Authors: JOHN YORVIK
PRETTY GIRLS MAKE GRAVES: a gripping crime thriller (Camden Noir Crime Thrillers Trilogy Book 1) (20 page)
Then holding me on the stone floor, a plastic funnel was produced. I gagged and bit as the spout was pushed in. Then a bottle was opened and emptied into the funnel. I choked and buckled as the fiery liquid coursed down my throat. Finding no way to resist, I fixed my eyes on the ceiling, gargoyle heads spinning, spewing liquid down from above, stealing the light.
* * *
It was eternal recurrence. Waking up into a new world each time. One of the trials of time travel.
“Lish-
mon!
”
I hadn’t the energy to answer. Where was I? And more importantly, who was this guy calling me “Lish-
mon”
and why was he pouring warm lager over my face?
I blinked my eyes open. An old mohican punk was rubbing cheap lager into my face. My stomach wretched at the smell. It convulsed but nothing came up. I was completely empty. My lips stuck together. My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth.
“Everyone’s looking for you, Lish-
mon!
You did it. You really fuckin’ did it.”
Did what? I slowly took in my surroundings. I was under a bridge next to the canal. The sun was dappled through the leaves. The punk was above me, pouring beer on my face, insistent that I say something.
“Here,” he said, and pointed to the front page of a free newspaper he’d pulled out of a nearby bin. “Here, Agent Greenfield, Commission for Looted Art, next to the Pearly Queen in Canvey Island. It says, Investigative journalist, Jay Lishman, of North London Free Press, still missing. Look at the picture, that’s you.”
I looked at the picture. Was that me? I tried to respond, but couldn’t.
“Second page, Danielle Yorath and local youths from Pentonville neighbourhood put up flyers looking for missing journalist.”
“Missing?”
“Yes, you were missing. Two days. Wait here, I’m going to get help.”
I wasn’t going anywhere. The dappled sun and the warm breeze. And no thoughts in the ripple pool of time, neither backwards nor forwards. The stench of the dank tunnel and the canal’s dark waters I could live with, as long as I had the sunlight.
“And so when did your memory begin to come back?” said the deep voiced presenter, an ex-Radio One DJ who had managed to make the transition to Radio Five. It was national radio, but one of the unpopular early evening slots.
“About eight months ago, three months after I was found under a bridge in Camden.”
“Were you receiving psychotherapy?”
“No, not at all. I mean I did receive some treatment in hospital, but it was ineffective. In fact, it was my friend and colleague, Danielle Yorath, who suggested that by returning to the mental state in which the amnesia was invoked, I would remember. It was a therapy so radical that no reputable mental health institution would ever have considered it.”
“Go on,” the presenter said.
“Well, it was believed my memory loss was due to having been force fed large amounts of alcohol in one sitting.”
“Uh-huh,” he said, waiting for me to get to the money line. We’d already rehearsed this anecdote before the programme. And I was killing it live on air.
“So,” I said. “Some people drink to forget. I drank to remember. An entire bottle of scotch in fact.”
“And it worked.”
“It worked,” I said. He was definitely disappointed with how this interview was unfolding. I imagined my book was being stripped from the shelves and pulped as the listening public cringed.
“And from there, you were able to recount the whole story in your fascinating book
The Master Player
, which alleges, among other things, that Marty Stewart was not the Pentonville Strangler.”
“That’s right.”
“In fact, you say in chapter one that Marty contacted you to help him with the investigation into the trafficking of stolen Nazi art, which he and his then girlfriend Natasha Rokitzky had been investigating.”
“That’s how I remember it,” I said. He’d clearly decided that he was going to have to carry me to the end of the hour.
“According to Scotland Yard, Natasha Rokitzky was one of the victims of the Pentonville Strangler. However, you claim in your book that not only was Marty Stewart innocent, but that it was in fact Marty’s long-lost father Jack Lewis that ordered the killing of Natasha Rokitzky. You also claim that Jack Lewis arranged the killing of his own son, Marty Stewart, in a small village in Scotland?”
“That’s what I believe,” I said in the short pause, as the presenter looked at me expectantly.
“Even though Marty Stewart sent a letter of confession to the police? And the Scottish constabulary claim his death was entirely consistent with suicide?”
“Jack Lewis is
The Master Player
. I saw him with my own eyes. He’s alive. And he has the eyes of a killer,” I said. I had no control over what was coming out of my mouth.
