We Are Toten Herzen (TotenUniverse Book 1)

by Chris Harrison

  Across the street was the guest house that Wallet had originally planned to stay in, but Susan had convinced him he could travel here on his own. Here and back to Rotterdam in the blink of an eye. He had his doubts. How would he arrive without finding himself on the roof of someone's conservatory or in the path of a lorry. (Not that a speeding truck would make much difference, but suddenly crashing through someone's extension would need explaining.) He tried a few dry runs first: along the corridor of the farmhouse, one side of the meadow to the other, all without accident. In the end it was easy. One minute he was in his room and with a moment's thought he was underneath a lamp post in a suburban street in England. There were no side effects, he didn't fall over from the momentum of being supernaturally catapulted across the North Sea, and he didn't materialise in front of a local resident out walking the dog.

  The evening was warm in spite of a day of heavy rain. There was a strange, heightened ordinariness to the environment, a super-ordinariness, the mundanity and familiarity raised to such a level that the houses and shops and streets and cars, all perfectly ordinary, displayed a new glow about them, a reinvention as if a switch had been turned on boosting the radiance levels. An enhanced sharpness to edges, a greater colour contrast, a wider visual dynamic range. He could hear every leaf twitching in the heavy breath of the breeze. Isolated sounds extruded themselves from the latent noise of traffic: a door opening, rubbish emptied into a wheelie bin, a burst of dry laughter, the crunch of gravel, a squeaking gate hinge, the gentle crackling of soil drying out. The traffic lights at the junction ahead pierced through the evening darkness like fairy lights. Remnants of the rain clouds from earlier in the day displayed every drop of moisture; Wallet could still feel damp molecules on his forehead and cheeks. There was a feint odour of spices and barbecued food and from the front of the Tesco Metro he could see the takeaways further down the street. And a chemical, a slightly pungent smell; Wallet sniffed the air and wondered if it was coming from the funeral parlour next door to the Tesco. This didn't feel like a real city street, but this is how the others had come to live, how they experienced the world around them; heightened senses, a keen awareness of the environment and a tightened sense of response to whatever might move out in front of them next. Where Wallet had once walked through his world wondering who and what was a threat and who and what was safe, he was now the threat and welcomed anyone who might think otherwise.

  Terence Pearl's solitary figure appeared from a side street. He must have parked his car after driving down from Westerfield. He walked with his head down, avoiding attention, avoiding trouble. He was smaller in real life than he looked on television. Under his left arm he had a thick book wrapped tightly in a plastic bag. Wallet could hear him breathing quickly, awkwardly, but Pearl wasn't hurried, he was nervous. He had nothing to be nervous about, not this evening, not with Wallet. Not yet. The difference in demeanour was too stark, ill matched and unfair. Wallet reminded himself to go easy on the man and concentrate on absorbing his newly discovered ultraperception. Pearl was unsure who he was approaching, but Wallet was alone outside the Tesco. It was Pearl who had pointed out in their emails that the Emperor inn had only recently closed after a long fight to keep it safe from redevelopment.

  "Mr Wallet?" he called out.

  "Yep." Wallet offered his left hand forcing Pearl to shake it only after shifting the package under his arm and revealing the book inside to be a bible.

  "Nice evening after all the rain," said Pearl.

  "How heavy was it?"

  "Very," said Pearl. "You obviously didn't get caught out in it."

  Obviously not, thought Wallet realising he was in Rotterdam an hour ago. He needed to be more discreet if only for a little while longer. "Nice evening to take a stroll though," he suggested. "And you can fill me in on this daft idea of yours."

  Pearl laughed as Wallet started to head towards the city centre. "What do the others think? I know you've been having a lot of publicity recently."

  "And who's fault's that? Cathars, spaceships, numerology."

  "Oh, no one takes any notice of me. At least not until the BBC invited me on to their programme. That was a surprise."

