The Alembic Valise (8 page)

Sophie had always justified the gap in her memory as being a drug-induced forgetfulness. It was after all the heyday of trip-hop clubbing craziness when she was in her teens; and Bristol was the white-hot centre of it all. So she had assumed that a sad but entirely understandable weariness had crept into the part of her mind where remembrance dwelt, and lain there, and persisted, until now. But when she met Jim a key had turned, the seal had cracked, the rock had rolled, and the memory of events from the mid nineteen nineties that had troubled her by their absence, now troubled her by their presence. Sophie had remembered.

Sophie had remembered the night that she and her friends had taken the brown acid. It was not really brown or acid but it had become a subculture convention to name any drug that produced an undesirable reaction thus. It was summer and they had gone up onto the roof of the club to drink beer and watch the sun rise. They had also snorted the last of the sulphate in order to liven themselves up as the ecstasy had long ago worn off. But as the sky began to slowly lighten she began to feel ill and so left her friends and began to descend the cast iron fire escape in the hope of getting to the street below before puking up.

The building was an old cinema from the Victorian era and it was run down even before it was turned into a nightclub. The sound system was state-of-the-art but that was powered down now and the building was silent. The fire escape led down to an alley and Sophie steadied herself by holding onto the handrail. The surface was cool and smooth and as she lost herself in the floating sensation that accompanied her descent she realised she was still very stoned.

She suddenly stopped because at her feet she saw a person sitting on the landing in front of her as she made the final turn to take the last section of the staircase. It was a girl with wild hair, wearing a flowered print dress, hugging her knees and softly sobbing. Sophie reached out and touched her on the shoulder and the girl turned quickly, looking frightened.

It was the bunga tuffy.

Sophie was about to speak when the girl held up a finger to her lips, looking nervously at the part-open window on the landing above them. The roller blind was pulled down but moved in the breeze and a then a man’s voice began to sing.

Hey, little girl

One night you will miss me

Pour some wine, put that dress on

Tonight we will dance

The future’s still a mystery

And yet for love

The time is always right

The cheesy sixties ballad delivered in a soft lilting voice. The girl looked at Sophie with pleading eyes, then broke their gaze and began to climb the stairs.

Sophie fled and on reaching solid ground threw up next to a black Mercedes parked in the alley. She did not wait for her friends but stumbled home through the goldening streets to her basement bed-sit.

Now as she drove away from the hospital where her brother was still recovering, Sophie was able to finally see that this forgotten event had been the key element triggering the breakdown that occurred soon afterwards. The rest of that summer had been a blur of clubbing and festivals, until September, when her friends who were all older than her went off en-masse to Goa, and she instead of going back to school began the descent. She remained in her room, she stopped eating, the black dog had come to stay.

She was really just a child, unable to cope with the feelings of abandonment that were always just below the surface. Her parents had long ago split and were living abroad. Her last boyfriend had told her she was too needy, and now her friends had all gone. The party was over. Only Dave was there for her and he swept in and took her off to a commune in southern France, where she learnt to be a cook. Unwillingly at first, but as time passed she became consumed by the craft.

‘Momma look at me now,’ she sang in her head as she scanned the road ahead for a parking space.

Cuthbert liked to watch the sunset from his balcony. He hummed the refrain from ‘Take the A Train’. The melody was embedded in his DNA. As a boy in Trinidad he had listened to Jazz Hour, broadcast every night on The Voice of America, for which the Ellington and Strayhorn composition was the theme. The dense, sensual and yet almost scientifically disciplined sound that flowed from the radio in those far off days had produced an entrancement that he had never lost.

The suns rays slanted across the park and illuminated the neo classical facades of the villas, in a red glow. Cuthbert took a cigar from his pocket and clipped the end. Not bad for a boy from the islands, he thought.

His mood was soon broken however by the sound of the door chimes. He was alone in the house, Marna had gone to the health club, so he pulled the French windows shut and walked quickly into the hallway, frowning when he looked at the monitor and saw his guest’s identity. Then he composed himself and forced a smile before unlocking the heavy oak door.

