Bloody Horowitz (21 page)

And that was when I saw a white van tearing down the street, perhaps on its way to someone else's house. I even got a glimpse of the mechanic behind the steering wheel, with his bald head and mustache. And although I may have imagined it, I could have sworn he turned toward me and winked.

A moment later, he had turned the corner and gone, and the last thing I saw were the words written on the side of his van. THE MECHANIC. And just below that: WE FIX EVERYTHING.

And I had to admit that, in his own way, he had.

He was such a nice boy. Everyone in his family agreed. He was the sort of boy you could be proud of, who would get a dozen A pluses and go to the best university, who would have a wonderful career and who would look after his parents when they were old. An only son, of course. There's no one more devoted than an only child . . . maybe it helps that there are no brothers or sisters to fight with. Not that Jeremy would ever have fought with anyone. Every evening he helped wash the dishes without being asked. He walked the dog without complaining. Other parents might sit worrying about drugs and cigarettes and nightclubs full of predatory girls. But Jeremy Browne seemed untouched by the modern world. He was impervious to it. He was the sort of boy that Enid Blyton might have written about—the famous five, the sensational six or maybe just the wonderful one.

He lived in Finchley, in north London . . . a large Victorian house on Elmsworth Avenue that had once been rather grand but, like many of the houses around it, had been converted into apartments. The Browne family had the bottom floor with a bright and airy basement and a garden. Jeremy liked to help with the gardening too. His father was the local manager of a well-known building society. His mother taught at a primary school just behind Finchley Central subway station. Mike and Irene Browne had arrived at parenthood fairly late in life—indeed, Jeremy had come as a complete surprise . . . though a wonderful one, of course. The three of them were often seen shopping together, at church or strolling on Hampstead Heath with their dog, Scampi—a mongrel that had once been rescued by the RSPCA—racing ahead of them.

Jeremy was unusual in that he was academically gifted, physically remarkable and athletically an all-around sportsman. He was a very handsome boy with long, fair hair, blue eyes and the sort of smile you'd notice across a room. By the time he was fifteen, he had begun to fill out. He was already taller than his mother, and with his broad shoulders, thick neck and general air of confidence he could easily have been mistaken for an American football player. He loved sports. He played for his school football team, did rugby training most weekends and had even considered professional ice-skating . . . there was a rink over at Alexandra Palace, not far away.

There were, it has to be said, a few people who thought that Jeremy was just too good to be true. He was not the most popular boy in the school. Many of the other children mistrusted him and some threw hurtful insults his way. Even some of the teachers had their doubts. To be passionate about the poetry of William Blake was fine . . . but at the age of twelve? And then there was that tricky moment when he tried to convert his math teacher to Christianity. JEREMY BROWNE IS GAY read the graffiti on the side of the nearest bus shelter, and sadly this was one of the kinder things that had been written about him.

And it would have been no surprise either that it was Jeremy who volunteered to drop in on the new neighbor who had just moved onto Elmsworth Avenue. The very last house on the street was also the smallest and the shabbiest and had for some time been a concern to the other residents. The square of grass that was the front garden had become overgrown. The trash cans were overfilled with bottles, old newspapers and plastic supermarket bags filled with garbage. No recycling here! The windows were dusty and the roof was in disrepair. But fortunately the last occupant had left and now the house had been rented out again.

It was often said that this area of London was a particularly friendly one and more like a village, really, than a major suburb. Everyone looked out for each other, whether it was via the Neighborhood Watch or just a quick gossip over the garden fence. And so it was that word began to spread about the new arrival. He was an elderly man, single and a foreigner—from Poland or perhaps Hungary. There were some who said he had been a hero of the Second World War, although that would make him at least ninety. Another report suggested that he was actually a retired nobleman—a grand prince or a duke. His name? The postman, who chatted to everyone on his round, quickly revealed that it was Jákob Demszky. This was the one certainty. Everything else was rumor. He was a widower. He had come to England for his health. He might even have been born here and had come home to die.