  "Mm. Your site's statistics went through the roof after that, didn't they?" Peter Miles could have headed north along this road on the night he disappeared, but according to Elaine he lived in a small house close to All Saints church, south of where he was now. Micky Redwall would have tried to get Miles home and there was nowhere else to take him at that time of night. The smell of food was filling Wallet's lungs as he approached a Chinese take-away. He enjoyed chow mein. He enjoyed food.

  "Do you work in Ipswich, Terence?"

  "I was a teacher. Took early retirement." He talked eagerly about subjects in which he featured. He enjoyed gardening, had a modest patch at home, and had a tree, but not a large one, and there were the pub quizzes, which he never won.

  "Live local?"

  "Here and there. I live out of town now. First proper garden I've had in thirty years. Backs onto fields."

  "Right. Interesting. The last time you had a garden Toten Herzen would be just up the road doing their best to poison it."

  "Yes, no doubt they were."

  "What do you know about them?" Wallet stopped, allowing Pearl to think about the answer. "And I don't mean the esoteric nonsense. The day to day events when they were last in the public eye. You must remember those days? Local band making it big around the world for all sorts of reasons."

  Pearl's fingers massaged the bible inside the bag. "I wasn't a fan of their music, but I suppose you didn't have to be to know all about them."

  "What's down there?" Wallet nodded towards the end of the street facing them, just as a car stopped. Another customer for the take-away behind them.

  "A lido would you believe."

  "Outdoor swimming pool?" Moonlight swim? Whatever Miles did his body would have been found and identified. Mugged and murdered, knocked down by a bus, heart attack at a tragically young age; there would be a corpse and an inquest. "So I take it you don't approve of what they got up to?"

  "What makes you think that?" Pearl followed obediently. He stopped when Wallet stopped, walked when he walked, stop, walk, stop, walk, like a child's game.

  "Religious man, all that debauchery."

  "It's rock and roll, I suppose," said Pearl shrugging his shoulders. "What they were paid for."

  "But do you endorse their behaviour? What would you tell your pupils? If they were still around and you were still teaching?"

  "Like I say, Mr Wallet, it's all part of the music. They play a role like actors. Learn their lines, follow the directions. Isn't that what they're still doing?"

  "What makes you say that?" Wallet followed the road right at a large junction. He could feel the air temperature warming as the light levels dropped.

  "This whole reunion. . . ."

  "Comeback."

  "Comeback. It's all stage managed, isn't it. What do they say: carefully choreographed? I thought that's normal for the music industry these days. Careful control about every minute detail of the band in order to maximise their earning potential? Building on their fan base, making sure they cover every platform and media opportunity."

  "You sound like the one following the script, Terence. Who told you all that?"

  "I read the press. I've seen X-Factor and The Voice and all the other talent shows. Everyone neatly packaged and parcelled like little musical commodities."

  Wallet's peripheral vision was wider and sharper than it had ever been and he could watch Pearl out of the corner of his eye. This didn't sound like a retired schoolteacher talking unless he was a frustrated reject from Fame Academy. Now Wallet realised why the temperature was rising: All Saints church was standing guard half way down the road; it's red brick walls radiating God's warmth, attracting the local residents, offering strength to the likes of Terence Pearl and his biblical baggage held close to his body like a hot water bottle, holding it tighter
the longer they walked. Wallet stopped again to look at the entrance to the church. He felt very hot, but Pearl was the one sweating. "I still don't see what's in it for you, Terence. Run the plan by me again: you kill the band on stage, then they rise again and kill you."

  "Yes. It bookends their story. Lenny Harper killed them in 1977 from which they recovered, then to announce their official comeback we do it again. Publicity for the show and the band, and publicity for me."

  "Why you though? Do you need the money from booksales? Is your pension running out? Gardening costs getting too high to keep up?" Wallet sat a moment on the church wall undecided whether to play it hard or soft. Turn the temperature up a bit. "Terence, with all due respect, you are an eccentric presence on the internet, should we say. Toten Herzen are not children, they're not some fancy whim thrown together by a group of chancers with a few bob saved up. This is a multi-million Euro concern. All the rumour and gossip might make the band look stupid to some people, but you can bet your bible there's a lot of money swirling around that insulates these guys from everything out there. A lot of investment, a lot of planning. There's a large corporate machine in action now. It's taken all year to organise this comeback, a lot of effort, a lot of resources. We're not playing a game."

