Michael G Preston

CULL

AUSTIN

MACAULEY

Copyright Michael G Preston

The right of Michael G Preston to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers. Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages. A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library. ISBN 978 1 84963 092 4

www.austinmacauley.com First Published (2011) Austin & Macauley Publishers Ltd. 25 Canada Square Canary Wharf London E14 5LB

Printed & Bound in Great Britain

Acknowledgements

Many thanks to Martin Brabazon for editorial help and encouragement; Hannah Bealey and Kim Murray for their production coordination skills; Annette Longman and Robert Brookes for editorial guidance and faith in my work, and to my close family and friends you know who you are for all your encouragement. And last but not least, thanks to the many unacknowledged helping hands at my publisher this story wouldnt be between covers without you.

It is a good viewpoint to see the world as a dream. When you have something like a nightmare, you will wake up and tell yourself it was only a dream. Yamamoto Tsunetomo

PART ONE

Miami. Florida. One of those days when South Beach shines like a polished diamond. When the palms hardly bow on the warm currents of air. When the Atlantic Ocean takes on shades of aquamarine as yet untouched by the finest watercolourist. One of those Miami days. A day when someone, somewhere, is planning a murder. Not just any murder. The Man in the Hawaiian shirt, Ray-Ban sunglasses, beige linen jacket and slacks watches the comings and goings of the Albion Hotels guests. He knows that his Quarry is in there. He knows that the patrician-looking gentleman with the ill-fitting sun visor and de rigeuer golfing attire is sitting with his actor friend at the bar. That his Quarry will drink a tall glass of Gordons London Gin and ginger with crushed ice. That his Quarry will smoke a fat cigar to the nub before leaving for his room. Before leaving for the hastily pencilled-in interview with the Man in the Hawaiian shirt. That was the way the Man in the Hawaiian shirt had planned it. He could afford to look at the white strip of sand and the gentle roll and fall of the waves beyond it. To think about the depths beneath the calming kiss of light against blue swell. Creatures with starbursts of tentacles, saw-like teeth, amoebic, placid, then then everything is red. Blood-red. Danger-red. More people come and go from the glass-panelled entrance to the Albion. The Man in the Hawaiian shirt is surprised to see that one of them is Christopher Flynn, the Quarrys friend and part-time golfing caddie. Flynn pauses to

scan a couple of silicone-heavy beach babes before moving off along the pavement in his trademark white Bucks. Some folks think theyre sixteen forever, the Man in the Hawaiian shirt whispers to himself with a smile, at the same time realizing that his Quarrys cigar-time must be well and truly over. The Man in the Hawaiian shirt pats the mini recorder, a Sony, in his trouser pocket and starts across the road. He continues through the Albions entrance, at once making a beeline for the concierges stand. The concierge offers an efficient smile of welcome. Im here to see Mr Delgado, the Man in the Hawaiian shirt says. The concierge nods his head, looking across the foyer to the bar. Mr Delgado was over there a few moments ago. Ill give his suite a call. Who do I say? William Sterling from Rolling Stone. The concierge looks up a second. Rolling Stone! The magazine Rolling Stone, dyou mean? The Man in the Hawaiian shirt nods. He continues to look keenly at the concierge whilst the latter mumbles something about needing a patch through to Mr Delgados suite. Another moment, and Hi, is that Mr Delgado? I have a Mr Sterling here from Rolling Stone magazine. A pause, then Ill send him up, sir. Thank you. Everything okay? the Man in the Hawaiian shirt asks. The concierge squints across the desk, saying, No problem, Mr Sterling. Mr Delgados suite is on the top floor: 256. The elevator is through the door to your left. Without pause the Man in the Hawaiian shirt is moving thorough the said doorway. He reaches the elevator, stabs the appropriate buttons, then stands firm, his fingers playing impatiently against the creases of his beige linen pants. The elevator doors open. A woman and two children exit. Inside now, moving up, up, up. The red indication arrow reminds the Man in the Hawaiian shirt of something:

