Garden of Evil (4 page)

‘This is the painting I'm supposed to be doing for the Westwood Library,' said Ricky. He nodded toward the easel on the right-hand side, on which was propped a large canvas depicting a man in a white cloak sitting in a chair like a throne, surrounded by small children. He had a thick leather-bound book on his lap, and he was obviously reading them a story.

The painting was only about a third completed, so much of the background was still sketched in charcoal. But Ricky had already painted the man's face in considerable detail. He was blond haired and very pale, with high cheekbones and pale turquoise eyes and the slightest suggestion of a smile. For some reason, though, he looked as if he were smiling at a private joke, rather than sharing his amusement with the children who were gathered all around him.

Jim stared at the painting for a long time without saying anything. He thought that the pale-faced man bore an uncanny resemblance to Simon Silence, although it had to be a coincidence. Like, it
had
to be. Either a coincidence, or Jim's psychic alarm bells still faintly ringing, in the back of his mind.

‘Who
is
that?' he asked.

‘He's supposed to be The Storyteller. The library have baby story-time and toddler story-time a couple of times a month, and they wanted a painting to put up in the corner where they hold them.'

‘No – I meant who did you use as a model?'

‘Well, that's the whole fuckin' point.
This
is the model.' He went across to the easel and picked up a dog-eared color photograph of a man's face. He handed it over to Jim and said, ‘This is what The Storyteller was supposed to look like.'

The man in the photograph was round-faced and jolly-looking, almost like Santa Claus without a beard. His cheeks were red and his eyes were crinkly with good humor and he had a broad, cheerful smile.

‘That's actually a guy called Morton Toft, who runs the Brouhaha Bar on Wilshire. I 'specially chose him because he's always telling tall stories, and he has a child-friendly face.'

‘So – what happened? Your Storyteller looks completely different.'

‘I can't paint him any other way, that's why. I sketch his features, I mix my colors, and that's how he always turns out. That face you're looking at there, that's the third fuckin' face I've painted, one on top of the other.'

Jim went close up to the painting and stared into The Storyteller's eyes. There was no question about it, he did look very much like Simon Silence, except he was at least twenty years older. His hair was thinner and there were crows' feet around his eyes.

‘Can you explain it?' asked Ricky. ‘Because I sure can't. I think it's something to do with the paint.'

Jim heard a rattling sound, like a bead-curtain parting, and then a woman's voice said, ‘It's a message from the spirit world. I've told Ricky that over and over, but he doesn't believe me.'

‘Oh for Christ's sake, woman! “A message from the spirit world,” my ass! There ain't no fuckin' spirit world, otherwise your ex would be sleeping in between us every night just to keep us apart!'

A very emaciated woman with her white hair cut into a bob had entered the living room. She was wearing a silver Navajo necklace and several silver bracelets, but she was naked to the waist. Her breasts were small and flat, but with prominent brown nipples, both of which were pierced with silver rings. She wore gauzy brown harem pants and oriental slippers with curled-up toes. She was smoking a cigarette in a long black holder.

‘Hallo, Nadine,' said Jim. ‘How's the fortune telling?'

‘Oh, I'm getting by. Business types mainly, these days, wanting to know when the next crash is coming.'

‘So – this Storyteller – you think this is a message from the spirit world?'

Nadine came sliding up to Ricky and twined her arm around his waist. ‘He
refuses
to believe me, but what else could it possibly be? All right, he's not Norman Rockwell, but he's not that crap at painting faces, are you, bunny-hugs?'

‘It's the paint,' Ricky insisted. ‘It's something to do with the paint, I'm sure of it. When it dries, it loses all of its pigmentation.'

Nadine blew out a long stream of smoke. ‘You don't believe that any more than I do, do you? You just don't want to admit that there are forces in this world that you can't explain. Jim knows all about them, don't you, Jim?'

Jim deliberately didn't answer that question. ‘What do
you
think this means, then?' he asked Nadine. ‘This face, always turning out different from the way that Ricky wants to paint it?'

