The Alembic Valise (7 page)
Read The Alembic Valise Online
Authors: John Luxton
The next morning Sophie called Joel. He picked up immediately.
“Joel, it’s Sophie.”
“How are you doing, are you OK?”
“Tired, just sorting things out here. Nothing new on Dave to report but there is one thing I thought of, well remembered.”
“What is it?”
“Yesterday, when we were on the terrace talking, I saw someone on the balcony above us who just had to be Jim’s twin brother, looking down on us.”
“Really, I haven’t really met Jim, just saw him through the window on the night of your lecture.”
“Well he had left before everything kicked off on that night. But he has a brother, they haven’t spoken for years, do you think I should tell the police that I saw him?”
“Have you told Jim?” asked Joel.
“No.”
“Well in answer to telling the police, definitely.”
She hung up then dialled Detective Z’s number. He listened to Sophie’s information with great interest.
“And do you know where might we find this Deacon Mcluhan?” he asked her.
“Jim said he lived in Chiswick but I don’t know where. I could phone Jim and ask him.”
“No Miss Trulock, don’t do that, in fact don’t tell anyone,” said the detective not wanting this new suspect to be warned off by his brother or anyone else. “We will find him, you have been very helpful. Now you get some rest and we will sort it out.”
Sophie said OK then hung up. She then walked to the window in her office that looked out over the river. Everything looked like it would on a normal day. She felt something wet on her face, raised her hand to touch her cheek and then realised she was crying.
As it was, Sophie disregarded Detective Z’s request and phoned Jim. She had really only wanted to hear his voice but he insisted on coming straight over to see her and after he arrived, when she had started to cry again, he had simply picked her up and carried her into the bedroom.
Later Jim gently disentangled himself from Sophie and went to the bathroom where he phoned his twin.
“Brother, it’s me,” were his first words.
It was not the reunion that Deacon had imagined. Jim had quickly told him that he had been seen ‘lurking’ around on the embankment and at the Gate and the police were almost certainly on their way round to question him about the attack on Dave. And did he have a half way decent alibi? Suggesting that if he did not have all his ducks lined up, perhaps he should lay low for a while, and did he have somewhere he could do that? He was down the road only minutes before an unmarked police car drew up outside his block.
Later as Deacon sat in a coffee bar watching the passers-by, the full reality of his situation began to sink in. Despite the reassuring noises he had made to Jim, he did not really have anywhere to go, and the only alibi who could vouch for his innocence of the crime of pounding Dave over the head with an oar, was the daughter of the detective who was no doubt now pursuing him. So he walked along the river to wait on the bridge in exactly the same place that he had met with Lorna the previous day. They had not arranged to meet; they had just parted with a ‘see you’. But he was pretty sure that she would pass by. So he waited, intending to scan the newspaper for any relevant information while he did so, but instead he watched the boats passing by below him. He observed how, with a flick of the wrist, the rowers allowed their oars to skim the water between strokes. An hour passed and then he heard his name being called from a passing bus and saw Lorna frantically waving from the window of a single-decker as it trundled by. Five minutes later a breathless Lorna arrived.
“What’s up, Deacon?” she said, surmising that there was indeed something up by the look on his face.
In answer he took the evening paper from his bag and showed her the headline: Brutal attack leaves local publican in coma.
“This is horrible”, she exclaimed putting down her rucksack and scanning the story.
“He’s Joel’s best friend” she said angrily. “Who would do this?”
“I think I might know. Let’s go to the café over the bridge, there are some things I need to tell you.”
She hefted her rucksack onto her shoulder and together they set off, but on reaching the place where the walkway curved around the northern tower of the bridge she suddenly stopped and faced him. Here they were screened from the traffic and as there were no other people crossing the bridge on foot at that moment they were quite alone. Deacon suddenly saw a large dark shape sweeping towards them across the surface of the water, then he realised it was the shadow cast by a plane passing overhead, momentarily blocking out the sun as it followed it’s corridor of descent. Lorna saw it too and moved closer to him.
“What is going on, Deacon? You are in trouble, aren’t you?”
He nodded.
“Well sitting around drinking coffee, isn’t going to fix it, is it?”
