"I would need time to think about it."
Wallet sighed. "Good job you don't play for Ipswich Town, Terence. You get the ball in the box and then need time to think about where you're gonna stick it." Wallet turned to the ridge of the roof behind him. "In fact, forget I just said that."
"I'm going home, Mr Wallet."
"Oh, didn't take long to make that decision, did it?"
Pearl made for the entrance of the church, but his mind was reeling, he couldn't remember where the door was so he went back to the lane and scurried off towards his house. He was well and truly wedged between two immovable surfaces. Earthly and, what was Rob Wallet? Unearthly at the best of times, but squatting like a medieval effigy on a roof with his crimson jacket and short black hair. Eyes ablaze like two tiny lamps. Oh to get home, to the safety of his dining room and a large cup of Greene and Blacks chocolate, which he admitted became less palatable by the day. His world was beginning to make no sense as the things he treasured moved out of reach: his garden was becoming untidy as he struggled with allergic reactions to the pollen and grass seed, pesticides and tomato fertilisers, each turning his skin to raw sandpaper. He woke up later, went to bed later, preferring the peace of the early hours with the chattering birds . . . which, come to think of it, was more of a cacophony these days. And now the dread of cataracts every time he looked at his hazy reflection, reminding him that the loss of his sight would end his passion for books. There was so much he wanted to do, so little time to do it, a raging desire to knock down the wall separating his kitchen from the dining room. Maybe Wallet was right, maybe he did have a better offer.
-
Back on the roof of the Church House Rob Wallet noticed Dee reading a small book. "It's 14th Century this church," she said pointing up at the tower. "Apparently, St Mary Magdalene is a rare name for a church. There's only three others in Suffolk."
"Really. Are these roof tiles not digging into your arse?"
Dee closed the book. "You just couldn't resist a sporting analogy, could you?"
"I tried to stop myself."
"You're fucking impossible. And you were doing so well. You were starting to scare the crap out of me for a minute."
"You've read Paradise Lost, haven't you?"
"Yeah." Dee leaned on her elbow and asked Wallet to quote something from it.
"Since first this subject for heroic song pleas'd me long choosing, and beginning late;
"Not sedulous by nature to indite warrs,
"hitheto the onle argument heroic deem'd, chief maistrie to dissect with long and tedious havoc fabled knights in battels feign'd;
"The better fortitude of patience and heroic martyrdom unsung. . . ."
Dee closed her eyes and speaking quietly joined in with Wallet's soothing recital.
"Or to describe races and games, or tilting furniture, emblazon'd shields,
"Impreses quaint, caparisons and steeds. . . ."
And on it went until they both realised they were quoting at each other, eyes blissfully closed, accompanied only by the sounds of a countryside evening and the poetry of their own voices. They ran out of words and Wallet asked Dee a question: "Why were you all sleeping in a tomb when Lenny Harper staked you?"
Dee smirked and took the little local history book out of her jacket pocket. She flicked the pages. "It was all a lie, Rob," she said. "Ask Barry Bush."
"Barry Bush? PC Barry Bush?"
"Yeah, with his daft mate who played for Queens Park Rangers. Someone sent the police up to Highgate on a wild goose chase while Lenny Harper was breaking into a flat we were living in somewhere near Swiss Cottage. And then after all the publicity and everything he started perpetuating this tale that we were all in Highgate Cemetery. He's stuck with it all these years, dined out on it for as long as he's been able to keep a straight face."
"The bastard!"
"Hooked you as well. The great investigative journalist, Rob Wallet." She leaned on her elbow again, but this time her expression was full of mischievous life. "And good luck to him. Didn't do us any harm." Wallet was dumbstruck.
"And who else knew?"
"How many coppers are in the Metropolitan Police? That's why Lenny Harper got done for wasting police time. We weren't up there, we were somewhere else getting our breath back and making plans to get out of London. Get out of the UK."
"So, Lenny did get to you, but in a house, not Highgate?"
