by Jonathan Coe
MORRISSEY,
Miserable Lie
Anyway, back to that night. The night of the murder, I mean. I’ve been doing my best to put it off, but there’s nothing more to tell you, now, apart from how it ended. I don’t relish the prospect, to be honest. Recently I’ve been trying to forget these events – not so much because of the details, which are a bit unpleasant, I admit, but because it frightens me to recall the state I was in. Psychologically. I hope to God that nothing like that ever happens to me again. I’ll try not to exaggerate, and I’ll try to say exactly what I mean: and for your part, you must take these words and really think about them. Because that night, I felt – and it’s the most terrible feeling, the worst feeling I know – that an entire world was slipping out of my grasp.
The thing that really surprised me, the one thing I had never expected about terror (never having experienced it before) was how bloody sad it made me feel. I sat there on that bus and I swear to you it was all I could do to keep myself from crying. It seemed that I was saying goodbye to so much, you see. Everything I had been working towards for the last few years had turned to nonsense. Not just all the music; not just all the effort I had put into living in London. Even the simple peace of mind enjoyed by the other passengers on the bus that evening – that was denied me now, as well. The only assumption I had ever made about my life – that it would never lose sight of a basic sanity and normality – had been casually shot to pieces.
Even as I realized this, more and more details of the murder were coming back to me. It was a strange, but undeniable, fact that the picture on the record sleeve Derek had sent me – the attitude adopted by the two dwarves, standing apart and looking straight ahead, faceless, impassive – was uncannily reminiscent of Paisley’s assassins. But as soon as I tried to get any further, to imagine how there could possibly be a means of piecing together these clues, my head began to spin, and there seemed to be no point of entry. It defied logic.
There was nothing to be gained from trying to sort it out anyway. It wasn’t my job to find out what was at the bottom of this crazy business – who was trying to kill who, and why, and what particular manner of illegal activity they were all engaged in at the time. I was only a musician, after all. I dealt in first inversions and augmented fourths, not crack or heroin, and I’d never even had a parking ticket before now or been caught watching the television without a licence. And now my reward, apparently, for twenty-three scrupulous years of law-abiding citizenship, was to have my life wrecked at a stroke by the stupid antics of a bunch of people I’d hardly met and had no connection with.
I closed my eyes and tried to pretend that it wasn’t happening. For a while my mind went blank; and when I did start thinking again, some minutes later, it was along quite different lines.
Back at the beginning of this story, I remember mentioning something which had caught my eye as Chester drove me through Islington. From the front seat of his car, my gaze had been drawn to the lit windows of Georgian terraced houses: kitchens and dining-rooms golden with lamplight as families prepared their evening meals and poured themselves pre-dinner drinks. If I had felt excluded from these scenes at the time, I felt infinitely more so now – but all the same, as I remembered them, and as the bus continued to carry me on in God knows what direction, a fantasy arose within me. Why shouldn’t I be allowed to live like that? Why should I let these senseless, random circumstances defeat me? I had a girlfriend. She lived in a beautiful house. There was no reason, no reason on earth, why I shouldn’t spend this evening with her.
For the first time, I looked out of the window of the bus, and instantly recognized the area: we were heading towards Kensington.
So Madeline had made no attempt to contact me since I sent her the tape; but what could be more natural? She would have been astonished, stunned, thoroughly taken aback by the realization that my intentions were far more serious than she had imagined. It was even possible that she didn’t know whether to accept or not. What she needed, in all probability, was the chance to talk it over with me, face to face.
