A Madness of Angels: Or the Resurrection of Matthew Swift (9 page)

 

I raised my head slowly, for fear that if I rushed anything, I’d lose control. I looked him straight in the eye and said, “Are you hoping I’m going to say that Bakker attacked me?”

 

“No, no, I do not wish to impute any such suppositions to you!”

 

“He didn’t.”

 

“Of course not, no, I never thought…”

 

“I saw no one attack me.”

 

“But you have an idea who might have…”

 

“Yes.”

 

“May I be so bold as to enquire…”

 

“You can enquire; I don’t think I’ll answer yet. I don’t think I know enough. I don’t know you.”

 

He let out a little tired-uncle-left-with-the-children sigh. “I take it then, you have no interest in these other deaths.”

 

“They interest me very much. I knew some of them. And the manner of their deaths is disturbing.”

 

He let out an impatient sigh. “Do you know, sir, why I mentioned Robert James Bakker?”

 

“I take it you see some connection between him and these deaths.”

 

“All who have died are in some way linked to him; indeed, yes, it is most true. Including you, I believe? You and Robert Bakker … were very closely linked indeed, were you not?”

 

“Where is he now?”

 

“No one is entirely sure.”

 

“What does that mean?”

 

“He moves around. He is very difficult to find. These last few years… he has become more than just a recluse. No one knows where he’s based, or where he will be at any moment. It is suggestive, in itself. Do you know?”

 

“Me?”

 

“You knew him.”

 

“I guess so.”

 

“Come now, let us not be too coy, sir! I know that on the day you died, you met Robert Bakker at St Thomas’s Hospital. I know you argued with him, I know that you left him and walked along the river; all this is on record, sir, all this the police themselves turned up, quite without help from me, I may add. I know that a few hours after leaving him, you were found missing, but a lot of your blood was found very much present, sir. More, sir, more, I know that the people currently inhabiting your house are employees of a company that indeed, sir, is ultimately owned by Bakker’s own corporation, and that there was a good deal of external pressure from his lawyers to see your property and your assets divided as soon as possible after your presumed demise – such as there was. I’m sure, sir, why you understand my concern, yes indeed.”

 

“You know so much, why talk to me? I’ve said what I have to. I don’t know your reasons for being interested in Bakker, nor who you are, and I don’t really care. I’m only here to find the person who attacked me, and…” I stopped myself, but too late.

 

Sinclair’s eyes glowed with the reflected light of the city. “Yes,” he said, taking a long time to get the sound out. “And of course, ‘the one who brought you back’. That was the phrase you were looking for, was it not, Mr Swift? And she was right – you have most unusual eyes.”

 

“Is that relevant?”

 

“You must understand, Mr Swift. I have spent a considerable amount of time studying both your demise, and the unfortunate deaths of these people I have named, among others. It is… you may say… an invested interest. In this time I feel I have come to know you, or at least know what part of yourself you chose to leave behind to posterity – which may, in truth, not be much. I know what you look like, every detail of your face; I know your habits, your dispositions. I know that when you walked into that courtyard by the Thames your eyes were brown, and now when I look at you, your eyes are very much blue. And I find myself wondering – is this the same Matthew Swift after all, or is it some fraud? Perhaps… neither? Perhaps you do not experience the kind of death that I am given to believe you did by the state of your clothes when they were found, by the blood and the mess it made – forensic science, you see, marvellous thing. Perhaps you do not experience such things and come away the same. Perhaps

 

you change to survive, yes?”

 

I looked away.

 

“There was one thing about the death of Matthew Swift that struck me most,” he explained after a pause.

 

“What was that?”

 

“His fingerprints were found, in blood, on the receiver of a telephone booth just a few metres from where we find the first pool of blood. He dragged himself to the booth, lifted the receiver, but did not dial 999. Instead, the body disappears, leaving merely the shredded remains of bloody clothes, a few loose pieces of skin and the odd vital fluid from the occasional organ.”

 

“So you think Bakker had me attacked?”

 

“I do sir, indeed yes, I do. I think you may be so inclined as well – at least, your curiosity must have been aroused – unless of course you know something that I don’t, in which case I would implore you to share such knowledge.”

