The Blue Book Page 16

  Sophie Myers passed on my name to her. I do mostly rely on recommendations, on women who’ve had me who talk to women who might need me, pass me on like an infection.

  Always the women.

  Sophie vouched for me. Sophie Myers, widow of Christopher Myers III – the much-lamented Kit – who heartily enjoyed his yachting and weekend jaunts to Venice and raping a range of wetlands and African countries.

  Made him regret it after death. Sophie’s big with AIDS orphans and conservation as a result – pays for drugs and schools, well-building, micro-loans for mums, mosquito prevention. And then there are the film crews she supports who document dolphin kills and shark-finning. She dabbles in seabird-rinsing whenever there’s an oil spill. She gives generously to pelicans and gannets.

  As generously as she gives to me.

  But she’ll never be quite as generous as Peri.

  Because Peri gets scared. Her mother married up the second time around – Big Bad Step-daddy Warbucks – and, by all accounts, enjoyed it – her spirit drops in, from time to time and I have her say so – but Peri’s never had faith that her own situation is secure. Enough capital to pamper villages, indulge a dozen lifetimes, but she lies awake anticipating threats.

  And I help with that.

  Because I am a bad man.

  If I believed in hell, I’d be sure this would send me to it: frightening Peri then selling her protection.

  Ask any one of the bastards who do this because they’re sadists, psychos, inadequate, insignificant, blood-drinkers – who love it because headfucks get them horny and power makes them come – ask any of the usual practitioners and if they’re honest – which they never will be – they’ll tell you the serious money, the best way to earn, is with fear. Give people a heaven with bells on: further education, enlightenment, everyone cool they’ve ever wanted to hang out with: and, yes, they’ll pay for that. Return their dead, let them hear, speak, touch, kiss, let them reconsummate – dig in and make your prostitution limitless – and they’ll pay for that, too. But give them the truth of a world that doesn’t know them and won’t care, enumerate their frailties, nudge them – gently, slightly – towards the sewer which is human nature, and of which you are a prime and predatory example, and have them peer in – then they’ll beg you to defend them and believe every unseen monster you create. And they will pay you everything you ask.

  And they will thank you.

  ‘But we were informed that it had been a bear . . . Mr Williams, he called and told us a bear did it . . .’

  The man knows about Peri’s cabin in Montana – Mels heading there with her to act like a hunter; plus, youthful lopes across the country as a couple on matching caramel-coloured quarter horses – idyllic. They found the insects trying, though, the isolation – the place was more a topic for conversation than somewhere to stay. But its memory is laden with thoughts of health, incautious love-making on blankets by the lake, bug bites, roughing it with a deep freeze and a helicopter kept on call for them in Missoula.

  The cabin means trust and relaxation, skinjoys and sunlight, log fires, lunging evenings, a past that was smooth and fit.

  Inevitable, then, that the man attacks her there.

  The way that a bastard would – a sadist, psycho, inadequate, insignificant, a blood-drinker.

  Peri neat in the hard chair beside the man’s – his knee could be touching hers but it’s not – it won’t – and the drawing room is cool and cream and linens and silks and possibly not the perfect background for his skin – it makes the man slightly invisible, puts too heavy an emphasis on his suit – but she feels relaxed here, prefers it for sittings.

  Not that she’s relaxed at the moment. ‘Wasn’t it a bear?’

  ‘I’m not seeing a bear. I see someone breaking in, breaking the door and – it’s very pretty inside – or it was . . . you chose the things yourself – I like the colours, lots of reds – and you enjoyed the fireplace . . .’ Because he needs a lock on her thinking, a blush, the flicker of screwing by firelight – that way he can pull her further in, fracture the mood, introduce damage, get her hands rubbing each other.

  That’s right.

  She doesn’t have to tell him anything – her worried hands are more than enough.

  ‘But it ended up such a mess – a waste – all your pretty things – he left it – they left it a mess – two men, they hiked in.’

