The Somnambulist v-1

by Jonathan Barnes

  You will recall that, at the beginning of this narrative, I promised there would be several points in the story at which I would tell you a direct lie. I’ll be honest and confess that this is one such juncture. Everything you have just read concerning Mr. Skimpole and his crooked child is a fiction.

  Gruesome old sentimentalist, aren’t I?

  Back to the truth. More often than not, the Somnambulist did not appear to require food at all; the pleasures of the dinner table were a foreign country to him and he would go for days or weeks without so much as a morsel passing his lips. But on those irregular occasions when he appeared to require sustenance, he invariably ate in style.

  Late in the morning after Barabbas’s death he sat in the hotel dining room enjoying a leisurely breakfast, ladling pink strips of bacon into his mouth, shoveling in egg, tomato, bangers and fried bread and washing it all down with glass after glass of milk. Moon had yet to put in an appearance and the Somnambulist had been more than happy to scoff his meal for him in his absence. A number of other guests, put off by the giant’s noisy mastication, had given him their own plates, still brimming with the greasy bulk of a Full English, with the result that by the time he was finished the Somnambulist had polished off the best part of five or six separate courses. Wondering what was for lunch, he gestured to a nearby waiter. The man walked reluctantly across, disdain etched upon his face.

  MORE MILK

  With that combination of resentment and superciliousness unique to British serving staff, the man bowed his head and vanished, though he accomplished even that only grudgingly. The last of the other guests left soon after, dropping a final few rashers onto the Somnambulist’s plate as they went. Finally, Moon arrived, tiresomely excited — so much so that, to the giant’s relief, he seemed not to notice that all his breakfast had been eaten.

  “Come along,” he said, not even bothering to sit down. “We have an appointment.”

  The Somnambulist gazed regretfully at the food still lingering on his plate. He was able to summon up little excitement for this mysterious appointment and had, in fact, been toying with the idea of hibernating for a week or two.

  Moon persisted. “We’re expected in Highgate.”

  The Somnambulist shrugged.

  “It’s important. I think we’re close.”

  The giant pushed aside his plate and got to his feet.

  “Good man.”

  The waiter came back into the room bearing a large jug. “Your milk, sir.”

  The Somnambulist looked longingly at it but Moon stood firm.

  The giant pulled a face.

  Moon relented. “Bring it with you,” he said. “You can drink it on the way.”

  They arrived in Highgate just over an hour later. Their destination was a nondescript little cottage set back from the road, halfway up a hill so steep it was practically vertical and mere paces from the spot where Whittington was said to have turned back and returned to the city, powerless against the pull of its gravity.

  WHY?

  the Somnambulist asked, trying his best to wipe away the flaky dark milk stains which had accumulated on his shirt like the first spatters of rain on a dry pavement.

  “Coleridge lived here.”

  The Somnambulist’s expression made his feelings on the relevance of this remark quite clear. He gesticulated again at the chalkboard.

  WHY?

  “Remember the book Barabbas gave me? There was a name in the dedication. Someone called Gillman. I’ve done a little reading. I think he may have been trying to direct us here.”

  The giant scrubbed out his message and hurriedly wrote:

  MR. COLERIDGE — HE DEAD

  “I shan’t take issue with your grammar,” Moon scolded.

  The Somnambulist looked as if he were about to punch him.

  Swiftly, Moon tried to explain. “I think that in some manner, Coleridge may be at the heart of this.” He was about to say more when the door swung open and a gray-haired woman peered out.

  “Mr. Moon?”

  “Miss Gillman? A pleasure. This is my associate, the Somnambulist.”

  The giant proffered an awkward wave and the woman nodded back. “Come inside. I’ve tea and biscuits waiting.”

  “Marvelous. The Somnambulist is absolutely famished.”

  But the giant did not reply. Distracted for a brief moment from the prospect of food, he felt a strange, inexplicable certainty that it was here — in this unremarkable little cottage smelling faintly of lavender and soap — here that the end would finally begin.

