The Doorkeepers (35 page)

He opened the front door and led her up the steep flight of stairs. “It's very private … I put down a nice thick underlay so that you couldn't hear too much noise from the pub underneath. In fact I think you could scream your head off in here and nobody would hear you.”

He led the way past the kitchenette and into the living room. “It's a great place,” said Nancy. But she wasn't telling the truth, either. The second she walked into the room, she could feel a wave of desperation, and pain, and cruelty. People had been killed in this room, and monstrously killed. This was more than a crow-feather aura. This was an atmosphere of sheer terror that she could almost
smell.

With a salesman's grin, Frank Mordant opened the bedroom door. Strangely, there was nothing there, no bad karma at all. Everything evil that had happened in this flat had happened in the living room.

“What do you think?”

“I like it. How much are you asking for it?”

“To you, £1.15s.0d a week.”

“Out of a salary of how much?”

“Seven pounds fifteen shillings. So you'll have plenty of money left over for all of the things that girls like to buy. Brassieres, frilly garter belts, that kind of thing.”

“I don't wear frilly garter belts, Mr Mordant,” she replied, sharply. “Frilly garter belts went out with the Ziegfeld Follies.” She knew that she shouldn't have said it. She wanted him to go on thinking that she was weak and pliable. But Frank Mordant didn't seem to notice; or, if he did, he didn't take exception.

He went into the kitchenette and started opening and closing
the cupboard doors. “Sandra's left a few things. Tea. Packet of sugar. Couple of jars of raspberry jam.”

“You were saying about some friend of yours at Scotland Yard.”

“Oh, yes. So I was. Not Scotland Yard
here,
though.”

“You mean Scotland Yard back through the door?”

“That's right. New Scotland Yard. I've always made a point of cultivating friends in the Met.”

Nancy felt her heartbeat slow down. “I guess you have to wait twenty-four hours for an answer. You know, wait for the world to turn around.”

“Oh, no. I sent a lad over with a message and a couple of hours later he sent another lad back. That's how we communicate through the doors. Give a lad a couple of quid and a cheap digital watch, that's all you have to do. Almost as good as e-mail.”

Nancy didn't say anything. Frank Mordant came out of the kitchen. He was still smiling but there was an odd, vindictive look in his eyes. “My pal's only a woodentop. Not CID or anything. But you can't beat him when it comes to inside information. Police Constable Bob Smart – smart by name and smart by nature. Mind you, I don't know why I'm telling you this, darling. You met him yourself, when you and Julia's brother went to the hospital to identify her mortal remains.”

He stayed where he was, blocking her escape route to the stairs. “Do you know what I ask myself?” he said. “I ask myself why you came to see me, pretending to be looking for Julia, when all the time you knew she was dead? Now, why did you do that?”

“I thought you might know how she died,” said Nancy, with a dry mouth.

“What are you saying? You're not saying
I
did away with her, are you?”

“If you didn't, why did you lie about her landlady? Mrs Marmion's dead, you know that. And why did you say that Julia might have gone to Scotland?”

“Because I knew you knew. And I just wanted to see how far you were prepared to keep up this little act of yours. What
were you going to do? Trick me into making a confession? Rifle through my desk for incriminating evidence? Try to get me back through the door, and hand me over to Detective Sergeant Paul? You must think I was born yesterday.”

“You murdered her and you murdered her right here, in this room. You hanged her, I've seen it for myself. Seen her legs kicking.”

“You couldn't have done.”

Nancy touched her fingertips to her temples. “The Hoodies aren't the only people in this world with psychic powers, Mr Mordant. I saw Julia Winward die, and I know that you did it. Just like you murdered John Farbelow's girlfriend Winnie and who knows how many others. Where's Sandra, for example? Isn't it amazing how she conveniently managed to disappear as soon as I arrived on the scene?”

Frank Mordant let out a snort of amusement. “Actually, darling, Sandra didn't disappear. I gave her the day off. After I heard from Police Constable Smart I wanted to find out what you were up to. And now I know.”