“And yet our researchers inform me that Jack Lewis was killed back in the late 60s in a gangland hit.”
“It wasn’t him. It was a small-time gangster by the name of Jim Scott who died in his place. He was dressed as Jack Lewis and shot in the back of the head so he couldn’t be identified. Jack Lewis’s girlfriend at the time, Lillian Stewart, mother of Marty Stewart, identified the body. She was pregnant with Marty at the time and was paid off by Jack Lewis and sent to live up North.”
“And she’s still alive... I’m getting a word in my ear from the producers to move on from that as the BBC lawyers are none too pleased.”
“Then there’s AmizFire, which is a front to traffic priceless looted art. And if they want to sue me, let them come and get me.”
“I must point out that AmizFire was completely exonerated by police investigators, who used your information to swoop and break an immigrant crime ring of Polish gangsters.”
“As I say, let them come and sue me. It’s all in the book. Buy the book. It’s a lot better than this interview.”
“I’m sure it is,” said the presenter, exasperated. “And believe it or not, listeners, if you like conspiracy theories, it
is
a fascinating read.”
“Thank you. I realise you didn’t have to say that.”
“Ladies and gentlemen, Jay Lishman, the man that uncovered priceless art looted from Polish Jews by the Gestapo... and suffered horrendous memory loss in the process, so let’s not be too hard on him.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“That’s all for now. I’ll leave you with the news and weather.”
“The book is better,” I shouted down the microphone as the presenter switched over to the news, and then ripped off his headphones.
“Christ, give me Matthew Rilke anytime,” said the presenter, blowing air through his teeth. “At least that guy knows how to tell an anecdote.”
With that I was escorted out of the room by the producer. I took the lift down to the ground floor of broadcasting house and walked over to the gates, where security signed me out. On the street, I flagged down a black cab and got in.
“Camden,” I told the driver, “Sushi Waka restaurant.”
“Where’s that?” asked the cabbie. “The Knowledge only tests streets not Japanese restaurants.”
“Parkway.”
“Now you’re talking,” said the cabbie, accelerating as we turned onto Baker Street. “Come from the BBC. Famous, are you?”
“I was,” I said, thinking about the dire interview I’d just given. “For about 15 minutes.”
* * *
The restaurant was bare wood minimalist with wide open windows. At the opposite end of the large table, sat two couples, who were celebrating a birthday.
I didn’t feel like talking much after my national exposure, but I was in company where that didn’t matter. My phone beeped. I checked my text message and smiled at what it said. Then I turned the phone off and put it into my pocket.
“Who was that from?” asked Dani. “One of your groupies?”
“No, it was from Judas.”
“What did it say?”
“One word.”
“Lish-
mon!
”
I nodded. We both laughed.
“Does he remember anything yet?” asked Dani.
“He’s a functioning amnesiac. He remembers everything he needs to get on with his life: his lyrics, where he left his skunk, who is
them
and who is
us.
That kind of thing.”
The food arrived, a plate of maki rolls and sushi, with two bowls of ramen noodles. Dani picked up the small china jug of sake and filled up our cups.
“Brent was asking when you’d be coming back to work,” she said. “Unless, that is, you think you can make it as a conspiracy writer now. Living it up in Ladbroke Grove like Matthew Rilke.”
“I think with what I’ve got left from my inheritance and what I’ll make in royalties from the book post-interview... I should be back at work sometime next week.”
“Glad to hear it. We need someone to make the coffees. That is if you think you’re 100% ready for that.”
“I’m fine. But I keep having this dream. I’m in a swimming pool. It suddenly gets very dark. I’m holding something underwater with my hand. I let it come to the surface and it’s Marty’s head and there’s no body. I try to hide the head but everywhere I go I find it again. In the wastepaper basket, in the cooker, in the fridge. At the end of the dream, when I wake up and realise it wasn’t real, I’m left with a feeling of guilt like I really had killed someone.”
“I have the same dream. But I wake up and discover that it’s all true. I am a murderer. Twice over.”
“C’mon Dani. The first time was manslaughter. The second time was self-defence.”
“I’m still a killer whichever way you cut it. I keep seeing him standing above my mattress in the attic. His plastered up nose, like a prosthetic dog’s face. His big knife held at the hip like a shiny silver dick. Zabiç, he screams. Zabiç, Zabiç!”