  My Dear Edward,

  I hope this letter finds its way safely into your hands. As a result of those circumstances I am shortly to relate, I have found myself unable to deliver it in person and have been forced to entrust these words to a “go-between,” a young woman whose acquaintance I have made here. A tentative friend, let us say, and perhaps an ally — though unfortunately I cannot tell you her name. That, too, I will explain in time.

  These, then, are my first impressions of Love, Love, Love and Love (known henceforth, for brevity’s sake, simply as Love). The past few hours have convinced me that this is, by some considerable distance, quite the most eccentric organization in England. I am certain now that your instincts are correct — something seems very wrong here, but so far, whatever the truth of it, I have been shown only a tiny portion of a much greater picture.

  I think you mentioned that you have seen the building yourself — a great black citadel just off Eastcheap, beneath the shadow of the monument. Close by is the church of Saint-Dunstan-in-the-East — a minor Wren but one which still has about it his characteristic beauty and brilliance. On the next occasion you and Mr. Cribb are enjoying yourselves on one of your historical walks, you really ought to stroll by and see it for yourself. Did the giant ever reveal the reason for his animosity toward the ugly man? In my opinion, all most suspicious.

  I have joined the firm in the capacity of a clerk with a number of minor secretarial duties. I must say that this company is astonishingly egalitarian in its choice of employees — there are three other ladies on my floor alone. The work is tedious but easy, the nine-to-five routine a far cry from the derring-do of my assignments for the Vigilance Committee.

  Edward, I think I could easily suffocate here, that it wouldn’t take long, weighed down by documentation and paperwork, correspondence, ink and dust.

  Superficially Love operates much like any other large city firm — old-fashioned, moribund and staid. However, there are two remarkable facts which render the organization unique.

  Firstly, accommodation is provided for its entire staff on site — by which I mean that we actually reside in the building itself, deep in the basement levels. This is not a generosity one may choose to decline: it is compulsory for all members of staff, and, more than that, even leaving the building at any time and for any reason is frowned upon. We are all of us expected to remain here and are fully provided for within these walls. I had no choice but to accept such terms and I write this in the tiny room I share with another girl. This is the first time I have ever spent the night in a bunk bed, though doubtless you would find it a home from home. I trust that whatever mysterious “lead” you and your giant friend are pursuing from the comfort of you singularly well-appointed hotel room is important enough to warrant forcing your only sister to endure these primitive conditions.

  Strange though these arrangements may be, there is a sense of community here. That we all eat, sleep and work together seems to engender an atmosphere of fraternity not unlike being back at my old college, or how I imagine it must be for mariners at sea. More troubling is the mood of anticipation which hangs in the air. I am convinced that these people are waiting for something. They resemble a rugby team before the first match of the season or an army awaiting the order to advance.

  Needless to say, it is not simply the idiosyncrasies of its domestic arrangements which mark this firm out as unique. Odder by far is the enforced practice of replacing
one’s real name with a number. Lunatic though I know it must sound, every single person in this building shares the same name: Love.

  To aid identification we are all assigned a number. Consequently, Charlotte Moon is no more and in her place sits Love 999. My tentative friend is Love 983. You see now why I was unable to give you her name.

  All this strikes me as awfully strange and not a little sinister. It need hardly be remarked upon that I shall be greatly interested to hear your opinion of the matter.

  Another puzzle: the Somnambulist was right.

  I met Mr. Speight today, tidied up, clean-shaven and smartly dressed in an alarmingly expensive suit. “Love 903,” as he styles himself, failed to recognize me and gave me not a second glance when we passed in the corridor. He seems important, a bigwig, and works on one of the higher floors, his days of placard-carrying long behind him.

