Dorian (28 page)

Henry Wotton had been, to some extent, correct about the Ferret all those years before, when they ate beluga caviar together under the stone-cold eyes of Jon the Dilly boy.

Inasmuch as any notion of the deity includes a supposition of omniscience, the Ferret was a sort of god, albeit an impotent, queeny, peeved, amoral one, who had an inordinate fondness for young men in uniform. Because the Ferret’s dreams were of such duration and complexity, and because they incorporated world events that were likely to occur as well as those that already had, and because the Ferret’s subconscious had a unified character (like a paternal house accessed through many different mansions), it was inevitable that, during those brief periods when wakefulness dawned across the ruched surface of his cortex, he would become aware of things currently occurring – massacres in Rwanda, coup in Moscow, earthquake in Los Angeles – that he had already foreseen (albeit incorporating a cast of multicoloured centaurs and singing seahorses) in his dreams.

So it was that awakening with his cheek pressed into white linen of a weave heavier than that of bed-sheets, the Ferret was confused for some seconds, not as to where he might be lying (he had expired on so many restaurant tables during his life that he could identify individual establishments purely by the smell of the starch their laundry used), but as to whether the conversation he was overhearing was taking place in 1992 or 1994 or 1988.

It was the summer of 1994, and the Ferret – together with Gavin Strood and Henry Wotton – was dining in a private room upstairs at the Sealink Club in Soho. The Ferret and Wotton were only there as supernumeraries, invited along by Gavin to attend a dinner given for one of his sculptural friends, who had recently won a commission to create a world-genocide memorial, to be erected in Reykjavik.

All of this information unwound behind the Ferret’s warty eyelids like televisual ticker tape continuously updating the Dow Jones. Without needing to open them he could picture the long oval white-clothed table, with its loose ellipse of night people, some in dishabille, some buttoned up tight. He could hear the sculptor – a well-bred Edinburghian, who in his cups relocated to the Gorbals – bellowing out, ‘We’re pure, we are – we’re fucking pure!’ He could apprehend, through open floor-length windows, the growl and rumble of metal tumbrels in the street three storeys below. He could register the burble of all the diners, but closest to him, and talking directly across his horizontal back, were Wotton and Gavin.

‘So, Gavin, Dorian, you say he continues to plough his salted furrow across our green and pleasant land.’ Wotton was hunkered so far down in his chair that his words flowed slowly on to his plate like olive oil drizzled by a sous-chef.

‘As far as I know.’ Gavin by contrast was upright and earnest. ‘But I have a confession to make, Henry.’

‘Confess,’ Wotton cooed, extending his claw of a hand to be kissed as if he were a pervy prelate.

‘I sneaked off from LA with Dorian… I suppose I stole him off Fergus here.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Gavin, no one possesses the least little bit of Dorian.’

‘I know, I know, it’s wishful thinking. The absolute opposite has happened – I’ve ended up obsessed by him… while he couldn’t give a shit about me.’

‘Join,’ Wotton sighed, ‘the club.’

‘But that’s not my confession. What eats away at me is the idea that Dorian is… is – I know it sounds melodramatic – is
evil
.’

‘Evil is to morality as magnolia is to paint,’ Wotton said after a while; ‘it’s an unpleasant shade of meaning, far too liberally applied, purely on the basis that it isn’t white.’

‘No.’ Gavin swirled the wine in his glass, putting bloody bullet-holes in the tablecloth. ‘I mean it – I mean that he’s a murderer.’

‘Oh, I’ve heard all
that
before – usually from Dorian himself.’

‘Yes, I know; in LA he told me he’d killed Baz Hallward – I thought it was a joke too, but Baz’s work has been undergoing a revival and there’s still no sign of him re-emerging. Now this thing has happened to that guy Campbell as well –’

‘Campbell?’ Wotton cut in. ‘What’s happened to Alan?’

But he didn’t have the opportunity to find out immediately, because the pint-of-Pinot Noir proletarian was pushing in: ‘D’ye ken Baz Hallward?’ he slurred. ‘Och, he’s fuckin’ pure, man, he’s fuckin’ pure. That laddie was way out there in front of us all.’ He grabbed for the light fitment as if intending to bring the idolatrous temple of the Sealink crashing down about their ears. ‘Ah love his stuff, all that prancing about in the noddy – an’ ye ken him, old man?’ This last was slurred directly to Wotton, and the sculptor meant ‘old’ literally, for the battle between the anti-retroviral drugs and the virus itself had been waged for so long now that a no man’s land of churned, scorched territory had been created all over Wotton’s face. He looked twenty years older than he was; the sight in his left eye had now gone, and he wore an eye-patch as if it were a piratical affectation, although it was a medical necessity.

