by Greg Keen
OTHER TITLES BY GREG KEEN
The Soho Series
Soho Dead
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2018 by Greg Keen
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781542048361
ISBN-10: 1542048362
Cover design by @blacksheep-uk.com
For Kiare
CONTENTS
START READING
PROLOGUE
Evening Standard, 2 . . .
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Tempus Omnia Revelat
(Time Reveals All)
Hibbert & Saviours School motto
PROLOGUE
Highgate Cemetery, 1979
The boy surveys the moonlit necropolis. Some gravestones are perfectly straight; others have listed, and several monuments have collapsed entirely. A marble column rises like an admonitory finger from the foliage at its base. Carefully the boy manoeuvres his legs until he is perched on the top of the wall. In his mid-teens, he has side-parted hair and an athlete’s angular shoulders. Pulling a torch out of his jeans, he examines the ground below. He switches off the torch, braces himself, and makes the twelve-foot drop.
Rolling like a man after a parachute jump, he gets to his feet and brushes off a couple of burrs. Damp streaks mottle his grey shirt. He switches the torch back on. The beam falls on a monument encircled by a black railing. Ivy has festooned the grave and is creeping up the chubby legs of a trumpet-toting angel. The only text the boy can make out reads: Agnes Car*** beloved wife of Antho** and much-missed mother of ***mas. Born Jan**ry 9th 187*. Fell a*leep *ug*st 7th 1922.
He tracks past a dozen other tombs. Some are grand affairs with elaborate masonry and architectural flourishes, others the final resting places of those of more modest means. Albert Creswell of Caledonian Road’s memorial has been smashed at its base. Pale inner stone contrasts sharply with the grey exterior.
The boy stops at a granite ossuary that rises to his chest. The length of a family car, it has either been spared the ravages of the ivy or had the vegetation stripped away. From the back of the tomb he carefully slides out an aluminium ladder.
Back at the wall he sets the ladder and makes sure its feet are rooted firmly in the ground. He ascends and peers over the barricade between the living and the dead.
‘Okay, it’s all fine,’ he says in his Yorkshire accent.
A second teenager appears. Dark curly hair falls to the collar of his shirt. Around his chin is a corona of acne. The first boy helps him off one ladder and guides his feet on to the rungs of the second.
‘Thanks, Clarkey.’
The third boy over the wall is slight. Wire-framed glasses are tucked into the breast pocket of a Levi’s jacket. Badges bearing the logos of Led Zeppelin, Deep Purple, Black Sabbath and Judas Priest are pinned to the denim. The boy descends the ladder in seconds.
‘Bloody hell,’ he says. ‘Even more amazing at night, isn’t it, Timms?’
‘Yeah, brilliant,’ Timms replies, although his acned features tell a different story.
‘You’re not getting the shits up, are you?’
‘Course not, Paxo,’ Timms says.
Another face appears over the wall. ‘Can you take your bag, Paxo?’ this boy asks. He is holding a plastic bag containing something bulky. He looks a year or two younger than the other three. In some part this is due to ears that stick out at right angles.
Paxo ascends the ladder and takes the bag from him. The boy contemplates the drop. ‘Is it safe, Paxo?’ he asks.
‘Of course it’s safe, Dent. Clarkey jumped it, for fuck’s sake.’
Dent bites his bottom lip and frowns. These actions remove another year or two from his age. He could be twelve instead of sixteen. He straddles the wall and descends the ladder.
Paxo has removed a book from the bag. Its cover carries a symbol – a diamond piercing a square. ‘This is it,’ he says, gazing at the book. ‘We’re really doing it.’
‘How far away is his grave?’ Dent asks.
‘Two minutes,’ Paxo replies. ‘And it’s a mausoleum, not a grave.’
‘You do know the way?’ Dent asks, and peers into the gloom of the necropolis. ‘I mean, it’s pretty . . . dark.’
‘Of course I know the way. And we’ve got three torches between us. The main thing is not to split up.’
The boy Timms’s eyes widen and he swallows. The thought of separation is not a happy one.
Someone else is climbing the ladder on the other side of the wall. The fifth boy has a bulky torso and a flop of blonde hair falling to his jaw. ‘Hide the ladder and keep an eye out for us, Blimp,’ he calls to someone streetside. ‘And whatever happens, do not piss off.’
‘What if someone comes, Will?’ a falsetto voice asks.
Will emits an exasperated sigh. ‘Just make sure you’re here when we come back, you fat oik,’ he says. ‘Anyone finds out about this and we’re all sacked, you included.’
There is the sound of one ladder being removed while Will descends the other. He is two inches taller than the boy called Clarkey. He is sleek and rangy; the latter has the compact build of a cruiserweight boxer.
‘Maybe we should get a shift on,’ Clarkey says.
‘Does tha think so, lad?’ Will says, parodying his accent. ‘And we’ll have to be reet quiet like if we’re not going to be nabbed by t’cozzers.’
Clarkey looks evenly at Will, no sign of anger or humiliation on his face. Indeed, it seems that the taller boy is the marginally less comfortable of the pair.