Suppose I were to turn up there, now, with a bottle of champagne? A bottle of champagne, and a bunch of flowers? A bottle of champagne, a bunch of flowers, and a box of assorted continental chocolates? Apart from anything else, it would be safer than going back to my own flat, because nobody knew of my association with Madeline (apart from Tony and Harry, and even they had no idea where she lived). I could stay there for days, and nobody would ever find me. I could turn up, laden with gifts, I could tell her what had happened, she would comfort me, and then we could have a long and earnest talk about our relationship. We’d pop out to the all-night grocer’s, buy in some tagliatelle or rigatoni or something, cook a meal together, and then settle down with a couple of glasses of red wine and make some serious plans for our future. Finally, at around midnight, it would be time for bed. We would steal shy looks at the corner of the room, make embarrassing remarks about fetching a spare mattress and some blankets, but neither of us would mean it. I would still be in a state of shock, I would shrink from the idea of sleeping alone, and Madeline would sense this, instinctively. She would draw me gently towards the bed. I would sit there, she would stand before me and lay her hands on my shoulders and fix me with her grave grey eyes. Then, turning off all but the bedside light…
Where the fuck could I get a box of continental chocolates at this time of night?
For the next few minutes, at any rate, things went in my favour. I got off the bus at South Kensington and found an off-licence which also sold chocolates. Not far along the road, a florist was just putting the shutters down on his shop. I persuaded him to let me in and for three pounds fifty I was given a little bunch of manky carnations. Even though it wasn’t particularly late in the evening, I now felt as though I was in a frantic hurry, and I ran all the way to Mrs Gordon’s house. Before ringing the bell, I had to lean for a while against those massive oak doors in order to get my breath back.
Here, away from the West End, away from the traffic, away from just about any sign of humanity apart from the occasional pedestrian, it seemed incredibly quiet. A thin, frozen mist was hanging in the air; it mingled with my breath whenever I exhaled. Visibility was poor. If someone were to approach, discreet footsteps against the pavement would announce their imminence long before they actually emerged from the gloom. I could barely make out the tall hedge on the other side of the street.
Mrs Gordon’s house was in darkness, utter darkness. I could see at once that Madeline wasn’t in, but I rang the bell anyway. As you may have noticed, my mind wasn’t working very sensibly that evening. At first there was no answer and I thought that there must be nobody in the house at all. I rang the bell again, twice. Nothing. What about the cook? Wouldn’t she be there? Surely the whole household couldn’t have packed up and gone away, without Madeline even telling me about it. I rang the bell again, long and insistently.
There is nothing like a single, loud noise, for making the surrounding quiet seem even more absolute. When you are in the country, and a dog barks in the middle of the night, it merely punctuates and emphasizes the silence, making you hear it all the more keenly. Similarly, when I stopped ringing the bell, there descended a hush so sudden, and so still, that it seemed as if the mist had managed to cushion even London’s usual ceaseless hum. I stood waiting, feeling despair begin to creep into my bones, like the cold. I shivered and hugged the plastic carrier-bag containing my gifts. Now and again I stood back from the house and looked up at its dark, curtained windows.
Then, all at once, a light came on. It was on the first floor. A few moments later I could see a shadow moving behind a curtain. I went to the doorbell and rang again, pressing it four or five times. It was all I could do to stop myself from shouting out.
Nothing further happened for some time. Eventually, after I had rung the bell another half-dozen times, and run back and forth, up and down the steps which led to the doorway, trying to get a glimpse of what was going on upstairs, ano
ther light came on: this time it was the light in the hall, shining out through a glass panel above the front door. By climbing up on to the railings, I could just about raise myself to the level of this panel and see through it. I could see a tiny, fragile old woman coming slowly down the huge stairway, supporting herself awkwardly on a wooden stick. She was wearing a thick, pale blue dressing-gown. I jumped back down at once in case she saw me and took fright at the sight of my wild, staring eyes. Stupidly I tried to straighten my coat and brush back my hair, making tiny last-minute adjustments to my appearance. Nothing could have stopped me from looking like an escaped madman.
On the other side of the door, I could hear her slippered feet shuffling across the floor, and the soft thud of her walking stick against the marble. I could tell that she was only a few inches away. Now the letterbox was pushed open and a thin voice emerged:
‘Who is it? What do you want?’
