I left him to his fogged musings and went upstairs. The walls were covered with prints that could generously be called erotic, but most would see as pornographic, not to say cruel to animals. I felt particularly sorry for the donkey on the second landing, and the kid goat on the top stairs. I looked quickly in at one room where a dozen or so people sat smoking spliffs and watching a homemade porn film on a giant plasma screen. Beatrix Potter would be proud that the place where she first dreamed of Peter Rabbit was now a dosshouse for perverts. No one even saw me. I realised that Charlie’s two houses represented something about the split in the man – the London house ordered, clean, sanitized, cultured, and the country house a bedlam of strange Dionysian desires and appetites both jaded and pernicious. He had Apollo’s reason and order and Dionysus’ chaos and the bacchanal battling away inside his skull for supremacy. For Nietzsche the godlike unity of the Dionysian experience is of utmost importance because it emphasizes the harmony that can be found within one’s chaotic experience, order balanced by chaos, reason by feeling, but I suspected that for Charlie the Apollonian was a mere front for the world and simply a means to facilitate carnage for its own sake. I have nothing morally against perversity, as long as everyone consents.
I found Charlie’s en suite bedroom: a four poster bed with lace hangings, a bay window big enough to house a library, prints of the original Jacques Brissot ordaining all the walls – far too many of them, as if Charlie was trying to expunge his own identity with that of an imagined historical Other. There was a dressing table containing a hairbrush and a collection of ear studs, which was odd because Charlie didn’t have a pierced ear. Darnel Thompson did. The penny dropped. This put a new slant on Charlie – his Rottweiler wasn’t just an employee, but his bedmate too. A small dressing room off the bedroom confirmed a mix of clothes – the elegant Cardin and Gucci suits of Charlie, as I now thought of him, and the designer jeans and leather jackets of Darnel. Still I couldn’t find anything in cupboards or drawers that incriminated Charlie, which was my main hope in coming here. At the very least I could shake him up.
Freud had told me Charlie was triskaidekaphobic, someone with an abnormal fear of the number thirteen, so I arranged the ear studs on the dresser into a number thirteen, then the thirteen pebbles and petals I’d collected to form the word CHARLIE on the bed pillow. Then, with a felt pen, I made a speech bubble coming from the mouth of Brissot on one of the prints, extending out onto the white wall. Inside I wrote What’s it all about, Chas? I don’t even know you. Jacques. In the bathroom I used shaving foam to write a large 13 on the mirror inside a heart with an arrow through it. Then I left a note on the dresser saying I knew all about his business, and so would a lot of other people very soon. All of this was extremely childish, but psychotic characters like Charlie have a deeply narcissistic childish streak, and I thought he might respond. The angrier I made him, the more he might break cover and show me something that I could use against him.
I left the room, then ducked back in as a door opposite opened. I waited a few seconds then looked out. Someone was walking down the stairs. A beautiful pair of legs that I would recognise anywhere. Now the hair was dark and cut short. Perhaps she’d worn a wig before. As she turned on the landing to go down the next flight her impressive outline confirmed it – this was Dancy, Andy Hebden’s PA and occasional lover – unless she fabricated that latter role. So she had been a plant in his office, presumably to report back to Charlie, unless she had suddenly switched sides after Andy’s death. I’d made some important discoveries – it had been worth taking the risks. I went across to the room and entered. It was all lilac, a dressing table full of creams and lotions and make up, a wardrobe full of clothes. I looked through a small bureau and found a passport. It was her – real name Angela Haynes. Charlie’s sister. This put an even weirder slant on Charlie – if he now believed he was a descendant of Jacques Brissot despite the constant living reminder of his sister, then the fractures in his mind were gargantuan. I started to flip back over things and wondered again if Angela had been present at Andy’s murder and helped to arrange the body. The fact that he’d contacted me would have been enough to seal his death, and the CCTV I’d seen had been stage managed and altered for my benefit. She still had wonderful legs, though. I pocketed the passport.
Chapter Twenty One
It’s not dark yet but it’s getting there.
Bob Dylan
I went back to the university. Alfred did a little jig on my desk and nibbled my ear.