 

“Didn’t see anyone I knew.”

 

“But of course you saw something?” He was almost panting, the sweat trickling down his cheek. We could smell the salt in it, feel the heat from his face. “The police think that Swift took a long time to die, yes? You must have seen something!”

 

I thought about it. We didn’t trust this man; but on the other hand, what he seemed to know already was enough to make him interesting. “It was a shadow,” I said. “That’s all.”

 

“Come now! Come!” he proclaimed. “I’m sure there must be more!”

 

Abruptly I stood up. “Mr Sinclair,” I said, “you have a lot of information. Yes, I talked with Bakker, I quarrelled with Bakker. But whether he is behind what happened to me, I will not say. Until I know more, I will not trust you. I have learnt too many lessons to take that chance, and we are still new to this game.”

 

“We?” his voice cut in, sharp and harsh.

 

I ignored it. “You want my help with something. What is it?”

 

He got to his feet, and now there was no friendliness in his face, just a full, sweeping stare, trying to read every part of my mind and heart. “Matthew Swift,” he said, slow and deliberate. “I do not know with what power you must have consorted to stay alive, when so many others died who, I think, had been more knowledgeable, powerful, careful and aware than you ever were. But if what sustains your life now becomes a threat to me, I will eliminate it, do you understand?”

 

We shook our head. “We are not here for you,” we explained, and for a moment there was fear in his eyes. I folded my arms. “So, Mr Sinclair. Tell me. What exactly do you want?”

 

He thought about it, stretching up to his full, not-too-impressive height, and folding his hands behind his back in a formal posture. Finally he said, “Let us be blunt with each other. I am interested in finding out more about Mr Bakker’s organisation, his friends, his purpose, his abilities and his history. I, and some other… concerned citizens… suspect that this gentleman may be exploiting his many advantages for a level of personal gain which may endanger others of my persuasion.”

 

“And what persuasion is that?”

 

“Living, Mr Swift. Simply living.”

 

“You believe Bakker is a threat to people?”

 

“Honestly, sir, I do. I have little proof beyond hearsay and a series of violent deaths within a certain community, but I do, sir, consider Mr Bakker to have an agenda that could be of great concern to us.”

 

“What ‘agenda’?”

 

“From what I understand, he is gathering to himself certain items, individuals, objects and abilities which, combined, could render him disproportionately influential, if you understand my implication.”

 

“I think I may.”

 

“In this light, I hope you won’t consider it rude if I enquire as to the nature of your dispute with Mr Bakker?”

 

“I won’t consider it rude; but, again, I’m afraid I will not answer.”

 

“Will you at least concede as to whether it had any bearing on the hypothesis I have proposed?”

 

“I believe… I
believe
that Robert James Bakker long ago became a danger to myself and to others. Is that what you want to hear?”

 

“Indeed, indeed, it is close. Is it true?”

 

“I knew Bakker was a danger before I came to meet you.”

 

He nodded vigorously. “Good, good, yes, of course. And, I take it, you were considering some investigation of his activities yourself?”

 

“Perhaps.”

 

“Naturally, yes. The circumstances of your demise led me to assume there must be some link.”

 

“I take it you wish in some way to limit his threat?”

 

The question seemed to take him aback. “Let us speak bluntly, Mr Swift. I wish him killed.”

 

“I see.”

 

“I take it you do not agree with this course of action?”

 

“I don’t agree with it, no. But we think it may be necessary.” I let out a breath I hadn’t realised I’d been holding. “Mr Sinclair, I apologise if my behaviour appears unhelpful. I learnt a harsh lesson when… you are correct in thinking that these things change a man. As for the nature of my continued survival, we intend no harm. You wish to kill Bakker. I will not pull the trigger, but I will not condemn it; and, if I can, I will help you in any other way, so long as when we require assistance, you are willing to reciprocate.”

 

The big words tumbled out of my mouth, matching him pomp for pomp.

 

This time the smile was real, and it was frightening for it. “Good. Good, Mr Swift. Good. Yes, indeed. I think this will be a most profitable relationship. In fact, if you would be so kind, I’d like you to meet some friends of mine.”