Dee nodded. Her thoughts were placing her back at the scene and there was a moment's silence before she scanned the pages of the book. "Could have ended everything that night."
-
The following day Wallet found Barry Bush's phone number and had a brief, terse phone conversation. "You knew all along they weren't staked at Highgate Cemetery?"
"Course they weren't," said Bush, his voice fading in and out of a poor phone signal.
"You spun me a right load of old cobblers. I wrote all that down."
"No, you recorded it on your mobile phone."
"Same thing."
"Look," said Bush, "every time people have spoken or written about Toten Herzen and Lenny Harper they always come to me, they go away with the same old tale and they never, never check the facts. They never follow up on it and you're no different. You believed all that vampire bollocks just like the rest of them."
All that vampire bollocks! Wallet's scorn broke apart, shattered, fragmented and he found himself with a wry grin, a half smile and a sneaky regard for old Barry Bush. A bored copper sent on an excursion up to Highgate Cemetery, why shouldn't he make hay out of it? Stuck in front of the telly all day, what else did he have going for him? Gotcha!
"Barry," said Wallet, "no hard feelings, mate. Makes a good story, I suppose."
"Yeah."
"I suppose Stan Bowles took the secret to the grave with him?"
"Laughing all the way, he was. Laughing all the way."
RavensWish - totenherzen box set out and i cant afford it :-( pisses me off havin noooo money dont have a record player anyways
DM to RavensWish - don't worry, I'll get one sorted for you (and a record player!): sent by WhiteRotterdam
The Sun
Box Set Con Trick Catches the Spivs
Toten Herzen's 'limited edition' back catalogue leaves speculators hundreds of pounds out of pocket
For thousands of Toten Herzen fans the back catalogue box sets started to arrive today, after a wait of thirty five years! (The albums were actually released at midnight on Hallowe'en.) With five vinyl albums plus new artwork costing thirty quid not many were complaining, apart from the twenty early birds who pre-ordered the new release.
They were unaware that only twenty customers would be allowed to place an order before the official release date. After paying £350 three weeks ago they thought they were quids in when their so-called special editions started to appear on Ebay, with Buy it Now prices starting from five thousand pounds. One box set being sold by Charlie Clarken in Nantwich was listed for ten grand. "I feel sick as a parrot," said Clarken, a property developer. "I thought I'd make a bit of money out of this, but I've been ripped off. We all have."
But as soon as the items appeared a press release on the band's website clarified the issue saying the box set would go on sale to the general public for thirty pounds, leaving the greedy spivs hundreds of pounds out of pocket. The fourteen who listed their pre-order on Ebay were named and shamed on the website, but spokesman for the band Rob Wallet told the Sun the other six would be refunded.
As for the fourteen who tried to cash in at the expense of genuine Toten Herzen fans: "They can have their money back too, but they need to ask the band in person." So far none of them have taken up the offer. Charlie Clarken was prepared to swallow the loss. "I won't be asking them for my money back. I don't even like Toten Herzen."
36 (November)
RavensWish - just arrived at Ahoy subway station absolutely starving but cant stomach anything so nervous
Raven managed to propel her
self away from the metro line and into the Zuidplein shopping centre to find food. This was a problem vampires didn't have, apart from maybe the need to find blood which they wouldn't find in a place like this unless they attacked someone, which would be a bit stupid, drawing attention to themselves in broad daylight, but then if it was broad daylight they wouldn't be out looking for blood. The runaway train of thoughts was in contrast to the muscle tightening excitement at what was ahead of her. All the way from the central station she had spotted people in black - some wearing face masks - who she presumed were going to the concert. But they weren't going where she was going. Not a bit of it. She stopped and took in the familiar sight of a shining, buffed up, spotless array of indoor shops selling the same expensive, unobtainable goods, but with different names above the windows. She thought she might stand out, with her black clothes and blue hair, but she wasn't alone this afternoon. Evidence of Toten Herzen was wandering around, mingling lazily with the regular shoppers, attracting sideways glances and whispered observations from groups of onlookers standing around in twos and threes.