“Forward, the Light Brigade! Charge for the guns!” he said.
I finished the lines:
“Into the valley of Death rode the six hundred. I think that’s exactly what I’m doing, Alfred – charging for the guns. I just hope they’re not loaded.”
I rang Audrey on the internal phone and thanked her for the Outreach posting. I said I’d enjoyed it and was looking forward to the two terms I’d spend there. I confirmed that I’d find a replacement lecturer for me. A pause while she decided how to respond. She would think I was lying, trying to bluff her into submission, but there would also be the slip of a doubt – is he telling the truth? If she was giving me something I actually wanted, she’d have to think again.
The smell from Kierkegaard’s cage was becoming toxic, so I took him out and put him in my intray, where he started nibbling a memo from Audrey marked VERY URGENT. Mrs. Simpson had bought some sawdust and hay. As I cleaned his little house I remembered Andy saying “Reckon he knows more than he lets on.” At the time it meant nothing, but now I started to wonder. I looked at Kierkegaard and he looked back, still chomping on the memo. I examined his cage, lifted it up and looked underneath. Then I saw that the thin tin floor slid out once you removed the wire carapace. Beneath it was an envelope. Inside were three sheets of paper containing dates and details of shipments of drugs and details of an offshore account which took payment. The account was administered by one Eric Tripp. There was also a letter To Whom It May Concern which contained details of Brissot/Charlie’s knowledge of and involvement with the fake pharmaceutical drugs scam, signed by Andy. It also gave the real names and addresses of drivers who would probably be open to a clemency co-operation deal with the police. With help from the drivers and pressure on Tripp, this could be enough to crumble Charlie’s empire of pain. Thank you, Andy. Thank you Kierkegaard. I finished cleaning his cage and put him back, whereupon he instantly started to busy himself building a new nest, constructed partly from Audrey’s masticated memo.
My blood suddenly froze. Damn damn damn. It’s possible that I could know Charlie’s real name from all kinds of sources, but there was also a strong chance he would know it was Septimus King aka Freud who had told me. If that happened would he be able to track him down? Would he know that Septimus had given himself a new identity too? I wouldn’t put it past him. Especially as I’d been followed by my fedora man, who must work for Brissot. It was more than possible. I didn’t want another death on my conscience. I photocopied all the documents and left the originals in my office in an envelope marked: To Mrs. Simpson: To be opened if Dr. Rook doesn’t return by 30th June. She was the only person I trusted – any academic would immediately open the envelope. Audrey would use it to try and destroy my non-existent reputation. I put the copies in my pocket.
I arrived at the Tunnel early evening, the sun just setting a bloody trail on the Thames. I counted three cormorants and two herons on the banks and wished I could fly. Peopleless, the world sometimes still glowed with a hopeless, glittering shine. Everything seemed to suddenly drain of colour and all was a faint sepia, and a small, ancient boat I hadn’t seen before was approaching where I stood, rowed by the man in the fedora hat. Then I gasped as I felt a wave crash violently over someone’s head – was it mine? Everything fractured like a dream and I didn’t know where I ended and the world began, as if all experiences were mine and I was filling up with the world until I ceased altogether. Then I closed my eyes against piercing sunlight through tre
es and the unsettling shriek of a bird. I felt as if I might be falling a long way when a voice called me back.
“Pilgrim! We thought you’d never come.”
Freud was standing with his arms outstretched, a bottle of cognac in one hand, at the entrance to the tunnel. His red-rimmed eyes danced and mocked everything. He puffed on an enormous cigar, approached and offered me the bottle. I declined.
“You think you might catch something from my diseased carcass. Very wise. And you’ve seen him again. The Ferryman. Means he’s close. But more importantly – the beggars banquet continues apace.”
I followed him into the tunnel where a very macabre banquet and party was in full swing. It was like walking into a Hogarth print. The tunnel people eating and drinking, a few dancing to the music of a broken violin played by a one eyed woman wearing a large hat with feathers fireworking out. A couple groped on a filthy blanket. One man lay propped against the wall with a hypodermic hanging from his swollen arm. The contents of the Harrods hampers lay scattered and half eaten. Bottles of Hostomme champagne lay next to bottles of cider and cleaning fluid in umbrageous corners. A smell of warm death leaked from the walls. I knew that Freud got a perverse pleasure from this dissolution. It confirmed his view that the world was a sewer and the sooner we understood that and got on with the sordid and pleasurable business of self-destruction the better.
