The Man from the Diogenes Club - [Diogenes Club 01]

by By Kim Newman

  Rupert Scarf pulled Twitch up, and together they picked up Shoulders.

  “You’re a dead dolly-mixture,” Twitch said, retreating.

  Vanessa smiled, eyebrows raised.

  The skins left the restaurant. All the other customers, and the waitresses, applauded. Vanessa took a bow.

  “Three more friends for life,” she said.

  * * * *

  They continued by B roads. After the Jolly Glutton, Jeperson slumped into a fugue of despair. He said nothing, but his mood was heavy. Fred was beginning to sense that the man from the Diogenes Club was remarkably open. A changeable personality, he felt things so deeply that there was an overspill from his head, which washed onto anyone around him. Just now, Fred was lapped by the waters of Jeperson’s gloom. It was the loss of his beloved country pub as much as the encounter with the yobs, maybe the loss of his beloved country.

  Vanessa kept away from the main road, casually driving through smaller and smaller villages. Greenery flashed by, stretches of thickly wooded land alternating with patchwork-quilt landscapes of fields and hedgerows. Brooks and stiles and tree-canopied roads. Tiny old churches and thatched cottages. A vicar on a bicycle.

  This didn’t seem to be the same world as the Jolly Glutton. No Formica, no plastic tomatoes, no crinkle-cut chips.

  Jeperson stirred a little and looked through the tinted window.

  “Spring seems to have sprung,” he announced.

  It was true. This was a fresh season.

  The ShadowShark crested a hill. The road gently sloped down towards sparkling sea. Seamouth was spread out, sun shining on red tile roofs. Gulls wheeled high in the air. A small boat cut through the swell, tacking out in Seamouth Bay.

  It was very different from the dull day with the Boys, when the sea had been a churning grey soup.

  Fred saw the pier, a finger stretched out into the sea. He had another flash. Jeperson shivered.

  “Looks like a picture postcard,” he said. “But we know something nasty is written on the back. There are things moving under the surface.”

  Fred tried to conquer his fear.

  “Drive on, Vanessa love,” Jeperson said.

  * * * *

  Seamouth spread up away from the front onto the rolling downs, bounded to the East by the cliffs and to the West by a stretch of shivering sands. Overlooking the sea were serried ranks of whitewashed villas, at least a third called Sea View.

  The ShadowShark attracted some friendly attention. Folks looked up from their gardening to wave and smile. A postman paused and gave a smart salute. Fred was almost touched.

  “It’s nearly four o’clock,” he said. “That postie should have finished work hours ago.”

  “Second afternoon post?” Jeperson suggested.

  “Not in this decade.”

  “I suppose not.”

  Vanessa found Raleigh Avenue, where Brigadier-General Sir Giles Gallant lived. His villa was called The Laurels. Rich green bushes, planted all around, did their best to seem like trees.

  The cars outside the villas were all well-preserved but out-of-date. There wasn’t a Mini or an Imp in sight, just big, elegant machines, polished to perfection, invisibly mended where they’d pranged.

  They parked in the driveway of The Laurels and got out. Fred’s legs had gone rubbery on the long drive and he stamped a bit on the gravel to get his circulation back.

  “Good afternoon,” said a man in overalls, looking up from his spade-work. “Here to see the Brig?”

  “Yes, indeed,” said Jeperson.

  “Top hole,” said the neighbour. “I’m Marshall Michaelsmith. Two names, not three.”

  Michaelsmith was a game old bird of perhaps seventy, with snow-white hair and red cheeks. He had been digging vigorously, turning over a flower-bed. A stack of pulled-up rosebushes lay discarded on the lawn. There were a few plants left, tied to bamboo spears.

  “I’m with the Brig on the Committee,” Michaelsmith said.

  He tore up another rosebush by the roots and threw it away, momentarily sad.

  “Shame to do it,” he said. “The missus loves these blooms, worked at them for years. But one has to do one’s bit. I’m putting in potatoes, cabbages, rhubarb. Dig for Victory, eh?”

  The last of the roses was gone.

  “The missus has taken to her bed. For the duration, probably. Still, she’ll be up and about in the end.”

  Michaelsmith stood on his ravaged flower-bed.

  “The Brig’s in town, on official business. I’ll see if we can scrounge you some tea in the meantime. Come into my parlour. This way, miss.”

  Michaelsmith escorted Vanessa, extending a courteous arm to steady her across the rough earth. Fred and Jeperson followed.

  “I hear you girls are doing your bit too,” Michaelsmith said to Vanessa. “Before it all got too much, the missus was the same. Backs to the land, girls. Jolly good show. We must all pull together, see it through. Right will prevail, my dear. Oh yes it will. Always does in the end. Never doubt it for a moment.”

  Fred gathered Marshall Michaelsmith was a bit potty. Slung on the old man’s back was a khaki satchel. Fred recognised the shape. His Dad had kept his gas mask well past the Festival of Britain. Michaelsmith’s looked to be in good order, ready to pull on in an instant.

