The Revelations (25 page)

‘They’re bleak. The girl certainly had issues. But I’m not sure they are the work of someone who was actually going to kill herself. A bit too poised, too much thought about the aesthetics of the whole thing, if you know what I mean.’

Marcus nodded.

‘The other thing that gives me pause is that it’s very rare for a suicide to go undiscovered. A murder, yes. Easy enough to place a body somewhere it won’t be seen for a while if you have a spade or a cellar. But for someone to kill themselves and for the body not to turn up, that’s rare.’

‘So you’re hopeful?’

‘I didn’t say that. People go missing the whole time. You couldn’t imagine the number of cases sitting on the books of police forces around the country where people just vanish, thin air so to speak. But girls like Lee don’t just vanish. And I’m afraid I’m not going to be allowed to let her become another statistic. There’s something about it in one of the tabloids this weekend. You know how the press are. She’s young, she’s posh, she’s pretty, she’s a member of the Course. They’ll be all over it. My superiors will be on at me day and night until I get this one solved.’

‘Listen,’ said Marcus, ‘I know we didn’t have a great start the other night, but I really want to help you. Anything I can do, I will. It’s . . . it’s really strange, but people have started to speak about her as if she’s dead. It’s this no man’s land where everyone pretends to be optimistic, says “When Lee gets back” and “Let’s save that for Lee”, but then in the next sentence she’s in the past tense. I’m just not ready to bury her yet.’

Marcus looked up at the policeman.

‘I don’t think she killed herself,’ he said.

‘Neither do I,’ replied Farley.

They finished their beers in silence and then Marcus walked the policeman down to his car. Farley turned to him with a thin smile.

‘You’ll let me know if you think of anything? Can I rely on you to pass things on to me?’

‘Of course.’

Marcus went back inside and carefully placed the photographs back in their boxes, stacked the boxes in the spare room, and went to bed.

On Saturday afternoon Mouse turned up at the flat. He looked hungover and sleep-deprived, and his velvet jacket bore several new cigarette burns. His eyes were puffy and bloodshot.

‘The bloody shower’s broken,’ he said as he walked in the door. ‘I was over for dinner with David last night and the twins and Neil were there and we decided to go for drinks afterwards. We went to a bar on Walton Street where Neil had some corporate deal and there were all these very beautiful Russian ladies, and my glass kept getting refilled and I ended up ridiculously drunk. I seem to remember walking along the Embankment with the twins, but after that, nothing. I’ve no idea how I got home. Christ, my head.’

Marcus ran him a bath and placed some painkillers and a glass of water by the sink. He sat watching TV while Mouse bathed, smiling as he heard his friend singing to himself and splashing about. When he was done, Mouse came into the room wearing Marcus’s dressing gown. He sat down next to Marcus on the sofa.

‘What’s the plan for tonight? I thought maybe a quiet one? Film and a curry?’

‘Actually, I have plans. I’m going over to east London to see Daffy.’

‘Daffy? Really? How brilliant. Can I come?’

‘Of course.’

They dressed together in his bedroom, and it reminded Marcus of the excitement he used to feel as they got ready for a night out at university: music on the stereo, sharpening drinks and then a spray of aftershave and out into the night with its endless potential. They strolled down to the Tube together and then made the long trip across town on the Central Line.

Marcus liked the way each Tube line had its own identity. This identity was fashioned partly from the upholstery of the trains and the feel of the stations, partly from the districts of London which the line linked and the passengers who travelled upon it. The Central Line was bohemian and trendy, linking Notting Hill to Bethnal Green via Oxford Circus and Tottenham Court Road. The District Line was more sedate, old-world, running from the City through St James’s Park to Sloane Square. He liked the hurried dependability of the Victoria Line and the deep, dusty donnishness of the Northern Line, while the shimmering futurism of the Jubilee Line and the down-at-heel Bakerloo left him cold.

They got off the train at Liverpool Street and walked along Bishopsgate towards Shoreditch. Marcus had arranged to meet Daffy in a pub behind Hoxton Square. They strolled through crowds of young people wrapped up against the cold, the haircuts and jewellery becoming more inventive as they moved up into Shoreditch. Daffy was sitting facing the door when they came in, and he raised his arm and waved, grinning.

‘I didn’t know you were coming, Mouse. Well, this is brilliant. Come on now, sit down. What are you having?’

Daffy had a thin moustache and wore a denim shirt and skinny jeans, high-top trainers on his feet. He seemed to know the bartender and bought a round of beers with whisky chasers.

‘I can’t tell you how good it is to see you guys, cheers.’ He took a long drink. ‘I run into various people from university now and again, but never anyone from our college. Thought the church had claimed you all. I was the only pagan left.’ He chuckled and raised his glass again. ‘Cheers, anyway.’ He faced them, grinning.