‘I think it's a long-dead relative, desperately trying to communicate with him through the medium in which he is the most proficient – oil paint.'

‘Oh, yes? Why not through music? Or why not simply
talk
to him?'

‘Because he's high most of the time, and he would forget. But if the message is in a painting, then he
can't
forget. He needs to find out who this is, this Storyteller, and when he does, he'll discover something greatly to his advantage.'

‘Nadine, will you cut that out? I don't believe any of your fortune-telling garbage!'

‘But you could be rich without knowing it. This man could have left you an untold fortune, bunny-hugs, and then you and I could live in the lap of luxury for the rest of our lives!'

Ricky turned to Jim and spread his arms wide. ‘Can you believe this drivel? This is what I have to put up with, every day of my life. I leave coffee grounds up the side of my cup, and that means I'm going to sell one of my paintings for a record price. I haven't sold a fuckin' painting in months, not at
any
price.'

Jim checked his watch. ‘Listen – I'd better leave you two in peace. I have a whole lot of preparation work to finish up for tomorrow.'

‘Stay for some chamomile tea,' begged Nadine, taking hold of his arm and pressing her deflated breast against it. ‘We have so few visitors, don't we, Ricky?'

‘I really must go,' Jim told her. ‘I have to take my cat for a walk.'

As he turned to leave, however, the red parakeet suddenly ruffled its feathers and let out a harsh, high-pitched squawk. ‘
Silence
!' it screamed. ‘
Silence
!'

Ricky snapped, ‘Shut the fuck up, bird!' Then he turned to Jim and said, ‘“Silence” – that's the only word he knows. I've tried to teach him a couple of good old-fashioned cuss words, but all he says is “silence”!'

‘
Silence
!' the parakeet screamed back at him. ‘
Silence
!'

As he walked along the landing past Apartment 2, the door suddenly opened and Summer stepped out. She managed to time her appearances almost to the second. She was blonde, tall, and stunningly pretty, with enormous blue eyes and a little ski-jump nose and naturally pouting lips.

This morning she was dressed more demurely than she usually was, in a pink roll-neck sweater with short sleeves, which didn't quite manage to reach down as far as her navel, and a pair of white deck shorts with turned-up cuffs.

‘
Jimmy
! I thought you'd be at college!'

Jim gave her a kiss on each cheek. ‘How's it going, Summer? How's the pole-dancing job?'

‘Oh, didn't I tell you? I quit. A guy came in from the Starstruck Model Agency and offered me much better money to do modeling. I have my first shoot Monday.'

‘I thought you enjoyed the pole dancing.'

‘It's OK, but it's much more tiring than you think. And those horrible old men . . . they can never keep their paws to themselves. Why aren't you at college?'

‘Oh . . . there was some kind of health-and-safety problem. We'll probably be back to normal tomorrow.'

Summer reached up and twisted his hair around her fingertip. ‘So . . . if you're not doing anything this afternoon, maybe you could take me to the beach or something?'

‘Summer . . . you know how much I like you, and I think you're the most gorgeous girl I ever met. But let's just keep it that way, shall we? You know, friends.'

‘Friends can go to the beach together, can't they?'

‘I've seen your bikinis, when you've been sunbathing. How long do you think that we could stay just friends if you wore one of those?'

‘Oh come on, Jimmy. I had a Brazilian only yesterday. I haven't had the chance to try it out yet.'

Jim gave her another kiss. ‘Get thee behind me, Satan. I'll see you later, OK – round about eight? Maybe we can have a drink at Barney's Beanery, and a bite to eat if you're hungry.'

‘I'm hungry for
you,
Jimmy. You know that.'

‘Stop teasing me, Summer. I'm just a tired old college teacher.'

Jim climbed the last flight of steps to his own apartment. He opened the front door and Tibbles immediately jumped off the kitchen table, as if he had been caught doing something wrong.

He came up to Jim and rubbed himself against his legs and gave him two or three ingratiating mews.

‘What have you been doing that you feel so guilty about?' Jim asked him.

