"King Rat" - читать интересную книгу автора (Miéville China)

Chapter Twenty-Two

Sometimes, between putting food in her mouth and sleeping and then Jungle, seeing Pete, Natasha remembered other things.

She remembered something; she had a sense of being needed for something. She could not be sure what it was until somebody called her. She fumbled with the phone, confused.

‘To yo Tasha!’

The voice was bizarre, muted and enthusiastic. She did not recognize it at all.

‘Tash man, you there? It’s Fingers. I got your message about Terror and, yeah, that’s no problem. We’re going to stick you on the poster, make out like you’re famous. No one’s gonna admit they haven’t heard of you.’ The man on the telephone yelled with laughter.

Natasha muttered that she did not understand.

There was a long pause.

‘Look, Tash, you faxed me, man — told me you wanted to spin some at Junglist Terror… you know, couple of weeks time? Well, that’s fine. I wanted to know what name you’re under, because we’re chucking out some last-minute posters. Going to do a blitz down Camden, down your way too.’

What name? Natasha gathered herself, played the phone call by ear, pretended she understood what was happening.

‘Tut me in as Rudegirl K.’

That was a name she used. Was that what he wanted, the man? Gradually she began to remember, and to understand. Junglist Terror, near the Elephant and Castle. It came back. She smiled delightedly. Had she asked for an opportunity to play? She could not remember that, but she could play Wind City, she didn’t mind…

Fingers rang off. He seemed perturbed, but Natasha only promised to come on the date he told her, and agreed that she would spread the word. She held the receiver against her ear for a little bit too long after he had rung off. The buzz confused her again, until gentle hands reached around her head and disentangled her from the machine.

Pete was there, she realized with a jolt of pleasure. He put the receiver down, turned her to look at him. She wondered how long he had been with her. She looked up at him, smiled beatifically.

‘I forgot to tell you that, Natasha,’ he said. ‘I thought we should take the opportunity to show the world what we’ve been doing. So we’re going to play Wind City. OK?’

Natasha nodded and smiled.

Pete smiled back. His face; Natasha saw his face. It seemed hurt, she saw long thin scabs adorning it, but she did not really notice them somehow, he grinned so happily. His face was very pale, but he smiled at her with the same wide-eyed pleasure she always associated with him. Such a sweetie, she thought, so green. She smiled.

Pete backed away from her, holding her hand until he was out of reach.

‘Let’s play some music, Natasha,’ he suggested.

‘Oh yes,’ she breathed. That would be excellent. A little Drum and Bass. She could lose herself in that, take the tunes apart in her mind, see how they fitted together. Maybe they could play Wind City.

All of Saul’s friends were accounted for, apart from the man Kay. As he considered the piece of paper he held, the queasy foreboding in Crowley’s stomach grew. He was afraid he knew exactly where Kay was.

He felt ridiculous, like a cop from some American TV show, operating on hunches, responding to preposterous gut feelings. He had sought to cross-refer the data that had been gathered on the ruined body in the tube with the information they had on Saul’s friend Kay, who had been missing now for a couple of weeks.

For a while, Crowley had played with the idea that Kay could be behind all this. It would be so much easier to attribute the carnage he had seen to the other missing man. He kept his conjectures to himself. His unwillingness to see Saul as the killer made no sense to those around him, and he could understand why. There was just something, there was just something… the thoughts went around and around in his head… it did not work; he had seen Saul; there was something else happening.

He jeopardized control of the investigation with his disquiet. He was reduced to scribbled notes to himself, exchanging favours with laboratory technicians, the usual channels too risky for his ideas. He could not sit with his men and women and brainstorm, bouncing possibilities back and forth, because they knew full well who they were looking for. His name was Saul Garamond, he was an escaped prisoner and a dangerous man.

So Crowley was cut off from discussion, the medium in which his best work was done. He was afraid that without it his notions were stunted, half truths, soiled with the muck of his own mind that no one could brush off for him. But he had no choice; he was atomized.

Kay as killer. That was one of the ideas that he must dispense with. Kay was peripheral, not close to any of the main protagonists in this drama. He had even less motive than Saul for any of these actions. He was even less physically impressive than Saul.

And besides, his blood group matched that which had covered the walls of Mornington Crescent station.

The fragments of jaw that could be analysed seemed to match Kay’s.

Nothing was certain, not with a body as destroyed as that had been. But Crowley believed he knew who they had found.

And he still, he still, could not believe that it was Saul they wanted.

But he could talk to no one about this.

Nor could he share the pity he felt, a pity which was welling up inside him more with every day, a pity which was threatening to dwarf his horror, his anger, his disgust, his fear, his confusion. A growing pity for Saul. Because if he was right, if Saul was not the one responsible for all the things Crowley had seen, then Saul was right in the middle of something horrendous, a kaleidoscope of bizarre and bloody murder. And Crowley might feel isolated, might feel cut off from those around him, but if he was right, then Saul… Saul was truly alone.

Fabian returned to his room and immediately felt bad again. The only time now that he did not feel oppressed by isolation was when he got on his bike and rode around London. He was spending more and more of his time on the road these days, burning up the junk calories he got from the crap he was eating. He was a wiry man, and his hours and hours on the road were stripping the final ounces of excess flesh from him. He was being pared down to skin and muscle.

He had ridden for miles in the cold and his skin blushed with the change of temperature. He sweated unpleasantly from his exertions, his perspiration cold on him.

