London Noir (10 page)
In the film, the place had the look of a well-appointed office. A wood-paneled front room was hung with gold and platinum albums. There was a large, leather-top desk, an upright bass, three or four electric bass guitars on stands. A trestle table, almost as wide as the room, was packed with an assortment of computer and recording equipment. There must have been webcams everywhere, since you could pretty much see every corner. He selected one of the electric basses, and with that in one hand and a carrier bag in the other, he walked along a corridor that led to another room at the end.
This room was even larger. Most of the space was taken up by an enormous mattress stacked on two, maybe three divans. It was very high for a bed. Lying on top was an old woman. She must have been seventy years old if she was a day. It takes more than sixty-nine years to get that ugly. She was stark naked. And the fattest woman I had ever seen in my life.
He put the carrier bag on the bed and sat beside her. Out of the bag he took a cardboard box which was stuffed with cakes, the sort they sell in cheap bakeries, yellow sponge, bright pink icing. Tenderly he slotted a whole cake into her mouth. As soon as she finished one, he fed her another, until the box was empty. Every time a piece fell from her lips he would guide it back in with one of those broad fingers. When she was all done, he kissed her mouth, which was puffy and purple, hemorrhoidal. Then he tried moving her—with difficulty, but not unkindly—to the foot of the bed. One hundred and ninety kilos of human being, shifted centimeter by centimeter. He got her upright somehow and propped her against a mountain of cushions. She looked like a melting Buddha blancmange. He kissed her face, her breasts—the folds on her body made every part of her look like breasts—then eased her thighs apart. He aimed a remote control at the doorway. Recording equipment clicked on. Facing a camera, he began to speak. I was wrong about him being upper-class English, he was American.
“The music of the spheres. We’ve all heard that expression. Some of us—the true artists—have spent our lives trying to capture the mysterious, terrifying beauty of that siren sound, only to be dashed on the rocks. It was the scientists that discovered its source. It’s the sound waves made when a black hole sucks in and swallows a star.” At these words the old woman licked her lips and grinned. He thrust his right hand between her legs.
“There is no gain without pain. Nothing survives the black hole other than this hum, which is the deepest note ever recorded—a B-flat, oscillating to a B, but six hundred octaves deeper than anything my bass guitar can play.” He pulled his hand out abruptly, grabbed his guitar, and started to play, wet fingers slapping the thick strings. The look on his face was ecstatic.
So. Her husband was a feeder. And a gerontophile. Married to a tiny woman who looked like a child, and whose face, on our sixth and last session, I had touched with my own finger, tracing the thin bones and the delicate chin, down her neck and across her beautifully corrugated sternum, all the while whispering that I was going to help her. The question, as I asked Dino when we got in the car was, who was going to help me?
“A
bass
solo? And that sniffing business? Yee-uk! This
dude
,” Dino stretched the word out to a good six seconds long, “doesn’t make snuff films. He makes
sniff
films. Snuffing them would have been kinder than a bass solo.” Dino’s eyes swung wildly from side to side. “What is
wrong
with Americans? Do you remember that couple Kate brought here for dinner who said they didn’t think the statue on Nelson’s column looked much like Nelson Mandela at all? And that
creature
—when he has a
princess
at home. It’s Charles and Camilla, all over again.” He rolled his eyes back in his head.
“You’d need far more sessions with a shrink than you’ll get on the NHS to figure that out,” I replied. “What was it Clint Eastwood said in
Unforgiven?
It’s got nothing to do with deserves. It’s all about betrayal and double-cross—my work, my life, her husband, my wife …” Maybe she’ll betray me too. Burn the whole house down like one of those big-eyed urchin paintings until there’s nothing left but a pile of ash. But if I wasn’t going to get as iced up as that freezer, right now I needed that flame. Which is why, instead of heading home after my last appointment, Dino and I were in my car, inching along Leighton Road. I parked on Lady Margaret, picked up Dino and my briefcase, and walked around the corner to the tube. By the station, as always, there was a clutter of winos perched on the benches under the glass-andiron canopy. It always struck me that there was something theatrical about this spot. Like it was some kind of project Camden Council had for out-of-work actors. Putting those insane uplighters in the pavement to illuminate the puddles of puke and piss only added to the effect.