‘He’s right,’ Timms says. ‘The sooner we get this over with, the better.’
Maliciously, Will directs the beam of his torch into Timms’s face. The boy extends a hand to block the light. He’s saved the bother when it dwindles and dies. Will shakes the torch before toggling the switch. A faint glow lasts less than five seconds.
‘Didn’t you put new batteries in?’ Paxo asks, incredulity in his voice.
‘Course I did. There’s something wrong with the fucking thing.’ Will flings the torch away. It strikes the trumpeting angel, knocking
off part of a wing. ‘Give me your torch, Paxo. You can’t hold that and the book. I’ll go on point and you bring up the rear, Clarke.’
The tone in Will’s voice echoes that his forebears used when marshalling the troops at Bosworth Field. Paxo lines up behind him, as do Timms, Dent and Clarke. The boys tack east along a gravel path that has not been raked in thirty years.
Five minutes later they reach a building set in a patch of open ground. Its white walls appear almost phosphorescent in the moonlight. The roof is pointed and stepped, giving the structure a vaguely oriental aspect. On each wall is an arched window of latticed metal strands. Above a pair of imposing zinc doors, two words have been carved.
MAUSOLEUM PORTEUS
‘So, Alexander Porteus is in there?’ Dent asks. Paxo nods. ‘Is he buried, or just . . . lying on the floor?’
‘He’s in a coffin resting on a shelf.’
‘I’m not going inside,’ says Timms. From his reaction, it’s clear the word coffin has had a visible effect. ‘The rest of you do what you like. I’m staying out here.’
‘No one’s going in, tithead,’ Will says. ‘You couldn’t get through those doors with a battering ram. Mind you, it looks like someone’s had—’
Will is interrupted by rustling from bushes at the base of a tree. ‘What was that?’ Timms almost shrieks. Even the phlegmatic Clarkey jumps an inch or two.
‘Where did it come from?’ Clarkey asks.
‘Over there.’ Dent points at the poplar. Clarkey directs his torch. Several moths are illuminated in the beam. It does not, however, reveal the source of the noise.
‘Please let’s get out of here,’ begs Timms.
‘Probably just a bird or something,’ Dent reassures him. ‘You know what that chap who took us round said – the place is full of wildlife.’
Bang on cue, a dog fox trots out of the bushes. He regards the five visitors with mild curiosity. Deciding they present neither threat nor opportunity, he lollops over the grass and goes to earth behind an obelisk.
Will guffaws. ‘A fox! You were wadding it over a fucking fox!’
If any boy detects a hint of relief in Will’s laughter, he keeps it to himself.
‘Get on with it, Paxo,’ Will says. ‘I told Blimp we’d be half an hour.’
‘I need a torch to read,’ Paxo says. Clarkey trains the light over Paxo’s shoulder while he finds the relevant page. ‘Okay, while I’m doing this, each of you take a candle from the bag and light it. That’s the first thing.’
Starting with Dent, the boys each take a blue candle from the plastic bag and light it with a brass Zippo. The flames flicker in the breeze but remain alight. Paxo collects the bag from Clarkey and removes a small cloth pouch.
‘I’m going to give you something to chuck into the middle. The important thing is to hang fire until I say so.’ Paxo pours pale powder into the left hand of each boy. ‘We need to arrange ourselves properly,’ he says. ‘Dent, if you stand about ten feet over there. Will, opposite me. Timms and Clarkey, nearer the tree.’
Paxo modifies his formation like a cricket captain adjusting the infield. The boys are in a lopsided circle before the mausoleum, a single candle illuminating each youthful face. A cloud passes over the moon, deepening the darkness.
‘I’ll recite the incantation now. Make the responses we rehearsed and, when I nod, throw the powder.’ Paxo closes his eyes and tilts his head upwards. A distant car horn punctures the silence. Then, in a voice an octave higher than its usual register, he begins. ‘Great Daemon, those who worship you have gathered in your garden.’
‘We worship you,’ the boys respond.
‘We renounce those who mock the path.’
‘We renounce them.’
‘Yours is the one true way.’
‘The one true way.’
‘We five disciples have brought you brimstone and fire.’
Paxo nods and the boys throw the powder into the circle.
‘In the name of your great book,’ Paxo continues, raising the volume above his head, ‘we beg to share in your triumph in this world and the world to come.’
A sudden gust extinguishes the candles.
‘Sod it,’ says Dent.
‘Bollocks,’ says Will.
‘Turn a torch on,’ says Timms.
Will and Clarkey fumble on the ground for their torches. Clarkey is first to the switch. He plays the beam on the mausoleum, from where the wind seemed to emanate. The doors remain closed. Nothing has changed.
Another rustling sound.
‘Oh, God,’ Timms groans.
Will laughs. ‘Don’t crap your knickers, sport. It’s only the bloody fox.’
