Клайв Баркер – Imajica (страница 12)
‘I didn’t come here to hear this,’ Gentle said.
‘No, I realize that. It’s just necessary for me to express how very precious she was to me. I count the years I had with her as the best of my life. But of course the best can’t go on forever, can they, or how are they the best?’ He drank again. ‘You know, she
‘I believe it.’
‘Don’t,’ Estabrook said quickly. ‘You were her guilty secret.’
‘Why are you trying to flatter me?’
‘It’s the truth. She still loved you, all through the time she was with me. That’s why we’re talking now. Because I know it, and I think you do too.’
Not once so far had they mentioned her by name, almost as though from some superstition. She was
‘I’ve done a terrible thing, John,’ Estabrook said. The flask was at his lips again. He took several gulps before sealing it and pocketing it. ‘And I regret it bitterly.’
‘What?’
‘May we walk a little way?’ Estabrook said, glancing towards the kite-fliers, who were both too distant and too involved in their sport to be eavesdropping. But he was not comfortable with sharing his secret until he’d put twice the distance between his confession and their ears. When he had, he made it simply and plainly. ‘I don’t know what kind of madness overtook me,’ he said, ‘but a little time ago I made a contract with somebody to have her killed.’
‘You did
‘Does it appal you?’
‘What do you think? Of course it appals me.’
‘It’s the highest form of devotion, you know, to want to end somebody’s existence rather than let them live on without you. It’s love of the highest order.’
‘It’s a fucking obscenity.’
‘Oh yes, it’s that too. But I couldn’t bear … just couldn’t
Gentle’s thoughts were of his last exchange with Judith. The half-drowned telephone call from New York, which had ended with nothing said. Had she known then that her life was in jeopardy? If not, did she now? My God, was she even alive? He took hold of Estabrook’s lapel with the same force that the fear took hold of him.
‘You haven’t brought me here to tell me she’s dead.’
‘No.
‘So do it,’ Gentle said, letting the coat go.
‘I can’t.’
Estabrook reached into his pocket and pulled out a sheet of paper. To judge by its crumpled state it had been thrown away then reclaimed.
‘This came from the man who found me the assassin,’ he went on. ‘It was delivered to my home two nights ago. He was obviously drunk or drugged when he wrote it, but it indicates that he expects to be dead by the time I read it. I’m assuming he’s correct. He hasn’t made contact. He was my only route to the assassin.’
‘Where did you meet with this man?’
‘He found me.’
‘And the assassin?’
‘I met him somewhere south of the river, I don’t know where. It was dark. I was lost. Besides, he won’t be there. He’s gone after her.’
‘So warn her.’
‘I’ve tried. She won’t accept my calls. She’s got another lover now. He’s being covetous the way I was. My letters, my telegrams, they’re all sent back unopened. But he won’t be able to save her. This man I hired, his name’s Pie-’
‘What’s that, some kind of code?’
‘I don’t know,’ Estabrook said. ‘I don’t know anything except I’ve done something unforgivable and you have to help me undo it.
‘What makes you think she’ll see me when she won’t see you?’
‘There’s no guarantee. But you’re a younger, fitter man, and you’ve had some … experience of the criminal mind. You’ve a better chance of coming between her and Pie than I have. I’ll give you money for the assassin. You can pay him off. And I’ll pay whatever you ask. I’m rich. Just warn her, Zacharias, and get her to come home. I can’t have her death on my conscience.’
‘It’s a little late to think about that.’
‘I’m making what amends I can. Do we have a deal?’
He took off his leather glove in preparation for shaking Gentle’s hand.
‘I’d like the letter from your contact,’ Gentle said.
‘It barely makes any sense,’ Estabrook said.
‘If he
Estabrook reached into his inside pocket, as if to pull out the letter, but with his fingers upon it he hesitated. Despite all his talk about having a clear conscience, about Gentle being the man to save her, he was deeply reluctant to hand the letter over.
‘I thought so,’ Gentle said. ‘You want to make sure I look like the guilty party if anything goes wrong. Well, go fuck yourself.’