Trying to make myself sound civilized and reassuring, I bent down to the letterbox and said: ‘My name’s William. I want to speak to Madeline.’
When she answered, I could see her puckered old lips mouthing the words.
‘Madeline’s not here. You’ll have to go away.’
‘I’m a friend of hers. A very good friend. I’ve been here before, lots of times. I must see Madeline tonight.’
There was a short silence, during which I thought that she had turned around and was going back upstairs; but then I heard bolts being pulled back and the turning of a key. The door swung open and Mrs Gordon was standing before me. She was a very small woman: she had to look up to study my face.
‘Why?’ she said.
Explaining, obviously, was impossible.
‘It’s personal.’
‘Madeline’s a very nice girl,’ said Mrs Gordon, opening the door further and letting me in. ‘I like her very much. You say you’re a friend of hers. I hope you haven’t got her into any trouble.’
She eyed me with suspicion. I could hardly blame her.
‘No,’ I said. ‘It’s nothing like that at all.’
‘She’s gone out for the evening,’ she said. ‘You can’t wait for her, because she probably won’t be back until late.’ Then she asked: ‘You did say you were a close friend of Madeline’s?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you know what day it is?’
So the old bat was senile, it seemed. Still, I could see no harm in humouring her.
‘It’s Saturday,’ I said.
She looked at me with a very penetrating gaze.
‘Look – ’ She was making me uncomfortable, and I was anxious to leave. ‘I really don’t want to disturb you any more. Do you know where she’s gone?’
‘She’s round at her friend’s house.’
‘Her friend?’
‘You know, her friend. Piers.’
‘Piers?’
I practically shouted the name. As soon as I heard it, a sort of madness seized me, as any number of suppressed fears and hunches began to emerge from the shadows at the corners of my mind, where they had been lurking for months.
‘Where does he live?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘The bastard!’
Mrs Gordon raised her stick and prodded me in the stomach with it.
‘You’ll be careful not to use language like that, in this house.’
‘If that bastard… If she and that fucking bastard – ’
‘I think you’d better leave. Now.’
‘I know – her address book!’
I dodged round Mrs Gordon and made for the staircase.
‘Don’t you dare go up there!’ she shouted. ‘I’ll call the police.’
But I was already on my way up, and within a few seconds I was in Madeline’s room. It took me no time at all to find her address book, which she kept beside the telephone. I also guessed that she would be the kind of person who listed her friends by Christian name rather than surname. Sure enough, there was Piers, under P. I memorized the address and was about to close the book when for some reason I couldn’t resist looking to see if my own name was there: I turned to W.
Madeline had beautiful handwriting, there was no denying it. She had written my name in capitals, in red felt pen, and beneath it was the address of Tina’s flat and my phone number. Tears sprang to my eyes as I stared at it. And then I looked around her room, her room which was so familiar to me and which seemed so strange this evening because Madeline herself wasn’t there, and because everything, suddenly, had changed. The murder I had witnessed in Islington seemed insignificant now beside the suspicions which had started to crowd in on me, and it rapidly became too painful to sit there, assaulted by memories, fighting them off. I swore, got to my feet, and ran back downstairs.
Mrs Gordon was standing by the telephone in the hallway, with her back to the wall.
‘I called the police,’ she said. ‘They’re coming round.’
I said nothing and walked straight past her. I slammed the door behind me, then set off through the cold London night in the direction of Piers’ apartment. I still had my carrier-bag full of chocolates, flowers and champagne.
It wasn’t until much later that evening that I realized the stupidity of what I had done: I could scarcely, in fact, have devised a better way of incriminating myself further than by bursting into an old lady’s house, and frightening her to the point where she would call the police and issue them (presumably) with a description which tallied exactly with the one they had already received. Like a fish caught in a net, I had writhed and struggled and achieved nothing except to get into an even worse tangle than before. All I can say, once again, is – believe me: you don’t think of these things at the time.
