Burial (3 page)

Nathan said, 'Christ. I'd kill for a cigarette.'

She gave him the look.

'Come on,' he said. 'Just one night. It's party nerves.'

She allowed herself an expression of benevolent radiance. 'Go on.

It's only one night.'

It's only cancer, he thought, producing a packet of Marlboro Lights from his coat pocket; one of four he'd bought to last him a long evening.

He stood between the carriages of the juddering train, blowing smoke out the window.

Half an hour later, they pulled up to Sutton Parkway. It was little more than a dark, astringently cold concrete platform.

Nathan gathered himself, saddened a little to know the best part of Sara's evening, the anticipation, was nearly over. Almost certainly, from now on, the evening would only get worse.

Outside the station, they caught a minicab.

Nathan paid the driver and the minicab pulled away, its tail lights smudged and indistinct in the billowing white exhaust.

Their party shoes scratched on the cold gravel of the long driveway.

From inside the big house came a faint, muffled, repetitive boom; the windows vibrated with it.

Mark Derbyshire had built this mansion in the late seventies, when he could still afford it. At the rear was a helicopter landing pad, long since overgrown.

Nathan offered Sara his elbow and together they approached the door. It was answered by a balding man dressed as a butler; Nathan hoped he'd been hired for the evening.

Sara removed her coat, shrugging it from her narrow white shoulders in a way that made him remember, for a moment, why he'd once believed himself to be in love with her.

The magnolia hall was hung with gold and silver discs from forgotten bands and singers whose records Mark Derbyshire had once helped to climb the charts. And there were many framed eight by tens. In them a younger and thinner Mark Derbyshire - but with the same neatly trimmed beard, the same look of jovial malice - placed his arm round the shoulder of one squirming celebrity or other: a young Madonna was there, and David Bowie showed his David Bowie teeth. Elton John looked frumpy and unhappy in a straw boater and comedy spectacles. The photographs made Nathan melancholy.

Sara said, 'Shall we?' and - feeling for a moment like Cary Grant -- he led her inside the double door into the ballroom.

At the far end, the wedding DJ stood at his mixing desk. A few guests, mostly young local girls, were dancing.

Sara tugged his elbow.

'What?'

'Celebrity count?'

'It's early days. It's not even nine.'

She looked at him, trustingly. They pushed and 'excuse-me'd and danced round the loose crowd to get to the drinks table. It was a long trestle, behind which stood six young men in burgundy shirts, pouring drinks.

Nathan surveyed the party, holding a gin and tonic. He barely knew anyone - certainly nobody to whom he felt inclined to introduce Sara. He wondered what on earth they could find to talk about until it was time for her to go home disappointed.

They stared at the party and into their drinks. Nathan tried not to look at the senior managers -- whom he regarded with contempt for their black suits and their big, old-man ears and their stupid fucking cigars.

He made an effort to point out colleagues whose names he might have mentioned in passing, but Sara wasn't really interested; she wanted to see, and be introduced to, celebrities. But no real celebrity had stepped over Mark Derbyshire's threshold since Margaret Thatcher was in power.

Eventually, Howard strolled past. Although to Nathan he was obviously fucked out of his mind, he carried a certain louche charm, with his curly grey-white hair, his unlatched bow-t
ie.
Nathan grabbed his elbow.

'Howard! Mate! Have you met Sara?'

Howard had not met Sara.

Shaking her hand, he glanced at her creamy decolletage with an expression that resembled sorrow. Then he locked eyes with her.

Howard had pale Icelandic eyes and they shone like a missile guidance system.

Nathan said, 'Tell her about some of the people you've worked with.'

'I'm sure she's got better things to do than listen to my war stories.'

'The Rolling Stones,' said Nathan, not without desperation. 'The Beatles. Spandau Ballet.'

'Spandau Ballet!' said Sara.

And that was it. She was happy.

Nathan hung around for a while, but soon it became clear he was no longer required. He wandered off to get another drink, then followed the chlorine tang towards the indoor swimming pool.

The atmosphere round the pool was excitingly muted and full of potential. Nathan leaned against the damp wall and stared through the steamy glass ceiling at the pin-sharp December sky. He recognized none of the constellations and for a moment fantasized that he'd entered a deeply foreign country. He felt good.

