Hard Light (6 page)

It was pouring now. Krishna pulled her coat over her head. I tugged my collar high as it would go and followed her, jumping across puddles and ducking beneath awnings when we could.

“That's it,” she announced, and pointed at a four-story Victorian edifice that occupied an entire corner. Its restored brickwork and ceramic tiles displayed classical Greek figures who appeared to be having much more fun than anyone else in the vicinity. The original windows on the top floor had been replaced with vast panels of sleek black glass. On the street level, a brass sign read BOUDICCA ANTIQUITIES & CURIOS.

“That's their shop now,” said Krishna. “Now that Mallo's gone straight. Gate's round back,” she went on, fumbling for her mobile. “I don't know the code to get in—we'll have to wait for someone if I can't get hold of Ado.”

At the end of an alley beside the building stood an impressive security fence, topped with shining razor wire and rows of stainless-steel spikes. A black SUV was parked in the courtyard beyond, rain streaming down the vehicle's black windows. It was impossible to see if there was anyone inside.

Krishna glanced at the SUV, texting in vain for Adrian. She shook her head, and a rope of wet hair fell across her cheek. “I told you, I don't like this place.”

“They own the whole building?”

Krishna nodded. “Council was going to tear it down. Mallo bought it and fixed it up. They own that antique shop downstairs. Ado says they rent out the other floors, but I never see anyone else. Look, here's someone—”

A burly man in a dark overcoat emerged from the back door and raced through the courtyard in the rain. When he reached the security gate he halted, struggling with an umbrella as he punched a button. The gate buzzed: Krishna quickly pushed it open and we stepped into the courtyard, as the man with the umbrella ran past us into the street.

“I remember the code for this one.” Krishna paused at the former stage door to tap at another keypad. “I watched Morven, last time I was here. 1993, year I was born.”

“Christ,” I muttered.

Inside, I wondered what the point was of buying a historic structure, then gutting it so it looked like every soulless office building on the planet: gray concrete tiles, gray walls, frosted glass. The entry was brightly lit and had the stale antiseptic smell of a hospital waiting room. A sign pointed the way to Boudicca Antiquities & Curios. Except for a few damp footprints, the floors were spotless, as were the walls.

The sole exception to the modern renovation was an old-fashioned cage elevator. A seven-inch gap yawned between the car's kickplate and the tiled floor. I glanced down into a basement black as a pit.

“Mind the gap,” said Krishna. She pulled aside the elevator's folding metal gate, and we stepped inside. There was no inner safety door.

“Seems weird they updated everything but this,” I said as the cage slowly rose, gears clanking.

“Weird?” Krishna pressed her face against the grille and peered down the shaft. “I don't think so. Easy to arrange an accident.”

“Yeah, but how many accidents before it doesn't look like an accident anymore?”

“Dunno. You want to find out?”

The elevator ground to a stop. Krishna yanked open the gate and bounced out into a windowless corridor. I followed, stepping gingerly over the gap. Behind us the elevator clanked softly, and I glanced back to see it rising to the next floor.

“There's a little room up top,” said Krishna. “Morven's secret place.”

Here too the walls, floor, and ceiling were all painted gray. Recessed low-light bulbs made the door at the end of the corridor seem to recede as we walked toward it. It was like gazing through the wrong end of a gigantic telescope. Krishna's wrenlike figure didn't dispel the illusion.

“This is it,” she said when we reached the door.

There was no number or name, no sounds from the other side. I knocked. Nothing.

I turned to Krishna. “You sure?”

She shrank into her vast coat, water dripping from its sleeves onto the floor. “Wasn't my idea,” she said.

I knocked again, harder.

Abruptly the door opened, releasing a wave of laughter, jazz piano, and a rush of air ripe with competing perfumes and cigar smoke. A woman in a tight-fitting, plum-colored dress peeked out at us.

“Is that Krish?” she exclaimed, and grabbed Krishna in a sloppy embrace. “I'm so glad you came!”

Krishna extricated herself. “Happy birthday, Morven. Here, I brought a friend.”

The woman looked past her at me. “I see. Who's this?”

“Cass,” said Krishna.