As I approached, one of the men looked up. “I’m working hard,” he said, “although I appear to have the air of a holiday-maker.” He patted the space on the bench beside him. “Take a load off, doc. How’s it going?” I recognized him. Back in the day when I worked as a GP around the corner, he had been one of my patients. I sat down and took out the cropped headshot I’d printed from the DVD. A man at the next bench with a can of Special Brew came over and eyed me suspiciously.
“Are you a cop?”
My old patient cut in with, “How many cops have you seen with a ventriloquist’s dummy? I know him, he’s all right,” he said, and the man with the Special Brew came over.
“I know her too.” He pointed at the picture. “It’s Fat Mary.”
“Oh, my love,” his companion laughed. “That it is, and in the prime of health. And I thought she was dead. She’s not dead, is she?”
Mary, he told me, used to work King’s Cross; she had a handful of regulars who’d come to her for years. The cops left her alone mostly, but then they brought in all those community officers who shifted the girls along York Way up to the park by the astroturf football pitch. Her clients stopped coming and the younger girls gave her a rough time. Around a year ago she disappeared. Which must have been when the bass player took her in. They told me they had no clue where she was, but I already had an idea. I picked up Dino and headed for the car.
It was easy. Surprisingly easy. All you need is a computer and the medical profession behind you. The hardest part was changing the appointments; patients, psychiatric ones particularly, don’t like change. My secretary put a few of them off and crammed the real crazies into the mornings. That way I had the afternoons to myself. I didn’t spend the whole of that time with her, even though her husband was at his studio and we could work on her problems at her place, undisturbed. Like I said, I had other things to do, people to track down, plans to make. I’d lost contact with David and Malcolm many years ago, but here we all were, e-mailing each other like old friends.
I’d worked with both of them closely, way back when. It was before I started specializing in phobics. My interest back then was fetishists. David was an accountant. He was also my first feeder. Jailed for locking up and fattening up an underage girl from Poland who had answered his ad for an au pair. He said she lied to him about her age and, already on the chubby side, she looked much older than she was. He believed that she was happy with the setup. Maybe she was. It was clear he worshipped her; he waited on her hand and foot. When they sent me to see him, all he did was ask if I would look out for her and make sure she was all right. At some point after his release, when the Internet started to catch on, he set up a site for fellow fat-admirers; it might even have been the first in the UK.
He knew about Fat Mary—her picture had been posted in a number of places. Feeders took pride in their work, and there was a lot of Mary to be proud of. Most of the feeders were possessive of their gainers, but not the bass player. According to David, Mary had asked the bass player to let her bring customers in once in a while so she could make some money of her own. She said she didn’t want to spend his; the bass player apparently found that amusing. So he lent her out to some of the FA network; probably filmed them too. David told me to give him a week and he’d come up with an address and a key. He did. I left a message with the secretary to book me two days leave.
It’s only polite to take a gift when you visit a woman. I took four. I hadn’t realized I would be so spoiled for choice in Kentish Town. Since she came along, I had been taking more interest in my immediate environment than I had in years, if ever. I’d even defrosted the fridge. Though I hate to say it, and it’s still no excuse, there might have been something in Kate’s accusation about my work taking over everything. I bought flowers, of course, then I crossed the road to the bakery and bought her some of those cakes. I swung back over to Poundstretcher, which Lord knows how but I’d never noticed before, and came out of the place with two huge jars of chocolates and, while I was at it, a child’s silver shell suit for Dino. The tux definitely neeed a trip to the dry cleaner’s.