 

 

He had a silver Mercedes parked in one of the little, squat-housed streets near Waterloo station. It had mirrored glass thick enough to be bulletproof. The young man with milk-chocolate skin drove, while we sat in the back on white leather upholstery. Dudley Sinclair offered me a Turkish delight from a silver-edged box. We were tempted; I said no. That was the end of any conversation as we drove back across the river.

 

We made our way north-west, past Hyde Park and Marble Arch, crawling up Edgware Road with its shopfronts in curling Arabic script, bars selling shisha, and windows full of expensive, gaudy lampshades. Five times a day Edgware Road is lined with men kneeling on mats dragged hastily out of car doors or onto the floor of restaurants, praying to Mecca, while all around the traffic edges sulkily past the congestion charge zone. We turned off into the narrower byways towards Marylebone High Street, where the red-brick terraced houses have flower-filled balconies, tall windows, spiked black railings, and wide steps leading up to their giant front doors.

 

In one such street we stopped, got out; and Sinclair marched, as best his bulk allowed, up a flight of steps to one such door, where a buzzer showed the house to be divided into five flats. He rang three times, twice short and once long, and the door clicked open without question. The hall beyond was wide, with black-and-white marble flooring and a thickly carpeted staircase curving upwards. Sinclair headed for a surprisingly plain lift, with a rattling metal door, and warped mirror walls that made our reflected faces look diseased. All of us – myself, Sinclair and his ever loyal, ever silent companion – piled in, an act of intimacy more than any handshake as we compressed ourselves to accommodate Sinclair’s bulk, and rode the straining contraption to the top floor. It didn’t open up on a shared hallway, as I had expected, but straight into a flat itself, whose walls were papered in white with a swirling reddish floral pattern, and whose pale blue carpets almost caressed our shins with their freshness. Sinclair waved us on towards a light shining beneath a door, from beyond which I could hear voices.

 

As I pushed open the door, all conversation stopped – a reaction I’d always hoped for in my secret dreams, but which had never happened until now.

 

Seven people were sitting or standing, round a glass-topped coffee table, on which stood half-eaten bowls of crisps and glasses of wine. I recognised the fortune-teller, now more comfortably attired in a dark, semi-formal dress that clung in a way that suited her. The rest were so mixed, and the odours they gave off, both natural and unnatural, so diverse, that I hardly knew where to begin.

 

Sinclair started for me. Sweeping into the room with a “Good, good, excellent, glad to see you all, yes…” he had a glass of wine in his hand before he’d finished, “… you all know why we’re here, yes, naturally, and of course you’re eager to get on.”

 

Looking round the room, I noticed that the curtains were closed and the lights turned down. Next I became aware of the tension in one man, with a long, pale, horselike face, who sat hunched forward, knees locked together, white-knuckled fingers clasped on his lap; also how the fortune-teller glanced nervously around, looking away the instant anyone looked at her.

 

Only one person seemed relaxed. She was sitting in a corner with a bowl of peanuts in her hand, wearing a faded pink woollen cardigan that had every dire symptom of being hand-knitted, a grey knee-length skirt of somethick material, a woolly hat with a bobble on it and a pair of furry slippers. At her feet were a number of large plastic bags. Even from across the room, they emitted strange smells of curry and grease and, to my consternation, traffic fumes, spilling out from the largely empty space around her. She looked me over with eyes sunk deep into a face like a map of the Pyrénées, and shrilled between the gap in her front teeth, “Raisins in the bottom of the bag!” Then her eyes narrowed and in a smaller voice she added, “I sees you hiding in that skin. Heard in the wire, ain’t it? Heard it go away.”

 

We shifted uneasily in the force of her gaze.

 

“Hah!” she shrieked. “Bollocks arseholes!”

 

“Thank you, Madam Dorie,” intoned Sinclair. “As always, your contribution is scintillating.”

 

“Up yours, walrus-bottom!”

 

No one seemed particularly bothered by this statement – clearly Madam Dorie’s contributions were often along these lines.

 

“Gentlemen, ladies,” Sinclair ploughed on. “You all know why we’re here.”

 

“I don’t,” I offered.