The Unblemished, page 11
The stranger, Knowlden thought, really was wearing some beautifully cut gear – an Armani jacket, some kind of subtle designer T-shirt, moleskin trousers that were a kind of dark grey but were probably referred to as anthracite by the manufacturers, and leather boots that screamed pound signs. Next to him on a stool was a carefully folded nubuck leather jacket and a snazzy Merrell briefcase. Knowlden knew instinctively that he wanted to work for him. He was dedicated to him, a hundred per cent loyal, and they hadn’t even shared a conversation yet.
They stayed on at that one bar all night and drank litre vases of Affligem as well as pastis and Meukaw cognac. It was a good bar, and the waitress flirted, and they could order entrecôte and frites and salade verte after nine, which was unheard of in any London boozer they knew. The stranger introduced himself but never once took off his sunglasses. It didn’t look pretentious on him, somehow, Knowlden decided. And there was something else he noticed. No matter how much they drank, the stranger remained in control, like Knowlden himself. He liked that. It was reassuring. This was not a man to go off half-cocked. He would not render himself vulnerable by getting into a rage.
Colin, on the other hand, was bladdered. He was leaning over the bar, his jeans slowly travelling south while he attempted to ask the barmaid to marry him. Knowlden and Manser talked. Manser was impressed by Knowlden’s career. Knowlden liked how Manser didn’t brag about his position in the world. He had a few fingers in a few pies and he was making headway; that was all he said, although Knowlden knew it was more than that, and he knew that Manser knew he knew that.
By the end of the night, with Colin slumped against the bar and the barmaid singing to him, Knowlden and Manser were finishing each other’s sentences.
‘I could do with …’ Manser began.
‘… a driver like me,’ Knowlden completed.
‘Actually, I was going to say “a piss”.’
They got on. There was chemistry. Drinks finished, as Knowlden carried Colin off to the wagon, there had been a handshake, a swapping of email addresses and mobile numbers, a nod, a look, an understanding. Two months later, Knowlden had again handed in his notice on the long vehicles and accepted Manser’s offer of work. Chauffeur, bodyguard, right-hand man.
‘I need someone I can trust,’ Manser had told him. ‘Someone who isn’t squeamish. Who accepts that different people have different needs and doesn’t make judgements.’
‘You could be diddling your grandmother with merguez sausages and I wouldn’t double take,’ Knowlden said. But he did, when Manser told him what he was into.
A long pause. The sense of a line being crossed.
‘I’d take a bullet for you,’ Knowlden said.
‘How about a merguez sausage?’
He didn’t want to expose Knowlden to this kind of nasty shit so soon, but he needed some help. Gyorsi, when explaining his plan, was adamant that he would not fight what must come to him, the disfigurement that was necessary if he was to return to his public, but Manser knew what the body was capable of when it was taken into realms it ought never to experience. Instinct took over.
In the end, though, Knowlden was unfazed. They had spoken about his experiences in Iraq in 1991, specifically about the friendly-fire deaths he had witnessed when an A-10 accidentally dropped its payload on a pair of light armoured vehicles fifty miles south of the burning Burqan oil fields in southern Kuwait, a day after the commencement of Desert Storm. Three of the four crew members were obliterated, six smoking boots the only indicator of how many grunts had been travelling. The other crew member had survived, somehow protected from the fireflash that liquified his colleagues, but he had been mortally wounded by shrapnel. A burning piece of metal had carved through his stomach, cauterising the wound as it went. He was sitting on the desert floor looking through the massive hole in his torso, his stomach burning in the sand a few feet away like something fallen off a barbecue, when Knowlden got to him.
‘He watched me pull out my pistol and he was asking me, in this calm voice, not to do it. He could see that he was going to die, he wasn’t going to see the sun set or place his head on a pillow, or a woman’s breast, ever again. I just sat with him and waited for the shock to hit him, and then he didn’t even know who I was or where we were or what had happened to him. He watched me shoot him between the eyes and by then I don’t think he even knew what the gun was.’