He turned from Estabrook and started down the hill. Estabrook came after him, calling his name, but Gentle didn’t slow his pace. He let the man run.
‘All right!’ he heard behind him. ‘All right, have it! Have it!’
Gentle slowed but didn’t stop. Grey with exertion, Estabrook caught up with him.
‘The letter’s yours,’ he said.
Gentle took it, pocketing it without unfolding it. There’d be plenty of time to study it on the flight.
1
Chant’s body was discovered the following day by 93-year-old Albert Burke, who found it while looking for his errant mongrel, Kipper. The animal had sniffed from the street what its owner had only begun to nose as he climbed the stairs, whistling for his hound between curses: the rotting tissue at the top. In the autumn of 1916 Albert had fought for his country at the Somme, sharing trenches with dead companions for days at a time. The sights and smells of death didn’t much distress him. Indeed his sanguine response to his discovery lent colour to the story when it reached the evening news, and assured it of greater coverage than it might otherwise have merited, that focus in turn bringing a penetrating eye to bear on the identity of the dead man. Within a day a portrait of the deceased as he might have looked in life had been produced, and by Wednesday a woman living on a council estate south of the river had identified him as her next-door neighbour, Mr Chant.
An examination of his flat turned up a second picture, not of Chant’s flesh this time, but of his life. It was the conclusion of the police that the dead man was a practitioner of some obscure religion. It was reported that a small altar dominated his room, decorated with the withered heads of animals forensics could not identify, its centre-piece an idol of such explicitly sexual a nature no newspaper dared publish a sketch of it, let alone a photograph. The gutter press particularly enjoyed the story, especially as the artifacts had belonged to a man now thought to have been murdered. They editorialized with barely concealed racism on the influx of perverted foreign religions. Between this and stories on Burke of the Somme, Chant’s death attracted a lot of column inches. That fact had several consequences. It brought a rash of right-wing attacks on mosques in Greater London, it brought a call for the demolition of the estate where Chant had lived, and it brought Dowd up to a certain tower in Highgate, where he was summoned in lieu of his absentee master, Estabrook’s brother, Oscar Godolphin.
2
In the 1780s, when Highgate Hill was so steep and deeply rutted that carriages regularly failed to make the grade, and the drive to town sufficiently dangerous that a wise man went with pistols, a merchant called Thomas Roxborough had constructed a handsome house on Hornsey Lane, designed for him by one Henry Holland. At that time it had commanded fine views: south all the way to the river; north and west over the lush pastures of the region towards the tiny village of Hampstead. The former view was still available to the tourist, from the bridge that spanned the Archway Road, but Roxborough’s fine house had gone, replaced in the late thirties with an anonymous ten-storey tower, set back from the street. There was a screen of well-tended trees between tower and road, not sufficiently thick to conceal the building entirely, but enough to render what was already an undistinguished building virtually invisible. The only mail that was delivered there was circulars, and official paperwork of one kind or another. There were no tenants, either individuals or businesses. Yet Roxborough Tower was kept well by its owners, who once every month or so gathered in the single room which occupied the top floor of the building in the name of the man who had owned this plot of land two hundred years before, and who had left it to the society he had founded.
The men and women (eleven in all) who met here and talked for a few hours and went their unremarkable ways, were the descendants of the impassioned few Rox-borough had gathered around him in the dark days following the failure of the Reconciliation. There was no passion amongst them now, nor more than a vague comprehension of Roxborough’s purpose in forming what he’d called the Society of the Tabula Rasa, or the Clean Slate. But they met anyway, in part because in their early childhood one or other of their parents, usually but not always the father, had taken them aside and told them a great responsibility would fall to them: the carrying forward of a hermetically protected family secret, and in part because the Society looked after its own. Roxborough had been a man of wealth and insight. He’d purchased considerable tracts of land during his lifetime, and the profits that accrued from that investment had ballooned as London grew. The sole recipient of those monies was the Society, though the funds were so ingeniously routed, through companies and agents who were unaware of their place in the system, that nobody who serviced the Society in any capacity whatsoever knew of its existence.