Roofworld

by Christopher Fowler

  If there had been a last dim thought in his charred and shattered brain, it would have been the happy realization that he had returned to the place which he had been so long forbidden. At last he could say he had both feet on the ground.

  Monday 15 December

  Chapter 2

  The Newgate Legacy

  At precisely 3.15, Robert noticed the gargoyles. There were five of them sitting along the tops of the windows. Squat and broad, they failed to spout water or enhance the appearance of the building opposite, but merely crouched on the narrow ledge around its brow, their broad mouths grinning in grotesque mirth. Cast in deep-grey stone, smooth and shiny, they had stubby, clawed bodies—no wings—and punk haircuts. At least, that’s how it seemed to Robert, with tufts of hair rising over the crowns of their heads. Their mouths were closed beaks, their eyes characterless but vaguely friendly, like those of a pig.

  Robert was sure he had never seen them before and did not know why he should suddenly notice them now. He sat with his feet up on his desk watching the rain steadily falling as he cradled the telephone receiver in one hand, waiting for the engaged tone to clear. Sometimes when it rained in London he wondered if there was anyone out there working at all, or whether they all sat looking out of their office windows, dreaming of being somewhere else, biding their time and nursing the same vague feelings of dissatisfaction.

  ‘The line’s still busy. Will you hold?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll hold.’ This was the sixth bookshop he had tried in the last hour. He seemed to spend his life on the end of a damned telephone receiver. He looked down at the dial panel. Memory Search. Memory Recall. Guaranteed User Friendly. How he loathed the new technology. Thanks to this state-of-the-art telephone system he no longer needed to memorize his friends’ numbers and was therefore unable to call them outside company hours.

  The gargoyles appeared to be staring into his office, like small stone spies employed to keep a check on his efficiency. Not that he was being remotely efficient today. What had begun as such a simple task was turning into an irritating dead end. He tilted back the chair and stretched. His arms and shoulders still ached from his trip to the swimming baths earlier in the week. He was too young to be getting out of condition, he told himself. The telephone receiver crackled.

  ‘You’re through.’

  ‘Thank you. Hello?’ Robert swung his legs from the desk and sat upright. ‘I wonder if you can help me. My name is Robert Linden. I’m trying to trace a copy of a book by…’ He checked the notepad in front of him. ‘…Charlotte Endsleigh. It’s called The Newgate Legacy. Published about three years ago, I think. Thank you.’

  Another wait, this time for nearly five minutes. Robert was away from the telephone lighting a cigarette when the woman came back on the line. She knew of the book, but was unable to supply him with a copy. Had he tried his local library? Robert admitted that it had not occurred to him to visit a public library. He made thanking noises and rang off. Behind him, Skinner, one of the company’s directors, entered the office.

  ‘No luck with the book yet?’ he asked casually. It irritated Robert to realize that he must have been listening outside the door.

  ‘No. I’m trying not to get people too interested in it in case they start asking questions.’ He pretended to tidy some paperwork on his desk, anxious for Skinner to leave.

  ‘Fine. If it’s as good as you say it is and you manage to track a copy down, we can get back to them with an offer by the end of the week. Find out their minimum time option and take it.’

  Skinner had the annoying habit of constantly reminding him how to do his job. Robert threw a glance at the crisply suited figure in the doorway and coughed on his cigarette.

  ‘You should try to give up those things in the New Year,’ said Skinner airily. ‘Make it your resolution. What are you doing for Christmas? Going home?’

  ‘No,’ coughed Robert, thumping his chest.

  ‘Too far to travel?’

  ‘Something like that.’ Robert saw no reason to explain the indifferent attitude he held towards his parents.

  ‘Oh.’ Skinner could see that he was not going to be questioned on his own plans. ‘I’m going skiing with Trish,’ he volunteered. ‘She can’t bear the thought of being in England over Christmas.’