Twilight was approaching when they turned the S-Type on to the gravel lay-by edging the forest. In this flagging light, the evergreens of the forest – the moss coating the bark, the creepers, the ferns – appeared to be staining the sky immediately above. They walked without conversing, as if the discussion they had just had in the car had exhausted all topics for a time, made them redundant. They moved swiftly, following Manser’s compass and his acquaintance with the trees. Darkness moved into the gaps around them like something being absorbed. Apart from their boots in the mulch of dead leaves and rotten sticks on the forest floor, the sounds of their breathing, the occasional clatter of wings in the heights and the chitter of insects coming to life under shadow, there was little noise. Until, fifteen minutes deep into the forest, they heard tinny music coming from a cheap radio.
The crumbled edifice of the old building announced itself; candles were dotted around the small clearing, yellowing the sterile layout and making it seem almost welcoming. Gyorsi Salavaria was kneeling, naked, in front of a broken shard of mirror, shaving, his old radio sitting next to him in the grass. The Chordettes singing ‘Mr Sandman’.
‘Are you ready for this, Gyorsi?’ Manser called. He placed the rucksack on the floor and removed the plastic can of petrol, began unscrewing the cap.
‘Yes, Malcolm … are you?’
Knowlden stepped forwards and held Manser down.
Manser struggled, but Jez’s arms were like branches from an oak tree. ‘What is this?’ he whined. ‘Gyorsi? Jez?’
When the fire was lit, the roar of it was grand enough to drown out any screaming.
Part II
BLOOD MEALS
All sorts are here that all the Earth yields,
Variety without end.
John Milton, Paradise Lost
I’m an insect who dreamt he was a man and loved it. But now the dream is over … and the insect is awake.
Seth Brundle (Jeff Goldblum), The Fly (1986)
10. HIDE
SAMMY DYER LIVED in what he liked to call his eyrie, the attic room of a top-floor flat shared with three other people in a grand old house in well-to-do Belsize Park. It was the only way he could afford to live in the area, a place he liked for its independent cinema, restaurants, and delicatessen. The England was visible from his room, a good pub with wooden floors and a basement area packed out every Saturday night for stand-up comedy acts. Sammy’s room was a health and safety hazard. Because of the narrow, steep staircase providing access to his room (he doubted there had ever been an official application to the Planning Department) he could get no sizeable furniture up there. It was, as a result, a riot of soft furnishings: a couple of large overpriced bean bags in blue and red from Camden Market, cushions, throws, blankets. A MacBook and an iPod dock sat on top of an old detachable wooden desk salvaged from an office sale which Sammy had plastered with hundreds of discarded images from his photographic past, all varnished fast. So many books and magazines were piled precariously against the walls that the futon mattress would appear to be more comfortable to shelter beneath than sleep on.
Bo Mulvey ascended the punishing staircase at the rear of the building, five flights of Jesus and Shit, wondering if this had been the right choice to make. He felt ill, probably looked less than well too; his skin felt hot and thin to the touch, his fingertips coming away wet where they had trawled his greasy forehead. He felt shaky from hunger, that hollow friable feeling that comes when blood sugar levels have taken a plunge, but the thought of food made his stomach convulse.
Sammy was at the entrance to the flat, waiting for him.
‘Yo, Blood,’ he said, in his best Samuel L Jackson, offering his knuckles, which Bo ignored. ‘God. You look like the proverbial sack of. What happened? You find out what your real mother was?’
Bo smiled, a tight, toothy grimace. ‘I could do with a drink,’ he said.
‘Kettle drink? Or something harder?’
‘Tea,’ Bo said. ‘Sweet. Very sweet.’
He waited in Sammy’s room, studying the spines of books stacked almost floor to ceiling without taking in any of the titles. Music was coming from the MacBook, which was hooked up to futuristic speakers and a sub-woofer. But it was so subdued Bo couldn’t identify it. The screen was black. That was the thing about computers these days: they went to sleep when they weren’t being used, they didn’t need screensavers any more. Bo missed the old operating systems that ran mind-bending savers. There were the visuals that came with iTunes, but who wanted to watch attractive swirls when PJ Harvey or The Smiths or Kristin Hersh was playing?
He heard the sound of a spoon in a mug, its clatter as it was discarded in the sink. Bo sat down, then stood up and went over to the window. The view south took in the BT Tower and the net enclosing the birds at London Zoo. He could see St Pancras from here.