‘It’s good to see you too. Mouse and I were talking on the way over about how sorry we are that we lost touch with you. I mean, I think you know all about the Course.’

‘I do indeed. You tried to persuade me to join last time I saw you. Not my bag at all, you know what I mean? I almost joined just to see you guys, though.’

‘It’s hard to keep in touch with people. The Course just takes up so much of our time. But with you, Daffy . . . I mean, I think there are some friends where it really doesn’t matter how long you don’t see them for. When you’ve been through so much together, you can always just pick up where you left off. So tell us what you’re up to now.’

Daffy put his beer down on the table.

‘I’m in advertising. I had a couple of nothing jobs when I first left uni, but I’ve been at this place for over a year now. I work on the creative side. And I live over this way, just down beside Columbia Road. Share the flat with two blokes I met clubbing a few years back. I suppose I’m having a pretty good time.’

‘Any girlfriends?’

‘Oh, too many, too many. But no. There have been a few who stuck around for a while, but no one special. I always get a girl in January or something and then dump them in the summer. I go a bit mad in the sun, see? Basically, life is just this thing I get through either side of Glastonbury, you know what I mean?’

‘I’ve always wanted to go,’ said Mouse.

‘Oh, it’s fucking awesome, man. Come with us next year. A right proper eye-opener, I promise you. That’s a real religion for you.’

They ordered burgers from the bar and watched the pub fill up around them, reminiscing all the time about their university days.

‘And how’s Lee? I haven’t seen her since your wedding, Marcus. She was so pissed then, man.’

Marcus looked at Mouse and saw his friend shake his head very slightly.

‘She’s not really around any more,’ said Marcus, looking down at the drinks on the table, carefully removing the pickle from the top of his burger.

‘Ah, shame. She was fit. Still, it happens, doesn’t it? People drift in and out. Sure you’ll pick up where you left off when she’s back.’

Marcus looked up and saw that Mouse was staring at him.

‘Does anyone want another beer?’ Mouse said, and rose to walk to the bar.

A sofa became free in a corner of the pub and they moved there. They talked for a while longer and then Daffy stood up, rubbing his hands.

‘Right boys, I’m going to a gallery opening. Do you want to come along? It’s Hugo Carrington, you know, the guy from uni.’

Marcus had come across Carrington a few times at university. He was an angular aristocratic type whose father was equerry to the Queen. Carrington had studied art, but left halfway through his second year. He had launched his career to some public acclaim with a show in Mayfair soon after.

‘Sure,’ said Marcus. ‘Yeah, I remember Carrington.’

They walked down through Hoxton Square, which was full of happy chatter and the thud of bass from different bars and clubs. The gallery was on Kingsland Road and already a long queue snaked down the pavement outside. Some cupped their hands to the blacked-out window, trying to make out what Carrington had created inside.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Daffy. ‘I’m guestlisted. I’ll make them add you two.’

They walked past the long line of fashionably attired young people and Daffy spoke for a moment with the woman at the door. They followed him inside.

The noise of a hundred shouted conversations greeted them as they walked through black felt curtains and into the gallery. It was very hot and Marcus could see scores of men who looked just like Daffy, their sideburns razor-cut into daggers, bellowing into the faces of pretty girls. There was a bar along one side of the room and Daffy reached over and passed a warm bottle of beer to Marcus. Marcus thanked him and began to saunter around the room, gently pushing his way past trendy types who didn’t seem all that interested in the art. He walked through an archway and into a gloomy back room which was dominated by a huge spinning sculpture.

Wheels turned within wheels, something whirred manically inside a sphere, a great turbine chugged. The dial of an enormous clock at the centre glowed ominously in the half-light, its hands circling. A swinging blade flashed for an instant and then disappeared. The light was so dim that Marcus could barely make out how each part was connected, but he was enchanted, and turned to look for Mouse. He saw his friend speaking to Daffy on the other side of the main gallery and gestured to him. Mouse crossed the room and stood next to Marcus in the dark. They sipped their beers and stared at the rotating sculpture.

‘It’s strange to see Daffy again,’ said Mouse.

‘Do you think he has changed?’ asked Marcus.

‘I don’t know. Maybe his accent is a little less strong, but other than that . . . I think it might be that he hasn’t changed at all.’

They continued to look at the machine for a while longer and then went out to the bar for more drinks.

An hour passed and the gallery grew so full that it was hard to move. Mouse and Marcus had colonised a flight of stairs at the far end of the room where they sat looking down on the people below them. Daffy would rush past every so often, his eyes wild, a huge grin on his face.

‘All right you two? Fucking crazy, eh? Cheers!’

A DJ started playing pounding trance music and some of the younger people tried to dance, their elbows pressed against their sides, grimaces of bored hipness fixed on their faces. Marcus took an armful of beers from the bar and he and Mouse drank them until they were giddy and had to hold on to each other to keep from sliding down the stairs.