On the way back home I made another find. A couple of blocks past the station there was a weird old ladies’ underwear shop—you’ll know it if you’ve ever seen it. It’s like the place that time forgot. The main feature of its window display is an absolutely colossal pair of knickers, almost as big as the window itself. Too small for Mary, though. Still, things might change.
When rush hour was over I picked up Dino and got in the car. I knew precisely when the bass player would be leaving. Sitting outside on a yellow line, I pretended to examine the
A-Z
when I saw him come out the door. He walked a few paces to the residential parking bay, aiming a device on his keychain at a gleaming Range Rover. It chirped and he stepped in. I waited another ten minutes after he’d driven off before I got out and walked up the front steps.
Apart from the cars, the street was empty, or as empty as any Central London street can be. I tried the first key in the lock, then the second. Neither seemed to fit. I dropped them, cursing, just as someone walked out of the building next door. He did not so much as look in my direction. When I picked them up and tried again, it worked.
The front door opened into what appeared to be a storage space. Other doors, all unlocked, opened onto rooms crammed with boxes and packing crates. On the left there was a fairly narrow staircase. There must have been a lot less of Mary when she first came here. I climbed the stairs until they stopped at a locked door at the top. The second key opened it without trouble and I stepped inside.
I knew this room so well from watching that DVD over and over. It was as preternaturally clean and tidy as it appeared in the footage. Not so much as a finger smudge on the paneled walls. I spotted the webcams and wondered if they were filming me. I must have considered, subconsciously at least, the possibility, since I knew I was looking pretty good. Kate didn’t know what she’d thrown away.
And there was the corridor. I walked along it. I noticed another door off to the side that I didn’t remember from the film. I opened it: a large bathroom, also spotless. The mirrors that covered every wall looked like they’d been rubbed harder and more often than a teenager’s dick. I walked on to the end of the corridor and pushed open the door.
“Hello, doc,” she said. “You got a little something for me?”
I opened my bag.
I didn’t feel like going home. Malcolm wouldn’t be here until morning, but I just wanted to sit awhile, take a load off. My shoes were hurting me so I kicked them off. We left her lying there, she looked so peaceful, and went back into the other room. When I passed by the upright bass I felt a compulsion to give the strings a twang, but I resisted. There was a chair by the window, and we sat there, me and Dino, just listening to the traffic go by. Did I tell you about Malcolm? My memory’s been getting fuzzy lately. Maybe it’s the temazepam.
Malcolm was a surgeon, another of my patients from the old days. An acrotomophiliac. Though Dino used to argue with me that he was actually an apotemnophiliac by proxy, didn’t you, Dino? Either way, Malcolm took a keener than usual interest in amputation and amputees in and out of the hospital. Like I said, I know things about people; it’s interesting work. Malcolm is still a surgeon, but it’s all private practice now. Gets paid a fortune. His patients love his work. Mary’s going to love it too. And the bass player—why can’t I remember his name, I’m sure she told me. He’s going to look so much better without those fingers. Mary first in the morning, and then the bass player’s appointment at 2. Shame I didn’t think of asking Kate to come along, there’s plenty of time. Maybe I should call her. What do you think, Dino? Shall I call Kate? Tell her I’ve signed the papers and she can come by and pick them up? Tell her I don’t need her. That I don’t need anyone anymore? What do you say, Dino?
Dino’s awfully quiet tonight.
T
he black-haired lady jogger beat her way around the concrete path that circled the western edge of Clissold Park, passing the brick shed near the entrance. Enzo watched her come. He stood in his place by the bushes where the path forked up toward the pond. He’d known she’d be here: it was 4 p.m. and she was always here. The lady jogger had her routines.