Straight south he had ridden, down Brixton Hill, past the prison, through Streatham, down towards Mitcham. Real suburbia, houses flattening down, shopping districts becoming more and more flat and soulless. He had ridden up and down and around a roundabouts and along sidestreets: he needed to cross traffic, to wait his turn on the road, to look behind him and indicate brief thanks to someone letting him in, he needed to cut in front of that Porsche and ignore the fact that he had pissed them off…

This was Fabian’s social life now. He interacted on the fucking tarmac, communicated with people passing him in their cars. This was as close as he came to relationships now. He did not know what was happening.

So he rode around and around, stopped to buy crisps and chocolate, orange-juice maybe, ate on the saddle, standing outside the poky little groceries and newsagents he now frequented, balancing his bike next to the faded boards advertising ice-cream and cheap photocopying.

And then back out onto the road, back into the cursory conversations of the roadways, his dangerous flirtations with cars and lorries. There was no such thing as society, not any more, not for him. He had been stripped of it, reduced to begging for social scraps like signalling and brake lights, the rudenesses and courtesies of transport. These were the only times now that anyone took notice of him, modified their behaviour because of him.

Fabian was so lonely it made him ache.

His answering machine blinked at him. He pressed play and the policeman Crowley’s voice jerked into life. He sounded forlorn, and Fabian did not think it was just the medium which was having that effect. Fabian listened with the contempt and exasperation he always felt when he dealt with the police.

‘… pector Crowley here, Mr Morris. Ummm… I was wondering if you might be able to help me again with a couple of questions. I wanted to talk to you about your friend Kay and… well… perhaps you could call me.’

There was a pause.

‘You don’t play the flute, do you, Mr Morris? Would you or Saul have known anyone who does?’

Fabian froze. He did not hear what else Crowley said. The voice continued for a minute and stopped.

A wave of gooseflesh engulfed him briefly and was gone. He fumbled, stabbed at the rewind button.

‘… 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/wcamp;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.

Fabian opened his mouth in horror and gesticulated towards the two of them, frozen like a waxwork scene of the moment of murder. He emitted inchoate sounds.

‘Yes yes yes, Fabian. Answer or I slit her throat.’ Pete’s voice was still measured, urbane. ‘Is anyone else coming?’

Fabian’s eyes flitted around the room as he tried to gauge the situation. He shrieked as Pete pressed the knife to her throat, and blood welled up around it.

‘Yes! Yes! The police are coming!’ Fabian screamed. ‘And they’re going to fucking take you, you motherfucker…’

‘Nope,’ said Pete. ‘Nope, they won’t.’

He released Natasha and she touched her neck experimentally, screwing up her face, perturbed and confused by the blood. She picked up her pillow and pressed it to the side of her neck, watched it stain red.

Pete kept his eyes on Fabian. He fumbled on the top of the keyboard and gathered up some DATs which sat there.

‘Tash?’ he said. ‘Grab your record bag and a few twelve-inches. We’re going to go to mine until Junglist Terror.’ He smiled at Fabian.

Fabian bolted for the door. He heard a faint whispering and his left calf burst into agony. He screamed as he fell. The kitchen knife was embedded deep in the muscle of his lower leg. He fumbled at it with bloody fingers and screamed when he had the breath.

‘See,’ said Pete, sounding amused. ‘I can make you dance to my tune, but fuck it, sometimes other methods do the job.’ He stood over Fabian.

Fabian closed his eyes and laid his head on the floor. He was fainting.

‘You will come to Junglist Terror, won’t you, Fabe?’ said Pete. Behind him Natasha quietly gathered some things. ‘You may not feel like dancing now, but I promise you will. And you can do me a favour.’

The faint percussive thump of the Drum and Bass beat which wafted into Bassett Street was washed out, rendered nothing by the sirens. Two police cars slid to a stop outside the house. Uniformed men and women leapt out and raced to the door. Crowley stood beside one of the cars. Behind him, the residents peered out of their doors and windows.

‘Have you come about all that screaming? That was quick,’ said an old man approvingly to Crowley.

Crowley looked away as his stomach yawned. He felt sick with foreboding.

Next to the door a bicycle lay on the pavement. Crowley stared at it as the battering ram took care of the door. The police swept up the stairs in a confused mass. Crowley saw the guns at the ready.

There was a sound of heavy feet in the house, audible in the street outside. The faint Jungle beat jerked to an abrupt halt. Crowley strode after the advance party into the hallway. He jogged up the steps and waited by the front door to the flat.

A short woman in a flak jacket approached him.

‘Nothing, sir.’

‘Nothing?’

‘They’re gone, sir. Not a sign. I think you should see this.’

She led him into the flat. It was thick with heavy bodies. The air was full of authoritative voices, the sounds of searching.

Crowley looked around him at the bare walls of the sitting-room. By the entrance to the room was a pool of blood, still slick and sticky. One of the white pillows on the futon was stained deep red.

The keyboard, the stereo, a handbag… everything was untouched. Crowley strode over to the turntable. A twelve-inch single rested on it. The needle had skipped, pushed off course by the vibration of the heavy police boots. Crowley swore.

When he raised his voice it dripped bile.

‘I don’t suppose anyone saw how far through the record we were? No?’

Everyone stared at him in incomprehension.

‘Because that way we could have told how long ago they left.’

They looked away, surly. Next time you try rushing a fucking lunatic and stopping to take notes, sir, they said with every look and gesture.

To hell with them, thought Crowley, furious. To fucking hell with them. He looked at the blood on the floor and the pillow. He looked out of the window. The constables held back the growing crowds. The bicycle lay alone, ignored.

Fabian, Fabian… thought Crowley. I’ve lost you, I’ve lost you. You were my lead, Fabian, and now you’ve gone.

He leant down and rested his head on his arms, there on the windowsill.

Fabian, Natasha, where have you gone? he thought. And with whom?