  ‘Goodness.’ He knows Peri’s imagining how hardy and fit two such hikers would be – and surely armed against cougars and, of course, bears – how dreadful if she and Mels had been there – two men armed against people. ‘Two? There were two men?’

  ‘They broke up the rooms afterwards . . .’

  ‘Afterwards . . . ?’

  So much more penetrating, if she drops into a sentence he leaves unfinished – suffers its possibilities before he pretends to rescue her. ‘They used knives to make it look like bear’s claws.’ Blades lacerating delicate air, personal belongings – he doesn’t have to say it, she tells herself.

  While he spins off into random thinking he shouldn’t permit.

  That’s a dessert, though, isn’t it? A bear claw. It’s a cake, or something . . . Jesus, the mind does wander . . . because it is unhappy and wants to run . . . but it can’t so fuck off with that.

  The man’s face grim as he disciplines himself, becomes purposeful, intent – which makes her flinch, but he drives in anyway, ungentle. ‘But that was afterwards . . . They spoiled your things afterwards – once they had what they’d come for.’

  Which is frightening, but not as bad as, ‘Once they had what they’d been sent for.’

  Better.

  Or worse.

  Depends if you have a conscience and if you can still hear it.

  But I never listen to mine, so fuck off with that.

  ‘Somebody sent them?’ Peri, like many of her kind, assumes that envy and conspiracy surround her. This flames through her like phosphorus.

  So he ignores her, digresses. ‘Frank. I think one of them was called Frank.’

  Can’t get it wrong when he doesn’t exist and therefore cannot contradict me.

  ‘Yes, he was definitely Frank. No name for the other one. They spoiled your flatware . . .’

  Peri cares about crockery, having side plates and fish knives and spoons for honey and all the special tools for shellfish – doesn’t feel born to it, so everything matters.

  Flatware, which is plates and dishes – which are flat – but also cutlery, which isn’t . . . you can suffer over here, for lack of vocabulary . . . Or double your chances of being right.

  ‘They spoiled your flatware, but they also took things – some clothes.’

  ‘Oh, no, Arthur.’ She can call me Arthur, but I can’t call her Peri – she’s always Mrs Arpagian, as if I’m a servant. When I’m the master. ‘Do you think so, Arthur, I don’t think so.’ She’s not really contradicting, more highlighting that he’s infallible and she knows his news is still unfurling and will be bad when it’s completely visible, surrounding her and cinching in. She starts patting Arthur’s forearm with her hand. ‘There was hardly anything left there – a few shirts, boots . . . Mels had a work jacket, I think . . .’

  Outfitted to suit the territory.

  As am I.

  Made Richard especially happy this morning – twin vents, hand-felled lavender lining, flower loop, ticket pocket, functioning cuff slit, the usual: my work jacket.

  ‘Small, personal objects will have gone missing and older clothing . . .’

  Her voice quick and thinned with anxiety: ‘But not worth anything. Why would they take things that are worthless . . . ?’ Although she’s already convinced this was not a normal theft, is something that obeys the rules of worlds only the man can navigate.

  ‘Clothing that’s been with you and carries your shape – surfaces that h
ave absorbed a little something of your personality . . .’

  I’m not saying aura. I never have and I never will. I will not talk bollocks. I won’t. I don’t have to. This is bad efuckingnough without that.

  And I’m not saying essence. I’m not saying emanation. Won’t have them in my fucking mouth.

  Peri’s mouth a whisper open, her horror silent, palpably chill.

  Slender lady, born in the thirties, has a fragility and openness that makes Arthur want to hug her, see her laugh, bring her roses, listen to jazz with her until they both get sleepy, sit on the side of her bed and kiss her forehead like a proper son.

  But instead I do this – I hound her.

  ‘If such things are passed into unsympathetic hands – envious hands, jealous, malicious – then a skilled reader can find your weaknesses, can work against you with contagious magic.’ Arthur pauses until she looks at him – gaze flickering between his eyes and lips – trying to decide which she should hide from most. And then he delivers the three small, fatal words – ‘I am sorry.’ As if she’s beyond all saving, including his.