Meanwhile onboard Alembic Valise Joel was sat at the galley table opposite Mai. He had not gone for a run after speaking to Sophie, he had fallen asleep on the bed beside Mai, and they had not woken until mid-afternoon. Now they were drinking tea and seeing through the window that the day had passed them by. Joel felt an undercurrent of urgency driving his thought processes because shortly Mai would be preparing to return to Paris and there were many things to resolve.
“Mai, I have been …”
The entrance buzzer cut him off. He ignored it, aware that for someone who made a living out of words that he was struggling to find the right ones.
“Look, sure there are times when I need to be alone to write but I am not some crazy voyant.”
“Ah, like Rimbaud?”
“Yes. I mean no, not a bit like that. I make stuff up, Mai. I tell myself a story and then I write it down, that’s all. But I want you to be my girl. I could have the boat towed to Paris and moor in the Seine, or something. I just want to be with you.”
Joe leant over the table and at that moment the buzzer sounded again.
“Dear Christ! Who can that be? Nobody just drops by in London.”
He looked at Mai and saw that she was laughing and shaking her head.
“See who is at the door or on the plank or whatever you call it, Joel.”
A girl’s voice came through the speaker when Joel pressed the button.
When Joel saw who his visitors were, his exasperation at being interrupted whilst trying to propose to Mai ebbed away, and he wondered what this odd pair standing on his deck in the gathering dusk might want.
“If you have information”, said Joel. “Shouldn’t you be telling your father?”
Joel saw something pass between his visitors that caused him to relax.
And with a smile he said, “Come in its cold out here, welcome aboard Alembic Valise Lorna, and what is your friend’s name?”
“Yes, we definitely need to talk to this guy Seraphim.” Joel had said later as they had been sitting around the table pooling their information.
Both Lorna and Mai had remained silent, as Deacon had explained what had happened on that foggy night at the boathouse.
“Shouldn’t we be letting the police sort this out?” said Mai finally.
It was Lorna who spoke up. “But until they find Seraphim, they will probably hold Deacon. That could be weeks. Besides he knows where Seraphim hangs out. Don’t you Deacon?”
“Yes, there is a club in Brixton that one of his old war buddies runs.”
“What kind of club?” asked Joel.
“A drinking club for KLA veterans,” said Deacon pursing his lips.
“Are you out of your bloody minds?” They all looked at Mai, who had spoken. “This is a dangerous guy; you even think he might have attacked Dave. And yet you want to go and track him down.”
Joel had never heard her swear before. She did have a point. Nobody said anything. Mai then stood up still looking angry.
“If you boys want to play Cowboys and Indians then go ahead, but do be careful.” She then turned to Lorna. “I’m going to take you home, I’m sure you have homework to do.”
Lorna started to protest, then seeing the steely glint in Mai’s eyes she mumbled her assent and began to put her coat on.
The white enamel bucket had a lid with a black plastic knob in the middle and a wire handle that was cutting into the palm of his hand. Dave stopped to transfer his load from his right hand to his left and on straightening up groaned inwardly when he saw that the level-crossing barrier up ahead was down and the twin lights mounted on either side flashing alternately.
The level-crossing barrier being down was a constant source of anger and puzzlement. There was only one train a week, for crying out loud! And this was the middle of nowhere. No houses, just this dusty track with weeds growing on either side.
The contents of the bucket dictated that it was necessary to keep moving. They stank. Even with the lid on. If there was a slight head breeze and you kept moving it wasn’t too bad, Dave had discovered. But if you stopped walking then pretty soon you were enveloped in a stinking miasma.
But today, apart from feeling a little odd on the earlier part of the journey possibly from those Chilean blueberries that he had for breakfast, everything was going well. The brisk breeze blowing off the plain, the tightly fitting lid of the bucket, the correct paperwork in his back pocket, these were all good signs. Even the sight of the lowered barrier ahead did not faze him. He knew that if it was up as he approached it usually went down just as he got there. So the possibility that it might do the opposite today encouraged him to trudge onwards.
Then as he drew closer he saw something that made his blood run cold. In all the years of carrying out this arduous but worthy task he had never met another solitary soul along the way, and yet today he could see that there was someone waiting on the other side of the track. And even more worryingly, there was something familiar about the immobile figure, dressed in a long coat that reached to the ground and wearing a wide brimmed hat obscuring their face. Dave finally reached the barrier, he knew never to let go of the bucket so he stood holding it tightly, keeping his eyes upon the stony ground. It began to rain.