He walked through to his living room and unlocked the sliding door that gave out on to the balcony. Below him, in the garden, a warm wind was rustling through the yuccas, and Santana the gardener was bent over the flowerbeds, trying to dig out a gopher hole. He looked up when Jim scraped one of the chairs on the balcony, and waved his frayed straw hat. Santana was young and very handsome in a Mexican gardener kind of way, and Summer thought he was ‘durr-vine.'

‘
Hola, Señor Rook
!'

‘
Por que trabajo tan duro?
' Jim called down. ‘Why are you working so hard?
Se volveran solamente!
They will only come back!'

‘
No cuido!
I don't care!
Todavia consigo pagado!
I still get paid!'

Jim went back into the kitchen and opened his briefcase. At least he would have the chance to finish preparing his lesson on the poetry of Rachel X. Speed. He tipped the contents of his briefcase on to the counter, and along with all of his files and folders, the Paradise apple that Simon Silence had given him rolled out, too, and almost dropped off the edge of the counter.

He caught it, and sniffed it again. Its pink and green colors were slightly striped, almost like candy, and it had the most enticing aroma. He took it across to the kitchen sink and washed it, and then he picked up his file on Rachel X. Speed and went back out on to the balcony, biting into the apple as he went.

He sat down, opened the file, and spread out the poems in a fan shape. Rachel X. Speed was a very edgy, difficult poet, but he thought that her words would appeal to a class brought up on rap and dubstep and grime.

He took another bite out of the apple. It was delicious, sweet and crisp, but with a sharpness that reminded him of something that he couldn't quite put his finger on. A person, more than a taste. A person and a place. How strange was that? An apple that brought back memories.

He was still reading and eating when Tibbles came out on to the balcony. Tibbles mewed, and mewed again, and rubbed himself up against his ankles.

‘Tibbles for Christ's sake, you just had breakfast!'

It was then that Tibbles jumped up into his lap, crumpling all of his papers.

‘Tibs – what the hell are you doing?'

He lifted Tibbles up so that he could drop him back on to the floor, but then he saw the figure standing at the far end of his balcony. The same dark shadowy figure that he had seen in the smog this morning, and had almost run down.

It could have been made of black smoke, or black gauze. It seemed to float in tatters in the breeze. Tibbles crept slowly backward, his fur standing on end, and Jim himself felt a prickling sensation all the way down his back.

‘
What
?' Jim demanded. ‘What in hell are you?' He tried to sound stern, although his voice came out much weaker than he had intended. ‘What are you doing here?'

There was a moment's pause, while the shadowy figure seemed to ebb and flow like a torn black cape caught on the tide.

Then it said, in a deep, vibrant voice, ‘
I have come for you. I have come for all of you. This time, none will escape me.
'

Jim wasn't sure if he had actually heard the figure talking, or whether the sound of its voice had vibrated through his bones.

The shadowy figure spiraled around, and then it seemed to flow off the balcony into the air, and vanish. Jim dropped what was left of his apple, which rolled across to the edge of the balcony and fell down into the garden.

H
e leaned over the railing and called down to Santana, ‘
Usted vio eso
? Did you see that?'

The gardener looked up from his gopher-digging again and took off his hat. ‘
Qué
?'

‘
Esa sombra
– that shadow.'

Santana stuck out his bottom lip and shook his head. ‘
Veo solamente la tierra
,
señor
. I see only the ground.'

Then, however, he crossed the neatly cropped grass and picked up Jim's half-eaten apple. ‘
Aqui – usted cayó su manzana
.'

‘Here,' said Jim, holding out his hands. ‘Throw it up to me, will you?'

Santana frowned and said, ‘
Usted lo quiere realmente
? You really want it?'

‘Here,' Jim repeated. The gardener shrugged, and swung his arm back, and tossed it up to him.

Jim took the apple through to the kitchen and rinsed it. He doubted if there was any connection between his eating the apple and the shadow that had appeared on his balcony. But the apple's sweet-and-sour taste had provoked such a strange, elusive feeling – partly happiness, partly regret, like a song that unexpectedly brings tears to your eyes, and he badly wanted to know what it was.