He had to make Sammy see that he was normal, not as strung out or as panicky as he felt. He had nowhere else left to turn. Keiko was too smothering in her concern for him. It was too much like being mothered; he needed space now, and time to think about what was happening to him and around him.
‘You working?’ Sammy asked, his head rising into view from the sheer staircase.
‘The usual rounds of handshakes and hellos. I could do this in my sleep. In fact, I think I do, sometimes.’
He took his tea, failing to prevent his hand from shaking. Sammy steadied the mug with his other hand before letting go. Bo could feel the heat of his friend’s scrutiny but was unable to meet it. Instead, he said, ‘It’s not drugs, if that’s what you’re thinking.’
‘I wasn’t thinking anything,’ Sammy said, levelly.
‘What about you?’ Bo asked, returning his attention to the window. The sky was filled with a rain that would not come. Bo felt the weight of all that pressure behind his eyes. The city seemed to have been drained of its colour and light, as if someone had stolen through it, painting every building gunmetal grey.
‘I’ve been busy, visiting cemeteries,’ Sammy said. ‘I feel guilty. My grandparents have been dead twenty years and I’ve been to their graves, what, maybe half a dozen times? And here I am, in two weeks, taking photographs of headstones, more than double that amount.’
‘More disinterred?’
‘What do you think?’
‘More bite marks?’
‘Oh yes. Laurier’s doing his nut. Forensics have come back with – get this – seventeen different bite patterns.’
‘Seventeen? I thought they were pinning their hopes on one mad bastard.’
Sammy was nodding. ‘They haven’t finished collating evidence yet. Expect that number to be revised. Upwards.’
‘What’s the rumour? A cult?’
‘I don’t know. There haven’t been any theories. None that I’ve been in on at least. One thing, though. Funniest thing. Every single set of teeth marks on the bodies produced a completely perfect dental cast.’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘No cavities. No occlusions. Nothing missing. Nothing bent or twisted.’
‘Jesus. Who are they? Americans?’
Sammy laughed. ‘That, or an army of denture-wearers.’
Bo looked up. Sammy was still studying him, his expression that of someone trying to place a name to a face, or recall a word that has gone missing from the tip of the tongue.
‘You deflected yourself, you know that?’
‘I know,’ Bo said. His tea was too hot, too sweet. He knew he would find fault with anything he tried to put in his belly at the moment. He forced himself to drink it. What could be more normal than drinking tea? ‘I’m okay,’ he continued. ‘I just, well, I’m not with Keiko any more and I’m feeling a little down.’
He detected a shift in the atmosphere. Sammy slumped a little, retreated, as if to say That’s it? and maybe He’s got me to listen to this sob story? too. Or maybe even, I’m not swallowing that, but if you aren’t prepared to tell me the truth, why should I care?
‘So what can I do for you? Go home. Eat chocolate. Drink wine. Watch old movies. Buy a box of tissues.’
‘I can’t go home.’
‘Are you in trouble, Bo? It’s not just about Keiko, this, is it?’
‘I need a place to crash, Sammy. Just for a few days. I need to get my head in the right place.’
‘Removing it from your arse, you mean?’
‘Maybe. Maybe that’s it.’
Framed black-and-white photographs hung on the walls in the spaces the books had yet to invade. Photography – any kind of photography – suddenly seemed a totally pointless activity. It was too stylised, too intrusive, too arbitrary. Sammy Dyer’s work – portraits, landscapes, explosive moments from sport – were both naive and hubristic, at the same time the worst shots Bo had ever seen, and yet so brave, so good as to make him feel talentless. The flat closed around him, but he realised that anywhere would feel claustrophobic to him now. It was inside him that the space was filling up most alarmingly. He felt like a sponge that was being squeezed but not releasing its cargo. He felt too small for what was contained within.
‘I have to go to Portugal the day after tomorrow,’ Sammy said, his voice bereft of its usual bearing. Everything about him was saying no: his posture, his tone, his eyes … but the word wouldn’t come. Bo felt awful for him, and wished he could help him out, take away that responsibility by walking away, but he was too weak and afraid.
‘You can stay until then.’