In the corner was Mark Derbyshire. He was engaged in restrained conversation with a big, shambling, shaggy-haired man in crumpled dinner jacket and an Hawaiian shirt. The shambling man seemed to be controlling the conversation: Mark Derbyshire looked diminished, clutching his glass of wine in one hairy-backed hand, nodding along, glancing left and right.

Mark spotted Nathan and rolled his eyes with relief, beckoning Nathan over.

'Nathan. You have to meet this guy.'

The shambling man turned. And for the second time in his life, Nathan reached out to shake Bob's hand.

'Mate,' he said, recognizing Nathan. 'Good to see you.'

Mark said, 'You know this guy?'

Nathan said, 'Kind of.'

Bob said, 'From way back. How are you? You're looking a bit more prosperous.'

Nathan looked down at his suit, still unpaid for. 'Well. Y'know.'

He caught Mark Derbyshire's confused, malevolent little eyes.

Bob explained to Mark, 'He was a bit of a hippie when I knew him.'

And Nathan protested: 'I don't know about that'

'Bit of a new age traveller,' said Bob. 'All patchouli and ganja.'

'That's great,' said Mark, who at least knew what ganja was; he'd heard it mentioned in a comedy reggae song. 'It's great that you two know each other. I can make you Bob's liaison, Nathan.'

'Great,' said Nathan, not knowing what Mark was talking about.

'We're going to have Bob on the show,' said Mark.

'As an experiment,' said Bob.

'What he means is, for a trial period. Thursday night, 12.30, for six weeks.'

'It's part of the research,' said Bob. 'I'm compiling stories for a book.'

'Still working on the PhD?'

'Inter alia.'

'Nathan, boy,' said Mark. 'Do us a favour - go and get us a drink.'

It was at once a jovial and venomous reminder of who was boss.

Bob caught Nathan's eye and winced in sympathy. Nathan set down his drink and walked quickly to the trestle table, ordered the drinks, looked for Sara, saw that she was still enchanted by Howard, then went back to the pool. He handed Mark Derbyshire his whisky and Bob his vodka tonic.

They said cheers and clinked glasses. Then a doddering, silver haired guest took Mark's elbow. Unsure whether to address Nathan or Bob, he alternated between them. 'Do you mind if I borrow the host?'

'Not at all,' said Bob, and lifted his vodka tonic in silent salute. The guest led Mark Derbyshire back to the party.

Bob watched him go.

'Christ,' he said.

Nathan smiled, not without guilt.

'I mean really. What a cocksucker.'

Nathan laughed, but he was uncomfortable.

Bob changed the subject. He said, 'So. Do you have any drugs?'

They stopped off at the bar. Sara was still in conversation with Howard, but they'd been joined by a number of other party goers. She looked like she was enjoying herself. Making friends. Wherever she went, she made friends.

Clutching a bottle of gin in one hand and three wine glasses in the other -- one glass full of ice -- Bob sidled alongside Nathan.

'She with you?'

'Yeah. Well, nominally.'

'Lucky man.'

Nathan ignored that -- it hardly mattered to him any more that Sara was good-looking.

And, actually, Nathan got the impression that Bob had disliked Sara on sight. Not many men did that, and Bob kind of went up in his estimation because of it. In some strange way, it made him an ally.

They hurried up the main stairwell. On the first-floor landing, they turned down a half-lit, door-lined hallway.

Nathan said, 'Have you been here before?'

'Nah. I'm following the vibe.'

'Right.'

'I know it sounds like bollocks. But you attend as many hauntings as I do, you learn how to read a house.'

He tried a door handle, moved on. Tested another; the door opened. He groped in the darkness and a light came on. They stepped into the room and Nathan closed the door.

It was a guest bedroom, impersonal as a Holiday Inn. A double bed, a bedside table, a mirrored wardrobe.

Nathan turned on a standard lamp that stood in one corner; it shed a more pleasing glow, so he killed the overhead light.

He said, 'You really believe that stuff?'

'Yep.'

Nathan took from the wall a square mirror, about the size of an LP, and lay it mirror-side up on the quilted bed. Then he kneeled and laid out four lines of cocaine, a cat's claw gash across his reflection.

Bob

went hunting in his thick, greasy wallet. He produced a ten pound note. Two lines each.

Then they were sitting on the floor with their backs to the bed, sniffing.

'So,' said Nathan. 'Have you ever actually seen a ghost?'