Finally, the music stopped and the lights went up. Mouse was asleep, his cheek resting against the banister. Marcus looked down from his lofty position at the crowd as they began to file out into the night. He saw Daffy talking to Carrington, his shoulders twitching as he spoke. The artist kept looking over Daffy’s shoulder and pushed past him to join a group that was about to leave. He took a girl’s arm and began to guide her through the door. The girl turned once to look back at the room and Marcus’s lungs emptied of air.

The girl had a black fedora pulled down over her head and had turned up the collar of her jacket against the cold, but Marcus was almost certain that it was Lee. He shook Mouse awake.

‘Mouse, look!’

He watched his friend’s eyes as he saw the girl.

‘Jesus,’ said Mouse. ‘Is it her?’

‘Yes. I think so. Quick.’

They pushed through the crowd and hurled themselves out into the night. Daffy was leering drunkenly over the woman who worked on the door. There was no sign of Carrington and the girl.

‘Did you see where Carrington went?’

Daffy turned to Marcus.

‘He got in a taxi. A bunch of them are going on to a party at his house. I think he invited me.’

‘Right, let’s go.’

Marcus flagged down a cab.

Carrington lived in a tall Victorian house on the Hackney Road. Marcus could hear the music as soon as they stepped from the taxi. They walked down the overgrown path to the front door and Daffy rang the bell. A girl answered.

‘Oh, hi, Daffy. Come on in.’

It was very dark inside. Marcus followed Daffy down a corridor which opened out into a large kitchen. Candles flickered on the work surfaces and patio doors opened at the back to the garden where people were dancing around a fire. The music was so loud that Marcus could feel his cheekbones vibrating with every thump. Daffy was already bent over the kitchen table cutting up lines of coke. Marcus couldn’t see Carrington or the girl. He and Mouse turned back into the corridor and made their way up the stairs. The rooms were full of people, some of them asleep, some crouched talking. Two girls were sprawled across the bed in the largest bedroom, snorting powder from the cover of a hardback book. One of them turned and caught Marcus’s eye, gesturing him over. He backed out of the room. Mouse was already on his way up to the second floor.

There was a closed door at the top of the stairs. Marcus edged past Mouse and turned the handle. They walked into an attic room. It was Carrington’s studio. There was a potter’s wheel and various unfinished works scattered around the floor. A huge skylight sat in the ceiling, revealing the orange glow of low clouds above. The artist was sitting in the far corner surrounded by ten or twelve others, a lamp on the ground behind him. He had clearly been holding forth upon something profound and looked up, annoyed at the intrusion.

‘Who are you? Go back downstairs. People aren’t allowed up here.’

The girl in the black fedora was sitting on a beanbag with her back to them. Marcus began to stutter. Slowly the girl turned her head and Marcus felt himself tense. Her profile was caught in the bright white light. Mouse leaned against Marcus, breathing deeply. Marcus could feel his friend shudder.

‘Let them stay, Hugo. Don’t be such a prick.’

The voice was not Lee’s. It was higher, posher. She took the fedora off her head and shook her hair out, and Marcus saw that she wore her hair as Lee had before she cut it. She was younger than Lee, perhaps eighteen. Otherwise, the similarity was uncanny.

‘Come and sit down, guys. Hugo was just telling us about his next great work. Do you want a drink?’

The girl poured red wine into plastic cups as Marcus and Mouse crouched on the floor beside her. Marcus felt dazed.

‘I’m Hugo’s sister, by the way. My name’s Rebecca,’ the girl whispered as her brother resumed his monologue.

‘Marcus Glass. I knew your brother at university.’

‘Oh, bad luck. He was an awful bore back then.’

‘I didn’t know him well. He left pretty swiftly.’

Marcus couldn’t escape the impression that he was speaking to Lee. He realised that the reason he had been so easily fooled by her resemblance to his friend was that he had been spending so much time looking at pictures of Lee from university. Rebecca Carrington looked like the Lee of those days: her hair was long and wild, her eyes wicked and flashing. Marcus felt suddenly very sad to think that even if Lee came back, it wouldn’t be this Lee, the person he thought of as the real Lee.

‘Shall we go downstairs? I’ve heard this so many times,’ she said, gesturing at her brother, who was holding up one fist and spinning the other around it in frantic revolutions, talking all the while.

Rebecca took Marcus’s hand and they made their way down into the hot pumping heart of the house. Mouse followed behind them. Marcus turned and smiled encouragingly at his friend, but he could see that Mouse had been sobered by the sight of this strange replica of Lee. His face was drawn and tired and he looked at Marcus with an expression that Marcus couldn’t quite decipher. Something between pity and scorn. Marcus raised his eyebrows questioningly, but Mouse just shook his head and hung back in the shadows.