by Paul Magrs
Instead he’s got us, she thought. Us sitting perched on padded high stools, laughing at the framed prints of the original proprietor of the fish restaurant chain: an altogether sinister old bloke in a pinny and a straw hat. The photos went back years. They showed him and his many sons at work in the very first shop and in little vans parked on cobbled streets. Dispensing carefully-wrapped, hot newspaper parcels to women in headscarfs, men in caps. Children with scabby legs and their socks rolled down, playing in the streets.
‘That was us, back then,’ Effie said, with a sudden clarity. ‘That’s how we were. When fish and chips on a Friday were like a treat.’
Sally rolled her eyes at this and then squinched them up, gulping down the last of her Pernod. The aniseedy taste was like being on holiday. Continental. ‘Listen to you. Like someone off a documentary. Going on.’
Effie flashed back. ‘You’ve always known how to live, haven’t you? How to be modern. You’ve always moved with the times.’
Sally could see that Effie was getting her back up. She was about to say so, in those exact words, but thought better of it. Effie could be very conscious of her dowager’s hump.
‘Can I have your glasses now, ladies?’ said the sulky bar boy and they had to relinquish them. With the Pernod, pickles and chip grease inside her, Sally felt all insulated, syrupy and thick.
They made their way out, onto the sodium-lit tarmac by the ring-road, where the only noise was motorway traffic.
‘Well, I never wanted to modernise,’ Effie said. ‘I never wanted to live right up in the sky, however many mod-cons they chucked at me. My heart bled when they ripped up those terraces, like the one where you used to live. I think they’ve been daft. Changing everything they can …’
Stuck out here, waiting to cross the big road, dallying before they could brave the four lanes of city traffic, Sally could see that her friend had a point. This was a weird place now, this part of town: to their left, the road out to Eccles and, beyond that, Liverpool. And here it was McDonalds and a Travel Lodge and Sainsburys and a casino: their rooftops picked out with neon trim. To their right, the four lanes of traffic swept under the old red bricks of the viaduct. Beyond that they could see the futuristic plate glass of new apartments. Their soft and luxurious lighting hemmed in by old warehouses done up at scandalous prices. And, ahead, the road into the centre of Manchester. The road they’d have to take before veering off towards Salford and home.
They were two relics, clumping along in their good winter coats, alone together on Friday night. Clutching each other’s arms, the wind stinging their ears. The smart cars shushed by them with a noise like silk being ripped. Occasionally one would have all its windows slid down, and they would hear that very aggressive thudding dance music that seemed to be everywhere these days.
The lights went green and, linking arms, the two ladies scuttled over the four lanes, feeling dwarfed by everything. The huge, automatic billboards showed naked young bodies and it was hard to say what they were advertising with their witty, cryptic slogans.
They had to walk along the back of the TV studios. The office block loomed above them. There, everything was produced and filmed; deep inside that tall building surmounted by the red glowing sign. Satellite dishes and antennae on that roof were beaming out programmes to everyone in the country.
It was like being in the very centre of the world. That was how they felt when they went inside that building once, on a visit. They had applied for and received studio audience tickets for that show in which ordinary members of the public became a famous face for one day. ‘Wasn’t it just like being in the middle of everything? Right here at home?’ Sally asked. ‘Like all the world was revolving around us while we were there.’
‘It was,’ Effie said, though she hadn’t much enjoyed watching the show. She found it slow and confusing and hadn’t known who people were pretending to be. She liked a proper drama, with real people in. She was very keen on murder programmes, especially those with a female detective. One who had to prove herself in a tough man’s world.
As they took the path along the high, secretive walls of the studios, there were late night trains groaning and rattling over the viaducts and bridges. ‘Everything criss-crossing,’ Effie said. She knew they were both talking because the dark and quiet streets were disconcerting. ‘Zipping about and all busy, even at this time …’
‘There’s that hotel,’ Sally said thoughtfully, nodding across the road. ‘Where all the big stars stay, when they’re appearing in a TV show.’ The two of them had gone there for tea and cakes that day of their visit to the studios. They’d hoped to see some celebrities and they hadn’t struck lucky. They’d both read about that American pop star who’d held an impromptu concert in the bar. They imagined him in his spangly shirt, singing at the piano, all sweaty-faced and egged-on by drinkers. Alas, they’d seen nothing so exciting, but they’d been impressed by the splendour of the Prince Albert.
