Lady of the Shades (4 page)

I come away from our meeting intrigued. If Pierre can transform brain waves into voices, maybe there are others who can turn them into visions or physical objects. In such a world, almost
anything is possible. That gives me a whole universe of ideas to play with.

I breeze through the next week, plot lines clicking together neatly, my muse trilling like a diva. To my surprise, I enjoy working with Joe. Although I willingly took him on as
an assistant, I wasn’t convinced it was the right move, and I thought I’d have to cut him loose sooner rather than later. But he’s been a real asset. Without forcing me,
he’s got me talking more than I have in years. Usually I grunt when people ask me questions, instinctively cautious around strangers and even warier of those who try to get close to me, but
with Joe I’ve started stringing whole sentences together. I’m not sure what it is about him. I just like the guy. He brings out a lighter, warmer part of me, a part I thought I’d
lost a long time ago.

To reward him for helping me connect with my positive vibes, I tell Joe where my story has been leading me. The book is going to be a supernatural thriller. My central character dies of
spontaneous human combustion, then returns as a ghost and embarks on a quest to unearth the truth behind his demise.

‘A ghost out for revenge,’ Joe beams. ‘I like it!’

Trying to decide on locations, I check out the infamous Whitechapel area, haunt of Jack the Ripper. It’s as eerie now as it must have been back then. I’d love to set my book there,
but I’m worried that readers might dismiss it as a Ripper cash-in.

Brixton appeals to me more. You come up out of the Tube to find street preachers set among hawkers and homeless people trying to flog copies of the
Big Issue
. A dark atmosphere. Brixton
Market feels like something out of a horror film, maze-like, roofed-over, claustrophobic. I could have my ghostly hero burst into flames outside the Tube station, in front of a preacher.

I look around and imagine a burning man stumbling through the market, women screaming, men trying to extinguish the fire, the stench of scorched flesh. I grin ghoulishly. Sometimes this job
requires me to explore the sickest of scenarios. That’s why it’s so much fun!

To afford me a different taste of London, Joe has arranged a night out on the river. One of his friends is holding a party on a boat. There’ll be a meal and a disco, and
the boat will sail up and down the Thames into the early hours of the morning. I’m not keen on parties, and at first I gave Joe the brush-off. But he persisted, said I’d been working
hard and that it would be good for me to let my hair down. In the end I agreed just to shut him up.

I’m shaving when my cell phone (they call them mobiles here) rings. It’s Joe. ‘You’re gonna kill me,’ he groans. ‘I can’t make it. My mam took ill.
I’m catching the next train to Newcastle.’

‘Is it serious?’ I ask, concerned.

‘Hopefully not. Mam’s had a couple of bad turns these last few years and seen them off. She’ll probably be fine, but I need to be with her, just in case.’

‘Of course. I understand completely. It’s not a problem.’

‘I don’t know when I’ll be back,’ he says.

‘Don’t rush on my account,’ I tell him.

‘Will you still meet up with John Meyher?’ Joe asks. Meyher’s an expert in the field of spontaneous human combustion. He doesn’t give many interviews, but Joe pulled a
few strings.

‘Of course,’ I tell him. ‘Unless you’d rather I wait until you’re back?’

‘No need to do that,’ he says, but he sounds pleased that I offered. ‘What about tonight? Will you go to the party?’

‘I’ll probably give it a miss. I don’t know any of your friends.’

‘So introduce yourself to them.’

‘Maybe. I’ll see how I feel. I might just pop out for dinner and a walk instead.’

‘Don’t be a miserable old sod,’ Joe growls. ‘Go!’ He hangs up on me.

I sit on the edge of the bed rubbing the smooth half of my face, considering the night ahead. Missing the party doesn’t concern me, but I liked the idea of sailing along the Thames in the
dark. I decide to go. Even if I don’t mingle, I can have a few drinks, sit on deck, enjoy the fresh air and the sights. I might pick up some ideas.

I finish shaving. Slap on aftershave and deodorant. I sit half-naked by the TV for an hour, flicking through the channels. Then I dress and head out.

I avoid the grander hotels when I travel, but I don’t like roughing it either. The Royal Munster is typical of my hotel of choice, old and faded, situated close to Earls Court, anonymous
among the scores of other hotels in the area. Dusty doormen and bellboys, family-friendly, favoured by tourists rather than business executives.