  I am not sure why but we were asked today to burn a good deal of paperwork. I stole a look at it before it was consigned to the flames and the material was all very recent, relating, I think, to some kind of consolidation of the firm’s considerable assets. I have not the slightest idea why Love should be destroying documentation nor why it is marshaling its funds. Perhaps I will simply have to ask, although I have done my best, according to your instructions, to appear as inconspicuous as possible. I do not wish to seem curious and therefore provoke suspicion.

  That is all I can tell you for the present. I shall write again as soon as I am able.

  Your affectionate sister,

  Charlotte

  Chapter 15

  I have long believed the city, the country, indeed the world at large to be run by precisely the wrong kind of people. From the government to the great financial institutions, the peerage to the police force, our lives are controlled without exception by the stupid and greedy, the venal, the rapacious and the undeservedly rich. How much more comfortable would it be if the rulers of the world were not the cognoscenti of the bank balance, the ballot box, the offshore account, but were drawn instead from the ranks of the everyday — honest, kind, stout-hearted, commonplace folk.

  In the course of this narrative we have encountered few such paragons. Mrs. Grossmith, perhaps. The Somnambulist. Mina the bearded lady. To that list we may now add one other: Miss Gillman, the mild-mannered sage of Highgate.

  When Moon and the Somnambulist arrived on her doorstep, she and the giant took to one another immediately, sensing perhaps that they were kindred spirits of a sort, that they shared the same benign outlook on the world at large.

  But the Somnambulist was confused. He had to struggle hard to resist the urge to scratch his head — in part from genuine befuddlement, in part because his wig itched abominably. He was a little comforted, however, to note that Miss Gillman seemed every bit as bewildered as he. And as was so often the case, the only person who understood what was going on was Edward Moon.

  “Miss Gillman,” he asked, as their hostess sipped her tea, “do you recognize this?” He pushed into her hands the slim black book Barabbas had given him in Newgate, his copy of the Lyrical Ballads.

  The old lady flipped back the cover and read the dedication within. “It’s mine.” She sounded surprised. “Do you know, I’d thought it lost forever.”

  “The dedication… It’s for your father?”

  “How did you come by this?”

  “It was a legacy,” Moon lied fluently and without compunction. “I believe its last owner acquired it at auction.”

  “Really? I must confess I never knew you were such a lover of poetry. Your reputation precedes you, of course, but this… this is most unexpected.”

  “It’s a new interest of mine. Recommended to me by an old friend.”

  “I’m afraid I’m rather at a loss as to how I can help. It’s a great pity my father is no longer with us. He would have been of so much more use to you than me.”

  “Tell us what you can. Tell us about Coleridge.”

  “It was so long ago,” she said doubtfully.

  “Of all those who had the honor of knowing the poet personally,” Moon said, slapping the Somnambulist’s hand as the giant reached out for his ninth digestive of the day, “I understand you’re one of the last still with us.”

  Miss Gillman gave a watery smile. “I suppose that’s a distinction of sorts. Of course, I was still a girl when he died. Did you know he’s buried close by in our little churchyard? He was a kind man despite it all.”

  “I understand he stayed with you here?”

  “Oh, he lived upstairs for years. I’d be happy to show you his room. My father cred for him there until his death, paid, I believe, by some sort of stipend, though I think he did it mostly out of love. Mr. Coleridge was one of the family. A second grandfather, if you like. He had stopped writing by then, almost entirely. His best work was long behind him. And as you know, he had become a slave to that disgusting opiate. It was a great source of pain to us all.”

  “Go on.”

  Miss Gillman spoke for the best part of an hour, happy to relive her memories of the remarkable man with whom she had shared her childhood. She told them how, abandoned by his wife and child, fugitive from an unhappy love affair and disowned by his friends and admirers, the poet had come to Highgate to live as a lodger-cum-patient in the Gillman household, where it was hoped he might heal himself and extinguish his addiction. He stayed, as it turned out, for the rest of his life.