  "I'm sure you're not, Mr Wallet." Pearl gazed up at the church spire and spoke directly to it. "So, with all due respect why did you agree to meet me like this? Taking time out from your very busy schedule."

  Wallet stood up and placed his arm around Pearl with a tight grip on his shoulder to guide him further along the road and away from the church, away from the source of some embryonic self-confidence. Peter Miles lived in a house just off this road. Did he get this far? Or maybe, maybe. . . . Wallet could smell water, river water, dirty river water with stagnant mud and residues, red campion and nettles. Somewhere ahead was the river.

  "The reason I agreed to meet you, Terence," he whispered, "was to find out what the fuck you're really up to."

  Pearl was shocked to hear such language so close to God's house. Across the street a young woman was walking in the same direction. Wallet admired her figure; tall and slender, with long black hair flowing like a cape behind her. "I don't know what you mean, Mr Wallet, but I'm sure after reading my work it would be pretty obvious. I'm an attention seeker, I have extreme views that I like to write about and provoke a reaction. It's the teacher in me. You've never been a teacher, Mr Wallet. You get an instant reaction in the classroom and I miss it. I used to belong to a writers' circle, but they're so polite and wishy washy and don't say what they mean and don't give the reaction they want to give because they're frightened they'll provoke criticism of their own work, but I want that reaction. I enjoy exchanging ideas and the more absurd the better."

  "Your wittering on a bit, Terence." The young woman had crossed the road and was twenty, thirty metres ahead of them. Wallet had never dared to stare in admiration at Susan before, but he could see her now and what a shapely backside she had, rolling and twisting seductively when she walked. (Was his libido also heading skywards now?) He pulled Pearl's shoulder closer: "Who are you working with Terence? Who's pulling your strings?"

  Pearl was holding the bagged bible in front of him with both hands. "Nobody. There's nobody else," he insisted.

  "I don't believe you, Mr Pearl."

  Susan had stopped alongside a barrier and was looking across the grass towards the river flowing alongside the road. Wallet came around the outside of Pearl so that he could stand next to her and breathe in a delicious headful of perfume.

  "So your theory ends here," she said to him. As Susan spoke Pearl did a double take when he recognised his second adversary.

  "My guess," said Wallet, "and it's only a guess, is that Micky walked with Peter to the end of his street and left him. But Peter carried on and came here to the river. Maybe he had a think about things, as well as he could with a skinful of ale, and then went down there for a swim. They never found his body so maybe it's still in the mud."

  "What do you think, Terence?" asked Susan.

  "Are you talking about Peter Miles?"

  "Yes." Susan leaned on the railings to get a better view of Pearl. "It's interesting how you jump to that conclusion so quickly, unless you've been talking about him on the way here." Wallet and Pearl exchanged a look of realisation, subterfuge, trickery. There was more to this than a stroll to discuss stage management.

  "Why would he throw himself in the river? I don't understand. Is this why you met me?"

  "Killing two birds with one stone, Terence," said Wallet releasing Pearl's shoulder and releasing himself from the need for intimidation. "Peter Miles wasn't killed, not as far as we know at least, but he did disappear and we thought you might have some answers."

  Pearl was still nervously manhandling his bible, the last form of protection he had against this world. "Everyone thought he was killed by the members of the band."

  "Do you actually believe all the crap you write about Toten Herzen or is it just for money?" Susan asked.

  "He does it to provoke a reaction," Wallet said. "He doesn't get any satisfaction from his regular writers' circle."

  "You know what we think?" said Susan. "We think you know something about him."

  Pearl was beyond talking now. All his faith, all his defences, were in the bag and he wasn't going to let go of it until he was safely home. The river eased by ignoring his fear and the nearest streetlight abandoned him plunging them all into darkness. But it was no failure. The streetlight was in on the conspiracy. Pearl tried to look around, but he was standing in a void of pitch blackness. The road was visible where he had been a few seconds earlier, but now he was on the opposite bank of the river detached from the safety of the street. Susan and Wallet were still with him, waiting patiently, waiting for him to co-operate.