‘Hallward… Baz.… Yes…’ Wotton’s succession of stalled words jammed the other conversation around the table. ‘I know – or knew – him. Is he alive or dead? It hardly matters; the important thing is that his work remains that bizarre mixture of stupid execution and clever intentions that always entitles someone to be called a representative British artist.’

Depending on quite how saturated they were already, the members of the arty party took their time absorbing the import of this remark. Eventually the sculptor plunged back in: ‘You tryin’ t’be clever, pal? You tekin’ the piss or what?’

‘You… misunderstand… me…’ Wotton poured oil on the Firth of Fauve ‘… my remarks were intended generally rather than specifically; they don’t apply to you unless you see yourself as a representative British artist – or RBA.’

‘It’s not me, pal – it’s Hallward I’m stickin’ up for.’

‘Ah, Baz – Baz… what can I say? He was a dull Janus; one face the nice man, the other the bad artist. It appears to me – even on our very short acquaintance – that you would prefer to be seen as the reverse.’

Wotton was ready to go on with this; after all, although he was living on mortgaged time, he had a freehold on recklessness, but he was grievously hampered by the fact that his sparring partner couldn’t comprehend what he was saying. Indeed, the mental operations required by Wotton’s last sentence were so far beyond the sculptor that when a waitress’s bust barrelled by he simply got up and followed it like a bloodhound after a bone.

‘So’ – Wotton turned back to Gavin – ‘Campbell – what about him?’

‘Well…,’ he leaned still further across the small back that separated them ‘… this is all I know…’ Gavin’s words fell like seeds into the warm, damp folds of the Ferret’s field of dreams, engendering the following:

—Dorian, I need to have a little word… Alan Campbell’s voice on the phone had all the tenderness he reserved for blackmail, which was the most psychologically intimate contact he’d had with anyone since childhood. We need to talk about Basil Hallward.

—Baz, Dorian snorted, who the fuck would want to talk about that piece of shit.

—Yer forgetting the work I did for ya. I was the pooper-bloody-scoop for that piece of shit.

Dorian was sitting at his roll-top desk, toying with an ivory letter-opener, an exquisite thing depicting a miniature Hindustani army complete with howdah-humping battle elephants. How could he bother to take this seriously? Yeah, yeah, I paid you well enough for that, Campbell – what’s your problem now?

—All these AIDS drugs are bloody expensive, Dorian; I can’t get on any of the trials so I have to buy them on the black market. Cash is as rare around here as rocking-horse droppings – I need some more.

—Well you can’t have it – I’m not a fucking charity.

—I know that, but I reckon ya might want to rent a video off me.

—What the fuck’re you talking about, you disgusting old nonce? But Dorian was sitting bolt upright now, all languor expunged.

—I’m watching it right now; bloody weird thing – this bloke dancing about. He’s in a bloody dreadful state, but even so,
I’d
recognise him – I bet others would too. This video could be a real smash if it were put on general release.

—You. Hold. It. Right. There. Dorian sentenced Campbell with each word, then flung the receiver down on the desk and sprinted to the stairs.

Up one flight, he fidgeted and faffed with the locks; his fingers, usually so sure, so elegant, had become numb stubs. He hadn’t looked at
Cathode Narcissus
since the night he killed Baz – what need had he to? The deterioration of the tapes would only be hastened by their being played, but as long as they were intact his beauty would remain so as well. That’s what he assumed to be the case. If one of the
Narcissus
tapes were in Campbell’s hands – what then? Campbell couldn’t possibly know the power bound up in them, but what if he destroyed this one, or, as he seemed to be threatening, exposed it to public view? Like anyone who commits themselves to a life ordained by magic, Dorian now inhabited a fearful realm, where human malevolence could be exercised by a mere effort of will. He. Must. Have. All. The. Tapes.

Inside at last, he lunged for the fitted cupboard, yanked open the door, hit the eject buttons on the VCRs. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight… one gone. One. Gone. There was one tape gone!