something to do with the vast belt of blue sea beyond the flimsy confines of the hotel. The purity of it. An instant comprehension of life and death. Human beings are without doubt clunky by comparison. Human beings need hotels, doctors, words. Writers. Like Joseph Delgado. The elevator beeps, comes to a standstill. The doors glide softly away from the Man in the Hawaiian shirt. The Rolling Stone writer that never was. Mr Sterling, I presume? The Man in the Hawaiian shirt looks at the offered hand. It shows signs of age. Sixty-eight years of it, in fact. The tan is broken by tiny clusters of moles. Blue veins wind towards narrow wrists. You are Mr Sterling, arent you? the elderly man in the sun visor asks once more. Yeah, thats right, Mr Delgado, says the Man in the Hawaiian shirt, at once shaking Joseph Delgados hand. The wrinkled skin on Joseph Delgados upper lip puckers into a smile. I cant be bothered with the usual channels, Mr Sterling. Theyre too rife with protocol. Security, PR, management intervention. Im old school, I guess. A dinosaur. I remember the world before CCTV and radio-to-radio surveillance. The public appreciate old fossils like me. Its refreshing, says the Man in the Hawaiian shirt, following his Quarry along one of the adjacent corridors, all of which are plush with red carpet and fake stuccowork. The other week, he adds, I interviewed Madonna. She had brigades of black-suited soldiers with her. It felt like I was fighting my way through the royal guard of an empress. Shes famous, Delgado throws back, making a tsk, tsk noise with his tongue against the roof of his mouth. Im small potatoes. The Man in the Hawaiian shirt nods, smiles, says nothing. Dyou like golf, Mr Sterling? Delgado asks without turning. I always think you can get everything you need to know about a man from the way he approaches the putting green. Ive played so many courses in the last few months:

Sunningdale, St Andrews, Bel-Air, Pine Valley. Id never played Pine Valley before. He turns, squints back at the Man in the Hawaiian shirt. Theres a pot bunker there, ninth green, called the Devils Arsehole. He laughs. Apt, eh? For a guy with fifty-three horror novels under his belt. The Man in the Hawaiian shirt follows his Quarry into a plush suite of rooms. Everything is clean lines, smart furniture, venetian blinds and slats of sunlight. Delgado slings the sun visor hes carrying on a nearby sofa and beelines for a drinks trolley. He pours out two glasses of Evian, carries them across to a mirror-top table. Not my style, Mr Sterling, Delgado says, offering a glass to the Man in the Hawaiian shirt. I prefer old buildings. MidEuropean. Im more Versailles than the Flatiron Building. Please do take a pew, he adds, at the same time plumping himself in one of the ribbed leather chairs opposite. Miami being Miami, though, you gets what you is given, as they say. The Man in the Hawaiian shirt smiles. After a moment he sucks in a deep breath and says, This is hard for me, Mr Delgado. Hard? Hows that? Im a big fan of your work. My books keep you awake nights, do they? Theyve been known to, yeah. Delgado laughs. Do you have a favourite? The last book. You like that? Yeah. It gets no easier. That much I will say. Delgado pauses, sips water from his glass; he then takes up a cigar case from the table, flips it open and offers it across to his guest. Take one, Mr Sterling. The Man in the Hawaiian shirt takes a cigarette packet from his jacket pocket and flashes it at Delgado. You can lead a horse to water, Delgado jokes, placing a primed cigar in the corner of his mouth and readying himself to light it.

At the same time the Man in the Hawaiian shirt places a Marlboro Light to his lips, caresses it a second with the tip of his tongue, then blows on it: the dart, finer than a length of wire, hits Joseph Delgado squarely between the eyes. He blinks for a moment, evidently shocked the unlit cigar tumbling into the V of his shirt then slumps back into the nest of cushions behind him. The Man in the Hawaiian shirt empties the Evian from his glass on to the carpet, pockets the glass, stands, then calmly takes a knife with a serrated blade from the lining of his linen jacket. It would be best to make the wounds from right to left, south-north, rather than the reverse. Less mess. On the way out of the Albion Hotel, the Man in the Hawaiian shirt sees Chris Flynn and his latest piece of plastic blond, tanned, toned and top-heavy la Pamela Anderson. Flynn actually nods at him as they pass. He doesnt acknowledge Flynn, the concierge or anybody. The Man in the Hawaiian shirt knows what Flynn will find in Suite 256. Joseph Delgado is dead. For sure. Joseph Delgado is dismembered and lacking both heart and reproductive organs. On the wall, daubed in Delgados blood, a message: The king is DEAD. The Man in the Hawaiian shirt moves along South Beach. Police sirens moan in the distance. He doesnt hear them except as distant murmurs on the edge of his consciousness. He is thinking about the sun. The tints and diamond-sparkles on the incoming waves. And the trillions of creatures in the Atlantics depths, each managing in its own way to cleave to its own passage through life. Until the darkness comes. *****