He slowly rubbed his hands together, around and around. “The only trouble is, you've put me in a bit of an awkward spot. If I let you go back through the door, who knows what mischief you'll get up to. If I keep you here … well, I can't do that, either. You're wanted by the Hoodies, you and Mr Winward. Subversion, conspiracy and murder. It's been in all the papers. Lucky for you they didn't publish a very good likeness. Made you look like Daryl Hannah.”

“What murder? I haven't been involved in any murder.”

“Oh … a very serious murder. Master Thomas Edridge, chief proctor of the Masters of Religious Observance. His throat was cut when John Farbelow and his scruffs managed to rescue that chap of yours.”

“Josh escaped?”

“According to the news, yes – although the Hoodies are still hunting for him. Mind you, having you here … that's going to make their job a lot easier, don't you imagine? Because I'm sure that your chap won't just leave you here to face the music on your own, will he?”

“Get out of my way,” said Nancy, approaching him.

“You don't stand a chance, darling. You might as well resign yourself to the fact that you and your chap are going to have to give yourselves up.”

“I said, get out of my way.”

Without any warning at all, Frank Mordant slapped her across the face. Then, before she could recover, he punched her in the stomach. Nancy had trained in uyeshiba aikido but she had never been attacked so hard and so fast. She dropped on to her knees, gasping for breath, and as she did so Frank Mordant seized her hair and banged her head against the floor. She blacked out for an instant, and when she opened her eyes again she was seeing stars.

“You stupid bitch, did you really think that you were going to get me arrested?”

Nancy couldn't answer. She was doubled up on the floor, coughing. Frank Mordant strutted around her, first one way and then the other. “You don't have a bloody clue, do you?” he demanded. “You don't have a bloody clue who you're dealing with. The only thing I'll say is, you're very privileged. You're going to be the first girl who's ever left this flat alive.”

Still stunned, Nancy lifted her head.

“Yes,” said Frank Mordant. “I admit it. I did kill Julia. But you have to look at it this way: sometimes a single human life is worth sacrificing for the greater good.”

“A
single
human life?” coughed Nancy. “What about Winnie? And don't tell me there haven't been others!”

Frank Mordant snorted impatiently. “Look, darling, we're not talking about a few stupid secretaries here, we're talking about the bloody cosmos. If I had my way I'd hang you the same way I hung Julia, and all the others, and make a fortune out of the videotape. They love it, those Japanese. But you are about to discover for yourself what keeps the six doors open, day and night, twenty-four hours a day. That takes power, believe me. That takes power like you can't even imagine.

“Think about it. Bloody well
think
about it. Whoever keeps the doors open controls every single alternative existence to which they give access. And there are thousands of them,
believe me. Probably an infinite number. You could never visit them all, not if you lived to be a million.”

“But all these murders?” Nancy retorted, almost hysterical. “I don't understand all these murders! Innocent girls! What did you have to kill them for?”

Frank Mordant smoothed back his Brylcreemed hair. “You're about to find out.”

It was well after two o'clock before John Farbelow woke up. He opened his eyes and the sun was shining in through the dormer window, so he dragged the Indian durry up over his face. His hair – what was left of it – stuck up like a white cockatoo's.

“You can't hide, John,” said Ella. “You managed to run away, but you can't pretend it never happened.”

“They murdered them,” said John Farbelow, his face still covered by the durry. “Those Puritan bastards. Christ almighty, they were only children, some of them. Ralphie had just turned sixteen.”

Abraxas came over to John Farbelow's couch and started to lick at his hand, his tail slapping against Ella's legs. “Shit. Just what I need. Dog spit.”

“Abraxas is very hygienic, aren't you, Abraxas? I give him licorice root to chew. It's good for his breath and it's a wonderful laxative.”

“They killed my children, Ella.”

Ella handed him a steaming blue-decorated mug. “Here, drink this. It'll make you feel better.”

“It's not more of your stinking ragwort tea, is it?”

“No. Black coffee with a double vodka in it.”