Back downstairs, Dorian lifted the receiver from the desk blotter and spoke as casually as if he were a middle-aged plum-gobbler ordering vintage port from a wine merchant. Hmm, yes, well, Alan, on consideration I think I shouldn’t mind joining your video club. What’s the entrance fee?

—Same. Fifteen large. Used notes.

—It’ll take me an hour or so to get the cash – it’s lunchtime; the bank’ll be crowded.

—I appreciate that, mate – why don’t we meet at, say, two? In front of Earls Court tube’d be just dandy.

—Fine, that will be fine.

—You be alone, Dorian.

—Naturally. Bye.

But
I
won’t, thought Campbell, replacing the receiver and looking around for his overcoat. He consulted his watch. He’d hired some muscle, a nasty black pimp called Rusty on account of his Celtic-throwback hair. He’d call him on his way to the tube – best to get out of the flat as quickly as possible; he couldn’t remember if Dorian knew its location. Even if he did the traffic was gridlocked at this time of the day; there was no way he could get there in less than twenty minutes.

Campbell moved slowly. He was gaunt, and had bad peripheral neuropathy. He could barely feel the things he picked up, and had to bring them before his eyes to be certain he was holding them. It took him ten minutes to get his coat on, pack its pockets with medication, find his keys and make it to the door of the bedsit.

Dorian made it over from Gloucester Road in seven. He had acquired a racing bicycle in anticipation of just such a chore. Going out? Dorian held Campbell by the throat against the door-jamb and frisked him. But where’s the tape?

—It’s not here – I was gonna give ya the key for a deposit box.

—Bullshit. It’ll be here – you’re too fucked up, old man, to put it anywhere else. He strode two paces across the urine-tinged closeness of the bedsit, punched the eject button on a VCR, which was stacked with mildewed magazines on a coffee table undeserving of the name. Bingo! he said.

—Yeah, well, whatever. Still, no need t’be so harsh, Dorian – I was gonna give it ya.

—Cack, as I believe you antipodeans are wont to say.

—But you’ll give me some of the dough, woncha?

—No. Dorian started for the door. Campbell fell to his knees and, in pathetic emulation of his homeland’s sporting prowess, attempted to tackle him. Get off, you dirty diseased thing. Dorian didn’t raise his voice. There was a calmness and a confidence in the way he grasped Campbell’s chin between thumb and forefinger, that suggested he’d acquired a personal homicide trainer. A lasso of cord had appeared in Dorian’s other hand; he flipped this over his victim’s head. The knot smoothly tightened. Campbell was very weak. He spluttered and foamed but barely kicked at all.

Dorian pulled Campbell’s trousers down to his knees. He tied the end of the ligature around one of the corpse’s legs and yanked it up against the buttocks. From his pocket he took a half-orange soaked with amyl nitrate; this he stuffed in the foaming gash of mouth. Then, confirming the accuracy of Wotton’s quip, Dorian put Campbell’s corpse in the closet. It was a wonky thing, with sliding doors opened by transparent plastic knobs. Over in the corner Dorian saw a black plastic bag overflowing with the polystyrene Ss used for packing breakables. Grabbing hold of its slick lip he poured handfuls of Ss out on the dead tread of the carpet. He broke some of them into smaller, curvilinear forms and then arranged them into sibilant words. ‘Narcissus’ was his favourite. He considered leaving the polystyrene ‘Narcissus’ as a signature to this figurative artwork, but then decided otherwise and merely dumped the bag of Ss on top of the concertinaed corpse.

Dorian Gray popped out of the human warren as he had popped in, looking as if he was doing an errand – especially since he was porting the mushroom-cap helmet of a serious cyclist, together with black nylon leggings, a Day-glo jacket and rubber-knuckled gloves. He didn’t imagine stupid squad would search too hard for a putative killer. A Member of Parliament had recently been discovered in a similar pose, and it always pleased them mightily to find evidence of copycat behaviour. Copycat crime made for copycat policing – so much easier that way. If there was a description of a man leaving Campbell’s flat and they
did
interview him, what would they discover? Dorian Gray riding a
bicycle
? The idea wasn’t merely preposterous – it was grotesque.

Back at the mews house, in the locked room full of costly minimalism (too much of nothing is an expensive proposition), Dorian watched his special feature. In the three years since he’d last encountered them the Narcissi had put on a little weight. They seemed to have been annealed by the virus, so that their toughened epidermises resembled the yellowing leather of mummies.