A man’s voice broke the silence.
“So, how long have they had you carrying the shitty bucket, son?”
Dave could not answer, neither did he want to look up and begin a conversation. Truth was, he could not remember when or how it had all started. He could not even remember what he was supposed to do with the thing after crossing the railroad tracks; in fact he could not recall ever crossing the railroad tracks. A thought flashed into his mind.
“Is this purgatory?” he yelled back spontaneously energised and inspired by the idea and in need of some outside clarification.
“Throw the bucket away and hop over the barrier, there’s no train coming today and this isn’t purgatory either.”
To Dave this sounded like blasphemy, it also sounded immensely attractive.
“So who are you?” Dave shouted through the rain that was now increasing in volume by the second
“They call me the Vicar, the Caped Vicar, in fact. Kinda like the Caped Crusader, you know – Superman, but without the super-powers. Helpin’ souls in distress is my game. Oh yes. So you can trust me, son.”
That was enough for Dave. He placed the bucket carefully on the ground, threw one leg over the barrier and then landed safely on the other side. He looked to the left and to the right, all was clear. He began to cross the track, slowly so as not to trip on the rails. He paused for a moment standing on the centre of the track, and as he did so the Caped Vicar called out softly to him.
“Never heard of anagrammatic proofing, asshole?”
Thunder shook the air, but it was not a weather related sonic event. Coming around the bend Dave saw a bullet shaped train, streaking towards him. How fast do fast trains travel he thought: But only for a moment.
Then it came to him… “Oh no, crap advice!”
Joel felt that he was travelling backwards through time. The dreary suburbs that unwound along the South Circular were familiar and yet alien. Many years ago he had lived and suffered in these streets and now as he revved the engine of his scooter to overtake a dawdling MPV he had the sense of being funnelled towards a dark chamber from the past. A past that he had never been able to truly leave behind: like a stain lurking on the carpet, persisting despite a strategic repositioning of the furniture.
So that was why on a November evening, as the rush hour traffic was thinning out, he found himself travelling towards Brixton with Deacon, where together, despite strong protestations from Mai, they would attempt to unravel a mystery, Joel on behalf of Dave and Deacon for his sister.
The scooter felt underpowered, carrying two adults as it was. But nevertheless they rode onwards, past Clapham Common and then turning off the South Circular at the top of Brixton hill, to begin their descent, past the prison and finally into Brixton itself.
Joel thought if they parked the scooter close to the police station on the main road then there would be less chance of the thing being stolen. But the problem was there were no motorcycle bays to be found, so they cruised into the car park of a nearby supermarket and dismounted there. This was not ideal as only ninety minutes parking was permitted but at least there was CCTV. Joel cursed under his breath as he locked his helmet under the seat of the scooter and put Deacon’s in the top box.
Jamaican youths called out “skunk weed” as they passed by the steps of the town hall. Joel and Deacon walked purposefully onwards, traversing Brixton Road and then entering the labyrinthine alleys and cut-thoughts that crisscrossed the old central market.
Trains thundered overhead and underfoot were rotten vegetables. They followed Electric Avenue in a loop and then Deacon indicated a turning that took them beneath the railway track and into a street that was a picture of complete desolation. Large sheets of steel were bolted over all the doors and windows and at regular intervals there were signs saying ‘Everything of value has been removed from this building’. The true meaning of this phrase seemed simultaneously obvious and yet elusive to Joel. He shook his head and was about to say that their journey was wasted, when Deacon resumed walking down the street and beckoned for him to follow. The last building looked like it had once been a public house, and although there were metal sheets on the windows, the door was still intact.
“This is the place,” he said.
As they approached the doorway an intruder-light clicked on, casting a white unforgiving light into the street. There was an intercom protected by a grill and Deacon pressed the protruding button. They waited. Nothing happened. The buildings on the other side of the street had been demolished and corrugated fencing erected that over time had accrued a covering of graffiti and posters, stained and frayed, advertising events and products from the past; Gay Pride, Pentecostal Healing and hair straightening.
Suddenly a static enshrouded voice barked out from the tinny intercom speaker. “Fuck off, you crack head pricks”.
“It’s Deke Mcluhan, and I’m looking for Seraphim, Seraphim Volt. He’s a friend.”