She ran toward him, the way she always ran, with her elbows pushed out wide, her head bent to the ground, so she couldn’t see anyone in front of her. She ran like she was the only one in the world. Once, Enzo had seen her jog right into a woman with a pushchair. She’d fallen, sprawling on the tarmac. Enzo had walked past as she staggered to her feet, a tear in her leggings showing a large gash. She had touched it gently, wincing, while the woman with the pushchair had asked her if she was okay. Enzo had forced himself to keep on walking, his head down, his hand steady in his pocket. But he was unable to resist one quick glance, thinking, “Yeah, and one day, lady,
I’ll
be there.”
The jogger made her way onto a stretch of path opposite the estate. She was very close now. Enzo breathed in and smelled the air. He was waiting for a sign that things were ready, that the time was right. The sky was a pale gray above the green of the trees, the air smoky from a fire on the other side of the park, the ground reeking of wet earth. A triangular pattern of geese crossed the sky, and suddenly Enzo knew that this was the final piece that defined the moment: the sign that the time was right. The lady jogger reached the straight track that led right down toward him. Enzo’s left hand worked inside the torn pocket of his tracksuit, his hand squeezing his prick. It was time.
Enzo stepped from the bushes as the jogger approached. He felt very calm. He gave himself one more grasp and then removed his left hand, and placed his right into the pocket of his hooded top. The jogger was almost on top of him now, and Enzo could see the words on her blue T-shirt,
University
of Kent,
stretched over her small breasts, the black lycra tight on her legs, her huge white trainers with fat tongues. She was such a
small
woman, she was perfect for him, with her black hair in long bangs that flapped as she ran, like the limp beat of blackbird wings.
Enzo tensed, his right arm ready. Suddenly, on the road beyond the railings, a car pulled up, a blue Ford. Enzo looked up to see a man step from the passenger door, saying loudly, “Yeah, well, maybe later, but I’m not sure about it,” to whoever was driving the car. He was wearing a football shirt, red and white. It was all too much for Enzo: he glanced quickly at the woman jogger, thinking maybe, maybe, when the man beyond the railings turned and looked over and stared Enzo fully in the face.
It caused the slightest delay in Enzo’s movement. It was enough to spoil everything (the birds had gone from his eye-line now and the lady jogger was just a few steps too close) and make the moment lose its rhythm. Enzo let his hand drop from his right pocket. He looked down at the ground, kicked at a stone, sucked his lips against his teeth. The jogger pounded past him, the soles of her trainers squeaking slightly as she took the turn up toward the pond. The man slammed the passenger door shut and stood waving as the car pulled away. The moment had sailed away from Enzo, and it was exactly like that.
“Yeah, but I seen you!” Enzo called out to the jogger’s back. “I seen you running, lady. I’ll catch you maybe on the next time round.”
The jogger didn’t hear him. Enzo watched her run up the slight hill that led toward the pond and the white house at the center of the park. He wondered if today was one of the days she’d decide to run another circuit, or if she would leave by the entrance on Church Street, making her way back through Stoke Newington, through the cemetery. It didn’t matter to him anyway. It was spoiled. He put his hand back into his left pocket and squeezed himself a couple more times, his prick sore and hard and hot. But he didn’t let himself finish, although he was so close now, he was ready. To finish now would spoil things even more. That wouldn’t be right. Instead, he set out walking up the path the jogger was running along, although he wasn’t following her now. Instead, he headed over to see the deer.
On the grass by the side of the path, a group of boys were playing football, imitating the game that was going on right now in Highbury Stadium over on the other side of Blackstock Road. Enzo recognized a few of the kids on the football pitch, a couple from school, a couple from his estate. Almost all of them were wearing the red-and-white shirts. Sometimes on match days like this when Arsenal scored, you could hear the crowd screaming in unison, like a choir. It haunted you, but could thrill you too: make you want to be the one to make the crowd scream. It was what all the boys on the park were imitating, and in his way, it was what Enzo was working toward himself. As he walked in the direction of the deer enclosure, the ball squirmed from the playing field and rolled across the path in front of him, but no one shouted for him to kick it back. Enzo let the ball roll into the gully by the side of the path.