“Lucky you weren’t sleeping.”
“Lucky I had a loaded gun under the covers.”
“Have you heard from Pippa and Erika?” I asked, trying to move the conversation on, but also with the intention of reminding her why she’d had to shoot. And shoot to kill.
“Still not heard from them. Friends tell me they’re on a training camp in Yemen.”
“Training for what?”
“I don’t know. But coming home to find their house firebombed is only going to radicalise them more,” said Dani.
“When you first heard about the fire, did you think they were dead?” I asked.
“No, not really,” said Dani. “When someone close to you is dead, you know it.”
“Do you really think so? Do you think Marty sensed Jack was alive?”
“He must have known somehow,” Dani insisted. “That was why he went after him. To get revenge. Jack Lewis abandoned his family.”
“Yes. Abandoned his family as part of an experiment in Social Darwinism.”
“Whatever the reason, it would hurt just the same,” said Dani, quite serious.
“How about death as a reason?” I asked, thinking about my own father, lost at sea.
“I think death is a good enough excuse not to be there for your kid,” Dani said.
I asked for the bill and when we’d paid up, I walked Dani to her new flat in Hampstead, before returning to my own ten minutes down the road. Pouring myself a large brandy, I picked up an old battered copy of
The Big Sleep
and read into the night.
* * *
I woke feeling a cold blade against my throat. The lights were on.
“Don’t move,” said the Gorilla.
I didn’t move. The voice was somewhat distorted through the mask, but it sounded like him. Like my old friend. I searched its blue eyes for any scintilla of compassion, but saw none.
“It’s a good book,
The Master Player
,” said the Gorilla. “See what you can achieve when you put your mind to it. But there are two important factual inaccuracies.”
“One, you’re not dead,” I said. “I’ll update
The Master Player
for the second print run. Write an epilogue describing how Marty Stewart broke into my house dressed as a gorilla. Don’t worry. No-one will believe it.”
The blade remained pressed hard against my throat. I thought about prising his arm away, but, without seeing his face, I couldn’t be sure whether or not he really intended to hurt me. I would have to keep the dialogue going.
“The second inaccuracy,” I continued. “You
are
, in fact, a killer? Or why else would you be holding this knife to my throat?”
The Gorilla shook its head as if to say ‘that’s not it’.
“The second, salmon always return to their breeding ground,” it said.
“I’ve heard that somewhere before. Is it some kind of code, like
The 39 Steps?”
I saw a sparkle of warmth in its eyes. I took that as my cue to free myself and grabbed hold of its arm. But as I struggled, the Gorilla raised its gloved left hand, which was holding a canister. It pressed down on the cap and sprayed gas directly into my open mouth.
* * *
It was two pm by the alarm clock when I finally woke up. Piecing my mind back together had become somewhat of a ritual lately. I was guessing that the Gorilla had not been a lucid dream or wish fulfilment. The memory was too fresh and seemed much more authentic than my nightmares of Marty’s disembodied head. More real than Marlowe in
The Big Sleep
.
I got up and walked into the kitchen. The cat came out of its hiding place and began begging for food. I went to the cupboard and found a can of tuna and was unwinding the key when I noticed there was a square piece of card on the breakfast table with something written on it. I walked towards it. It said ‘You are the second’ in large black theatrical letters. The ‘second’ what? I wondered. I turned over the card to see a black and white photo of two women. Their way of dressing told me it was back in the late 1960s. Next to a pregnant Lillian was another woman, also pregnant.
The Harem
was written in neon on the wall behind them. The other woman looked like my mother. It couldn’t have been my mother, because the way I remembered it my father was Norwegian or Danish or even Finnish. She met him in Newcastle. She didn’t know Lillian back then. ‘Salmon always return to their breeding ground,’ said Jack Lewis, somewhere from the depths. ‘Not now, brother, but sometime when you think all this is forgotten. I’ll wake you from your sleep with a knife to your throat,’ said Marty, making ripples on the memory pool.
THE END
BOOK 2 of The Camden Noir Trilogy is available now
http://www.amazon.co.uk/DIVINE-gripping-thriller-Thriller-Trilogy-ebook/dp/B00VDR7IXQ/
http://www.amazon.com/DIVINE-gripping-thriller-Thriller-Trilogy-ebook/dp/B00VDR7IXQ/
Lishman thought he had his life back. He was wrong.
