As well as nothing, as a matter of fact, for before I knew it, Sinclair Vane had somehow pinned my two arms behind my back and knocked me out with a well-aimed blow, something which I would have anticipated had I examined the mantelpiece a little bit more comprehensively — there were at least four photos of him attired in military fatigues — or applied myself with more diligence to my researches, particularly those pertaining to ex-servicemen who had distinguished themselves repeatedly in the field of combat, unarmed and otherwise. Particularly, it appeared, with the 7th Armoured Division with Monty at El Alamein.
The notice of his death I happened to come upon in the Times. I don’t know why I went there — to the funeral in Willesden Cemetery — some unformed notion, a vague desire for closure, maybe. All I remember is shaking his sister, Miss Vane’s, hand. She was so distressed I don’t think she even saw me.
When I got home I explained to Vonya — or tried to. But in the end gave up about halfway through. I could see it wasn’t making any sense. She was a lovely girl, whom I happened to meet quite by chance one day on my bench in Trinity Square Gardens.
She stayed with me but we didn’t have sex. As I poured out the coffee, a young Muslim man was arguing with two policemen, employing body language I knew so well.
“But I lie to you,” she said, a little choked.
Her mother was long dead, she’d told me. Her father had habitually abused her since childhood. That was the reason she had come to London, the very minute, practically, that she’d come of age. Except that none of it, it turned out, was true.
It was the morning the IRA bombed the Baltic Exchange. I heard the explosion — it’s not that far away from my flat — and wondered had Mickey Feane, my old friend, been involved. But then I remembered — Mickey Feane was long dead, sprayed in an ambush on a back road in Tyrone.
I turned to say something and saw she wasn’t there.
That was the last I saw of Vonya Prapotnik.
I’d sit there in the gardens opposite the Lutyens monument commemorating the Merchant Navy dead, and think of Mr. Lustgarten arriving — the fat black Panda pulling up outside the building as a burly officer opened the door, clearing a path for the internationally renowned sleuth as he made his way up bare concrete stairs, pushing the door open to reveal the dank interior. Where he’d find me lying prostrate on the bed. I don’t know what title might occur to him as he observed me — rigor mortis having already set in, most likely — An Unfortunate Case, perhaps, or Felo-De-Se: A Volunteer’s Farewell, or, perhaps, best of all, The Aldgate Assignment.
Yes, I think I like the sound of that.
I made the tape last night and it’s good, I think — by which I mean that it’s clear and unequivocal. Precise as any good confession ought to be, with or without a black plastic hood. I left it on the table where anyone will be able to see it — you won’t need the skills of Edgar Lustgarten. I bought a jiffy bag and a packet of stickers, and in neat felt marker printed on the front: Who Do You Know in Heaven?
What I couldn’t believe most of all was how wonderfully bright it was. THE PALAIS in red and yellow strung-up lights. When I went in, the band were already in the middle of their set, performing their dance steps in front of their music stands, with all their silver instruments gleaming. They were wearing little white jackets and neatly pressed graystripe trousers. The Ink Spots, in black, was printed on a drum.
When I heard her call out to me, initially I couldn’t make out who it was. Then, to my astonishment, I heard my mother say: “Emmet, will you do something for me? Will you make sure the Infant of Prague is in his proper place on the fanlight and has his little face turned toward the church? We’re getting married tomorrow morning at 10, son, you see.”
I wasn’t sure quite what to say — her taffeta dress looked so nice — and had to think for a minute to decide on an answer. But before I got the chance, the band had started up again, and as he placed his arm around her waist I saw her lean in toward him and smile.
But that was the last I saw of them because in the one or two seconds I’d turned to give my attention to the band, as effortlessly as though they’d grown wings, they’d sailed like moths out far beyond the stars, in search of the heaven they’d been dreaming of for so long.
Betamax
by Ken Hollings
Canary Wharf
1
It starts with an accelerating whine that becomes a roaring through darkness and space. You’ll find yourself hurtling into emptiness. Lights travel past your eyes at ever increasing speed. The flooring moves beneath your feet. You’ll feel the rush, pulling you forward. The roaring continues. Everything lies straight ahead. The expressions around you seem dazed, eyes unfocused and distant.
The sound slows to a stop. A woman’s voice speaks to you from out of nowhere. This station is Canary Wharf. Change here for the Docklands Light Railway.
Then another woman’s voice: This train terminates at Stratford.
Everyone around you looks stunned. Lost.
A gun is a dream that fits into your hand.
“So I get out here?”
They used to sleep below ground in places like this. While bombs fell from up above. The steel and glass barrier will slide apart, separating you from nothing. A vast space of columns and moving stairways, designed for handling thousands of people in transit, opens up around you, but it will be almost empty at this hour of the day. On the platform, a young skateboarder drums with his bare hands on a metal guardrail. A little Muslim girl in a glistening pink dress crouches at the edge of the concourse, sniffing at an open pack of Juicy Fruit chewing gum. She holds it up to her face, avidly inhaling the smell. Her father wears black combat boots, the toecaps carefully polished. Behind them, the empty silent track.
You watch the barrier as it closes again, a yellow and black stripe running the length of it at waist height. Two sets of three isosceles triangles pointing away from each other move slowly together until they are almost touching once more.
Standing on the escalator, coming up toward the third level on the concourse, just beneath the surface of the world, you get your first glimpse of towers and tall buildings. Shining high-rise blocks of steel and reflective glass, housing a working population of over 65,000. You only have to kill one of them. But anything over that will also be acceptable.
A scratchy subtitle flickers before your eyes: It is the acts of men who survive the centuries that gradually and logically destroy them.
Buildings are machines: electrical systems that listen and see and respond. People are just a planet’s biomass redistributing itself in time and space.
“You have a room reserved for me? Under the name Betamax?”
The girl at the reception desk will look up at you and smile brightly. “Yes, we do. Thanks for asking.”
You’ll be vaguely aware of the color scheme in the hotel lobby: a deep rose pink with polished wood surfaces. Beyond them an empty concrete plaza and a fountain swept by the wind.
You’re just product, denied a place in this world. Something played out on an old system, dated and worn. Set aside.