This is what happens, thought Raven, when you are someone, when you have that influence and power to alter the surroundings. For one day this shopping centre's equilibrium was off centre, its familiarity disturbed by an influx of outsiders. When she found a MacDonald’s it was half full of Toten Herzen fans being observed by silent children and their worried parents.
RavensWish - hunger begone found a macdonalds
She bought a box of chicken nuggets and a Coke and continued through the mall. Her head was still full of cloud; her thoughts erratic and confused. Her limbs felt heavy and swallowing was an effort with a mouth drying up after every sip of her Coke. She found a seat and sat down. Studying her chicken nuggets she wondered if this could be her last meal? The time on her phone was a little after four. The band would still be hidden somewhere avoiding the last hours of sunlight before evening moved in and the mischief began. For now the black clad figures were following social norms and drifting quietly in anticipation of the coming storm. Raven moved on, outside to the cold afternoon. The grey light of day was already beginning to turn red.
Traffic along the main road ringing the Ahoy was already at a standstill; bumper to bumper, inching along with each change of the traffic lights. People were sat in groups under the trees and across the way, the first indication of the event were the lines of lights launching from the roof of the arena. Banners stood in proud lines with the Toten Herzen crest and at right angles the exclamation WeAreTotenHerzen. Raven wanted a shot of the arena approach, but the traffic was a crawling wall obstructing her view, so she looked for access to the bridge that crossed the main road to the arena car park on the far side.
Elevated above the road and the cars she now had a greater sense of arrival and joined others up here for the panorama. And what a panorama it was as she came to a point midway above the traffic jam and saw the full extent of the invasion.
The arena lights were growing more vivid, swinging in a great arc across a mottled red sky. The banners flapped, arranged around a huge square filled with people. The doors weren't open yet, no queues had formed. Instead gangs were gathering around fires and flares belching great plumes of red smoke which hung in the air like evaporated blood. The smell of the fires and the car fumes added to the Danteian atmosphere. Flags bearing the daggered lettering of the band's crest marked the territories of individual camps: TH Utrecht, TH Arnhem, TH Harlem, TH den Haag, they were from everywhere, disgorged from coaches, trains and cars. They had come from all over Holland and Britain: Lincoln, Ipswich, Birmingham, Hull, Leeds. There were banners from Brussels and Paris, from Stuttgart, Essen, Gdansk, Bratislava. Proclamations from all over Europe were displayed on the flags, sprouting above the heads of the crowds; claiming their territory, announcing their occupation. There was music, unidentifiable, tinny, not the bass heavy thud that would soon come rumbling out of the hall as soundchecks began and the concert start grew ever closer. Raven took photo after photo from all directions. From one side of her field of vision to the other, a mass gathering, a congregation.
The oblivious smoke from the flares wandered towards the metro station, consuming then aggravating the traffic. Raven moved on, down the steps of the footbridge and into the red mist and its ghostly multilingual chatter. Face masks appeared and turned to her as she passed. They were flamboyant and colourful; detailed with lace and jewellery. Some had the beaks and feathers of birds, others the taught skin of bats. The fashion spectrum included everything from the dry black of tour tee-shirt to gothic corsetry and steam punk paraphernalia. Raven thought her blue hair might be the exception, but she counted five girls with similar colours, in addition to purple, turquoise, orange, maroon and red. There were men and women alike with scarlet coloured hair, hanging straight or with poker stiff spikes like Elaine Daley's crimson mohican. For others it was Dee Vincent's jet black bob or Susan Bekker's long, wild, charcoal style with flame tinted flashes around the face.
Raven paused to upload some of the photos and tweet the link, then realised she was still holding the empty MacDonald's nugget box. No litter bins anywhere! A group of fans materialised and saw her phone and the images.
"Sorry, I don't speak Dutch," she said, face to face with a group of girls and their matching purple and black lace masks. One of them pointed at her phone and stood alongside her.
