The Decoy (29 page)

'Your homepage, Claire. You're getting quite a few hits now, as a matter of fact.'

'Unfortunate terminology,' Frank mutters.

There's a large blank area at the bottom of the page. Claire taps it with her finger. 'What's this?'

Connie looks up at the wires being pasted to the ceiling. 'Webcam. It's not operational at the moment, of course.'

Claire turns on her heel and walks away. Connie calls after her, 'If you were a famous actress you'd have hundreds of sites devoted to you, Claire. Most of them with faked-up pornographic images attached. If you really intend to be successful one day, you'd better get used to it.'

Frank touches her arm. 'Leave it, Connie. What's the point in the search engine stuff? Why does that make you so sure he'll come for Claire?'

'Because he can, Frank. Because we've made it easy for him. Quite literally, Claire's at the top of his list. A killer doesn't stop killing just because he's had a lucky escape. For him, it's a compulsion, not a choice. Even if he suspects a trap, he'll still come.'

===OO=OOO=OO===

When all the cops and Connie have finally gone, the apartment is silent. They look at each other, unsure how to begin.

'Just like old times,' Claire says.

He reaches out and touches her neck. 'Not quite. Your real accent is much nicer. And then, you have this.' He turns her hand to look at the ring on her finger. 'When this is over, we'll move from here and start over, somewhere where there aren't any memories. Perhaps somewhere out of the city.'

'That would be nice.'

'A big house by the sea.'

'Perfect.'

'I'll talk to a realtor tomorrow. It'll be something to take our minds off all this.'

She says, 'Christian?'

'Yes?'

'There's something I need to know.'

'What?'

'Did
you
ever go to Necropolis?'

A long pause. 'Yes,' he admits. 'When Stella and I… when we began to drift apart, I thought there might be someone else. I started going through her e-mails. Spying on her, I suppose.' He looks at the floor. 'I'm not proud of it, Claire. But I loved her, you see. Or I thought I did.'

'It's all right,' she says. 'I understand.'

'I found a message in her inbox with a password for an Internet site I'd never heard of. I was curious. I used the password to get into the site myself. I wasn't altogether surprised at what I found there. There had always been a part of her that responded to that kind of thing. That was the problem, I suppose. I couldn't fulfil those needs of hers.'

'But you spoke to people, when you were there? People who might have assumed you were her?'

'Yes. I was trying to find out what she'd been doing.'

'Do you remember talking to someone about Baudelaire?'

He shrugs. 'It's possible.'

'Please, Christian. Try to remember.'

'Well, vaguely, yes, I do recall something of that sort. But it was just a casual conversation, nothing more.' He looks at her sharply. 'Why do you ask?'

'I'm not sure yet. It's just something that's been bothering me about all this. Something I don't quite understand. And I think I know where to go to find the answer.'

They sit at Christian's antique desk, a writing table hundreds of years old, and prepare to go on a journey that would have mystified any of the desk's previous owners.

They sign onto Necropolis, then locate the door that will lead them to its hidden underworld. As Christian moves the mouse cursor around on a blank area of the page, it suddenly turns into a hand, indicating that he's found a hyperlink. He clicks. Text fills the screen.

You are in a dense grove of black poplar trees. They surround you in all directions, except one, the north. They sway slightly in the cold north breeze that is wafting towards you, like the icy air which escapes from a large underground space. There is a path through the poplars, heading north, and you follow it towards a set of black gates. Beside the gates sits an enormous three-headed dog. The dog sniffs you and growls threateningly

'He wants our password,' Christian mutters. He types something. A few seconds later the screen says:

Recognizing you as a denizen of this place, Cerberus lets you pass.

'We go north,' Christian says. He types:

>>Go north

After a moment the computer responds with a new paragraph of text.

You are in the Asphodel Fields, the first region of the underworld. There are some gods here, sleeping, but it's mostly filled with the diaphanous, insubstantial figures of the dead. They twitter like bats, continually rustling and shaking in the cold breeze that comes from the north, where a large Palace towers over the meadows of Erebus. To the west, a white cypress shades the dark river of Lethe, where the common ghosts flock down to drink, as timid as river birds. To the east, across meadows filled with white daffodils, lies the silver-topped Pool of Memory and the entrance to Elysium.

'North again.'

>>Go north

As you enter the Palace of Persephone, the coat check girl, a Fury called Tisiphone, asks if she can take your garments. Ahead is the ruin of a once-imposing Staircase, now splattered with the droppings of ravens, who have entered through the ruined ceiling. To the east is the Hall. The twenty-foot-high doors are closed, but you can hear the sound of laughter and strange, discordant music. To the west lies the entrance to the Cellars.

'When you meet someone, you can type in a command that brings up their description. Or you can speak to them,' he explains. He types:

>>Look Tisiphone

Tisiphone

You see a hip Italian chick with dark eyes and a long, straight nose. She's wearing heavy Timberlands and a pair of baggy dark blue cargo pants. She has a much-customized skateboard under one arm. Dreadlocks and beads are woven into her curly hair. She has an Indian mark painted onto the centre of her forehead.

'Want to take over?'

'Sure.'

It feels strange to her at first, navigating by words, like trying to find your way blindfold, using only your fingertips. She flexes her fingers over the keyboard, unsure what to write.

'Try going into the Hall.'

