Sonata of the Dead (15 page)

‘I won’t fall asleep,’ I said. ‘I seldom fall asleep when I’m meant to, so don’t worry.’

‘Your dad could fall asleep anywhere,’ she said. I was a little taken aback. She rarely talked about Dad. Certainly not since I was a teenager, not with me anyway. Maybe age had oiled her hinges. ‘I saw him fall asleep standing up once, leaning his head against a pebble-dashed wall. He fell over and scraped half his cheek off. The ruddy daft get.’

‘I don’t remember that,’ I said.

‘It was when you were very small. I think I was pregnant with Adam at the time.’ She sighed. ‘You think you’ve got all the time in the world. You think nothing will go wrong.’ She touched my hand. ‘I love you,’ she said.

I hugged Mum and I was surprised – shocked, even – by how insubstantial she felt. She had never been a large woman but now, underneath the padding of the large knitted cardigan she liked to wear, she was like a bundle of sticks. Age was settling in her where it had never dared show its face before. I struggled to remember how old she was, but I knew she’d been born in the year America entered the Second World War – so 1941. You do the maths.

‘I love you too.’ I got in the car and started the engine, buckled up.

‘You got breakdown cover?’ she asked, jutting her chin at the vibrating bonnet of the Saab and hugging her elbows to her chest.

‘Very funny,’ I said. ‘Take care.’

‘Be in touch,’ she said. She waved once and went inside.

* * *

I was on the M6 within twenty minutes. The motorway was uncommonly quiet, just a smattering of lorries and cars, maybe a dozen or so in total. It was getting on for seven o’clock. Clouds were piled like wet grey towels.

My dad died when I was five years old. He dropped dead in a car park in Southampton while he was attending a conference, some work-related training course; he was an office manager for a stationery business based in Penrith. Aneurysm. The technical name for it – subarachnoid haemorrhage – gave me nightmares. I thought his head had split open under the weight of a skull filled with spiders. I bore the fear of that for years; a time bomb in the brain he had carried from birth.

I remember little things about him, although I suspect I’ve also dreamed some of them into perceived reality. The way he drank instant coffee exclusively with hot milk and lots of sugar; his penchant for big coats with big pockets so he could line up his pens in a row; a love of Dylan and Mitchell (I remember singing along to
Blue
in a Christmas living room smelling of vinyl seat covers and tangerines and Harveys Bristol Cream). I remember going to the swimming baths with him, and clinging on to his shoulders in the deep end, where the water was always colder. He would buy me crisps and chemical-green pop from the vending machines afterwards, and we’d sit on plastic chairs while I ate and he tied my shoelaces.

What’s the difference between a duck?

I don’t know, Dad.

One leg’s both the same.

My foot on the parapet. The crack of stone. The drop. How fast you’d go. A sense of freedom, of flight. Shackles off. A release forever from worry and fear and responsibility.

I bore down on the accelerator.

70… 80… 90…

I lifted my hands from the steering wheel and closed my eyes.

I got back at midnight. I went to the bedroom to take a nap, my body beginning to scream at me from a million overused junctions, and Mengele sank on to me in the dark.
Here it comes
, I thought, and braced myself for a savaging. But his claws were sheathed; I felt a soft, warm paw press against my cheek. He was purring fit to raise the feline dead (or his many victims).

‘Maybe I should change your name to Gandhi,’ I murmured, my voice thick with fatigue. And one claw dimpled my skin, as if to say,
Don’t push your luck, cuntychops
.

Whatever I dreamed, I don’t remember, but I woke up feeling disoriented and scared. A layer of sweat clung to me like a cellophane wrapping. Mengele had relocated to the sofa. He watched me as I shuffled about the room, trying to find my phone. I switched off the alarm and stared out, bleary-eyed, at the night. It was one a.m. I took a shower and dressed, then punched the co-ordinates from the scrap of paper into an online map. The location was on Cheyne Walk. A street-level view showed a building: Carlyle Mansions. I looked that up and it seemed there had been writers across the years stumbling over themselves to live there: Ian Fleming, Henry James, Erskine Childers, T.S. Eliot, Somerset Maugham. There were probably more blue plaques than red bricks on the damn thing.

Sarah – Solo – would be there tonight, I was convinced. She had to be. They’d said that she would jeopardise her chances of remaining a part of the Accelerants if she was absent again.

Like she’d give a shit.