‘I wonder if that’s where Karla’s staying,’ said Sally. ‘I bet you it is. They’d put that one in the best place.’
Effie looked at her. ‘You said you wouldn’t mind bumping into her, now she’s back.’
Sally hesitated, not too sure now.
‘We could pop in for a tiny nightcap,’ Effie urged. ‘I’m chilled through, just coming this far. And you must be frozen in that flimsy dress.’
Sally considered. The old cow would be tucked up in bed by now, even if she was in residence. Chances are, they’d never cop a glimpse of her. But it wouldn’t hurt, would it? Just a little tipple in the hotel bar? It might be a pleasant finish to the night. She was all dolled up, too, and that had been wasted on the old dears at the fish restaurant.
‘All right,’ she told Effie. ‘Don’t get your hopes up, mind. And if we do see her, let me do the talking. Just you remember – she’s as ordinary as the two of us. She’s no one special.’
‘All right,’ said Effie, and they set off at a trot towards the white and pale gold of the hotel’s foyer.
Sally was thinking: What am I talking about? Karla’s not an ordinary person at all. She never was. Not what I’d call normal.
TWENTY-SIX
At first Colin was foxed by the unfamiliar geography of Lance’s flat. When he turned into the dark corridor behind the kitchen he didn’t have a clue where he was heading. Behind him, the raucous music and canned laughter of Menswear was blaring out on the telly’s stereo surround sound. The voices of the principal characters – bizarrely, Lance among them – piped up at his back. Colin could also hear Raf and Vicki talking away. They weren’t really concentrating on the show. They had started talking in earnest, now that Lance and Colin were out of the way. No longer on best behaviour, they were gassing eagerly about the advent of Karla Sorenson.
Suddenly Colin realised that he didn’t want Lance to know how doolally that pair was on Karla. He saw the potential Raf had to really hurt Lance’s feelings. Colin could see that Raf could be quite vicious; his tall, elegant pal had a nasty streak right through him. He could also see that Lance was soft as muck.
There was a spill of light at the sharp corner of the hallway. ‘Lance?’ he called, feeling his way gently along the wall, hoping he wouldn’t knock into anything expensive. As he inched round the bend he came face to face with Lance’s shrine.
Lance was on his knees in his alcove, whispering under his breath to the glowing portrait. Everything was lit softly by cathedral candles: soft, yellow, beeswaxy. Colin was dumbstruck for a second or two, staring at this apparition in the fussy, gold-leaf frame: this benign, almost holy, glamorous studio photo of the woman. She had broad, strong cheekbones and those l950s kind of pointed breasts. Her long, elegant fingers were clasped together.
Her calm, silvered eyes were staring out from the glass, past the bowed, bare back of the praying Lance. Colin caught his breath in his throat, because it seemed that those silver eyes were staring straight at him. Like he’d been caught sneaking up on Lance. The eyes a
ppeared to flash a warning at him, but it must have been a trick of the candlelight. When he stared back, he saw that the eyes were lustreless and dead.
‘Lance,’ he tried again, and then Lance was getting up shakily and rounding on him. The heat from his body was intense. ‘Are you OK?’
His host was looking furious. It was as if he had been disturbed doing something weird. Something wrong. His fists were bunched at his sides. God, he’s going to punch me, Colin thought, and took a hasty step back as Lance loomed over him. Then the wall was right at his back.
‘What are you doing round here?’ Lance’s voice was steady and low. Colin knew that he was talking like that so the others wouldn’t hear him over the telly, but it also sounded sexy as hell.
‘I thought you were having a funny turn,’ Colin whispered.
Lance looked down at him. Colin was suddenly very conscious of their proximity. Only an inch or two between their bodies. The older man was trying to intimidate him. Colin smelt the warmth and musk coming off his skin – the smell of someone in his pyjamas all day, all interlaced with the scent of beeswax and bitter red wine.
