Dark Terrors 3 (42 page)

‘See,’ said Louise.

‘It’s the truth,’ I said.

‘Why did you kill her?’ said the older copper.

‘I didn’t.’

‘Was it a lover’s spat that went too far? Or was she playing away? Or you?’

‘It was nothing like that,’ I replied. ‘I’ve told you what happened. And that’s all there is to it.’

‘Right,’ said the young one. ‘Let’s run this by one more time. You’re telling me that last year, your girlfriend Louise Spenser, who at this time had been dead for five years, came to visit you.’

I nodded. ‘Yes,’ I said for the benefit of the tape.

‘With her cat? Who is also dead.’

I nodded again. ‘Yes.’

‘And since then, although you had since become engaged to the deceased, she’s been visiting you on a regular basis.’

Nod three. ‘That’s correct,’ I added for something different to say.

‘With her cat,’ said the older guy.

‘We mustn’t forget the cat,’ said the young one.

‘I know it sounds ridiculous,’ I said.

‘No,’ said the young cop. ‘We get this sort of thing all the time.’

‘Told you,’ said Louise.

‘Will you be quiet?’ I blurted.

‘Who me?’ said the young one.

‘No,’ I replied.

The older guy, who was a bit more suss, said, ‘She’s here now, isn’t she?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘Where?’

‘Sitting in that chair.’

He sighed, got up and walked towards it. But Louise was too quick for him, and got up. He sat down on the seat she’d vacated, and said smugly. ‘Still here, is she?’

‘No,’ I said.

‘I think it’s time for a refreshment break,’ said the young one, and the interview was suspended.

* * * *

That went on for the next twenty-four hours.

I got a lawyer who advised me that I make no further comment on the charges. But the evidence was overwhelming.

I was found covered in Jules’ blood, the knife had my fingerprints all over it. I was famous for going off the rails with drink and drags, and to put the tin lid on it, I was telling a preposterous story about the ghost of my dead girlfriend.

My brief advised me to go for a plea of temporary insanity.

I stuck to my story.

I was banged up in the remand wing at Brixton, but kept separate from the other prisoners.

Louise and Percy came and went like they owned the place. It was okay. They were a bit of company for me.

Of course no one else could see them, so I made a bit of a name for myself as being totally mad.

Radio Rental, the screws called me - mental.

The case went to trial at the Old Bailey. I pleaded not guilty, but as I had no defence, the case only lasted for a day. Every paper in the land covered it fully, and Louise and Percy sat with the defence counsel throughout.

The jury convened for less than half an hour, and when they came back, they brought in a guilty verdict.

So that’s my story. Not the happiest one, I agree.

But things have worked out okay. I’ve got a nice room. No sharp corners, and lots of cartoons on cable.

Louise and Percy never go away now, and that’s how it was always meant to be.

The three of us together. No worries about the mortgage, or where the next meal is coming from.

Daffy Duck is on now, which is kind of ironic. And there’s liver and bacon for supper.

I’m not mad, you know, whatever they say. Louise will tell you that, won’t you Louise?

Well, she would if she was in the mood.

* * * *

Mark Timlin
describes himself as a writer of pulp fiction, whose most famous character is private investigator Nick Sharman. This South London sleuth has so far appeared in one collection of short stories and some thirteen novels, the latest being
A Street that Rhymed at 3am,
published by Gollancz. Sharman was also the titular hero of a television series that Timlin describes as finishing a number of careers and was reviewed by one daily newspaper as ‘a national disgrace’. As the author explains, “‘Everybody Needs Somebody to Love” was originally written for the first One Day Novel Competition in 1994, in which a score or more writers sat for two twelve-hour sessions over one weekend in London’s Groucho Club. It didn’t win for several reasons, and I still subscribe that it wasn’t because it wasn’t the best. I read the winners and the runners-up and they didn’t hack it. Firstly, it isn’t a novel, being something less than nine thousand words long. And secondly, it may have something to do with the fact that I spent most of the second session upstairs in the green room as far away as possible from where the writing was going on, getting thoroughly zapped on free booze and goading a small coterie of fellow writers into excesses of mickey-taking out of the organizers, the other competitors and the club. Anyway, that’s my excuse and I’m going to stick with it. I don’t know why I entered the damned competition in the first place, having already had a load of books published and the prize not being worth a candle. As for the subject matter,’ adds Timlin, ‘that I
was
serious about, as the first part at least is the story of a true relationship of mine and I’m glad to see it published properly at last. And hey, I’m finally getting paid for it.’

<>

* * * *

JAY RUSSELL

When the phone rings in the middle of the night, most people think: who died?

I know it’s only Klein.

‘I don’t understand this
sous rature
stuff, Steve. How the hell does the bastard get away with it? I mean, he just crosses the bloody words out and then leaves them there on the page like squashed bugs. Doesn’t that bother anyone? Isn’t there a law? Doesn’t it drive you crazy?’

Our apartment sits just off-campus, in a neatly appointed professorial ghetto. The phone rests on the floor across the room from the bed because the cord won’t reach to the night stand. I don’t know why we haven’t just bought a cordless - or moved the bed - but that’s the way it is.

Elaine sleeps right through the calls. She used to bolt awake and roll off the bed, grabbing the receiver in one smooth motion. It amazed me how she could answer in a crisp, businesslike voice. As if it wasn’t the middle of the night; as if she hadn’t been stone dead to the world two seconds earlier.

Now she doesn’t even turn over.

‘It’s because he’s French, isn’t it? They get away with
every
thing
.
I can live with Baudrillard’s bullshit, and even that crazy Virilio. But this
erasure
thing is too much. I mean, it’s up there with Jerry Lewis and Jean-Marie Le Pen. It’s, you know...
God,
it’s brilliant. It fits.’

I knew I’d regret lending Klein the Derrida books. I knew it would mean a lost night’s sleep.

‘Klein ...’

‘I just, I can’t fully make sense of it. Steve, this is your field. You’ve got to explain it to me. I ... I think I see where it fits - it’s
so
bloody fractal - but I just can’t quite...I’m afraid I’m going to have to really learn French for this guy, Steve. I mean, not just that oo-la-la crap that got me through Foucault. He’s...’

‘Do you know what time it is, Klein?’

‘Uhhhh . . . hold on.’

‘No, Klein ...’

Too late. I glanced at Elaine. I wondered if the little bug inside her was awake or asleep. The duvet had become twisted around her slightly swollen belly. A thin line of saliva trailed from her mouth, watering the faded flowers on the pillowcase.

‘It’s almost three-thirty.’

‘Klein . . .’ I sighed and stared vacantly at Elaine’s heavy breasts.

‘You really have to go back to Heidegger,’ I began.

* * * *

I started having doubts about fractals and such the day one of my undergrads - a gaunt, black-clad cultural studies major with the unlikely moniker of B. Bronski - came to class wearing a T-shirt emblazoned with the Mandelbrot set on the front and ‘I
 Chaos’ on the back. This same kid handed in a term paper with the title: ‘The Prosthetic Aesthetic: Fractal Postmodernism in the Cyberpunk/Splatterpunk Imperative.’ After that I figured it was only a matter of time before old Benoit himself performed a turn on
Oprah.

Not that I entirely understand the stuff. If poked sternly with a pointed stick I can creditably acquit myself with an explication of strange attractors and sensitive dependence on initial conditions - God knows, I’ve heard Klein go on about it enough - but it’s still something of a strain for me. A lifetime in comparative literature departments has taken its toll on a scientific aptitude which wasn’t terrific to begin with.