I don’t know that I was thinking at all, as I strode along through the wealthy, imperturbable streets of South Kensington, across the Fulham Road and on through Chelsea towards World’s End. Once I was in the general area I had to ask for directions: but it didn’t take long for me to find the address. I found myself standing outside a tall, narrow terrace; it was in darkness except for the second floor, which was brightly lit and full of the noise of voices and loud disco music. A party seemed to be in progress.
Immediately, my spirits rose. If Piers was giving a party, then of course he would invite Madeline; and if she wasn’t seeing me that evening, then of course she would go. Perhaps I had jumped to entirely the wrong conclusion. Perhaps my vision of an evening alone with Madeline was still within my grasp, after all.
I rang the bell and before long a young, well-dressed young woman had come to let me in.
‘I’m a friend of Madeline’s,’ I said. ‘I’ve come to the party.’
‘Sure.’
She gave me an odd look, which I put down to my appearance. My raincoat was dirty and crumpled at the best of times, and now, with my plastic carrier-bag and my tousled hair, I must have cut a peculiar figure. I followed her up two flights of stairs and was left standing in the hallway of a small, crowded flat while she went to find Madeline.
‘Chuck your coat in one of the bedrooms,’ she said, ‘and put the booze in the fridge. I’ll just go and get her.’
I stayed where I was. None of the other guests tried to introduce themselves to me. They all seemed to be called things like Jocasta and Jeremy, and were all wearing outfits which must have cost more money than I would have thought of spending on a year’s wardrobe. They gave me a wide berth, and sneaked glances at me with wary, amused eyes which made my cheeks burn.
Shortly afterwards, Madeline emerged from one of the other rooms. She looked absolutely wonderful. She was wearing a navy blue velvet party dress with a low V-neck at the front and back, with a string of tiny pearls around her throat. She looked pale, healthy and happy. As soon as she saw me, her face fell.
‘William?’ she said. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’
I rushed towards her, put the bag down and tried to hug her.
‘Oh Madeline, you wouldn’t believe what I’ve been t
hrough today. I’ve got to – ’
She pushed me away.
‘For God’s sake, William, what are you doing? Not here.’
We stood apart. She stared at me accusingly.
‘I brought you these,’ I said.
From the bag I brought out the box of chocolates, which was squashed, and the flowers, which were crushed. Two of the carnations’ heads had come off completely. She smiled when she saw the gift but it was a pitying smile, one I could have done without.
‘How did you know?’ she asked.
‘Know what?’
Her smile broadened.
‘That it was my birthday, of course.’
I gripped the box of chocolates tightly and tried to say something, but at first the words wouldn’t come. My mind went back to Mrs Gordon’s inexplicable question – ‘Do you know what day it is?’
‘This is… your birthday party?’
‘Of course it is. Piers very kindly said I could give a party in his flat. How did you get the address?’
Before I had time to answer, Piers himself appeared. He slid his arm around Madeline’s waist and said, ‘Darling, Charles is just putting that new tape on. Do I know your friend?’
Our eyes met and mine were the first to look away. Madeline turned towards him, put her hand on his shoulder and said, ‘No, this isn’t a good time to play it now. Take it off – please? Quickly.’
But it was too late. From the next room I could hear the familiar opening of ‘Stranger in a Foreign Land’: high, bright chords on the keyboard, shakers setting the tempo and the mood, and that strong, plangent figure from the sampled saxophone.
‘Why not?’ Piers was saying. ‘I think it’s smashing.’
I pushed past him and stood in the doorway of the room, watching the other guests as they danced to my music. In spite of myself I couldn’t help feeling a certain grim satisfaction when I saw how well ‘Stranger in a Foreign Land’ was working as a party record. If the other members of The Alaska Factory had been there, I would have turned to them and said, ‘I told you so’. But it would have seemed like an old triumph, now. I had already moved on.