  ‘I know how she feels. All those poor people about on the streets make you feel guilty for enjoying yourself, don’t they?’

  Skinner gave him an uncertain look. She probably can’t bear the thought of an event which revolves around someone else, thought Robert. A very attractive woman, though. Given Skinner’s negative sexual allure, the chemistry which presumably existed between them was a complete mystery to everyone in the office.

  ‘I hope you have a great time,’ said Robert. ‘Think of me and the cat on Christmas Day.’ Preferably just before you attempt an erection, he thought, grinding out his cigarette in the ashtray.

  ‘Yes, well, keep at it,’ sniffed Skinner. ‘Remember you’re on commission.’

  As Skinner closed the door, Robert lowered his head onto the desk. He hated Skinner almost as much as he hated telephones. The man approached the other people in his life as if he owned fifty-one per cent of their stock. His bluff, unimaginative, let’s-play-golf-next-Tuesday attitude with clients made Robert feel hopelessly inferior. But then Skinner was a money man, while Robert had been employed for his creative ability. Which was just as well, as the practical side of his nature was virtually non-existent.

  He really had to start getting some sleep at night. Just lately he had been waking in a cold sweat, the remnants of the damned dream still plucking at the edges of his consciousness. Lighting up another cigarette in deliberate defiance of Skinner’s advice, he tapped out a file entry entitled Newgate on the computer and prepared to negotiate a deal for the book rights, based on the assumption that a) he could find a copy of it and b) it was still readable.

  In their never-ceasing search for adaptable television material, the company regularly optioned the works of obscure authors, in the hope of raising production money for a TV series they could then sell to the networks. Once in a while they hit the jackpot, but the whole time-consuming process was a frustrating affair, with works proving untraceable, books subsequently revealing themselves as unscriptable and the enthusiasm of the money men waning as soon as they saw typed-up budget proposals.

  Robert checked the address of the nearest public library, then wandered along to the coffee machine, filled a plastic cup and took it across to his window. It had just begun to rain once more, the first heavy drops spattering the gargoyles opposite, darkening their faces into scowls. He had made no plans for the evening ahead, or indeed for any part of the approaching holiday season. By the look of the sky, it wouldn’t be a lot of fun going out tonight. Below, people began to move off the streets as the strength of the rain increased, water pouring from the rooftop gutters with the crackling sound of chips in fat. Merry Christmas everybody, thought Robert, draining his coffee with a grimace.

  The library, a fussy little building of Victorian red brick, had made a half-hearted effort to drag its image into the eighties by setting up window displays designed by local schoolchildren. One of them depicted an Asian Santa Claus on a skateboard, while the other had the infant Jesus being visited by the Three Wise Women. Inside, a pale young woman with frizzy red hair and attractive green eyes consulted her electronic filing program for him.

  ‘It’s listed,’ she said finally, tapping the screen with the end of her pencil. ‘But I’m not sure if we still have a copy. If the book isn’t borrowed much after a certain time period, it sometimes gets pulled from the shelf to make room for new stock.’

  ‘Does the author get something every time a copy is lent out?’ asked Robert. The librarian turned to look at him. She removed the pencil from her mouth and smiled, pleased by what she saw.

  ‘No, there’s a minimal Public Lending Right payment made and that’s about it. Nothing to get excited about.’ Her voice h
ad a soft Irish lilt. ‘Why, thinking of writing a book?’

  ‘Me? Oh, no.’ Robert hoped that the book he was after hadn’t been lent out too often. Demand for it would surely affect any negotiations for the film rights.

  ‘Well, if it’s not in the General Fiction section, it’s either been stolen or retired.’ She leaned across the counter and pointed with a slender, freckled hand. ‘If you need any help, give a whistle. You know how to whistle, don’t you?’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Robert walked to the back of the hall, past a room filled with elderly men rustling newspapers on wooden poles. It was typical that he failed to notice when people who found him attractive or interesting made their interest known. Emmett…Endover…Endsleigh. The Newgate Legacy. There it was. Tracing his finger along a low shelf he located the book and hefted the volume into the palm of his hand, its pages refusing to stay apart as he opened them, the spine cracking with disuse.