"You're taking pictures?"
"Yeah, from on the bridge." Raven scrolled through the set and the masked girls were impressed. "Can I photograph you? I love your masks."
"Sure." And the four of them obediently lined up for the pose. Then one of them spoke and the others set off in the direction of the bridge to get their own view of the gathering. "Okay, thanks," said one of them as they disappeared.
RavensWish - its like a medievil pagent with red smoke everywhere and people in masks I want a mask check these out pic.ly/66344
She may have been alone in the gathering, but she was different in one vital aspect: they had tickets, she had an invite. They were visitors, she was a guest. One of the few. For the first time in her life she was one of the few. And it was time to follow the instructions. She checked her messages and found the DM from WhiteRotterdam. Don't go to the concert hall entrance, go to the arena entrance at the central plaza. She looked around above the heads of the crowd. The concert hall was to her left. It had a wide entrance facade with an imposing giant illuminated picture of the band's faces. To her right was a smaller entrance with Ahoy over the doors. She headed for it.
Did she need to be invited in, she wondered as she approached the steel and glass doors. Not yet, not for a few more hours at least. Her breathing was shortening and her muscles now were as tight as the bat skin masks. The arena entrance was less chaotic, but no less colourful. Head through the entrance hall, the message continued, to a large kiosk at the far end and to your right. She could see it, beyond the programme sellers and the merchandising stands. They were selling masks. She looked at one with crimson feathers and black costume stones around the eye holes. "Do I really want to look like everyone else though," she whispered to herself as she stepped up to a huge security guard standing outside the kiosk.
"Hello," he boomed.
"Hi. I've got an invite to go backstage." Raven fiddled with her phone.
"Okay, one moment." He entered the kiosk and came back with a tablet. "Your name?"
"Raven. It should just say Raven."
"Raven, okay. Who invited you?"
"I don't know. They just called themselves WhiteRotterdam."
"Yeah. Did they give you a message?"
She checked her phone. At the end of the directions were the words 'come for the right reasons.' "All I've got is come for the right reasons."
The security guy looked at her. He was nearly twice her height, dressed all in black with his security tabard around his neck. "Okay, put this on." He handed her a tabard similar to his. "Keep it on at all times, it gives you access
to all areas, okay. And now follow me." And off they went. Without speaking he led her through the entrance to a connecting door to the concert hall and along the concourse to the far end where the stage was set.
"Excuse me," Raven said, "can I take a photo here?" She wanted a shot of the empty arena with the stage down below still bare and naked. Technicians were finalising set ups: amps and monitors being positioned, cables taped, last minute adjustments made to Rene's drums, inspections of the stage edges and runway. The sound desk, at the opposite end of the arena floor, had a knot of people opening up laptops and other complicated looking arrays and desks. This was the business end of things, before the hordes arrived and charged the arena with atmosphere, this was the time when the machinery was tested and weeks and months of organisation came together at the fine point of performance. Hundreds were involved, but the success or otherwise ultimately came down to just four people. Rather them than me, she thought.
The surroundings changed as she followed the security guy through a warren of grey walls, grey doors and finally white brick walls with dressing room notices printed and photocopied on A4 bits of paper. They emerged into another world of pre-concert preparation, less technical, but no less essential. Flower carriers, food carriers, clothing carriers, carriers of comfort and ambience. Someone rushed past with what looked like Elaine Daley's Gibson Firebird, battered and scratched, held at arm's length like a lethal weapon. The spacious backstage area had a large table with a buffet spread for the staff and guests (wherever they were, no one was eating, the food was untouched). Coats, scarfs and bags lay abandoned across a scattering of plastic chairs. The security guy paused and then, pointing to a far corner, he said: "There."
Raven looked. On her own, in the farthest corner of the space, Susan Bekker was sitting on a settee strumming a guitar. "That's Susan Bekker," she said.
We Are Toten Herzen (TotenUniverse Book 1) Page 27