He savoured it all with a smile, led me to his filthy den and produced two more bottles of Hostomme.
“Let’s have one other gaudy night: call to me all my sad captains; fill our bowls once more; let’s mock the midnight bell,” he said.
“I think your former psycho patient Charlie might come,” I said.
“And you’re here as my Sir Galahad to protect me?” he said, and threw back his head in a wheezing, gutsy laugh. “That’s beautiful, pilgrim. Two swordless dancing failures trying to hold back the night. Have a drink.”
I took one of the bottles of champagne, opened it and swigged. I was in the presence of complete madness. Freud knew they were coming. I’d never had a case so chaotic. I should have left but I felt exhausted, and there was the achingly familiar nag of curiosity – how would this play out? I had to know, especially now I had the satisfaction of being able to squash Charlie. The only sensible thing to do was have another swig and wait. I wasn’t leaving now. The noise outside the den from the party quailed and rose and fell like the Thames itself. There was an odd wail of pain as something bit deep into the flesh or the brain. I could see how Freud found this strangely comforting. It was somehow preferable to the braying of parliament, the waffling of academe, the self-entrancement of ordinary life. At least it was real, visceral suffering feeding on a history of damaged lives, bleeding minds and broken stories. It drifted away and I may have slept fitfully for an hour or two. When I came to Freud was staring at me, sadly.
“How do you feel?” he asked.
“As if a camel shat in my mouth,” I said, taking a swig of champagne, swilling it and spitting it out.
“All experiences are to be savoured. The fall is long and not a moment to miss on the way. Wei la la.”
We fell silent but seemed to be continuing a conversation on some tenebrous level. We understood each other. So – one of the few people to understand me is a clinically deranged, disgraced psychiatrist who prefers decadence, squalor and filth to a decent life. I suppose I should be concerned.
Then they came.
Chapter Twenty Two
There is no God, Nature sufficeth unto herself; in no wise hath she need of an author.
Marquis de Sade
Darnel entered the filthy little cardboard den first. He shot me a look of venom. I wondered if he’d actually taken on Kev’s brother. Probably not. He was followed by Charlie, wearing a perfect Gucci suit and clearly repulsed by everything he could see, hear and smell. After him came the man in the fedora and long coat, the hat pulled low. Freud looked at each and smiled.
“Pilgrims, welcome to my little fiefdom. Sit, eat, drink, avail yourselves of the convivialities,” he said, offering them a swig from a bottle of Hostomme. They all declined. Darnel sat on an overturned box, as did fedora man. Charlie stood and looked at Freud contemptuously.
“I knew it was you. And look at you now.” He spat at Freud, who calmly wiped the spittle from his coat and smiled.
“Jacques, Charlie, whoever you think you are, I am exactly where I should be. Unlike you. And ponder – I invented you. Gave you a name, a new identity which has served you richly, a dream to live in, though to look at you, I wouldn’t say happily. I sniff discontent in the lapels of that Gucci-wucci made to measure,” said Freud, and his eyes glittered like something possessed, which I suppose in a way he was. Possessed by some spirit of carnage that celebrated the wreckage of the human frame when it fell into despair and destruction.
Charlie reddened and kicked a bottle across the den, like a child in a tantrum, and screamed, “I am not Charlie! There is no Charlie! Don’t ever call me Charlie! And you are fucking dead. You know that, don’t you? After talking to that little worm.”
Freud raised his filthy hands conciliatorily. I was the worm in question and judged it best to keep quiet. Fedora man was looking at me from beneath the brim of his hat. Darnel was waiting for his boss to give the order – he badly wanted to hurt me. Charlie turned on me.
“I want to know exactly what you have found out, and if you’ve told anyone. And if you lie, if you even think about lying I will know and you will die slowly, and I’ll give your sweet little daughter to Darnel here, who will do unspeakable things to her before he chops off her arms and legs and sacks her up for the river.”