‘Worrying about me again, were you?’ Lance said. ‘You’ve been doing a lot of that.’
‘Yeah …’ Colin said. Oh, great, he thought. It was like he had forgotten all of his lines. Lance was playing out a scene as if he was in some fantastic TV play – beautifully lit and sexy with menace – and his broad, warm silhouette was blocking out the light, and Colin had turned stupid and silent with fright.
Lance waited and then he let out a low, bored sigh. ‘OK, then. You’ve made your move, Colin. I knew you would.’
Colin frowned. ‘What?’
Lance was looking disgusted. ‘You guys are all the same. All thinking I’m the same as on the telly. Up for it with anyone. Up for it with any randy little queen who pops by. My life isn’t a porno film, whatever you might think. And it isn’t a sitcom, either. It’s serious, actually, and really quite dull.’ He was getting het up and louder. Colin could feel spittle on his face. Just a speck or two.
‘Lance, I don’t know what you’re on about.’
‘You! The same as the milkman, the script courier, even Adrian the fucking producer. You all think that I’m at it all the time! And all thinking you can just demand your own piece of me …’
‘Honestly, I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Colin was getting fed up with being shouted at. ‘This is obviously some mad frigging psychodrama of your own, Lance. I just came round to see if you were OK throwing up and then I find you worshipping a picture of some old slapper—’
The next thing he felt was a flat-handed smack, right in the face. It was like being hit by a shovel. Colin could smell something weird, like salt and vinegar crisps, just before he blacked out and slid down the alcove wall.
Within moments he was awake again and his vision had gone sparkly and silver and Lance was on his knees and trying to get him up – he thought – to start bashing him again. Colin started shouting, ‘Get off! Fuck off! Get off!’ but Lance was hoisting him up by his armpits and shouting back, ‘I’m sorry! I’m sorry!’ and they were one big tangle of limbs. Colin tried to slap him away and Lance was pulling on him and then Colin was shaking and couldn’t get his balance at all. ‘You shouldn’t have said that about my mum,’ Lance was saying. ‘I had no choice. You shouldn’t have said it …’ Now he was crushing Colin’s arms against his body with his own hot, bare arms and Colin continued to struggle, thrashing about and shouting: ‘That ABSOLUTELY KNACKED you FUCKING BASTARD! I don’t care WHO it is on your photo! THAT FUCKING KNACKED! I CAN’T HEAR PROPERLY NOW!’
Then, all of a sudden, he came over exhausted. He was still and he realised he was locked in Lance’s grip. The world was still rocking quite a bit and the nausea had set in.
‘You are all just after my body,’ Lance said, very distinctly.
‘What? What the fuck are you saying?’
‘Aren’t you? Isn’t that why you came back?’
Colin blinked. The silver stars were starting to settle. His whole face felt mushy and numb. ‘No, Lance. It wasn’t. That’s not why I came here at all.’
Slowly Lance relinquished his grip. He let Colin stand on his own two feet. Colin wavered slightly and then drew himself up properly. His red-tufted spikes of hair were flattened and his face had started to swell on one side. He glared back at Lance and the moment went on just a shade too long.
Then they were kissing each other, hard, and their teeth were clashing, noses smashing against each other’s: Colin’s hands on Lance’s waist, Lance’s hands clamped over Colin’s ears.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Obviously she couldn’t eat anything. Not after that.
Whether that awful Sole Veronique had been an hallucination on her part, or whether it was a full-blown manifestation of some kind, was quite beside the point.
Karla had been shaken to the core.
She sat for some time at the best table in the Prince Albert restaurant, breathing shallowly and trying to rearrange her jangling nerves. She’d had her fish dish taken away and the waiter looked most disappointed that she hadn’t enjoyed it. By the looks of it, Ms Sorenson had just given it a sort of shove across the plate, splashing some of the pale sauce on the table cloth. She hadn’t even touched the grapes. Now the word would go round the kitchens; Ms S. hadn’t enjoyed dinner one single bit. The waiter asked if he could fetch her anything else: she waved him brusquely, tremblingly away.