I checked my messages – nothing from Clarke… nothing from Romy… plenty from Mawker, his voice becoming more and more animated with every recording he left (I imagined his uvula shaking and shivering like a beached fish) – then grabbed my keys and went out. I drove down to Chelsea. I held the wheel at the recommended ten-to-two position. I observed the speed restrictions. I didn’t try to jump any amber lights.

What had I been thinking? I shook my head and swore at myself every mile of the way. I was disgusted with myself that I’d acted so irresponsibly. I could have killed not just myself, but any number of poor, innocent motorists. But I swore at Jimmy Two as well. He’d balanced the car so efficiently that there was no danger of the Saab veering off the road. When I’d opened my eyes, twenty seconds later, I was still in the left-hand lane, and the requisite stopping distance (and then some) behind the car in front.

The thrill though.

Until I opened my eyes, I’d felt the same as I had at the top of Marble Arch tower. I’d felt scared beyond words, but also weirdly improved. Attuned. It wasn’t a sense of immortality I felt, although I could understand how some people who had survived what seemed like certain death might reach such a belief; this was more like a heightening of the senses beyond anything I’d known before. I felt young and electric. But in control too. Measured. Capable.

My heart leapt at the thought of what might happen tonight. I wanted to be a part of this forced experience. Fuck the writing. I just wanted to drench myself in adrenaline, enjoy the spike of danger that, for once, was something that was mine to sculpt. And it wasn’t just a follow-the-pack mentality; I was having ideas of my own. Experiences I wanted to suggest to the group. I wondered how they’d react to a storming of New Scotland Yard in order to leave drawing pins on Ian Mawker’s office chair.

I reached the river at around one-thirty. I parked the car on Lawrence Street and walked back, keeping an eye out for any of the others who might have arrived early. It was a little on the cool side, but you could definitely feel the change in the air from winter to spring. The river glittered with reflected light from the extravagantly illuminated Albert Bridge. Across the water lay Norman Foster’s design lair, and his curvy Albion Riverside building with its shops, art galleries and million-pound one-bedroom flats. I sneered at the penthouses and the Porsches and any other expensive things beginning with P.

I stood under the trees on the river walkway and watched the road. It was nearly two a.m. now. I felt a frisson at the thought I was the only one keen enough to get here on time. All the other Accelerants were decelerated. And then a convoy of taxis: three of them, as if in formation, pulling up outside Carlyle Mansions. I felt pierced, cheated, left out of things: they must have been in touch with each other to organise that choreographed rendezvous, giving a lie to this charade about not fraternising outside of ‘office hours’.

I trotted across to meet them, anxious to intercept before they could gather on the pavement and begin their incestuous whispering.

No Solo. Christ.

‘Corkscrew,’ said Underdog, the first to notice my approach. ‘Nice of you to join us. Maybe we should change your name to “Tardy”.’

‘I’ve been here for half an hour,’ I said, hating the wheedling tone in my voice.

‘Whatever,’ he said. ‘I’ve already moved on.’

‘You know, it’s only been a couple of days, but I’d forgotten just how charming you are.’

‘Oh, you don’t know the half of it.’

‘I know you’re a cunt, and that you legged it sharpish when I was a gnat’s chuff away from death.’

‘It’s all grist, isn’t it?’ he said, but he’d been stung by that
cunt
. I’d given it some extra spice.

‘Enough,’ Odessa said, and I stepped back immediately. My shoulders had tensed up and my fists were balling. I didn’t realise how far my appetite for aggro had been ratcheted.

Treacle and Odessa were standing next to each other. They weren’t touching, but you could see the closeness in them. You could see how they wished for their arms around each other. Something wasn’t right.

‘What’s on the agenda?’ I asked. ‘Have we got a room in this gaff, or what?’

‘It’s just a meeting place,’ Odessa said. ‘It’s known as Writers’ Block.’

‘I wonder why so many writers ended up here,’ I said. ‘Something in the water. Twenty-four-hour concierge has a pocket full of ideas for stuck scribes.’

Underdog snorted and turned away.

‘Where are we going?’ I said. ‘What are we doing?’

‘Somebody has been following me,’ Odessa said. ‘All of us.’

‘Really?’

Underdog turned back, his eyes intent. ‘How about you?’ he asked. ‘You been followed?’