'Not as such.'

'What does that mean, not as such?'

'It means, I've seen their effects.'

'Effects like what?'

'Anomalies in haunted houses. Electrical disturbances. Cold spots.

Poltergeist phenomena.'

'No way.'

'Yes way.'

'As in, you've seen a ghost that throws stuff around?'

'People used to think it was that. But we're pretty convinced it's some kind of geothermic reaction - like an intense, very localized electrical field. It sort of charges things up - and yeah, throws stuff around.'

'No shit?'

'No shit. A professor I know in Copenhagen, he built a poltergeist machine. Honest to God. He built a room inside a kind of electromagnetic chamber. He filled it with everyday stuff-chairs, furniture, newspapers, mugs. Then he runs a charge through it, a really powerful charge. And guess what? He reproduces poltergeist phenomena, right there in the lab: things levitate, fly across the room.

All that.'

'You've seen it?'

'Seen it.'

'What's it like?"

'Creepy as shit.'

Nathan was enthusiastic. 'So you think that's what it is, the supernatural?

Just natural phenomena.'

'Pretty much, yeah. Ninety-nine per cent of it.'

'And the other per cent?'

'It's the other per cent that really interests me. Probably a good ninety-nine per cent of that last one per cent is explicable. We just don't know how yet. But the remaining one per cent of the one per cent?'

He pinched his nostrils and closed his eyes.

'Jesus. Do you have a cigarette?'

Nathan could feel each cell of his body vibrating.

After hoovering the last of the cocaine, then wetting their fingertips with spit and rubbing the bitter residue into their gums, Nathan refilled the wine glasses with ice and Bombay Sapphire.

Bob sat rigid on the bed, holding his glass by the stem.

'Fucking hell,' he said.

Nathan told him, 'I stopped taking this stuff two years ago. Can you imagine?'

Bob said he couldn't imagine.

They went quiet.

The quality of the light seemed to change.

Bob said, 'What's wrong?'

'Nothing.'

'Something's wrong. You've got something on your mind.'

Nathan thought about it.

Eventually, he said, 'So, yeah. I've got this problem.'

'What problem?'

'I was going to finish it with Sara.'

'Like, dump her?'

'That's a very strong word for it. We've kind of, y'know. Drifted apart and whatever. Somebody has to say something. One of us.'

'Won't it cause a scene?'

'Not tonight. I'm too wired. Are you wired?'

'Yes.'

"Me too.'

'So, if not tonight - when?'

'Tomorrow. Over lunch, a late breakfast.'

'Why?'

'She's having an affair.'

'With?'

'Her boss.'

'Okay. So where's the problem?'

'Second thoughts. Am I doing the right thing? Should I be, like, fighting for her?'

'If you loved her, you would.'

'Would I?'

'Yeah. Nathan, mate. The decision's already made. This is just anxiety talking.'

'And booze.'

'And booze.'

'And coke.'

'And that.' Bob leaned over and, with an index finger, he tapped Nathan's head. 'But in here, you know what to do. You've already decided.'

'You reckon?'

'I reckon.'

'I'm not sure I do.'

Bob seemed to be thinking very hard. He said, 'Do you love her?'

'I don't think so. But when I think of us not being together any more, it makes me a bit sad.'

'That's natural. But that's not love, it's regret. It's the end of love.'

'The end of love,' said Nathan, awed by the concept. 'Blimey. The end of love.'

Bob slapped his thigh and stood. He wavered a bit. His knees clicked.

He said, 'Let's consult the oracle!'

Nathan blinked up at him.

Bob said, 'Go to the bathroom. Bring back a plastic lid, like from a can of deodorant or something. Air freshener. Whatever.'

Excited - and too wired to question what he'd been asked -- Nathan hurried down the corridor to the bathroom, which had long since passed its best days. The shower and bath and sink were limescaled. The sinks wanted plugs. The taps dripped. Nathan rooted in the cupboards and found a can of shaving foam, from which he removed the plastic lid.

Back in the guest room, Bob was writing letters of the alphabet on sequential pages of a pocket notebook. Finally, he ripped the pages from the notebook, one by one, and lay them on the back of the mirror -- forming a rough circle. He placed the word YES at twelve o'clock, followed by the letters A through to M. At six o'clock, he placed the word NO, followed by the letters N through Z.