Enzo hadn’t been back to school since some black kid, some tall Somali, had called him a freak at break, and who knows what
he
had been trying to prove? Enzo had stewed on it for the rest of the day. They met up at the gates after school, and when the Somali kid came toward him, Enzo had sliced a split Coke can across the kid’s eyeball, judging it just right. The kid had dropped onto his knees, no time to say anything, not even enough time to put a hand to his eye. He squatted on all fours, staring down at the ground. He couldn’t stop himself from blinking and his eyeball parted with a slice that grew wider every time his eyelid flicked over it, yawning into wet blackness. This disappointed Enzo. He’d hoped it would bleed more.
Not much school for Enzo after that run-in: not many calls of freak either. No calls at all. Enzo spent a lot of time alone. He spent most of it in the park, because it was better than being at home. Back there, Ma stayed in the kitchen, Dad on the living room sofa, the Virgin beaming down at everyone from the picture above the TV, Jesus wherever you wanted to go looking for him. That was life back in the flat. But sometimes Ma and Dad didn’t stay in separate rooms, and for whatever reason, it was a bit more violent. That was home.
The park was a mess this afternoon. During the week, London had suffered under record storms, blowing the TV aerials and skylight covers from the roof of Enzo’s estate, and shredding the heads of the trees. The grass all around was covered with small branches and twigs, as well as rubbish from the bins. Those storms had made Enzo feel crazy; he’d been able to feel them in his prick, like a pulse. He’d come three times that night the winds had shrieked at his window, telling himself no, no, no, have to save it for the park, have to look out for the lady jogger with the black hair. He’d been unable to hold himself back. And all he saw when he was touching himself were the fangs of a wolf piercing raw red meat, blood on white fur, on teeth.
It didn’t take him long to walk around to the deer enclosure, but when he reached it, he found a father and son standing by the rails. A deer stood close by on the other side. The little boy was offering the deer a handful of grass, the father bent low over him, the shape of him spooned around the little boy. Enzo gave the father a look that said,
Yeah,
and don’t think I don’t know what
you’ll
be doing when you get
the chance.
The man must have seen the way Enzo was staring, and he must have known that Enzo knew, because, you know, Enzo had that power too, he had all kinds of power. Eventually, the man got the message and gathered the little boy up in his arms. “Come on, let’s go,” he said. “Let’s go and find Mum.”
When he heard there were animals in the park, Enzo had been disappointed to find only deer and goats. He wanted wolves. When he was a kid, Ma and Dad had taken him to the zoo. This was not long—a few months—after
that
day. Enzo had seen the wolves at feeding time. He’d watched as they gnawed on raw meat, the blood flicking over the white fur and teeth, and suddenly it all made sense to him. Enzo understood. That night, Enzo pulled himself raw thinking about the wolves. He pulled himself raw, even before anything could happen, thinking of white teeth plunged into red flesh, blood splashed on fur. He pulled himself raw until one night the sperm came, and then he knew he was ready. He rubbed it over his fingers, gummy and warm. Finally he was close. He’d been waiting for years.
Now Enzo was finally alone. He squeezed himself a couple of times before he pulled his left hand away, and again he pushed his right hand into the pocket of his hooded top. He moved close to the fence. The deer raised its head for a moment, surveying him with a large, bland steady eye, a black ball. If the light changes, Enzo said to himself, I will be in that eye. It will shine and I will be inside the deer. He breathed deeply, quivering as he exhaled. The deer bent its head and nibbled at a patch of grass by the fence. Enzo pulled his right hand from his pocket and flashed it into the flank of the deer, two, three, four times, the knife sliding in like a dream, the metal not catching the light at all. The blood burst from the fur, over the blade, and it was all Enzo could do to hold himself back and not finish right there. The deer brayed and kicked up its back legs, bucked away from the fence, and ran over to the rest of the herd, the wound leaking into the gray fur on its side. If I could just go
there,
Enzo thought, if I could just finish in there it would end everything, I know it. He stayed, despite himself, despite everything he had to get busy with, he stayed staring at that hole in the flank of the deer until it trotted behind a fallen log and disappeared from his sight.