The doorman is a white-haired guy in his sixties who tips his hat to customers and addresses them with exaggerated formality. I’ve told him to call me Ed, but he only nods and smiles, then
hits me with a hearty ‘Mr Sieveking, sir!’ His name’s Fred, but he prefers Mr Lloyd.

‘Nice night to be heading out, Mr Sieveking,’ he wheezes, hailing a cab.

‘Care to join me, Mr Lloyd?’

He chuckles. ‘I would if I was off duty. I’d take you to see people you could use in your books. I know a man in the Queen’s Guard who puts mustard on everything he eats. And
there’s a . . . ’

He rattles on for a few minutes, but I make no move to halt him. I like listening to Fred. He’s one of the world’s great liars, full of outrageous stories.

He pauses to catch his breath and I make my excuses. ‘Have to be loving and leaving you, Mr Lloyd,’ I say, slipping him a tip.

‘Maybe I’ll catch you on the way back,’ he says.

‘Only if you’re a late bird,’ I laugh.

The taxi driver heads for the Chelsea Embankment when I tell him where I’m going, then it’s a quick journey parallel to the river and we’re at the Victoria Embankment about ten
minutes later. I stroll down the gangplank to the deck, where a pretty stewardess in a revealing naval uniform welcomes the guests. She asks for my name, checks her list, hands me a whistle, a
paper hat and party poppers. She says I can have my picture taken with her kissing my cheek, for a reasonable rate. I refuse politely. I’m a camera-shy guy. I prefer not to be photographed
even when giving interviews, which annoys reporters. My agent often argues with me about it, but I don’t want shots of me to be freely circulated.

The meal doesn’t start for another hour, so I make my way to the bar and order a beer. I don’t want to drink too much, not on a boat, or I’ll be throwing up all night. Alcohol
and boats don’t mix. I learnt that lesson the hard way on a cruise of the African coast many years ago.

I’m surrounded by young party animals, all of whom seem to be in select groups. A couple of teenagers waylay me and ask who I am, what I do, how I know the birthday girl. I explain my
connection to Joe, but they don’t know him. My job description draws more of a response.

‘A writer!’ they hoot, impressed. One says, ‘I always wanted to be a writer. Do you make much money?’

I spend a quarter of an hour trying to convince them that my books don’t sell by the millions. They don’t accept it. They insist that I must be fabulously well-to-do, on a par with
Stephen King, even though they’ve never heard of me. Finally I concede that yes, I’m stinking rich, and yes, I wrote
The Exorcist
. With that settled, they roll away to tell
their friends about me, with the unexpected result that hours later, long after I’ve forgotten about them, an irate gentleman jabs an angry finger into my chest and grunts, ‘You
didn’t write
The Exorcist
. That bloke Blatty did. You’re a fraud.’

Dinner’s a simple affair — mashed potatoes and sausages, some unsavoury-looking carrots, cheap wine. The other guests go at it with conviction. Maybe I’m fussy because
I’m getting on in years. The birthday girl is celebrating her twenty-first, and most of her friends fall into the same age bracket. It’s been a long time since I saw twenty-one.

As the paper plates are collected and disposed of, the tables are removed and the dance floor opens up. The DJ hasn’t taken up his post yet, but someone sticks on a track and the more avid
revellers writhe to the beat. I stand watching the dancers before it strikes me that this is a sign of seedy middle age – enviously ogling scantily clad girls while they strut their funky
stuff – and I scuttle away in search of a refill.

I prop up the bar for a couple of hours, eavesdropping on the conversation of strangers. Most people ignore me, but at one point a girl with a blond bob shows interest. She can’t be more
than twenty, way too young for a man with a receding hairline, but the beers have stripped me of a decade and I’m thinking about what it would be like to take her back to the Royal Munster
for a night of merry debauchery.

That’s when I’m accused of fraud by the testy William Peter Blatty fan. In the ensuing embarrassing silence, my pretty admirer coughs, says she ought to be mingling more, wishes me
well and hastily takes her leave.

Ordering another beer, I decide I’ve had enough of the bar and head for the deck. The fresh air revives me. I stand alone at the stern and study the trail of churning water we leave in our
wake. Leaning across, I peer towards the bow, which is packed.