Nicholas Legrand Nic to his friends hated flying. It was a definite fear. The swoop from ground level to 45,000 feet. That a promotional tour for your latest attempt at the best scary book of the century necessitated such a mode of transport, such was a given; that Nic Legrand couldnt give in to his fears, such was a given too; but why oh why did he have to be 45,000 feet in the air when the news came through: the news of his good friend and fellow authors death? Im so sorry, Nic. Annie Briussov, his agent in the US, sounded robotic, all chipped out, as she relayed the news her voice almost lost against the cloud-scape beyond the nearby window. Ill get back to you when I get more news. Can you get CNN up there? Can you get CNN up there? It stuck with him, that. Even though hed tried to focus his mind until landing, even though hed tried to apply the Way of the Samurai or putting ones mind firmly in the way of death an attempt to acknowledge the bigger picture other than the shock of Joseph Delgados death; even after all this, Annie Briussovs voice kept jabbing him, hard, digging blows: You there, Nic? Yep. Try CNN. Try the news. He looked out the window and frowned. Too many clouds. Are you certain about this, Annie? he asked after a moment. Yes, Annie Briussov was sure. Yes, Yes. Yes. He would never forget the chill the freeze that held him for the rest of the flight to New York. It was as if he were alone on the jet, all other passengers gone or in suspended animation; he gripped the material of the belt holding him in his seat so hard that his fingers began to bleed. They were still bleeding when 45,000 feet became terra firma again. Even now, ensconced in a London hotel room, the freeze was still with him. No matter how hard he tried to shake it off. Can you get CNN up there? Can you Who would want to kill Joseph Delgado? Delgado had wealth, yes; no family since the tragic loss of his wife of

twenty-five years and their only daughter in an automobile accident in Key West; Delgado was a well-respected writer, always up there in the Top 10 mass-market fiction list a writer, sui generis, who had managed to defy genre and bring respect to that old chestnut of the publishing world, the horror novel. Legrand admired him. Delgado was the Grand Master of their art. Legrand hoped someday to attain his friends levelheadedness and creative nous. Who, for Gods sake, would want to kill Joe Delgado? No, Kill was too clean a word. The murder had involved some kind of poison dart the kind of thing once used by Atahualpa and the Incas. It had also involved mutilation. The details were sketchy. Certain Internet postings had revealed that Delgados heart had been cut from his body. Others said his genitals had been cut off. The body, even now just over a month after Delgados death, was still the property of the Miami PD. And that was a horrible thought. Joe Delgado laid out on a mortuary slab in some dingy autopsy suite. Suddenly, the hotel phone rang. It made Legrand jump. Taking a deep breath, he reached across to the bedside table and picked up the receiver. He instantly recognized the voice at the other end. How are you, Nic? He stifled a yawn. Too many flights. Can you raise yourself for the BBC call, do you think? At least Vincent Greene, Legrands London agent, didnt mess around when making an approach. Greene was a get on and get with it type, and maybe or more specifically, certainly that was the kind of thing Legrand needed right now. You there, Nic? Im here, Legrand whispered after a moment, adding, At that time is always right now. Greene laughed. Dont give me one of your kung fu Koans just now, Nic. A concise answer would be graciously accepted.

Dont you think its strange, Vince, there was a slight kick in Legrands voice now how easily we forget about death whilst were living? No response. Then, The BBC interview will be your final promo. Ill see you at the Television Centre. Seven. Okay? For long seconds it was as if Nic Legrand had forgotten he was on the phone; again he was thinking about Joe Delgado, about the parallels in their lives. Both had no extended family of their own. The difference being that Legrand had chosen to have it that way. There was a sister in New Zealand, Jennifer, whom Legrand had not seen for over twenty years. Since the death of their parents, in fact. After that time a fourteen year writing apprenticeship had taken over Legrands life. Greene calling Legrand! If it hadnt been for his friendship with Toshiko Ozawa, more pen friendship than anything else Toshiko was thirty years younger than Legrand if it hadnt been for their mutual respect and continued interest in one anothers lives, then Legrand could truly have said he was alone. Toshiko, and the Samurai lifestyle in which both she and Legrand shared an interest, was undoubtedly a cherished figure in Legrands life. For her honesty: Nothing you do will have effect if you do not use truth. Greene calling Legrand! Legrand here, he laughed, switching the receiver to his other ear. Ill see you later, Vince. And thanks. Greene laughed under his breath. For what, exactly? For being a good agent. I do my worst. Greene paused. Were over the 250,000 mark with hardback sales re Satans Lure, Nic. Be great to give the little wizard with the round specs a run for his money, eh? Legrand ended the call. He looked amid the handful of books he always carried with him. There he found his copy of Delgados Portent, his favourite Delgado read. He flipped to the first page,