He flashes the beam of his torch around the bushes where the animal first appeared. Nothing. He redirects to the obelisk where it was last seen. It illuminates a bulky figure over six feet tall, wearing a cloak. Although his face is in shadow, it is clear the man is entirely bald. He extends an arm and points towards the group.
Will screams and disappears across the clearing, brandishing the torch as though it were the baton in a relay race. Dent follows his lead, with Timms hard on his heels. Paxo continues to stare at the cloaked man, who is now walking towards him and Clarke, arm outstretched.
‘It’s him,’ he says in a stupefied voice. ‘Alexander Porteus . . .’
‘Paxo, we’ve got to get out of here,’ Clarkey says.
‘It worked. It only bloody worked.’
Clarkey shakes Paxo. The book falls from his hands and lands with a muffled thump on the grass. ‘Come on!’
Paxo retrieves the tome. He takes a final look at the man, now only twenty feet away, and runs after Clarkey. By the time they reach the path leading back to the ladder, the cloud has passed and the cemetery is once again flooded with moonlight. The boys reach the ladder to find that Will has scaled it.
‘Is Blimp there?’ Dent asks.
‘What do you think?’ is Will’s bitter response. ‘Look, we can’t wait any longer. I’m going to jump, which means we’re all going to jump. Agreed?’
The other four boys look at each other and nod. Will positions himself on the top of the wall. He takes a deep breath and disappears from sight.
‘You next, Timms,’ says Dent.
The terrified boy requires no encouragement. He scales the ladder and, after one last look at the cemetery, pushes himself off the wall. Dent is third to make an exit, while Paxo stares down the gloomy path.
‘He’s still coming,’ he says matter-of-factly.
The figure’s rolling gait makes it look as though he is struggling against a headwind. Nevertheless, in another thirty seconds he will have reached the remaining two boys.
‘Now!’ Clarkey shouts. ‘Go now!’
Paxo ascends, with Clarkey directly behind. The ladder bows under their combined weight. It shifts on the crumbling brickwork but remains in position. Paxo struggles to lever his left leg over the apex of the wall. Clarkey grabs his foot and pushes it into place. By the time his companion has made the drop, the figure has arrived at the base of the ladder. Pallid hands emerge from the cloak, fasten on to it and begin to shake.
When the ladder crashes into the undergrowth, Clarkey is left hanging, arms fully extended. With an animal cry, and scrabbling with his feet for purchase, he succeeds in pulling his body upwards. He cannot stop himself from looking into the figure’s face. The only thing he will remember – although it will be for the rest of his life – are the eyes: two dark portals willing him to fall.
In the street, Will, Timms, Dent and Paxo are in a huddle. Timms is rubbing his elbow, Will looking at his watch. Paxo is examining his book for signs of damage.
‘Quick, Clarkey,’ Dent says in a hushed voice. ‘Someone heard us.’
On the opposite side of the road is a three-storey Victorian house. A light is on in one of the upper windows. The front door opens and an elderly female voice shouts, ‘Whoever you are, the police are on their way.’
‘Christ,’ Will
says. ‘That’s all we need.’
Clarkey pushes free of the wall. He lands awkwardly and shouts in pain.
‘What’s up?’ Dent asks.
‘I’ve done something . . . to . . . my ankle.’
‘Try to stand.’ With Dent’s assistance, Clarkey gets to his feet. ‘Put your weight on my shoulder and see if you can walk.’
Together they take a few awkward steps. Given ten minutes to escape, their collaboration may well prove successful. But if the woman is to be believed, there are only a matter of moments, a fact that is not lost on Will. ‘We can’t hang around until the police arrive,’ he says.
‘What else can we do?’ Paxo asks.
‘Look, there’s no point in us all getting caught. Clarke can say he was acting alone. He’s a skimp. All they’ll do is gate him for a month.’
‘Will’s right,’ Clarkey says. ‘The rest of you go.’
‘There’s a car coming,’ Dent says, and indeed there is. It could be a taxi ferrying someone home from a late-night party. It could be the police on their way to investigate. Either way, the boys are forced to make a decision.
‘Maybe it’s for the best,’ Timms says.
With this observation, the die is cast. Will, Timms and Paxo begin running. Dent hesitates. His and Clarke’s eyes meet. It seems as though Dent might be about to change his mind. Then he turns and sprints after his schoolmates.
Thirty seconds later, a patrol car rounds the bend.
Evening Standard, 2 September 2016
The funeral of George Dent, former Shadow Minister for Urban Development, is due to take place at St Mark’s Church in his hometown of Mavering on 16 September.
Dent died following a fall from his London apartment in Mermaid Court last week. The coroner’s report delivered a verdict of accidental death, although a post-mortem report indicated high levels of alcohol in the MP’s bloodstream.
A Labour Party spokesperson said that its thoughts were with Dent’s family at this difficult time. The party had suspended Dent pending the outcome of a trial after police discovered quantities of cocaine and child pornography in his Pimlico flat. It is not thought there will be official representation at the funeral.
A date has yet to be set for what will be a hotly contested by-election in the former MP’s constituency of Dartford West.