  I’m not sorry. I am a bastard. I am a cunt.

  And then he waits.

  One thousand and cunt, two thousand and cunt, three thousand and cunt . . .

  While she cries in a small way – neat little girl in a big house crying – and she glances across at him as if she is being foolish and would like to be much more brave and

  Four thousand and cunt, five thousand and cunt . . .

  He can’t relent.

  Six thousand and cunt . . .

  Liberty print handkerchief tucked in her sleeve, then dabbing, keeping good order, being presentable because he’s watching and – there it is – the moment when this horror flows down and in and meets its more established brother – the loss of Mels.

  Seven thousand and I’m not that much of a cunt.

  Finding her wrist and kissing her knuckles, the salt, he strokes her arm, and takes both hands at this point, holds firm around them and – hush, hush – the comfort of this provoking a further collapse but he’ll squire her through it and could weep himself, could and does – it’s the direction to take – and only very slowly, only after minutes, does he say anything else.

  ‘All right? Peri?’

  ‘Oh . . . I . . .’

  And she can’t tell him that she was recalling the funeral and wishing she’d known him back then – seeing how dapper he’d be in mourning, her tall protector, dipping to take care – she can’t be particularly informative, but he nods and, ‘I know. I know. And the thing I know most? Is that I will fix this and it will be fine. You will be defended and any ill-effects will be quite overthrown. That little cold that turned to flu – I’ll bet you it wasn’t a thing to do with you – you see your doctor every week, you’re fit and healthy and—’

  ‘Now, Arthur . . .’ She gives him a smile that he feels in the pit of his stomach, like someone dropping cold coins there. ‘I’m not young.’

  ‘Well, I’m not young, Mrs Arpagian. We are neither of us young, but neither of us ought to catch a cold that turns into flu.’ She pretendfrowns to say that Arthur hasn’t fooled her and he pretendfrowns to show he has been caught in this the very least of his lies, which is hardly a lie at all – she is fit and healthy, she could last for years. He could have more than a decade of income left. ‘Someone out there is practising against you and I will prevent them and overcome and we will triumph. They may have used foot track magic at the cabin and I’ve heard more and more lately of the Pulsa D’Nora . . .’

  A gift, the Pulsa D’Nora – some nonsense with tongues of fire that can pray you to death. One recitation and that’s that – every opponent just vapours and ash – as if there’d be anyone left if it was true. As if I wouldn’t use the hotel shaving mirror and cast it on my fucking self.

  ‘The Pulsa D’Nora?’

  Some Kabbala freak has already mentioned it to her, so he slides his grip and squeezes her arms and grins as if she is making him courageous and he explains, ‘It’s words, a thing built up from words – but every word has an antidote – and every word is letters and each letter has a value and a value is a number and I’m very good with numbers, always have been.’ And he sits up straight, releases her, acts the manly man: competent, commanding. ‘So then. There are ingredients to gather – some of them rather rare – although I have many – and ceremonies that I will perform. One has to wait for the old moon, one more for the new.’

  Have to get a planet in there somewhere. And girls do like the moon.

  ‘For the rest, it will take me a week to fast and watch – I must sit with a rabbi and a priest and another . . .’

  Can’t be too specific, makes things humdrum.

  ‘And then for three days I will confuse and then destroy their intentions, I will cleanse your street, home, interests, your health, your peace of mind, your present and all visible avenues of your future.’

  Although further paths will be revealed and need attention, further challenges will arise, which I will conjure, address and defeat – not complicated, defeating my own fictions. A form of therapy, you might say. I make the dreams and Peri swallows them – each of my ladies does – and Mr Walcott, my solitary gentleman – they eat my dreams: my endlessly vanquished and resurrected, my ingenious dreams.

  ‘And then we’ll have our ritual here – for us – and I’ll position protection at thresholds—’

  Which Imee will remove. Loves to dust and polish, remove feathers, powders, lines of silk. Naughty girl.

  Not that she shouldn’t – they serve no purpose.

  ‘Windows and doors, the balcony rails and so forth. You’ll be cosy.’

