Nirvana Bites (12 page)

My head was sorted. The order was comforting. It gave me an illusion of control.

When I arrived home, the panic threatened a rerun. My front room was as I had last seen it – but without Stan. There was a wad of crisp new £20 notes on the telly, weighted down by the aerial. A pink Post-it note with my name on was stuck on top.

I staggered with relief when I found him in the bedroom. Somehow he'd managed to transfer his studded self and was curled up on my futon. Different venue. Same foetal position. Which left me the space to check out my fellow Nirvanans to organise roles and tasks. We met at Ali's. Robin said his contact at the lab had promised to phone the next day with the results of the transit's blood test. He was anxious about Nick, who hadn't been in touch since his last phone call from Soho. We were all upbeat and reassuring – except Frank, bless his dismal socks.

‘He wouldn't be the first bloke to melt into Soho and never be seen again,' he uttered in doom-laden tones.

‘Bloody hell, Frank,' I said. ‘I can't see Nick melting in anywhere outside a road protesters' camp.'

Nick was six foot two and skinny as a broom. His head was shaved except for the crown, which sprouted three-foot-long dreadlocks which hung down his back like ropes. His scraggy beard, which he tended to scratch in a way many people found unnerving, was also knotted at the ends. Anyway, whether he was melting in, mixing up or just mooning about, we didn't seem to have much choice but to wait for him to either come back or contact us.

We cooked up a huge pot of vegetable curry under Ali's supervision. I watched him measure out the spices to the grain. Frank and Robin chopped vegetables. Mags was rolling the inevitable spliff just a fraction smaller than Nelson's Column, while Gaia entered Housing Benefit payments into our rent books. I wondered if we'd all still be doing this in ten years' time. I couldn't see any of us emerging from the sub-culture and blending into the mainstream. Only time would tell.

By the time I crawled into my sleeping bag that night, I reckoned I had my waking life pretty damn sorted under the circumstances. Unfortunately, I had no such control over my sleeping life.

I was in the tomb. It was colder, darker and smellier than usual. Who says you have no sense of smell in your dreams? I felt a nameless fear I had never experienced in the real world. A sudden putrid gust of wind blew out all but one flickering candle. I lost balance and fell against the stone wall. I reached out in panic to steady myself and grabbed something soft and fleshy.

I pulled back in horror, but was unable to release my grasp. My fingers were locked in a
rigor mortis
grip. By the guttering light, I saw the wall niche next to me had no coffin. A naked male corpse lay directly on the stone. My fingers were clenched around his erect penis.
Round my father's erect penis
. I tried to scream, but no sound came. I couldn't tear my eyes away. Under my horrified gaze, the flesh on his body began to crawl and peel away.

I woke wrapped in a drenched sleeping bag tighter than any shroud. I fought my way out, gasping and retching. I switched on the main light, the two lamps, the telly and the stereo. I sat rocking on the cushions, knees drawn up, arms clasped tightly around them, and repeated over and over my mantra: ‘Fucking bastard. Fucking bastard. Fucking bastard.'

12

STAN SURFACED ABOUT
midday, looking only marginally better than my father had in my dream. His jaw was covered in stubble and his eyes looked like piss-holes in pools of blood. He gave monosyllabic grunts in response to anything I had to say. Mind you, what I had to say was mainly along the lines of ‘Ooooh look, here comes the walking dead,' and ‘Fuck me. You look like seven flavours of shit on legs.' He retreated to the garden with a rug, a cup of black coffee, a packet of Gauloises and a pile of my vintage
X-Men
comics.

I spent the best part of the day working through the list of names and numbers I'd taken off Stan's mobile. I wrote each one in my notebook, one to a page. Then I eliminated the obvious ones – Catherine, James, Dad. Ditto the ones I reckoned were work-related or businesses of some kind – these included Koi Korner, I noticed. That left me with a list of twenty-three names – fifteen male and eight female.

I started dialling, being careful to first tap in 141 each time so my own number couldn't be traced. If an answering machine cut in, I left no message but made a note of what was said, the style, tone of voice etc. Every half-hour or so, I checked on Stan from my bedroom window. For a large chunk of time he was fast asleep on the rug, with one of Gaia's cats curled up on his crotch. I noticed, not without some satisfaction, that the cat was Artemis, the one with the nasty skin condition.

When I got a human response on the phone, I went into a routine designed to get maximum feedback from minimum input.

‘Hi! Alex,' for example.

‘Yes. Who's this?'

‘It's Sue,' or Meg or Jan or…

At this point the respondents tended to fall into one of two camps. There were the doubters: ‘I'm sorry? Sue? Sue who?'

To which my response would be ‘That is Alex, isn't it?'

‘Er, yes…'

And your number is 020 8703…?'

‘Yes.'

‘And you live in…' This last piece of information gleaned from a careful study of the phone directory until I came across the same prefix and matched it to an area.

‘Yes. Yes, I do. But…'

‘Alex Haydon?'

‘No. I'm sorry. I'm Alex Prescott.'

Most times, I wouldn't extract more than a surname, but every detail would be noted in the book.

And then there were the wingers. Lots more fun. Stringing it along until they could work out who I was and how they knew me, but not wanting to get stroppy in case I was someone important. ‘Oh. Er – hi, Sue. How are you?'

‘Fine thanks. How are you?'