‘If I have, it was by someone better at it than the ones who followed you. I haven’t noticed anything.’ I clenched my teeth, wondering if Odessa had felt the heat of my pursuit the other night. But I’d been careful. No noise. I hadn’t drifted too close, and I hadn’t hung around outside her door once she’d arrived. And anyway, even if it was me that had spooked her, who had done the same to Treacle and Underdog? Both of them were rattled. It had affected Treacle by clamming him up and freezing him. Underdog was hopping around like a kid with a full bladder outside an engaged toilet. And his lips were flapping as if he’d just learned how to use them.

‘I don’t even know what we’re doing here,’ he said. ‘Why not just step outside where we can play sitting ducks?’

Even Odessa was twitchy, on edge. She kept rubbing at her chapped lips with her forefinger.

‘I’ll tell you this,’ Underdog said. ‘If I see who’s doing it… if I catch the wanker, I’ll punch him into the Stone Age.’

He went toddling off again, and then turned on his heel – the sharp sound of his sole on the concrete shockingly loud at this hour – and came back.

‘We weren’t like this before you turned up,’ he said.

‘Underdog.’ But Underdog was no longer paying heed to Odessa.

‘Even before Needles died, there was no suggestion of any ripples in the water. But then he was gone, and suddenly here you are. With your copper speak. With your eagerness to please.’

‘President backed me up. You know—’

‘President is a loner,’ Underdog said. ‘All he does is write Springsteen-lite ditties in his inherited shag pad. I don’t think I heard him say a dozen words…’

‘Why would anybody want to say anything within earshot of you?’ I asked, not unreasonably. I was getting jittery. It was late. I wanted to get to where we needed to be. I wanted to do what we were intending to do. I wanted to know what was going to happen to Solo now she’d missed another meeting.

‘Never mind that,’ Odessa said. ‘We’re here to decide a course of action.’

‘What about the experiences?’ I asked.

‘This is an emergency meeting,’ Underdog said. ‘Feel free to go off and do something you’ve never done before. Sex with a grown-up, maybe. Have a pint.’

‘We need to lie low for a while,’ Treacle said.

I didn’t know what to do. I hated not being in control of a situation, but there was nothing I could do to push this in the direction I needed it to go. A direct mention of Solo would have Underdog screaming accusations of badge. A suggestion we all pile back to one of their houses, even if it meant safety in numbers, would be greeted with derision. I had to just play it out. I had to feed off whatever crumbs they threw my way.

‘But isn’t this kind of thing exactly what you crave?’ I said. ‘Shouldn’t you be embracing these emotions? Spinning them into gold ink?’

‘None of us want to die for our art,’ said Odessa.

‘There’s no guarantee anything dodgy is going on,’ I said. I couldn’t keep the desperation from my voice. ‘Needles might have been a one-off. There’s nothing to suggest that he was the first on a shit list that has your names on it. You’re anonymous. You cover your tracks.’

‘It didn’t help him though, did it?’ There was a sudden yield to Underdog’s voice, as though, even if his expression suggested otherwise, he was eager to hear reason.

‘Random acts of violence,’ I said. ‘They happen all the time.’

‘All three of us were followed,’ Treacle said. ‘That doesn’t happen all the time.’

‘You can’t be sure, though, if that was the case. Odessa didn’t see anybody.’

I don’t know why I felt compelled to play devil’s advocate. I ought to just shut up, play the nodding dog to whatever they said to each other.

‘It doesn’t matter what I saw,’ Odessa snapped; the first time I’d seen her lose her cool. ‘Something is going on. Treacle’s right. We need to go to ground.’

‘What about this other member? Solo? She doesn’t know your plans. She’s exposed.’

‘He’s off again,’ Underdog said. ‘What do you care? You don’t know her. Butt out.’

I was this close to admitting that, actually, I did know her, and where the hell was she? But again, I could not convince myself that any good would come of it. They didn’t trust me, or at least Underdog didn’t. If I was transparent about my motives for being among them, they might clam up completely. I had to bide my time, such as it was. I had one avenue of hope: I knew Odessa’s address. Keep an eye on her and she might lead me to Solo unwittingly.

‘But she’s a part of this group,’ I said. ‘What if someone
is
following her? What if there
is
some kind of shit list, and she’s next on it because whoever it is doing the following can’t find you lot any more? I don’t know her, but you do. How would you feel if something happened to her? You’d be indirectly responsible.’