All semblance of sophistication, all intellectual pretension, had evaporated as his name, Brissot, had dislodged. It was as if the name had provided a mask, and now the mask was slipping the beast was appearing – a rapacious little thug who got others to do his dirty work. Even his voice was different, the clipped vowels replaced by an Elephant and Castle twang. He had no intention of letting me live, and he did indeed need to know if I had communicated anything incriminating, so I could play this on my own terms – for now.
“I’ll tell you exactly what I know, but you have to tell me a few things first,” I said.
He wasn’t expecting this. His eyes widened, he stifled a laugh and looked around disbelievingly.
“You think you’re in control here? You think you’re running this? You want me to have you finished now?”
“You want me to stop him?” Darnel asked, producing a Colt .380 Mustang revolver. It looked like a toy but was lightweight, efficient and deadly.
“I’m just offering a trade. Jacques Brissot the original would have understood. A little diplomacy to get what you want,” I said.
He looked at me, trying to work out if I was mocking him; he was infuriated that he needed something here – information. Freud was enjoying every moment of this, and took a fifty pound slug of champagne. Charlie pretended he now found it all amusing.
“OK. Let’s chat. Enjoy the party. What do you want to know, Rook?”
“First. Someone helped hang up Andy Hebden’s body. Was it your sister?”
Charlie smiled.
“She’s a strong girl,” he said.
“OK. Now this. I’ve met people who do all kinds of things to other people, to themselves, without a twitch. But there’s something about this fake pharmaceutical business that makes me wonder. I mean – it’s almost as bad as being a politician – overseeing the death and excruciating suffering of hundreds of thousands of people just for… profit. Why?”
“Are you some sort of moral crusader?” Charlie asked.
“No. The opposite. I’m just curious. What does it feel like?”
Charlie’s lips curled.
“Bloody great. I love it. It’s the icing on the cake every time I look at my bank statement.”
“Marty said you loved it. But what do you love exactly?” I asked.
His face was
like a map that constantly changed its routes and contours. Something happened in this moment, as if he’d never asked himself what I had just asked, and it interested him greatly. Now his gears were really engaging. Something was awakening in him – a recognition of the shifting wormy nature of self. In the middle ages people might believe this was a moment when the soul appeared in the eyes, blinking at the hostile world. It is bizarre moments like this that I treasure – when someone pushes the rock away and you can see inside the cave – all the obscure behemoths and gremlins that reside there, frolicking in the dark. Yes, I know – I should be locked up. It will doubtless happen one day.
“Setting something in motion. Some monumental horror. The dog’s bollocks of catastrophes. And knowing it goes on and on, just by me pressing the button. It’s nothing to do with good or evil, it’s way beyond all that crap. Something out there that you can sniff when the lights go out, it’s there with you, breathing. That good enough – you think I’m a psycho?”
“I think you’re in very good company. The Marquis de Sade said something similar – that he’d like to find a crime with perpetual effects, so that even when he was asleep, or dead, he’d still be the cause of some chaos of huge proportions that would run and run.”
Charlie beamed.
“Exactement,” he said. “Feel the rush. The money, houses, cars – great, but it’s the rush that gets you tanked and ready to fly. Now – why would you want to spoil that?”
“I suppose I’m naturally contrary,” I said.
He stepped close to me. I could see in his eyes he was juiced up on something – coke, or perhaps just his own demons.
“What have you got on me, Rook?” he asked, enunciating each word.
“A lot, Charlie boy,” I said. “Enough to screw you harder than Darnel ever could.”
A moment of bombshell silence as the insult took root. I think I was tired of everything and for a stupid moment thought sod the consequences. In my favour I’d also told the truth. I did have enough to screw him for good. I showed him copies of the incriminating papers. Charlie’s pupils dilated, a sickening sweetness oozed from him and sweat popped on the sides of his nose. I thought he was going to sink his teeth into my face, but he opened his mouth and exhaled loudly, as if emptying some inner sickness over me. Then he straightened and looked at Darnel.
Beyond Good and Evil Page 10