Morven regarded me coolly, and I realized that sloppy embrace had been a proprietary one. I edged away from Krishna and said, “We just met. I'm new in town.”

“Is Adrian here?” broke in Krishna.

Morven shook her head. “I haven't seen him, but that doesn't mean anything.”

“I'll just have a peep,” said Krishna, and slipped into the apartment.

I tried not to look pissed off: Now there'd be no reason for Morven to ask me to stay.

The same thought appeared to have struck Morven. “So. Cass. Have we met?” She had a mid-Atlantic accent, clipped and businesslike.

“Maybe in New York.”

“Maybe.”

Her eyes narrowed as she regarded me. She looked like a Morven—witchy. A mass of unruly hair had been dyed pale blond, auburn, and magenta before reverting to gray at the scalp, held back from her face with an antique tortoiseshell comb. Fair skin bore the marks of too much sun—seams around her eyes, freckles that had grown dark and blotchy, a map of broken capillaries across her cheeks.

Still, it was a striking face, more piquant than conventionally beautiful: large aquamarine eyes, pointed nose, small mouth, apple cheeks. Above her left breast was a small tattoo, a pair of interlocking, calligraphic letters in faded red ink—
FC.

She wasn't quite tall enough to be a model, but she triggered a vague memory of a girl in a magazine. A long-ago ad for Herbal Essences shampoo, maybe, or Yardley English Lavender soap or Biba makeup—a slightly spooky hippie chick shilling dime-store perfume and lip gloss.

I expected her to close the door in my face. Instead she said, “Well, Cass. Come in.”

I entered.

“Morven Dunfries.” She extended her hand, a serpentine bracelet around her wrist. Not a Bulgari Serpenti: this looked much older, gold with emerald eyes, the stone rough-cut and the deep green of a bottle glinting from the bottom of a lake. “I'm sorry I missed Krish's show—she's marvelous, isn't she?”

Her hand dropped before I could touch it. “There's wine over there and all kinds of nibblies. Introduce yourself to Mallo if you see him; he's the one not wearing any shoes.”

She turned to greet someone else, and I headed for the crowded living room. Hardwood floors and biscuit-colored walls; an eclectic mix of mid-century modern furniture and stuff that looked like it had been scavenged from the street. Paint-encrusted kitchen chairs, an end table decoupaged with pages from 1960s magazines and comic strips. Bill Evans on the sound system, “Detour Ahead.”

I didn't see anyone who looked like a gangster. The guests appeared equal parts Young Bobo and Middle-Aged Money. Bespectacled guys in vintage band T-shirts or loose oxford-cloth shirts; women working the sexy anthropologist vibe with tribal tattoos and gaudy knitted headwear. I might have wandered into an Etsy conference, or a university faculty party.

I elbowed through the crowd, looking for the bar. Floor-to-ceiling windows provided an eye-popping panorama of Crouch End, a steep hill bristling with row houses and shops. The Gap, Starbucks, and American Apparel mingled with Finest Thai Fish House and Crown Prince of Falafel. Across the street, a down-at-the-heels pub put up a brave fight against gentrification, a clot of smokers clustered around its front door. The view made me slightly nauseous—vertigo, and also the sight of all those American corporate logos metastasizing along streets that had been around centuries before the U.S. War for Independence.

I found a table where a young woman in caterer's livery presided over ranks of wine bottles. “Red or white?” she asked.

“Any whiskey?” She shook her head. “Red, I guess.”

It was good wine. I finished it, held my glass out for a refill, and helped myself to a third while the bartender tended to another customer.

I had enough of a buzz now to pretend to be sociable. Everyone seemed cheerful. I nodded but didn't introduce myself. I kept half an eye out for Krishna or Adrian but didn't see either of them. Birthday presents were piled on a table by the wall, a rainbow explosion of ribbons and shiny paper. I glanced at a hand-lettered card that had already been opened, and caught a whiff of Opium perfume.

Happy Sixtieth Dearest Creature!!!

I resisted the temptation to pocket one of the smaller packages and wandered to another table, covered with abandoned wineglasses and an incongruous object: a white stone statue, as long as my arm. Its face was as smooth and featureless as an egg. A straight line delineated its legs, with an inverted V to represent a vagina.