For a while, as Sammy was turning to leave the room, the collar of his shirt shifted and, as if in slow motion, revealed a patch of his neck shadowed into a vague Y. He saw the minute dimples and diamonds that formed his skin, the silvery hairs, minuscule, lifting or flattening in response to micro-changes in the room’s temperature. He saw, in a thrilling, guilty moment, how Sammy Dyer’s blood moved through its thin, red prison, coursing in fluid bursts in tandem with the rhythm of his heart. Beyond that, as if his friend had been flayed, he saw the dazzling beauty of his entire circulatory system, as if he had been frozen at the point of some cataclysmic explosion, the capillaries, veins and arteries suspended, a strange coral, a model in a biology lab.
The illusion withdrew. The moment died. Bo found he was holding his breath. He slowly exhaled as Sammy sank from view.
The pangs in his gut had vanished. For a short time, he felt normal, even hungry, again.
The longer he remained in the room, the less claustrophobic it became. He lay on the floor, looking up at the unshaded bulb of the ceiling light, and waited for his body to offer some clue as to what it was becoming. It became easier, now that he was no longer moving – or clenched by panic – to isolate the problem, but he couldn’t offer a definitive diagnosis. The overriding feeling was of a tightening in the skin, as if someone standing behind him was taking all of his slack into one giant fist and squeezing. His eyesight also seemed to be affected: colours were improved to the point where his vision was saturated. It was as if the whole world had been trapped on a roll of Fuji Velvia. It was deep and detailed and gorgeous.
If he opened his mouth, his ability to hear increased by such an extent that he could pick out occasional words uttered by two men conversing on the pavement in Eton Avenue, a good hundred metres away. His body screamed with possibilities.
He sat up and almost immediately something bothered him. Nothing in the room had been altered – he had been its sole occupant in the half hour since Sammy left for work – nevertheless, he felt very strongly that something had changed.
Needled by the imprecision of his thoughts, he moved to the other window, which looked down on to England’s Lane, and at once saw a woman in the window of one of the flats opposite, staring directly at him. She was naked, immobile, and as soon as she saw she was being watched she beamed at him, a smile so broad he almost felt heat from it, despite the distance between them. He smiled too, uncertainly, and moved away from the window. He wanted something ordinary to come out of the day and surprise him, to reaffirm him and where he was.
A bit heavy on the old numinous, he remembered a teacher at school saying, whenever anybody handed in a story during writing exercises that was even minutely fantastical.
A bit heavy on the old numinous. Too fucking right.
He wanted a little banality to counter all that old numinous.
Bo felt the room changing as the light left it. The air seemed to thicken, to become less ready to leap in and out of his lungs. The books against the wall sucked the darkness into their pages, making them bloat, become more than what they had been. He watched lights emerge from the skin of London as it fell away from him to the south. Menace materialised, became something almost tangible, like the air he was breathing. The threat sat heavily in the room.
Bo sat on the floor, wishing for some company. He needed to talk this all out. He was finding it hard to control the feeling that this person who was a guest of Sammy Dyer was anybody but himself. He was struggling to prevent the visions that kept tripping through his mind, flashes of wet redness, of white teeth, the deep, splitting sounds of bones broken in violence. He was convinced that the sounds were already happening, perhaps even within his own body, and he didn’t know how to react, or even if he wanted to.
He was checking himself in mirrors at every opportunity and he looked no different to the Bo Mulvey that had looked back at him at any moment over the past few weeks. There was no obvious deviation, nothing that stuck out like a blister or a pimple or a scar to mark him as separate to others. He felt hunger without being able to open his mouth; his thirst was unquenchable because water only nauseated him. He saw through people as if he were wearing magical eye glasses, the X-ray specs you could buy from old Spider-Man comics along with Sea Monkeys and offers to turn yourself from a seven-stone weakling into some man-mountain. People seemed to shine, to project an aura into the immediate space around them, like the body’s electro-magnetic fields trapped in a piece of Kirlian photography. But he found himself questioning these subtle turnings in his body’s combination, which suggested that he still retained some say in how things might turn out. He was not too far gone. Is it thirst if I can’t drink? Is it hunger if I can’t eat? Only terrible possibilities remained, but he felt, beyond the panic and the fear, as physically sound as he had since his teenage years. He wondered if, at the end of whatever was happening to him, he would be in danger, or he would prove a danger to others.