John Farbelow eventually pulled the durry away from his face and managed to sit up. There was a diagonal sword-cut across his left cheek, and his right eye was swollen up like a plum.

“They killed my children, Ella. How can I live with myself?”

“You have to. We all have to. It's the price we pay for fighting against the Lord Protector and the Doorkeepers. You
seem to think that it's wonderful, living here. But this isn't home, is it? This is exile. Who cares if they know how to cure TB and they can fly to the moon? Home is where your heart is, John, and nobody can ever take that away from you.”

Abraxas gave a sharp bark of agreement. John Farbelow tugged at his ears and rubbed him under his chin. “What a price, though, Ella. What a price to pay. We rescued one man and where is he now?”

“I don't know. But I suspect he's gone back, looking for his girlfriend.”

John Farbelow reached into the pocket of his shirt that was hanging on the chair beside the couch and took out a pack of cigarettes. He lit one, and coughed like a dredger.

“They'll kill you, those things.”

“Not where you and I come from, Ella. They haven't discovered the connection yet, between smoking and lung cancer. And even if they have, they're keeping really, really quiet about it.”

Ella said, “I had a very strong feeling that we ought to rescue Josh Winward. I saw it in my tealeaves and I saw it in the Sybil. I also saw it in the ordinary deck. Every time I asked if we should take the risk of rescuing Josh, it came up with an ace. You know what that means, don't you?”

“Of course. You haven't shuffled the deck properly.”

“It means that Josh is the chosen one. I've seen this before. It means that no matter what you think of him, or how much you question his importance, or his good sense, or his courage, he is the chosen one. Some people are just like that. They're chosen by fate, no matter what their aptitudes are. Joan of Arc. Toussaint I'Ouverture. Lawrence of Arabia.”

John Farbelow swallowed coffee and sucked at his cigarette and blew smoke out of his nose. “I don't know, Ella. All this occult shit.”

“Julia Winward's lung came out of her brother's mouth during my séance and that was psychic evidence that somebody had stopped her from living and breathing, and a guide to how to find them. If I did the same to you, who knows, you might even find yourself holding Winnie's hand.”

“Just her hand?”

“Of course. Spirits only materialize in little pieces. To bring a whole person back … that would probably kill the medium, and everybody else in the room. How do you think the Hoodies found you, underneath the British Museum?”

“Somebody grassed us up, that's all. It doesn't take much, does it? A few packets of fags and a bottle of this world's whiskey.”

“They found you because you were all excited, after you rescued Josh Winward. The Hoodies could feel your excitement, and their dogs could, too. Especially since you killed that Thomas Edridge. I know Thomas Edridge, and I'm glad he died. For your own safety, though, you should have let him go.”

“Yes,” said John Farbelow, wearily.

Ella held his hand. “I feel guilty, that so many of your young people were killed.”

“Well, I feel guilty, too; and sometimes I wish that the Hoodies had killed me, instead of any one of those young people. But that's not the way life works, is it? Life is unfair. Life is full of surprises. All of those clichés.”

At that moment, there was a pummeling knock on the apartment door. Abraxas barked wildly and ran over to it. John Farbelow swung his legs off the couch and said, “Ella? Are you expecting anybody?”

“No, I'm not. And even if I was, they'd always press the downstairs bell first.”

John Farbelow went over to the kitchen area, tugged open the cutlery drawer and took out a chopping knife.

“It could be Nancy or Josh,” said Ella.

John Farbelow shook his head. “It could be. But I'm not taking any chances, that's all.” He went over to the door and listened. There was silence for a long, long while – so long that Ella thought that whoever it was had given up and left. But then there was another thunderous knocking, and something that sounded like a kick.

“For Christ's sake, that's my door!” shouted Ella.

“Open up!”
a voice demanded, in a muffled roar.

“Oh, Jesus,” said John Farbelow. “It's the Hoodies. They're here.”

“Oh, shit. How good are you at abseiling?”

“Abseiling – what are you talking about?”

“I'm talking about climbing out of the kitchen window and sliding on a rope down to the sidewalk.”