I put down my camera bag. After a glance around to see if anyone might object, I tentatively hefted the statue. It was heavy—marble, or maybe alabaster. I ran a finger across its strange eyeless face, smooth and cool to the touch, and set it back on the table, frowning.

It looked like an ancient Cycladic carving. But who leaves a four-thousand-year-old Greek artifact lying around on a battered piece of furniture?

My hosts, apparently. I'd seen things like this before, but never outside of a museum. It could be a fake, but then why go to the trouble of displaying it? More likely it was overflow from the business downstairs.

As I continued to prowl the room, I saw a few more oddities. Several stone figurines, crude representations of women; a quarter-sized fragment of gold foil, embossed with an eagle's wing; a tiny bronze statue of a mouse blowing some kind of curved horn.

I picked up the mouse, which was surprisingly heavy for such a small object. Its eyes were squeezed shut with the effort of blowing into the horn's mouthpiece, its tiny cheeks puffed out. Roman letters on the underside spelled out a name:
CVRANVS
. A two-thousand-year-old child's toy.

I was tempted to slip it into my pocket, but I set it back down and headed to the kitchen, hoping to find something stronger than red wine.

In front of an Aga stove, two men talked excitedly about a new restaurant that served nothing but marrow. I picked up a postcard announcing an auction of Rare and Important Comic Books. The music had grown livelier, burbling EDM. In the living room, several young women had kicked off their boots and were dancing close, surrounded by a group of guys more interested in their mobiles. Krishna and Morven stood in a corner, where Morven smoothed Krishna's damp pompadour, leaning close to murmur in her ear. She slid something into Krishna's hand, and the two of them began to kiss.

I wondered if Mallo Dunfries was okay with his wife making out with a twenty-three-year-old. It
was
her birthday.

I watched them, and felt a flicker of … something. Jealousy, maybe, or possessiveness. Not desire so much as some primal urge to protect. Morven could have made three of Krishna. She certainly seemed to be making a meal of her.

I did another lap around the living room and found a hallway, empty except for an older couple having an animated conversation about politics. I ambled past them, stopping to check out several framed vintage posters from the 1970s. Full-color advertisements for comic books:
The Creeper
;
The Tomb of Dracula
. There was a framed splash page for the latter—the count staring down into an open grave, the signatures of Marv Wolfman and Gene Colan floating above his head like thought balloons—along with pristine lobby cards for
Gorgo
and
Witchfinder General
. Some serious geek taste, matched to seriously deep pockets.

So it was odd to find two smaller frames hung at the end of the hall. One held a faded color photo of a stately home: ruddy ivy-covered brick, Tudor-era tower, a glimpse of well-tended gardens in the distance. The other showed a black-and-white reproduction of a nineteenth-century gothic painting. It looked like an etching or lithograph, probably a bookplate removed from the original volume then reframed. Flea-market kitsch.

The frame was askew. I automatically straightened it, then stepped back.

Was
it a print? An image of a desolate moor, a circle of tall standing stones beneath a full moon chased by eerie white clouds. In the center of the stone circle stood a man in a long hooded robe, with tangled dark hair and a scraggly beard, his arms raised to the sky: face twisted and mouth open, imploring or invoking the elements. Art Deco block letters spelled out a title at the bottom of the frame:
THE DRUID
.

Despite the high cheese factor, there was something disquieting about the image. As I drew closer, I saw another face in the sky, gazing down from between the clouds. Pinpricks of light indicated eyes, a spectral gash of white that appeared to move whenever I tried to focus on it: a niveous gleam like a disembodied grin or the grimace of bared teeth.

“Fucking A,” I said in disbelief.

 

9

“That's an interesting one, eh?”

I jumped, as a heavyset man in loose black trousers and a blue button-down shirt sidled up alongside me. He was barefoot, clean-shaven, with a quarter inch of impeccably trimmed, grizzled hair covering his skull, small bloodshot gray eyes, and a thick gold ring in one ear. He looked less like a rich geek than Mr. Clean on a bender, or the genie you should never have let out of the bottle.

But he had a seductive voice, soft, its slight burr coarsened with age and cigar smoke. “I'm Mallo Dunfries. And you are…?”