  ‘Do you need the money now?’

  ‘I don’t need the money now. I don’t need the money now at all. I don’t want to talk about the money.’

  And that’s true.

  ‘When this is dealt with and you’re happy – extremely happy – and well – and sleeping well . . .’

  I have to suggest that she isn’t, so that she won’t. That’s also fucking true.

  ‘Then I’ll write it all down in an invoice and you can pay me.’

  Oh, and that’s as fucking true as I can get.

  Or just about.

  But I didn’t invent it. I am nowhere near the worst.

  It’s just the Dream Game – strong as a dark spell could be, if dark spells existed. The Dream Game created Mels Arpagian’s fortune – uranium for the cold war, the rare and precious substance to rout the phantom hosts of enemies, the overestimated peril, the reasons for spending money on ideas of death, on murder. In other times and other contexts, it has other flavours – it’s still the same game. Build a stone step into your chimney, it’ll make the witches rest outside and leave your house alone: no witches, then the step must be working, must be needed – it can’t be that there aren’t any witches, that you don’t need the step. Buy this juice or your kids will be blighted – use this cream or your skin will be haunted – give up this right or your country will founder – bail out this company, bail out this bank, or you’ll live in a wasteland – change your life according to this plan or you’ll never be happy, you’ll never have sex, never properly fuck, never please or even tolerate your cock or cunt again.

  It’s all shit magic, nothing more.

  Our current crop of Dream Games want sacrifice and pain and heroes and terrors to burn the world and the energy of righteous torments implacably exacted, and sufficient funds to stoke our problems, not remove them – to keep the craving and the sense of arcane threats, of powers facing powers and miraculous escapes. They want hate. They work for money and hate.

  It disgusts me.

  As much as I disgust me.

  Perhaps more.

  At least I work for money and love.

  And my dead are alrea
dy dead and I didn’t make them and I wish for no more, have enough, and all of us walking and turning and dancing to our graves in any case, no need to rush. We’ll get there.

  I won’t work for hate.

  But still . . .

  He is no longer anyone close to what he’d like and occasionally he can picture this restaurant – Italian place – and he wasn’t there alone, was with a woman, a cause for love, uncalculated faith. Long time ago. And the waiter – perhaps for comedy effect – had idiosyncratic English and said, with an air of concern, ‘If you is me,’ and went on to advise on the choices of wines – which were limited. And A. Lockwood looked at the woman’s face – the pair of them amused but not quite laughing, enjoying that edge – and he tasted in his mouth – sweet, sweet, sweet – If you is me – and the phrase seemed significant and not a mistake. It seemed that the woman could be him and that he could be her, that they were interchangeably themselves and this was glorious.

  If you is me.

  Then all is well and I will manage very nicely.

  I will not, in the spring that follows this autumn, lie on a hotel bed still wearing my stage clothes, tainted with sweat, my evening done with – leukaemia kid, feisty grandma, car crash kid, feisty grandad, boring aunt, eccentric grandma, unresolved mother brought to her full stop, tears for two inadequate dads, thanks to the husband who cleaned up his father-in-law, dressed him and dealt with him decently in his last days. Decency should be rewarded.

  And so good that such a thing is so common, is such an easy guess.

  So good that we are so connected, human beings, all of a piece.

  So I ought not to end up lying cold on a hotel bed.

  I shouldn’t be alone.

  I shouldn’t be without her.

  That ought not to happen.

  Except it will.

  No words to stop it.

  And I’ll lie on the bed and be alone and be alive, but not exactly.

  And I’ll be aware that I have set myself down precisely as I was before I left to give the punters what they’d want. I will be troubled by the circularity of this. I will check my watch and it will be approaching midnight and no one I can call and no one who will call me and I will start writing – words that are letters that have values that are numbers, that will be no use to me. But I’ll write to her anyway – an angry, inadequate, pleading thing – and I will wish for magic, that she will touch where I touch the paper, I will tell her my wish, my little wish that I know will fail and not bring an answer.