A couple emerge up the stairs and glare at me. I think they want the stern to themselves. Too bad. I’m not moving. Grumbling softly, they stand with their backs to me, making out. A few
more stagger up over the next half-hour, but the area remains relatively clear, emptying when the DJ plays a popular number, slowly half-filling as tired legs force temporary retreats from the
action.

I’m not a dancer. I keep a vigil on the riverbanks instead, casting a curious eye over a variety of buildings, old and new, decrepit and abandoned, or simply closed for the night, trying
to find ways to incorporate them into the slowly forming plot of the novel. There are plenty of recognizable landmarks nestled in among the mix, the Tower of London, the Globe, Tate Modern, the Oxo
tower, but I don’t want to use any of those — too well known.

My ghosts share the deck with me, glittering lightly against the backdrop of the night sky. Two of them are floating over the Thames, treading air as if it was the most natural thing in the
world. They ignore the sights, their eyes, as ever, trained on me. The thin bald man with a sharp beard drifts through me, resulting in a momentary chill. I could recall his name if I wanted
– I’ll never forget their names – but I don’t. I try not to dwell on their identities. It reminds me of my past and why they haunt me.

As we pass the London Eye and the historic Houses of Parliament, I glance at the buildings across the way and notice a hospital. I ask a young man for its name. ‘St Thomas’s,’
he says, staring at me as if I’m mad for asking.

The hospital interests me. I could use it in my book. Perhaps my central character rematerializes there. It’s a logical spot for a ghost to turn up. I picture the scene as his eyes emerge
from an ethereal fog, opening for the first time since his death. He gazes around, wondering where the hell he is. When he realizes it’s a hospital, he relaxes. He remembers burning in
Brixton and assumes he’s been brought here to recover. Digging out my notebook (it goes everywhere with me), I jot down ideas.

Calmly he tries turning — can’t — looks down at his body — there’s nothing there!!! Tries to scream — can’t — no lungs! — fades away
again.

I like it. Later he re-forms, and this time he has a body and knows something is seriously wrong, although he doesn’t yet accept that he’s dead.

While I’m working on plot lines, a woman comes up the stairs and steps to the rail, close to where I’m standing. She perches her wine glass on the rail, fingers lightly cupping the
stem, and stares off into space. I study her out of the corner of my eye. Older than most of the guests, mid to late twenties. Light auburn hair, straight cut, pageboy fashion, long at the back.
Slender build, tightly clad in a stunning black dress which reveals plenty of leg but little cleavage. Her fingernails have been painted silver and she wears soft silver tights. There’s some
sort of silver glitter around her eyes too, so the lids sparkle every time she blinks.

I’m paying attention to her because she’s the first unaccompanied female I’ve seen up here. The rest have been with boyfriends. Although I’ve been concentrating on work,
I now remember why Joe pressed me to come to the party – to unwind and have fun – and turn my thoughts to chat-up lines. I was never good at this kind of thing. I’m not a natural
charmer. Women are sometimes attracted to me because of the curt, moody front I present to the world, but I usually struggle if I’m the one who has to do the chasing.

While I’m pondering my approach, destiny lends a hand. The woman sighs and rolls her head from side to side. Her hand twitches while she’s not looking and she inadvertently knocks
her wine glass overboard. She gasps, dives after it, misses. As it sails over the side, I lean across, fingers outstretched. I almost grab it – if I was the hero in one of my books, I’d
catch it – but it eludes me, plummets downwards and vanishes into the dark water of the Thames.

‘Oh dear,’ the woman says as I pull myself back from the rail.

‘Sorry,’ I smile.

‘Not your fault,’ she assures me, and glances around semi-guiltily. ‘Do you think the crew saw?’

‘I doubt it.’

‘Maybe I should offer to pay for it just the same.’

I laugh lightly. ‘I’m sure it happens all the time. A hazard of river life. Yours won’t be the only glass lost to the tide tonight.’

She relaxes and leans against the rail. ‘I suppose you’re right. I always panic when I break something. It’s the way I was brought up.’ She speaks in soft, measured
tones. ‘Are you American?’ she asks.

‘Yes.’

‘Which part?’

‘I’ve travelled around a lot, but I live in Montana now.’

‘I’ve never been to Montana. It’s somewhere I always meant to visit.’

‘You should. It’s spectacular.’ We’re standing, elbows to the rail, facing one another. She gives me a speculative once-over. I hold my gaze steady.