Eventually, and after much rattling and clunking, the door opened and a short bearded guy emerged announcing that Sera was “in the back, and quite drunk too”.
They were lead along a corridor stacked with packing cases to a large room and there on green leather sofa next to a green tiled stove sat Seraphim. He stood up, a little unsteadily, opened his arms wide.
“Deke!”
Joel watched in disbelief as this war criminal and underworld bagman gave Deacon a hug.
“Sit down, and your friend too, this is surprising, sit, sit down. And have a drink, we have raki, Agim fetch some glasses.”
They sat down. The bearded guy brought over a tray with glasses and a bottle.
“This is Joel” began Deacon. “And we have come to ask you something important”.
Seraphim looked up from pouring the drinks, then stood up and offered his hand for Joel to shake.
“Welcome to Kosovo.”
Joel shook his hand.
“Well it’s lucky you came tonight, because tomorrow I’m going home; just some loose ends to make tidy, then I’m gone, gone, gone, man. So what’s so important to ask?”
“It’s about the other night,” said Deacon a little nervously.
Seraphim finished pouring their drinks then passed the shot glasses.
“And some beers to chase, Agim, come on man, a shot and a beer, beer and a shot. You know the protocols.”
“Why not take off your coat, man,” he said to Joel.
“I’m kinda worried about my motor scooter at the supermarket, maybe I need to fetch it and park outside.”
“Where you parked it?”
“In the car park, behind the supermarket.”
Seraphim picked up the mobile phone that was by his side.
“Listen, did you see the carwash next door to the supermarket?”
Joel shook his head.
“Well they are my boys, always the Albanians running the car washes in London, you know. I have them wheel it into their yard. Be safe there. They have a trailer and someone will be there all night, man. Not alarmed is it? Pick it up whenever you want.”
“Well, that would be terrific,” said Joel. Not really sure if it was terrific at all. “It’s a grey Vespa, near the cash machine.”
Seraphim speed-dialled a number then Spoke for thirty seconds in an unintelligible language.
Their beers arrived. Their host picked up his raki, held it high.
“Gezuar!”
The fiery liquor was beginning to send waves of anaesthetising pleasantness towards Joel’s brain. The room was warm and the walls seemed to be pulsing slightly, with an effort he turned his attention back to Seraphim who was talking.
“… and one minute you are a freedom fighter, the next you are a terrorist. Do you know that everyone of the high rankers in the KLA were cleared of any crime and went on to positions of prominence in government? But people only remember rumours; we have a saying ‘shit sticks, no matter how hard you scrub’.”
“We say the same,” said Joel.
Deacon took the opportunity of a pause to speak up concerning the purpose of their visit.
“Look Sera, we came to see you about Dave Trulock. Do you know he is in hospital, in a coma?”
“Fuck no!” said Seraphim turning towards Deacon. “And you think I done that? No way. You can believe …” then he trailed off and fixed him with a piercing stare.
Joel moved uncomfortably in his seat, knocked back the shot glass of raki that had been refilled and took a long drink of beer before speaking.
“It happened at the boathouse. You were at the boathouse the night before. We are just trying to clarify things. Dave is my friend and he is still unconscious so I have to find out what is going on. And Deacon wants to know what all this has to do with Electra. Don’t you?”
The name of Deacon’s sister seemed to hang in the air. Seraphim slumped back in his seat. To Joel it seemed like the carousel had suddenly stopped and the grimness of the occasion become apparent. He saw that Deacon’s beer and raki were untouched and made an effort to sober up, to prepare for next phase of this strange evening.
“I loved that girl. She was an angel in this fucked up world.”
Seraphim was speaking and his voice sounded like it was coming from the bottom of a well. He was still slumped over, staring at the floor
“Did you see those sign outside? ‘Everything of value has been taken from this building’. Well that’s how is here, man,” he said, punching himself on the chest to illustrate the point and then looking up.
“There’s nothing left. That’s why I’m going home.”
Joel cleared his throat, about to speak but Seraphim continued.
“Everything of value… taken.”
He then stood up and took off his jacket and gently threw it onto the sofa behind him.
“I understand why you came here. It’s ok. Now I tell you. But Mr Deke I warn you, this is not an easy-listening station.”
