‘… ould call me. You don’t play the flute, do you, Mr Morris?’
Rewind.
‘You don’t play the flute, do you, Mr Morris?’
With an agony of numb fingers Fabian fast forwarded, found the number Crowley gave. He punched it into the phone. Why does he want to know that? why that? his mind kept begging.
The number was busy, and a pleasant female voice told him he was in a queue.
‘Mother/wc&er!’ Fabian yelled and threw the receiver at the cradle. It bounced and hung from its cord, the dial tone just audible.
Fabian was trembling violently. He tugged at his bike, wrestled it through the constricted entrance hall and hurled it ready for him into the street. He slammed the door behind him. Adrenaline and terror made him feel sick. He lurched into the road and sped towards Natasha’s house.
No sociability now. He wove in and out of cars, leaving a cacophony of horns and curses in his wake. He twisted around corners at sharp, sharp angles, leaving pedestrians leaping out of his way.
Jesus Christ Jesus Christ, he thought, why does he want to know that? What has he found out? What has a man who plays the flute done?
He was over the river now, Jesus God knew how, he realized he was risking his life at every second. He seemed to be in and out of fugues, he had no recollection at all of passing through the intervening streets before the bridge.
Blood poured through Fabian’s veins. He felt giddy. The cold air woke him, slapped him in the face.
He saw a clump of phone boxes speeding into view before him. He was struck with a sudden realization of his isolation, again. He tugged at his brakes and pulled his bike up short, letting it fall to the ground and breaking into a run before it had stopped moving. The nearest box was empty, and he ransacked his pockets for money, pulled out a fifty-pence piece. He dialled Crowley’s number.
Dial 999 you stupid fucker! he suddenly admonished himself, but this time Crowley’s phone was ringing.
‘Crowley.’
‘Crowley, it’s Fabian.’ He could hardly speak; the words swallowed each other up in their eagerness. ‘Crowley, go to Natasha’s house now. I’ll see you there.’
‘Now, hold on, Fabian. What’s this all about?’
‘Just be there, motherfucker! The flute, the fucking flute!’ He hung up.
What’s he doing to her? Fabian thought as he ran to his bike. Its pedals still spun slightly where it lay. That weird fucker who just appeared, Jesus! He had thought she was having an affair with him, that this explained her weird behaviour, and the obscure challenge Fabian always sensed from Pete. But what if… what if that was not the whole story? What did Crowley know?
He was nearly there now, speeding towards Natasha’s house. London light surrounded him. He could not hear the traffic at all, he relied only on his eyes to stay alive.
Another sharp turn and there was Ladbroke Grove. He realized briefly that he was drenched in sweat. The day was overcast and cold, and his wet skin was frozen. Fabian felt like crying. He felt utterly out of control, as if he could have no effect on the world.
He turned, and was in Natasha’s street. It was as deserted as usual. The ringing in his ears dispersed and there was the Drum and Bass, the soundtrack to Natasha’s house. Dreamy and washed out, a very bleak song. He could feel it creeping into him behind his eyes.
He stepped free of his bike, letting it fall beside her door.
Fabian rang the bell. He put his finger on the button and did not release it until he saw a form approach behind the smoked-glass door.
Natasha opened the door to him.
Fabian wondered for a moment if she was stoned she looked so vague, her eyes so clouded. But he saw how white she looked, how thin, and he knew that this was more than dope.
She smiled when she saw him, and looked up at him with unfocused eyes.
‘Hey, Fabe, man, how’s it going?’ She sounded tired, but she raised her hand to touch fists.
Fabian took her hand. She looked at him in mild surprise. He put his lips close to her ear.
His voice, when he spoke, was unsteady.
‘Tash, man, is Pete here?’
She looked up at him, creased her face quizzically, nodded.
‘Yeah. We’re practising. For Junglist Terror.’
Fabian began to tug at her.
‘Tash, we have to go. I want you to come with me. I promise I’ll explain, but come with me now…’
‘Oh, no.’ She did not sound angry or perturbed. But she pulled away from him gently and began to close the door. ‘I’ve got to play some tracks with him.’
Fabian pushed the door open and grabbed her. He held her mouth closed with his right hand. She struggled, her eyes suddenly wide, but he dragged her towards the door.
His eyes were prickling, and he whispered to her. ‘Tash please you don’t understand he’s something to do with it all we have to get away…’
‘Hi, Fabian! How’s it going?’
Pete had appeared at the top of the stairs. He looked down at them both, his body poised in mid stride. He grinned amiably.
Fabian froze, as did Natasha, in his arms.
Fabian stared at Pete’s face. It was white, crisscrossed with vicious, half-healed scratches, bloody and intricate. He affected his usual cheerful expression but his eyes were giving him away now, open a little too wide, staring a little too hard.
Fabian realized that he was very frightened of Pete. Fabian wondered how long before Crowley would be there.
‘Hey, Pete, man…’ he muttered. ‘Uh… I was wanting… me and Tash might split for a bit… uh…’
Pete shook his head, looking amused and rueful.
‘Oh, Fabian, you mustn’t go. Come hear what we’ve been playing.’
Fabian shook his head and stumbled backwards a little more.
‘Natasha?’ said Pete, and turned to her. He whistled something very quickly. Instantly Natasha spun in Fabian’s arms and twisted her leg, taking his feet from under him and kicking the door closed behind him in one motion. She stood to one side as he fell against the door. He stared at her, and her eyes clicked back into the focus that had momentarily deserted her.
Fabian fumbled behind him for the latch, his mouth open, his legs wobbling as he stood.
‘Look, Fabe,’ said Pete reasonably, descending towards him. ‘It’s simple.’ Natasha stood still and gazed at him as he approached. ‘I don’t know quite what you’ve worked out or how, and I’m impressed, really I am, but now what? What to do with you? I could kill you, like I did Kay, but I think I’ve got a better idea.’
An angry, frightened little noise issued from Fabian’s throat. Kay… what had happened to him?
‘So anyway, the first thing I think is that you should come upstairs.’ Pete motioned to the room above them, and the faint strains of Jungle that had been filtering down the stairs seemed to swell, the plaintive song that he had caught from outside was suddenly filling Fabian’s head. And it was such a beautiful song, it completely took him away…
It made him think of so many things…
He was on the stairs, he realized, and then he was in the bedroom, but he wasn’t really bothered about that, because what was important was that he should hear this song. There was something about it…
It stopped and he caught his breath, stumbled, felt as if he was choking.
The room was silent. Pete had one hand by the on off switch on the sequencer. Natasha stood next to him, her arms by her side, the same free-floating look in her eyes. With his left hand Pete held a kitchen knife to her throat. She obligingly held her head up.