The moving van had come and gone very quickly. It was obvious that Mr. Demszky did not have much in the way of furniture or personal possessions. Since his arrival, he had been spotted a couple of times, once making his way home with a shopping basket in one hand and a walking stick in the other, once pottering about outside the house, trying to clear a drain.

He was a tiny man in a dark, old-fashioned suit with a coat hanging off his shoulders so that he was a bit like bat man . . . not the comic hero but a sad, dusty creature that might be found in an abandoned castle or church. He walked slowly and with difficulty. Indeed, any movement seemed to give him pain. His shoes were well-polished and he wore two gold rings on his left fingers. One of them contained a jewel that sparkled, bloodred, in the north London sun. His walking stick was topped by a silver ram's head, the horns curling into the palm of his hand.

“You know, I think I ought to go and see him,” Jeremy announced one Saturday at breakfast.

“That's very thoughtful of you, Jeremy,” his father said over a spoonful of organic muesli.

“He must be finding it very strange,” Jeremy continued. “Apparently he doesn't speak much English. And there's tons of work to do at that house.”

“Why don't you take him a slice of my homemade treacle tart?” Jeremy's mother suggested. “I could wrap it in foil.”

Very soon after this conversation, Jeremy found himself clutching a large wedge of tart and knocking on the door of 66 Elmsworth Avenue (the bell seemed to be out of order). It took Mr. Demszky a long time to answer it, and Jeremy could imagine him lifting himself painfully out of his chair and shuffling along the corridor—but eventually the door swung open and there he was, staring out with eyes that were both politely inquiring and a little nervous.

“Yes?”

“Hello. My name is Jeremy Browne. I live at number fifty. I was wondering if there was anything I could do to help you.” Jeremy lifted his package. “And my mother thought you might like a slice of her homemade treacle tart.”

Mr. Demszky considered all this as if trying to make sense of it. Then, a soft, happy smile spread across his face. “How very kind! Please, come in.”

Jeremy followed the old man through a darkened hallway and into the kitchen, which seemed bare and empty with just a few food supplies and a couple of chipped mugs on the Formica surface. Jeremy had already realized that Mr. Demszky spoke better English than he had been told, though with a heavy accent. The man really was very small indeed, as if he had shrunk into himself over the years. His skin was completely gray with dark liver spots on his neck and the side of his head. His hair was white, curling limply down over the collar of his jacket. His fingers were long and misshapen with yellowy nails that were somehow more animal than human. But most unnerving of all were his eyes. They were colorless and bulged slightly out of his face, like two plastic sachets filled with water. He grunted as he sat down. There were gaps in his teeth and Jeremy could see his tongue, as gray as the rest of him, flickering behind them.

“Would you like some tea?” Mr. Demszky asked.

“Let me make it for you,” Jeremy said. That was his way. He had come here to help and he certainly wouldn't let the old man make any effort for him.

“No, no. I already had.” When Mr. Demszky spoke, his voice was partly trapped in his chest. He had to force the words with difficulty and they came out in a wheeze. “What did you say was your name?”

“It's Jeremy Browne.”

“How old are you, Jeremy Browne?”

“I'm fifteen.”

“That is a good age. That is a very lovely age.”

Despite himself, Jeremy was feeling a little uncomfortable. The old man was staring at him in a most peculiar way, as if he had never seen a boy before, and he was trembling as if the journey to the door had almost been too much for him. “Is there anything I can do here to help you?” he asked.

“You are so very kind!” Mr. Demszky nodded so vigorously that Jeremy heard the bones in his neck creak. “I expected you to come. Yes. But so soon? So soon?” He paused for breath. “You could perhaps do a little gardening?” He spread his hands. “There are dead leaves. Dead plants. So much that is dead. Have you the time to help me in the garden? I will pay you.”

“I don't need paying,” Jeremy said. “Just show me what you want me to do.”