Cuthbert greeted his visitor and then stepped out onto the pavement and looked up the street. His eyes were a little bloodshot and the cigar that he had only moments before flipped off the terrace into the shrubbery below had left a sour taste in his mouth. He was aware that he had not invited his visitor into the house. But he continued to stand on the threshold.

“What can I do for you?” Again he looked up the street and then licked his dry lips nervously. “I think you had better come inside.”

That night the concert hall was packed. They had seats high up at the back close to the sound desk. When Mai and her band took the stage the lights went down quickly and the film began. In the seats to Joel’s right were Lorna and her father and DC Sharma.

That morning Joel had gone straight to the hospital after getting the good news of Dave’s recovery and had been reassured by what he found. Dave was not exactly awake and the nurse was insistent that he was too tired to talk but he did say a little to Joel. That he had strange dreams that began and ended roughly; a smack round the head on both occasions.

“What’s going on?” he had asked Joel who was unable at the time to answer honestly.

The effect, of the music and the images on the screen, was overwhelming. The ethereal sound of Mai’s Ondes Martinot soared again on cue and reinforced the emotional power of the story being told on-screen. After forty-five minutes there was a break and they opted to try the juice bar they had earlier passed in the foyer. This would allow Detective Z to go outside for a cigarette. DC Sharma took some apple juice outside to her date whilst Lorna and Joel sat and watched the people go by, each lost in their own thoughts.

Until Lorna said, “Are they really going to give themselves up? Deacon and Seraphim?” Before Joel could answer the end of intermission buzzer was sounded and Lorna’s father appeared.

“Joel, have you got a minute?” he said. They went outside. Joel wondered if the Detective had been able to lip-read his daughter’s words from across the room. “We just got a call that there is news on Deacon Mclure.”

“Has he given himself up?” asked Joel.

Joel could not see any fear in the detective’s face as he replied in the negative. It is for the best that the police appear untroubled, he thought. But Joel himself felt a stab of fear puncturing the glowing bubble of happiness that had been elevating his spirits.

“They have him on CCTV.”

“Right,” said Joel hoping that his escalating uneasiness was not communicating itself to the detective in any way.

“Yes, we picked him up on one of the cameras in the embankment gardens. We have been monitoring that area for your benefit.” When Joel looked confused he added, “Deranged level nine gamers, remember? Seeking retribution?”

Oh yes,” said Joel with some relief. Then he remembered that the last time Deacon been there he was visiting him. And he had had Lorna with him. Oh Christ! he thought. “When?” was all he managed to say.

“Yesterday, we have to go and look at the footage now, in fact. Can you make sure Lorna gets home, I am afraid it’s going to be a long night for us.” DC Sharma appeared at his side.

“Thank your friend Mai for inviting us, the music was so beautiful. Apologise to her for us.” The two detectives started to walk away towards the concrete stairway that would take them onto Waterloo Bridge. Joel hesitated, but only for a split second. He knew that this was a point of no return.

“Wait” he called out.

Several of the concertgoers filing back into the auditorium turned to stare at him. Detective Z had started to climb the stairs and waited with an exasperated expression whilst his assistant retraced her steps. Joel took a deep breath.

“Yesterday evening I went with Deacon Mclure to Brixton to search for a man called Seraphim Volt who we thought could tell us about the attack on Dave. I know I should have told you this sooner.”

“Too right,” said DC Sharma as she turned away to signal to Detective Z that his presence was required.

Lorna had been watching from inside the foyer, and now she came outside, having sensed that a moment of reckoning was approaching and discretely slipped away into the crowd. She knew she had five or ten minutes at the outside. Her story would be that she had gone to the toilet and then got lost in the modernist complexity of the South Bank. She trotted down the concrete spiral staircase that he father had begun to climb only minutes before. After descending several levels she found herself in the underground car park area and she quickly pulled out her phone to try to call Deacon one last time. The only problem was that she could not get any reception, so she started to walk towards the paved area that opened onto the embankment. There was a loud clatter from the direction she was heading and she turned the corner to see several boys in baggy clothes, skateboarding in the empty space, illuminated by flickering orange lights.