  Jeperson hung back a little, looking around.

  * * * *

  Mrs. MacAlister, Marshall Michaelsmith’s Scots housekeeper, brought in a silver tea-service, and Michaelsmith poured them all cups of Lipton’s. He made a ritual of it, using a strainer to catch the leaves, apologising for the thinness of the brew and the condensed milk.

  Michaelsmith talked about the half-brick in his cistern, to cut down on the water flushed away, and the line drawn in his bath to keep the level down to four inches. He seemed proud of his austerity measures.

  Fred supposed the old man had got into the habit during the war and never let up.

  Michaelsmith’s reception room was cosily cluttered, with a view of the back garden through French windows. There was a black-bordered photograph of a young man in naval uniform on the piano.

  “Mitch, my brother,” Michaelsmith explained. “Went down at Jutland. In the last show.”

  Jeperson sipped his tea and breathed in the atmosphere.

  Somehow, even in banana boots, he fit in the room. Fred supposed he was such an odd sort that he’d do anywhere. Since arriving here, Jeperson had been paying close attention. It wasn’t just a question of one dotty old man.

  Michaelsmith was taken with Vanessa, and no wonder. He was explaining all the family photographs. There were a great many of “the missus,” following her from long-faced youth through middle-aged elegance to painful frailty.

  The French windows opened and a man in uniform stepped into the room. Michaelsmith stood to attention.

  “Richard,” the newcomer exclaimed. “This is a surprise. What brings you to this backwater?”

  “The usual thing, Giles.”

  The man—Sir Giles Gallant—was suddenly serious.

  “Here? I don’t believe it.”

  Jeperson stood up and embraced Gallant, like a Frenchman.

  “The lovely Vanessa, you know,” Jeperson said. Sir Giles clicked his heels and Vanessa demurely bobbed. “And this is Fred Regent. He’s the new bug.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Sir Giles said, inflicting a bone-crushing handshake. “We need all the good men we can get.”

  Brigadier-General Sir Giles Gallant must have been about the same age as Michaelsmith, but his manner suggested a much younger man. He was iron, where his friend was willow. His grey hair was still streaked with black, and his hawk eyes were bright. He wore no rank insignia, but his perfectly pressed khakis denoted obvious officer status. He struck Fred as a very determined man.

  “It’s your pier we’re interested in, Giles,” Jeperson said. “Seems to be infested with apports. And other nastinesses.”

  “The pier?” Sir Giles was taken aback. �
�Should have blown it up years ago. Damn thing’s a shipping hazard.”

  “But it’s not just the pier,” Jeperson said.

  “No,” Sir Giles said, “you’re quite right, Richard. I should have called Diogenes myself.”

  Fred remembered Richard had said Sir Giles would know what was going on.

  “I thought I could cope on my own. I’m sorry.”

  “No apologies, Giles.”

  “Of course not.”

  “We’ll set up HQ at your place. I’ll go over the whole thing with you. Vanessa, take the worthy Fred for a walk along the front, would you? I needn’t tell you to stay away from the pier, but keep an eye out for oddities.”

  Fred was alarmed, but at least he knew Vanessa could take care of herself. And him too, probably, though that hardly did anything for his confidence.

  “It’s a mild evening,” Jeperson said. “You might go for a paddle.”

  * * * *

  They walked down towards the front, zigzagging downwards through neat, quiet roads. The sky darkened by degrees.

  “Have you noticed?” Vanessa said. “No one’s turning their lights on.”

  Fred looked at the windows of the villas.

  “If they did, you couldn’t tell,” he said. “The houses all have those thick black curtains.”

  “I knew people were conformists in these parts, but it’s beyond the bounds of probability that every Sea View should have the same curtains. Whatever happened to white net?”

  They looked over rows of roofs, towards the sea.

  “There’s something missing,” Vanessa said.

  Fred saw it.

  “Television aerials. There aren’t any.”

  “Well spotted, that, man.”

  “Time seems to stand still. I noticed it the first time.”

  He didn’t want to think further on that line.

  “I feel I’ve come in on the last act of the panto,” he said. “How did you get into this business?”

  “Like you. I took a turn off the road, and realised things were not as they seem.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Have you ever heard of demonic possession?”

  “I think so.”

  “I don’t recommend it.”

  “Mr. Jeperson is an exorcist?”

  “Not quite. He’s trickier than that. At heart, he’s a sensitive.”

  “He seems a funny bloke.”

  “He’s had a funny life.”

  They were at the front. There were people around. The locals smiled and bade them good evening, but hurried on their way. The street lamps did not come on.

  “On his wrist,” Fred began.

  “The numbers? They’re what you think.”

  “Concentration camp?”

  “Death camp, actually. His foster father and Sir Giles were with the unit that liberated the place. They pulled him out. He was just a kid then.”