Jeremy worked for three hours that day. He also returned the following Wednesday and did three hours more. This time, his mother came with him, and after meeting Mr. Demszky, she took the opportunity to spring clean much of the house and even invited the old man to join them for dinner the following week. Although Jeremy wouldn't have admitted it, he was a little uneasy inside number 66. The house was dark and musty and smelled of something he couldn't quite place. He hadn't wanted to pry, but he couldn't help noticing that many of the doors were locked. He had been unable to enter the study, for example, and the curtains in that room were also drawn so he couldn't look in from outside. At any event, he felt more comfortable out in the fresh air, so he had set to work clearing out the garden shed, which was full of rubbish, some of it quite possibly hazardous. His father had already volunteered to drive it down to the local dump.

Jákob Demszky did come to dinner—and he brought gifts for the entire family. Hungarian wine for Mike and flowers for Irene. But for Jeremy, he had something rather special. He took out a black cardboard box tied with a black ribbon and slid it across the table. Lying there, it reminded Jeremy of a miniature coffin, and for a moment he was unsure whether to open it.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Unwrap it,” Mr. Demszky said.

“Go on, Jeremy.” His father laughed. “It won't bite you.”

Jeremy picked up the box, slid off the ribbon and opened it. From the weight, he had been expecting a pen or perhaps a multipurpose knife and was surprised to find himself holding an MP3 player . . . although it wasn't like any MP3 player he had ever seen before. It wasn't an iPod or anything modern. In fact, it wasn't branded at all. It was just a rectangular block of plastic, flat and chunky, with a glass window and a few controls.

“It is for you,” Mr. Demszky said. “To thank you for your help.”

The MP3 player was obviously a Hungarian model, for when Jeremy switched it on, a series of strange words floated across the screen. TÉPÕFARKAS . . . GONOSZUL . . . AKTÍV.

“What does that mean?” Jeremy asked.

“It's warming up,” Mr. Demszky explained.

“Why don't you give it a try?” Irene said.

Jeremy picked up the machine. The earbuds looked too big for him, with wires as thick as spaghetti, and he wondered if it would even work and—if it did—what it would play. But when he plugged it in, he was surprised to discover that Mr. Demszky had already downloaded several tracks by his favorite bands: Coldplay and the Killers. More than that, the quality of the MP3 player was amazing. The music poured into his head in a torrent, sweeping away the dining room, the tick of the grandfather clock, the entire world. Every lyric, every note was crystal clear. It was as if he had been transported to the front row of the O2 Center. He was actually sorry when his mother served the first course and he had to switch it off again.

The evening was a huge success. Mrs. Browne had cooked lasagne, her signature dish, and although Mr. Demszky hardly ate anything, he talked at length about his life in Hungary . . . it turned out that he had once owned a castle near Budapest and for fifty years had been one of the country's most celebrated scholars. He had lectured in astrology, psychiatry and medieval history. He had actually been the head of a society that had been formed in the Middle Ages and which still met on certain days of the year to discuss philosophical issues. There had to be a full moon, Mr. Demszky explained. Otherwise, the members—the Boszorkánys, as he called them—would not come out.

“And what are you doing in England?” Mrs. Browne asked.

Mr. Demszky paused for a moment. He looked from his plate to Mrs. Browne and then from her to her son. “I came to meet people like you,” he said.

In the weeks that followed, the Brownes saw a lot of their new neighbor, helping him in small ways or just popping in to see that he was all right. And Jeremy never walked up the road without his new MP3 player plugged into his ears. It was incredible. Not only did it have his two favorite bands, but all the other music that he loved had somehow found its way into the machine, as if arriving there overnight. Three days before Take That released their new single, it magically appeared on his playlist. It seemed he only had to think of a tune and he would find it . . . without even having to pay. And there was something else rather strange. The MP3 player didn't seem to have a battery compartment. In fact, there were no plastic panels or visible screws at all. It was molded together with just the single socket for the jack at the end of the earplugs and the switches to start the whole thing up. He vaguely wondered if it might not be solar-powered, but that was ridiculous. Solar-powered MP3 players didn't exist.