Then I'd flick through some general questions – ‘How's work/ the family/things?' – gleaning as much information as I could and relishing the vague note of confusion in their voices. The longer it went on, the more embarrassing it would be for them to admit they didn't know who the fuck I was.

Good fun. I enjoyed myself. The pages in my notebook filled with details of the lives of absolute strangers. Not one single line gave me any clues as to the identity of those threatening us, but it just might be useful at some point.

Della's number was in there. Hers was the only machine I left a message on. As myself. I still didn't leave my number though: I didn't want to risk her phoning when Stan was around. I'd just dialled the last number and made the last note when the phone rang. No stranger this time, worse luck.

‘Jenny?' shrilled Straight Kate. ‘How are you? What are the chances of us having a civilised conversation, would you say?'

‘Hello, Kate,' I sighed. ‘I'm fine. How are you?'

‘Oh, OK. Well, as well as can be expected under the circumstances.' I checked the martyred tone and swallowed hard. ‘Listen, Jenny. I'm phoning because it's only correct you should be kept informed. No matter how you react, we believe in doing the right thing.'

Kate had clearly overdosed on sanctimonious pomposity and was therefore deserving of my sympathy.

‘So of what are you about to inform me?' I asked.

‘That your father's funeral won't be taking place for some time. There's to be a post-mortem. And an inquest too, in all probability.'

‘What?' I floundered. ‘Why, for Christ's sake? I didn't kill him. I haven't seen him in years.'

‘Don't be silly, Jenny,' Kate snapped. ‘No one's suggesting that.' A pause. ‘Oh. Was that an attempt at humour? Because it really isn't funny. In fact it's deeply insensitive and offensive. However, I have resolved not to argue with you. Dennis believes that the staff at the nursing home may have deliberately administered your father an overdose of morphine the night before he died.'

My heroes. I love them. I began to compose a letter of gratitude. Kate cut into my reverie.

‘No doubt they did it from what they considered to be good motives. A peaceful end to suffering and so on…'

I bit my lip to stop myself asking whose suffering she was referring to.

‘…and I'm sure the staff were very fond of him…'

Huh! What planet was she from?

‘…but euthanasia is illegal in this country. It's the thin end of the wedge. If we allow humans to decide how and when someone should die, it could open the floodgates.'

I could think of a few lives I wouldn't mind ending. My father's was top of the list. And I think I'm human. But then Kate and I would never agree on anything meaningful.

‘Well. Thanks for telling me,' I managed.

‘I'll let you know when we hear anything more. Dennis has just got back from the police station. He's been there all afternoon, giving evidence.'

Oh, for fuck's sake.

‘So we're very tired. And the children are very upset, of course.'

Christ. My nephews, teetering as they were on the brink of puberty, had all the endearing charm of a pair of lager louts coupled with the appearance of Freddy Kruger's younger brothers. I couldn't imagine them blubbing into their mummy's bosom over the death of an evil old git who probably never sent them so much as a birthday card.

‘So I'll go now. But I'll be in touch.'

‘Bye then.'

‘Goodbye, Jennifer.'

Ooh, ‘Jennifer'. Now I was really in trouble. Good job I was being threatened and assaulted by masked maniacs. Otherwise I'd have been in a right tizz.

Not long after my little tête-à-tête with Kate, Stan came up from the garden and said Gaia had invited him over for a Shiatsu massage. Like I didn't know. Like I hadn't arranged it. I asked if he'd mind spending the night there. I didn't say, but I sort of hinted I was expecting company and didn't want to have to explain Stan's presence on my futon.

No one was coming round. I had other plans. I reached into the murky depths of the top shelf of my built-in cupboard and pulled out a small dusty suitcase. I snapped open the catches with a solemnity that had more than a hint of ritual about it, and pulled out the contents.

13

AT
11.15
THAT
night, a hoot from the street heralded the arrival of my minicab. I pushed my DM-accustomed feet into the pointed toes of my black leather stiletto boots, adjusted my black leather mini-skirt and pulled a black leather jacket on over my black leather corset. I clipped a pair of handcuffs through a loop on the shoulder of my jacket and tottered down the stairs. I was going out to play.

I sat in the back of the cab and tried to look hard in an attempt to deter conversation. It didn't work. Attila the Hun wouldn't have worked. My driver was a garrulous young Cypriot, who moaned non-stop about the ravages of tourism on his motherland while simultaneously bouncing in his seat to the latest Ayia Napa remix on his stereo.

He dropped me off at Brixton tube and I negotiated the back streets until I found the address Cathy had given me. The road was a dimly lit cul-de-sac on the edge of a concrete wasteland. On one side a vast estate of high-rises fingered the dark sky behind a row of garages that backed on to the cul-de-sac. On the other side was a desolate row of run-down shops – a launderette, a bookie's, a newsagent, a junk shop piled high with the detritus of rejected lives.

I leaned against the garages, lit a cigarette and scanned the buildings opposite looking for clues. Starting with where the fuck
was
the Triple X? S&M clubs tend to fall into one of two broad categories. There are the publicity seekers, where non-participating voyeurs are not discouraged and half the punters are rubber-neckers, there to gawp but not to play.
Definitely
not to play. The other clubs are smaller, rougher and advertise by word of mouth alone. No sexual tourist would dare to go, even if they knew of their existence. Which they wouldn't. They're not the sort of places you stumbled on by chance. There was no doubt the Triple X fell into the second category.