  “Is he Jewish?”

  “Almost certainly not,” she said. “He doesn’t actually know. He has no memory of anything before the camp. I’ve always assumed he was born a gypsy. But he’s as British as you can get.”

  “And this club?”

  “The Diogenes Club. They collect useful people. They’ve been doing it for centuries. Richard’s talents were obvious, much showier then than now, if you can credit it. Probably why he was in the camp. Old Mr. Jeperson—he died a few years ago—adopted the boy, sent him to his old school, brought him up. Shaped him and trained him. That wasn’t easy for either of them. Richard’s no one’s catspaw. He’s a free agent.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’ve been collected too. And now, so have you.”

  A chill breeze made him hug his jacket. He still wore his skinhead outfit. He was getting used to it. The Peter Noone haircut had made him look as big a prat as... well, as Peter Noone. It was time someone reclaimed the skin look from thugs like Jaffa.

  They had been ambling along the front, deliberately walking away from the pier. Now, they stopped, leaned on railings, and looked out to sea.

  Waves rolled in, lapping the sands. Wreaths of kelp tangled on rocks. A man in a straw hat, barefooted with his trousers rolled up to the knee, pottered among the pools, collecting seashells.

  “It’s an idyll,” Vanessa said. “You’d never think there was a war on.”

  “What war?” Fred asked, shocked.

  “There’s always a war, Fred.”

  * * * *

  Back at The Laurels, they found Jeperson and Sir Giles in a book-lined study, snifting brandy from glasses the size of human heads.

  “How’s town?” Jeperson asked.

  “Quiet,” Vanessa commented.

  “Always the way.”

  “I’ve decided to bring the pier up on the Committee,” Sir Giles said. “It’s been shut down for years. Time to get rid of it altogether.”

  “Let’s not be too hasty,” Jeperson said. “Our problem may not be the pier itself, but something that happens to be there at the moment. If you get rid of the structure, the problem might deem it an opportune moment to move inland.”

  Sir Giles offered Fred, but not Vanessa, a drink. He thought it best not to accept.

  “I’ll call the Committee anyway,” Sir Giles said. “Best to alert them all to the danger. Shan’t be a sec.”

  Jeperson smiled and sipped as Sir Giles left the room. Once the door was closed, his face shut down.

  “We must get out of this house,” he said, serious.

  Vanessa accepted without question.

  The windows were fastened and barred. The study door was locked. Fred was surprised.

  He didn’t ask what was going on.

  Vanessa handed Jeperson a hairpin. He unbent it and picked the lock. It was done in seconds. Jeperson was pleased with himself and not in too much of a hurry to take a bow. He opened the door a crack. Sir Giles was in the hallway, on the telephone.

  “We must act fast,” Sir Giles was saying. “You don’t know this man.”

  Their host was between them and the front door.

  Jeperson stepped silently out into the hallway.

  “Giles,” he said, sharply.

  Sir Giles turned, face guilty. He muttered something, and hung up.

  “Richard.” He attempted a genial smile. Without much success. Brigadier-General Sir Giles Gallant was sweating and shifting.

  Jeperson bent the hairpin back into shape and returned it to Vanessa.

  “We should do each other the courtesy of being honest,” Jeperson said. “You of all people know how difficult it is to deceive someone like me.”

  “I would have told you,” Sir Giles said. “I wanted you to hear it from the whole Committee.”

  The door opened and uniformed men came in. With guns. Six of them. All middle-aged or older, but hard-faced, smart in khakis. Bright eyes and clipped moustaches. Proper soldier boys. Rifles were levelled.

  “This is for the best, Richard.”

  “Who decides?” Jeperson asked.

  “We do,” Sir Giles claimed. “We’ve earned that right.”

  Fred was lost. He didn’t know who was who and who was on whose side.

  Jeperson sank to the floor, knees bowing outwards as he fit into a lotus position. The rifle barrels followed him. Fred saw the tension in his back. He pressed his palms together, shut his eyes, and hummed almost below the threshold of hearing.

  Sir Giles looked torn. For an instant, Fred thought he was about to order his men to fire. Instead, he stepped forwards, raising the telephone receiver like a club, aiming a blow at Jeperson’s head.

  It never connected.

  Sir Giles was caught—by Jeperson’s humming?—and froze, receiver held above his head, cord dangling. His face showed a struggle.

  The humming was louder, machinelike, insectile.

  What was Jeperson doing?

  The men with guns took their directions from Sir Giles. They were spectators. Sir Giles was fighting. He wrestled the receiver
, trying to bring it down. Jeperson rose as he had sunk, unbending himself. He was projecting something from inside. Static electricity crackled in his hair.

  Vanessa took Fred’s arm and tugged him along, in a cone of protection that emanated from the man from the Diogenes Club. As long as he could hear the humming, he felt safe.