Joel was aware of a spinning sensation occurring in the nether reaches of his cranium. Rather as if someone had attached a Catherine wheel to the back of his head. He tried to speak but his mouth felt full of cotton wool. Seraphim had stopped talking and both he and Deke were staring at him.
Joel did not dream, instead he seemed to occupy a tangential area of consciousness whilst suspended in that dark chamber of the past. Where nothing changed and nothing could be changed. Here, his perception of space and the distances existing within it became inverted. He was tiny and yet inside was a void. Like a dwarf containing a giant.
And eventually the chamber began to dissolve, and he floated down to a dusty cot where, stilled by dread and the sickly yellow dawn, his sentience returned.
After a while Joel fell into a deep sleep, but only for short while. In that time however he dreamt of a journey that began at the ocean’s edge. He and his companions waded out into the water whilst reminiscing about their shared childhood experiences then began to swim. Soon an island came into view and as they approached many turtles came up from the ocean depths and welcomed them. They entered a cave in the side of the towering cliffs, and there Joel’s companions left him. He remembered feeling lost between continents.
Later he found Agim in the kitchen drinking coffee and rolling a joint. In the daylight he looked younger, he was wearing a kind of smoking jacket and with his long hair tied back looked like a nineteenth century poet.
“Hey, seen Deke or Seraphim?” said Joel.
“No. They left early. Want some breakfast?” He held up a coffee cup in his right hand and the elongated cigarette that he had just finished rolling in the other.
“Just coffee, please.”
“Or perhaps,” Agim said. “Some coco mojo?”
Joel watched as he palmed and un-palmed the bag of white powder like a conjuror.
“No thanks. What was in that raki I was drinking?
“Well that would be telling.” He winked at Joel.
Joel emerged blinking into the Brixton sunlight. He needed to check his phone for messages but did not want to talk in front of Agim, who had offered to accompany him to retrieve the Vespa.
“Only two things matter; sincerity and purpose...”
A car playing reggae went by drowning out the rest of Agim’s assertion. It was mid morning already and the pavements crowded with shoppers. The previous nights drug dealers, who had been plying their trade on the town hall steps had been replaced by a preacher with a loud hailer. Joel winced as they passed by.
At the carwash, spray and steam filled the air. The Albanians were already busy.
“Trust your own. It’s our version of social proofing.” Agim had said when Joel’s scooter was wheeled out. They both laughed and Joel was beginning to feel better. So he pitched it again.
“Do you know where they went?”
“Seraphim is going to the police and taking Deacon with him. To straighten everything out,” answered Agim. “Sera is a good man, you know. He helped many families from back home,” he gestured at the carwash, “… and these boys too.”
Sure, a regular Good Samaritan when not killing people or beating them up, thought Joel.
“And if you got bugged out last night, it was from mixing the grain and the grape. And that’s the truth, man,” said Agim.
He shook Joel’s hand before turning away and crossing the spray-filled yard to greet his socially proofed compatriots.
Lorna had been unable to sleep. In the cab the previous night she and Mai had had a girl chat. Mai had told her to be careful, after all how much did she know about Deacon? Lorna had bristled at this and retorted – how much did she know about Joel? This was a crazy thing to say and as soon as the words left her mouth she realised she was, by defending Deacon, showing the weakness of her position. But Mai had considered the question and said indeed how much do we know about anyone, but she was not sixteen years old. Of course Mai was right, but it was the future consequences of flying beneath her father’s radar that troubled her most. And now she felt she was in too deep to easily rectify this.
Last night on the deck Alembic Valise, Deacon had promised to text her when he and Joel got back from Brixton. But Lorna had heard nothing and now it was Saturday morning and she was beginning to worry. There was no school so she went downstairs to make some tea and toast. On the kitchen table was a note from her father explaining that he had gone to the office but would try to be home for lunch and maybe they could watch the rugby together later on. This was a standing joke because he knew she hated rugby, but the joke was getting a little stale, like the bread that she scorched and then threw in the bin. In the pocket of her dressing gown her mobile phone remained silent.
Twenty minutes later she was furiously pumping air into the tyres of her bicycle. There were two large panniers on her bike and it was her practise on a Saturday to cycle to the supermarket and buy provisions for the coming week. As she pedalled along she decided that she would take a detour down along the river.