  On the flyleaf was a small monochrome photograph of the author, a middle-aged woman, plump, hair slightly greying, somebody’s mother. He straightened himself upright and began to read the jacket copy:

  ‘A startling first novel from one of the most talented new writers to emerge this decade.’—The Guardian

  ‘Goes straight into the Evelyn Waugh class.’—Sunday Times

  Yes, but would it make a TV series? Robert turned the volume over in his hands. A social satire set in a decaying, overcrowded prison. It didn’t really seem the stuff that ratings-smashing shows were made of. He remembered packing a copy away in his holiday suitcase a couple of years ago. The book had absorbed him for days, even with the distractions of the beach, but he had stupidly left it behind in the hotel room and had not thought of it again until Skinner had asked him to rack his brains for unoptioned properties.

  ‘If you want to borrow it, you’ll have to join the library first.’ The green-eyed librarian grinned at him. ‘Although there’s been very little call for that book in the past. Tell you what, stick it under your jacket and it’ll be our secret.’

  ‘I couldn’t do that, it’s against the law,’ said Robert, suddenly aware of how wimpish he sounded.

  ‘I don’t suppose you believe in living dangerously,’ said the girl.

  ‘Not really, no.’

  ‘Pity. I guess looks can be deceiving.’ She slid a library membership form across the desk and returned to her paperwork, dismissing him with a glance.

  Standing outside afterwards, Robert felt his face burning. The girl had offered him more than just the book. Why did he behave like a complete dickhead around women? As he headed for the bus, he mentally kicked himself for throwing away such an opportunity.

  His office was quiet, emptied out by the usual pre-Christmas absenteeism. Thunder rattled the panes at his back, making him start. The gargoyles lining the building opposite seemed to have turned to rain-washed ebony. They looked exotic, reminiscent of some mad gothic thriller. Yet he had only to lean down and peer at the base of the building to destroy the illusion. An estate agent’s, a betting shop, a building society, a variety of plastic signs announced the occupations of those within.

  Robert looked up at his reflection. He saw the curly black hair, short and glued back in a fashionable toning down of what had first been punk and then yuppie, narrow brown eyes, ears that right-angled from his head, mouth that turned down. It was a face that seemed purpose built for frowning disapproval and he certainly seemed to be doing enough of that lately. He supposed it was partly because he resented the thought of being alone for Christmas. After all, the season was supposed to be a time for togetherness. For someone who had lived in London all his life, Robert could only feel cheated by the paucity of friendships and liaisons he had formed to date. People seemed to like him well enough, but remained passively attached in a way that made him feel as if the effort to stay in contact was entirely his. It seemed that few were prepared to commit themselves to love or even prolonged acquaintance.

  He thumbed through the book, reading a passage here and there. Certain lines jumped out at him, every bit as funny as he had remembered them. Had she written anything else? Nothing mentioned in the thumbnail biography. First edition 1985. No mention of any reprints, either. Published by Gunner & Crowfield. Never heard of them. He crossed back to his desk and punched out a number on his telephone. It took a minute to get hold of the publishing house, then another to find someone who recalled the book.

  ‘You don’t remember offhand who her agent is, do you? Could you check? Yes, I’ll hold.’ He stared out at the gargoyles. One of them had a cable of some kind around its neck. Something to do with the phones, probably.

  ‘Paul Ashcroft and Associates…thanks a lot.’ He jotted down the telephone number.

  More thunder rolled overhead. He punched out the seven figures, recognizing the area code as that of Bloomsbury. It was uncomfortably hot in the office. He tucked the receiver under his chin and loosened his collar. A dizziness formed in his head, just as it had the other night, before the dream began.