Then she drank a whole bottle of the pale green wine. Had anyone else in the room seen her staring goggle-eyed at the peremptory and accusatory fish? Had she cried out in shock and dismay when it had started to harangue her? She couldn’t remember. But the place seemed the same, quite unperturbed, the murmur of conversation running under the sickly-sweet piano music. The conversation had flowed over and past her: the subject of her ravishing presence in the restaurant had been turned over and casually discarded in the swiftly-rushing flow of table talk.
Was she going crazy? What was happening to her? Nothing like this had happened to her in years. Nothing impossible or mad or reeking of the vilest sorcery had crossed her path in God knew how long. She was losing her knack, seemingly. She had no equanimity in the face of impossible things. Not anymore. She would have to get a grip. She couldn’t go getting all worked up at the slightest thing. Not when she was on a mission. When everything was inching along towards culmination.
She had to be a star. She had to be at the peak of her performance. That was what the Brethren required of her.
Yet – Christ, that Sole Veronique had scared her.
At last she looked up to see that the dining room’s occupants had mostly left. Only a few tables were still being used. Time for her to take her leave. She collected up her Sobranies and her wits, stuffed everything into her evening bag, and wondered where Kevin the porter had got to. She needed his stout form for support right now. Inwardly she was cursing. What was the point of having abject slaves and myrmidons to tend your whims, if they just diddled off when the mood took them?
Rather bad-naturedly Karla got up, hoisted her little bag and clip-clopped in her tortuous heels, out of the restaurant, and into the bar.
It was smoky and relatively quiet. The place was done up in some kind of naval theme, with plush blue carpets and woodwork dark and shiny as melting toffee. The brass pumps and fittings winked at her alluringly and the sticky, vividly colourful array of optics were dancing in her sights as she slouched over to the stools. She rested her elbows on the bar and felt ungainly as she sat down. She wasn’t sure she hadn’t heard something rip.
She clattered her knuckles and all of her heavy rings against the bar. ‘Shop!’ she cried, and it came out as something of a screech. ‘Shop!’ she tried again, and sighed and noticed that she’d drawn the attention of two elderly women sitting on the stools to her left. She’d made a show of herself and one of them was tutting. Karla shrugged and grabbed a fistful of Japanese-t
ype snacks from the bowl in front of her.
Now the two old ladies beside her were cooing and nodding. Old hags, she thought, and looked back at the dizzying optics. ‘Shop,’ she said again, flatly, and feeling queasy.
Then her forearm was being grasped and held down on the bar. She screeched again, thinking she was being attacked.
It was a mottled old claw that had taken hold of her: liver-spotted and rough as pumice-stone. She tried to yank her arm back and swung round savagely to protest.
Some horrible old woman was grinning and gurning right into her face. Karla recoiled at the stink of pickled onions.
‘Karla Sorenson,’ the old woman jeered. ‘Well, well, lady. Just look at you. Who’d have thought you’d end up like this?’
PART THREE
Fox Soames Writes
My parched tongue stirs at last.
Let these papers be disinterred from their tomb and the shackles fall from my bony wrists. Stains of rust like pollen and orange blood. But now I can gesticulate as I tell my tale.
My eyes struggle to spring open. Fused with sleep dust and grave mould. Now I can speak. Good evening!
I speak to you from outside time. Really.
My name has been Fox Soames. All through the twentieth century. It is a name best known for being emblazoned in silver on the sheeny covers of paperbacks. For being embossed in gold on the spines of leatherette bookclub volumes. One hundred million worldwide in hardback! A couple more millions in paper-covered editions! I was a household name! Whole families gathered to quail at my words as fathers read aloud my latest instalment. Lone readers drew closer to the source of consoling light in their darkened rooms. They all turned my pages, smoothing them out. They were all drawn inexorably across my lines, a silent word of protest on their lips as they read on and on into hundreds of nights. My readers were in the rapt, seduced, fascinated stupor of those being dragged ineluctably into hell. Good evening!