  Moon listened politely, the Somnambulist made short work of the remaining biscuits and time flowed by in a stream of anecdotes and reminiscences. They were in a bubble there, the giant thought, far removed from the world outside, and on hearing Gillman speak, he felt as though someone else’s story, some other narrative, were impinging itself, suddenly and without warning, upon their own.

  “There was the boy, of course,” the old woman said. “At the end.”

  Moon looked up. “Tell me about him.”

  “He was an apprentice, still a child, not more than nine or ten. He used to bring the old man his prescription up to the house. Prescription — that was the word he used. We never liked to actually name the thing out loud.”

  Moon urged her to continue, peculiarly convinced of the importance of her story.

  “He was a delivery boy. That was how he first came to us. But Coleridge became fond of the lad. Took him on walks, read him poetry. My family used to own a house in Ramsgate where we’d spend our holidays and I remember he even visited us there once. They played together on the beach. Relations with his own son had always been strained, so Ned became a kind of surrogate for him. ‘Ned’s my heir,’ he used to say. ‘My successor.’ ”

  “Ned?”

  “That was his name.”

  “And his surname?”

  Miss Gillman finished her tea. “Love,” she said. “Ned Love.”

  Moon and the Somnambulist stared back in slack-jawed astonishment.

  “Oh,” she said. “Does that mean something to you?”

  Politely refusing further rounds of tea, biscuits and nostalgia, they took their leave of Miss Gillman soon after. Before they went Moon gave her back the book.

  “I think this belongs to you.”

  “Are you sure? It must be valuable.”

  “I’ve no need of it now. Please. Take it.”

  Gillman looked doubtful.

  “I’ll be offended if you don’t.”

  She took it, of course, and sent them on their way with her blessing.

  Despite his myriad faults, Moon was occasionally capable of feats of good nature, which peered out from beneath his carapace of misanthropy like a splinter of sun glimpsed through clouds.

  They departed Miss Gillman’s cottage and walked the half-mile or so to Highgate Cemetery. The Somnambulist — still yawning, replete from his multiple breakfasts — repeatedly asked the purpose of their journey, but Moon would give nothing away, marching ahead at a punitive pace, a marathon runner nearing the end of the race and hungry for the finish.


  They arrived at the church and waded through the tall, unshorn grass of the graveyard, amongst crooked ranks of crucifixes, stones and slabs, many of them askew and at oblique angles, as though they had been displaced by some crazy ruction of the earth. There was no sense of peace there, of gentle rest well earned; rather, there was a neglected, minatory air. They paused before a nondescript grave. The inscription read:

  HERE LIES

  SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE

  1772–1834

  Out of the depths I cry to thee

  The Somnambulist bowed his head, oddly reverential, as though by having heard so much of the man who lay in the ground beneath them he felt an inkling of grief for his passing.

  Moon showed no such sentiment. “See here,” he murmured as he squatted beside the tombstone. Gently he tugged away at the grass which lay on top. The turf came up easily in his hands, unfurling in precise, regular strips, the soil beneath it freshly turned over.

  The Somnambulist felt confused for the third or fourth time in as many hours.

  VANDALS

  he suggested hopefully.

  “Too clinical. Too clever.”

  As the giant stared down at the ground, certain terrible possibilities began to suggest themselves.

  Moon scrambled up. “It’s worse than I thought. We should hurry. I have the distinct impression that time is running out.”

  They strode away from the churchyard, leaving the dead behind and returning, for now, to the world of the living.

  Edward,

  Another dispatch from the lion’s den.

  My second day at Love, Love, Love and Love has proved almost exactly like my first. Eight hours of clerical drudgery, a meager half-hour for lunch and the evening spent underground in this ghastly communal recreation room, praying, listening to the poetry recitals of my colleagues and reluctantly making up a hand of whist. In order to write these words I have had to slip away to my shared bedroom. My friend — Love 893 — has agreed (if asked) to make up some story about my being ill. There is only a finite amount of these people’s piety I can stand.