Enzo started walking away from the enclosure quickly, and once he was far enough away, he broke into a run. He headed across the concrete in front of the bandstand, skater punks practicing moves, kids spinning around on bikes. He ran down beyond the pond, to the hedges that lined the northern edge of the park, bordering on a stretch of white houses. Every step that Enzo took made his prick bounce against his tracksuit bottoms, bounce dangerously. The bloody knife was hot in his hand. Enzo dashed around a wooden bench facing the duck pond and pushed himself between a green-barked ash tree and the hedge. He was careful, even though it was the last thing he felt like being. He checked the road behind the hedge first, and the path leading down by the pond. No one was approaching.
He fell down on his knees and rested his head against the bark of the tree, his cheek bitten by the weight of his body. The wood smelled green and bitter.
(That day, a man wearing
a hooded parka dragged him into a small copse, pushed him up
against a tree.)
Enzo touched the bark with his tongue, the way he had the first time, tasted the bitter green against his lips, flakes of it dirty on his teeth.
(“You keep it quiet now, you
keep your mouth tight and shut or I’ll open your throat.”)
Enzo screwed up his eyes tight and closed his lips, his left hand moving to his pocket.
(And the fur on the man’s hood brushing
against the back of his neck as he pushed into him.)
His eyes were screwed tight his mouth closed, the way he’d been told to keep it, his breath whistling down his nostrils.
(And the
feel of the man inside him, pushing against his insides, stretching
and pushing, an ache that seemed to rise up through his guts, out
of his mouth.)
Enzo hardly had to touch his prick to come, it lashed out into his palms, a hot slap that seemed to explode from behind his eyes.
(“You turn round, I’m gonna come and
get you, cut your throat. Do you understand?”)
He stayed for a moment, breathing through his nose, his cheek bitten by the green wood. He opened his eyes. That first time, he’d seen a couple of birds beating steadily in the sky. This time, there was nothing but a cloud.
He sat back on his heels and gently, carefully, pulled his left hand from his pocket and his right from his hooded top. Both palms were wet: the left with the white of his sperm, the right with the red of congealing blood. He looked down at them for a moment, feeling the power of what lay in his hands, all of birth and life right there for him to hold. He saw the red and white of the boys at Mass and the football strip of the boys in the park. He saw the white of the wolf’s teeth in the flesh. He weighed them in his hands and then slowly squeezed them together. He looked once more at his palms, and the white lay on the red like a blister, a pinkish tinge in the place where they had mixed. Life was this color. It caused things to be born.
That day, when the man had gone, Enzo had reached behind him to touch where he’d been hurt, and his hand had come back covered with the white and the red. He’d wiped his hands in the earth to bury it. Now, he bent down to the ground and wiped his palms over the dirt at the base of the tree. He pushed his hands hard into the mud, his fingers clawed at the earth, coming up black under the nails. He tried to bury it again, but this time he was planting it in the earth of the park, making it grow.
Enzo sat back, breathing heavily. The mud was caked onto his hands. Beyond the pond, the routine of the park was continuing. The boys were still playing football. Dogs chased the cyclists. A kite of red silk throbbed in the sky. Enzo watched it, thinking how good it would have been if he’d been able to open his eyes to this afterwards, how it would have been almost perfect. It had become his place now, this park, he ruled it like a kingdom. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t this park where it had happened, that first time. It didn’t matter that Enzo didn’t really know where he’d been, that it was all in pieces, all sharp and bright in his head, like the upturned broken bottles they cemented into the walls to stop the kids climbing over. It didn’t matter that Enzo didn’t really understand the ritual of it. All he knew was that he had to do this, and keep on doing it, because if he fed the land with the red and the white, then maybe he’d grow stronger and one day
he
would be the wolf.