'OK.' She types:

>>Go east

You are in a cavernous room, decorated with painful friezes by Piranesi and Goya. Flaming brands burn in the iron wall-holders, tipped with inky smoke. At the far end of the Hall is an enormous throne. Many gods are clustered round the throne. To the east is the Library. It's quiet in there. West is the Music Room. From the noise and laughter there seems to be a party going on.

'Type "@who" to find out who else is here.'

>>@who

Morpheus is here.

Chronos is here.

Pluto is here.

Minthe is here.

Persephone is here.

Persephone says, 'Did you have a nice sleep, dear? You were snoring for ages.'

'In terms of the MUSE, to be absent is to be asleep,' Christian explains. 'We've taken Stella's old character, Blanche. So to all these players, it looks as if Blanche has just woken up.'

'What do I say to her?'

'Nothing, unless you want to. She won't be offended if you don't chat. Type "Look Pictures" to see your surroundings.'

>>Look Pictures

Slowly, a picture scrolls down. It's an engraving, a seventeenth-century depiction of a prisoner being mutilated by his captors.

'Piranesi. This is just atmosphere,' Christian says matter-of-factly. 'The real porn is in the art gallery.'

'What's going on in the music room?'

'A gang bang, probably. Half a dozen players and a corpse. I don't recommend it.'

'How do I locate a particular player?'

'Type "Find"'

>>Find Charon

Charon is in the library, asleep.

'How do I get to the library again?'

'You don't have to follow the directions. Just type "go library" and you'll be there.'

>>Go Library

You are in a well-appointed library, stocked with texts both ancient and new. There is a pleasant smell of slowly curing leather. A few armchairs are dotted around and, for those who become inflamed by their reading, a leather-bound Couch big enough for two.

>Look Charon

You see a pleasantly smiling young man whose mild demeanour is belied by his dark, cruel eyes. His jeans and T-shirt are covered in stains, running the gamut of hues from fresh vermilion to deep port-coloured streaks of more ancient blood. None of the blood is his. He resembles an art student who wipes his brushes directly onto his clothes.

'That's him, all right. The artist. But why's he in the library?'

'Who knows? Characters can choose to sleep anywhere they like.'

By Charon's left hand is a stack of unread Messages. In his right hand, the fingers stained with chemicals, he holds an artist's Sketchbook.

'Can we read the messages?'

'No. Only he can do that. We can see who they're from, but, of course, that doesn't help us.'

'What about the sketchbook?'

'Try it. He wouldn't have built it into his character description unless there was some point to it.'

>>Look Sketchbook

You see a small vellum-bound notebook full of thumbnail sketches. Charon will show it to you when he is awake. Leave him a Message, telling him what sort of art you like.

'Damn.' She pauses, her fingers over the keyboard.

'You're right, though. There must be something unusual about it for him to keep it hidden. Presumably the thumbnail sketches are his samples.'

'Isn't there any way I can find out what's in the book?'

'Maybe if you were a programmer. But even then, not necessarily. Some objects can only be controlled by their originators.'

'How could I find out where else Charon goes? Where he keeps his stuff?'

'You can't, really. This place is vast. Every new character adds their own rooms to the basic design. Some of the rooms don't even have doors. The only way to find them is to type the "go to" command. For which, obviously, you have to know where it is you want to get to.'

She thinks and types:

>>Go to Charon's Studio

Invalid command

>>Go to Artist's Studio

Invalid command

'Damn.' She thinks. 'What else?'

'He says his fingers are stained with chemicals,' Christian says. 'Could that be a reference to photography?'

'Of course. Charon wouldn't need a studio in the conventional sense.' She types:

>>Go to Darkroom

After a few moments the computer replies:

You are in complete blackness. You cannot see anything to the north, south, east or west.

'Ha!'

>>Go north

You stumble awkwardly into a table. Reaching out, you find your hand sinking into the decomposing remains of a once-female corpse. Warmth closes around your hand. It is the warmth of rotting compost.

>>Go east

You stumble over piles of books, discarded clothing and loose bones. Putting out a hand to save yourself, you feel something soft and wet. It is a bowl of fruit, slowly fermenting in its own juice.

'Try listing the books,' Christian says.

>>List books

Anatomy of Melancholy /
Robert Burton

Captives /
Michelangelo

Der Anatom /
Gabriel von Max

Entombment of Christ /
Rembrandt

Fleurs du Mal /
Baudelaire

Humani Corporis Fabrica /
Vesalius

>>Look
Fleurs du Mal

You cannot look at anything. It is dark.

'Damn!'

'Try finding a light switch. Or lighting a match.'

>>Switch Light

By the eerie glow of the red developing light, you see a small leather-bound volume. The leather is very soft. As you turn it over, you see the reason for this. Towards the bottom of the front cover, exactly in the centre, is the belly button of a young woman. The skin has been cured so expertly that you can still make out the rosette of blond hairs that encircle the navel, like the tonsure of a novice monk. Below, at the bottom of the volume, a thicker line of blond hairs indicates where the pubis once began. The navel, and the hairs around it, resemble a flower. Other than that, there is no indication of the book's title.

>>Open Book

You cannot open the book. There is a small padlock in the shape of a serpent swallowing its own tail.

>>Unlock Padlock

You need to have the key to unlock the padlock.

'Damn!' she explodes. Then: 'It doesn't matter. I think I know what's in the book.'

'What?'

'When I was in hospital, I tried to swap reading material with someone. Know what he said? He told me he only read books with pictures.'

'I'm not with you,' Christian says, shaking his head.

'Do you have a copy of
Les Fleurs du Mal
?'