his back and held his boot on Lycus’s throat.

  ‘If the will’s agenda is not completely fulfilled, my soul will have to be surrendered in Andrew’s place.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have let your passions get in the way of a deal.’ He kept the terrified lawyer pinned down as the pen spat and cracked in the fire, which now glowed crimson. Lycus bucked sharply and threw him aside, diving into the fireplace, yelling as the flames attacked his hands. But no matter how hard he tried to grip the pen it kept slipping from his grasp, luring him deeper into the fire.

  Wedged in the roaring fireplace, he turned back to Mark, the crimson inferno roiling over his arms, engulfing his head, tearing at his face, causing his eyes to burst apart. The flames swirled around him in a fiery tornado, sucking the flesh from his charring bones. There was an immense explosion of blood-red flame and his body was lost inside the pulsing orange logs of the fire.

  Mark threw the will in after Lycus, watching as the flesh smoked and burned with a strange green flame.

  Then he put on his jacket and left the house.

  The rain was easing up. He had almost reached the station at the bottom of the hill when his cellphone started to vibrate in his pocket. He checked the caller ID: Ben Bayer.

  ‘I’m really sorry, Mark,’ his brother began. ‘I was broke. I just spent a tiny amount of the money.’

  ‘How much?’ Mark demanded to know.

  ‘Just a hundred pounds. I was going to be thrown out of the flat if I didn’t pay the rent.’

  ‘Lock the doors, Ben. Don’t move a muscle until I get there.’ He closed the phone and set off with a renewed sense of purpose. The will had been destroyed. He prayed that he had acted in time.

  Glancing up at the leaden storm clouds, Mark thought he saw his uncle’s face, smiling down benignly.

  The Conspirators

  At the next table of the hotel restaurant, three waiters took their places beside the diners, and with a synchronised flourish, raised the silver covers on their salvers. A fourth appeared, bearing a tray containing a quartet of tiny copper pots. Each waiter took a handle and proceeded to pour the sauces from the pots onto the salvers from a height of not less than eighteen inches. They might have been tipping jewels into coffers.

  Court and Lassiter barely bothered to break off their conversation and look up at the display. They knew that these ostentatious rituals were the hotel’s way of justifying the risible menu prices to tourists.

  The waiters finished serving and tiptoed away, leaving the diners to warble and coo over their minuscule meals, some kind of cubed chicken in cream. The restaurant was steel, glass and black crystal, with the occasional tortured twist of green bamboo providing natural colour. It was as hushed as a funeral parlour. Everyone seemed to be whispering.

  Sean Lassiter had ordered a steak, medium rare, the only item on the menu that looked like meat. He had eaten it as if he was in an American diner, using only a fork. The steaks were so tender you could do that here.

  ‘When was the last time you knew exactly what you wanted?’ he asked Court, raising his whisky tumbler and studying his former business partner through the diamond-cut lattice.

  Oliver Court’s palms were dry, but he still pressed them against his thighs. Lassiter had once been his mentor, and was the only man in the world who could make him uncomfortable with a simple question.

  ‘Come on, Oliver, I saw the look in your eyes the first day I met you. Nowadays I can’t read your eyes, because you’re wearing coloured contacts. I remember, you were so hungry and envious I thought you might actually start taking notes during our meal. I see that look a lot, but it’s not usually so obvious. When members of my staff get that anxious, it usually means they’re frightened of failure and they’re scared of being found out. Well, I can’t blame anyone for wanting to make the best of themselves. But you were prepared to leave behind an awful lot in order to be a success.’

  It was a gentle rebuke, but a rebuke nonetheless. Lassiter was old school; his compliments were backhanded and his criticisms were constructive. He knew the difference between perspicacity and merely being rude. For a businessman who had been on the road for the past forty years, he was immaculately groomed. His hair was sleek and white, his tan subtle, his suit quietly extravagant.

  He’s heard something about me, thought Court, shifting carefully on his chromium chair, which was too low. The central column of the table prevented him from stretching out his long legs.

  ‘Have you got where you wanted to be?’