  "I'll leave you two to have a think about all this," Susan said. "We're all after the same thing, Terence. The truth. Whatever you're doing I just hope it's for the right reasons, but think about what you're dealing with. Which side would you rather be on? I think it's a simple choice." And she vanished.

  "Where . . . where did she go?" Pearl spun on the spot almost dropping his bag.

  "Clever girl, our Susan," said Wallet. "Very theatrical. A born entertainer if you ask me. I, on the other hand, am not so eloquent. So, are you going to work with us or not?"

  RavensWish - got my ticket for @totenherzen in fact got two, one for midlands arena one for ahoy, first night, so happy :-))))))) don't know how to get there but can swim if i have to

  DM to RavensWish - will send you details for getting to the Ahoy. Do you still want to meet the band? Sent by WhiteRotterdam

  DM to WhiteRotterdam - do I still want to meet the band? Do I still want to meet Toten Herzen and change my life? In a word yesyesyesyesyesyes: Sent by RavensWish

  DM to RavensWish - I'll tell you who to speak to when you get there and then we can have a talk. Keep this to yourself: Sent by WhiteRotterdam

  DM to WhiteRotterdam - cool. Who are you? do you work for them? Sent by RavensWish

  DM to RavensWish - you'll find out: Sent by WhiteRotterdam

  34 (September)

  Selling out or cashing in, he wasn't sure which, was supposed to have lifted some of the pressure off Marco Jongbloed's ageing shoulders, but his freedom had soon regressed into boredom and aimlessness and he joined the idol rich. Something he thought he'd never be. Now everything he owned was a trivial embellishment, a whimsy. He couldn't speed in his sports cars, his large house was a rattling empty box echoing with tedium. His only entertainment came from reading the solicitor's letters during his divorce. And his children. God, he wished he could forget the grabbing little fuckers' names.

  But things changed. In retrospect it was inevitable that they would, only the circumstances surprised him. Now his careful step had developed a spring, his oats were being resown, the autumn of his years were alive with colour and noise. He was reborn. Rewired, renovated, redecorated
. The old dog was biting again, not quite in the same way as others bit, but well, some days he wondered what might have been, how he would have looked after all this time. Same as Rene, he supposed. No, the time for regret was over, age had taught him that. The pros and cons sort of balanced each other out. He was reconciled to his mortality. He understood.

  Unlike Tom Scavinio. The manager had moved out of New York, out of his hotel and was playing yin to Marco's yang by taking up room in his coastal house. Sea breezes and the smell of the brine did little to take his mind off this crazy new life he had fallen into and he bombarded Marco with questions about the past and the lost years, as Scavinio called the period between 1977 and 2013. Marco had been patient, but believed the American was dancing round the subject, afraid to tackle it head on. For what reason he didn't know. Maybe he was a fundamental atheist or secular extremist, but all his questions, his conversations, small talk and asides failed to mention, failed to acknowledge the V word. They couldn't even joke about it.

  As a late summer storm blew in from the North Sea Scavinio's alarm swelled like the rising tide as if the band were circling on some terrible ghostly thermal, swooping around the roof of the house, clattering the tiles and kicking the windows. Outside all sorts of paraphernalia were blowing about, a bin, a bucket, garden tools, bits of wood, flapping and rattling, groaning and spitting. The rain lashed the glass and roared at the trees. "It could be worse," said Marco standing at the large patio windows with a glass of Armagnac, "there'll be men at sea in all this."

  "Well, that's their choice and good luck to them," replied Scavinio.

  Then a shattering sound announced itself and Marco knew it was more than a flower pot going over. "That sounds like the garage." He finished his drink. Both men grabbed their coats and went outside to see what the damage was.

  Barely able to stand Marco forced himself towards the garage where the door had blown open, almost torn off its hinges, shattering the small window panes. The door was forced close and the two men found themselves inside the brick and timber shelter next to a gleaming Jaguar E-Type.