  ‘Hello. Yes, I wonder if you can help me. I’d like to speak to someone about Charlotte Endsleigh.’ There was a click of connections. The thunderous thudding continued beyond the windows of the office. He pushed himself down into his chair, his head pounding.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ The voice was elderly, cultured, a senior representative of the firm.

  ‘My name is Robert Linden. I was told that you represent a writer named Charlotte Endsleigh.’

  There was a pause on the other end of the line.

  ‘Well, that is…true. We did represent her….’

  ‘Oh, has she moved to another agent?’ There was another moment of hesitation.

  ‘No, she hasn’t done that. It’s all rather…um. Do you mind my asking, that is—are you a friend of hers?’

  ‘No, I work for a film production company. We have a business proposition that we think she might be interested in hearing.’

  ‘Oh dear. In the light of what’s happened, that could be very awkward to arrange….’

  ‘Our offices are nearby. Perhaps I could come around and see you?’

  ‘Yes, that would be preferable.’ The voice sounded relieved.

  ‘If you’ve a few minutes, I could get over to you right now.’

  ‘All right, Mr…?’

  ‘Linden. Thanks.’

  Robert replaced the receiver and rubbed at his eyes. Before the dizziness began to recede, he saw the face of the man again. The image was hazy and indistinct, the man stepping back into shadow as the memory faded, but his eyes remained sharply in focus, bright and grey and empty, like those of a corpse. Instantly he knew where he had seen them before. In the dream that recurred and had no ending, no meaning…He stirred uneasily in the chair, anxious to pinpoint the anxiety he felt. Perhaps he had seen the face in an old movie, falling asleep in front of the television late one night. There could be any one of a dozen explanations. He brought his attention back to the book on his desk and, opening it, studied Charlotte Endsleigh’s picture, simply to drive any other image from his mind. What disgraceful thing could the woman have done that couldn’t be divulged over the telephone?

  He looked up at the window, lost in thought. Outside something glinted through the rain, a blur of movement catching his eye for a brief second. He walked over to the window, but whatever it was had gone. The cable attached to the corner gargoyle thrummed and shook in the downpour, as if moments before someone had plucked it like a guitar string.

  Chapter 3

  Icarus

  LONDON STANDARD MONDAY 15 DECEMBER

  Mystery boy in bizarre death plunge

  A teenage boy was killed early yesterday evening when a power overload shorted out a huge electric sign on the side of the Allied Assurance building in Piccadilly Circus.

  Horrified onlookers watched helplessly as the boy, whose name is being withheld by the police until relatives have been notified, fell from a Coca-Cola sign after it seemingly e
rupted in a wall of flame. Electrical engineers in charge of the building where the mishap occurred today denied that there was any fault with the wiring of the sign.

  ‘This was a freak mischance, a one-in-a-million accident,’ said Mr Arthur Matheson of Triangle Displays, the company responsible for the construction of the sign. ‘There is absolutely no possibility that such a disaster could occur again.’

  Boy ‘flew’ into sign

  Police are at a loss to explain how the boy managed to gain access to the outside of the building. It is not yet clear whether he was in the act of tampering with the electrical system when the explosion occurred.

  A number of witnesses insisted that the boy ‘flew overhead’ into the wall of the building, apparently under his own power. Upon further investigation, police discovered fragments of nylon cable attached to the display mounting which may have been used by the victim to lower himself onto the sign.

  In view of the body’s condition, it has yet to be proven whether the victim was under the influence of drugs or medication.

  ‘Vampire’ detective takes charge

  Currently heading the investigation is Detective Chief Inspector Ian Hargreave. ‘At the moment we have no reason to suspect that this is anything other than a straightforward accident,’ he told us. ‘However, we are not dismissing the possibility of suicide.’

  Standard readers may remember Ian Hargreave as the officer in charge of last summer’s notorious and controversial ‘Leicester Square Vampire’ case.