  Court did not trust himself to tell the truth. From here he could see out through the curvilinear glass of the restaurant. In front of the hotel, trucks drove back and forth along the spot-lit spit of land that projected into the blackness of the Persian Gulf. The Indian workers went around the clock in shifts, building ever further out into the sea.

  They had kept the conversation light while they ate. Families, schools, colleagues, holidays, topics suitable for food. The serious part required a clear table and strong drinks.

  There was only one other drinker at the bar, a nylon-haired brunette with long legs, a tiny waist and perfectly circular breasts, like a character from a video game. The décolletage of her tight black dress was cut to the aureoles of her nipples. Lassiter assumed she kept herself more carefully covered beyond the confines of the hotel. They were in the Middle East, after all. Seamed stockings, high heels, a brassiere that must have presented an engineering challenge, she was about twenty-three years old and blatantly selling herself. He wondered what the young Arabic barman thought of her.

  Court caught him thoughtfully studying the call-girl’s legs. ‘How long have you known me, Sean?’ he asked, buying time.

  ‘Long enough to see where you’re going.’ Lassiter smiled. He’d had his teeth bleached. They shone peppermint white in the black light from the bar, and made him look like a game show host. He noticed Court following his eyes to the girl. ‘It’s just an honest question.’

  In truth, Lassiter had been disappointed by his apprentice. Court needed the approval of others, and as a consequence, his ambitions were displayed for all to see. He never took advice, so why was he here? Somewhere deep inside Lassiter an alarm bell rang.

  Court knew he could not be completely honest, because there was too much at stake. ‘I think I’ve been pretty successful,’ he answered carefully. ‘There’s still a way to go. That’s why I value your advice.’

  Lassiter looked almost relieved. Perhaps he didn’t want to have an argument with his former pupil. ‘Your division is doing very nicely, Oliver. You’re about to expand it, you wouldn’t be human if you didn’t feel a little nervous. From what I hear, my directors will back you, but in these uncertain times you’ll need to detail your long-term plans. Just don’t be too eager. The English don’t trust people who are anxious to please. It puts them off. They want negotiations to be tricky enough for their colleagues to see how hard they work.’

  ‘I can’t remember a time when I didn’t look up to you,’ said Court, catching the waitress’s e
ye and sewing the air with his right hand, the universal sign for check, please. ‘You’ve always been my—’

  ‘Don’t say “mentor”, Oliver, it makes me feel positively ancient.’

  ‘I was going to say “friend”. I feel I can tell you anything and I’ll always get a straight answer.’

  ‘So long as it works both ways.’

  ‘You don’t have to ask that. I was still just a property agent when you gave me a job. Now I run the whole of the US division. I’d appreciate it if you could cast an eye over my proposals, just to get your feedback.’ Despite the difference in their ages, they were now almost evenly matched in terms of their careers within the company. Lassiter still gave the hotel chain class and respectability. Many considered Court to be an upstart, but he had made North America profitable again by building flashy boutique hotels aimed at kids with money.

  Lassiter smiled at his glass, twisting it. ‘It would be my pleasure, you know that.’ Court was offering to show him his plans ahead of the directors’ meeting? He’d want something in return, but what, and how badly?

  Lassiter looked around at the empty bar, the midnight blue carpet, the silver walls, the glittering star-points in the ceiling. He wondered if this was what Heaven looked like, without a bill at the end of the evening.

  ‘Excuse me for a moment.’ Court rose from his chair and went to say something to the girl. After the exchange, she followed him back to join the table. ‘This is my friend Sean Lassiter,’ he said, introducing her.

  ‘Hi, I’m Vienna.’ She tossed her hair back in a movement designed to help her avoid bothering with eye contact. She was American, he supposed, or had been taught English by one. ‘Look at this place. The Jews and Arabs agree so completely on soft furnishings, you’d think they could work everything else out from that.’ She had as much confidence as either of them, but Court knew that if they ignored her, she would drop out of the conversation. She was a professional. She had brought her own drink with her.

  ‘Mr Lassiter here owns the hotel.’

  That wiped the smile from her face. ‘Is that true?’ she asked, lowering her glass. Court could tell she was racking her brains to recall the name.