Without warning Darkness spread across the interstices of the Abbey. It was as if a wing, as wide as it was long, had spread itself across the sun Legrand leant forward on the bed as he closed the book. What warning had his friend had of his coming death? Had Delgados murderer spread himself across the sun? at once blotting out the light. Once and for all. Forever and ever. Amen. ***** Lindsay Eddowes adjusted the tails of his scarf and knotted them against his chest. He glanced along the avenue of standing stones behind him, their dark bodies in platoon-like formation, and once again as many times before he wondered why such Neolithic temples had been built. Avebury was one of the best examples in Britain. All sorts of juxtapositions. Positive. Negative. Male. Female. Phallus. Lozenge. Circle. Avenue. This part of Wiltshire was like some kind of congruence of everything a stone circle was meant to be. Whatever that was. And everyone had some kind of theory. More than anything, for Eddowes himself, Avebury had become a home. A place to write. He still remembered the day he, wife Kerry and their at that time four-year-old daughter Alexis had arrived at their new home. The cottage, sans the roses round the door, was a dream come true. It was all because of his faith in his work, his wifes faith in his work, and just hard graft. And more hard graft. The surrounding stone circle, the Neolithic touch, was a bonus. And anyway, a writer needed a good atmosphere to write. Particularly if he wrote what the mainstream reader and the mainstream publisher classified as horror. Their verdict. Eddowes himself thought of his work as literature. That he utilized the supernatural in his work wasnt enough to tag him a horror novelist. And that even though his latest book, Death

by Magic, was much darker than his previous books. Thumbscrews, Eddowes told himself. Damned agents who wanted recipe success. He stood quietly for a moment, scanning the stone nearest to him: almost a perfect rhombus. He then moved across to it, at once reaching his palm against the pitted surface, expecting it to bite yes, to bite his fingers off. Recently hed projected into the world about him nothing but uncertainty, nothing but hostility hostility aimed right back at none other than Lindsay Eddowes. Even Kerry had acknowledged his moods. Shouldnt he be happy right now? Twenty-one books under his belt. A beautiful home. Wife. Kids. New novel. Yes. And I am happy. But theres always a nagging sense of guilt beneath every Just then his mobile beeped in his pocket. Reluctantly he removed the phone from its sheepskin nest, flipped it open and saw that the incoming call was from his wife. Hello. Hows you? Okay. Walking. I thought youd like to know. The familiar pause, a Kerry Eddowes Pause; a habit. Youve got a couple of incoming emails in your inbox. Theyre from your agent. Thanks. Another feel-out KE pause. You said you needed to know if you got anything from London. I did, didnt I? he responded, glimpsing back along the West Kennett Avenue almost, almost, expecting the stones to be marching in pairs towards him. Ill be back in half an hour, he added. By the way, Kerry pursued, this time without a feel-out pause, Nicholas Legrand is on TV tonight. I thought youd like to give him a watch. He immediately thought about Legrand. Hed known for quite some time that Legrands new novel was to be released the same week as his own. Hed told himself that he didnt

care whether or not he outsold Legrand. Over and over hed told himself that. And yet And yet! In truth, they were different writers. Legrand was almost in the same league as Joseph Delgado, that is to say, a populist, a big seller. It was a strange thing to know that Delgado was gone. Not that Eddowes knew him well or anything. But to be slaughtered like that. A man of Joseph Delgados status. A man who had garnered such respect for his work. It just seemed too crazy. Almost, almost, like a novel. Id like to take a look, he said suddenly, glimpsing down at the mobile in his hand with half-closed eyes, as if attempting to gather himself for the walk home. A pause, then, You are okay, arent you, Lin? Of course, he responded, pulling himself together. Just having one of my cuckooland moments. On the way home he continued to think about Joseph Delgado. Hed heard that Delgado had been emasculated. Christ almighty, who would want to do that to someone? Delgados wife had died in a family tragedy. No scenario, then, involving retribution for an extra-marital affair, Eddowes reasoned. Then why? How about a crazed fan? he thought. Only a few days ago another writer of horror novels, Jonathan Wraith, had been assaulted at a book signing. There were always a few marginal types who tried to get a little too intimate between the covers the book covers, that is. Even Dickens had his over-zealous fans. Not that Eddowes had ever heard of the writer of Great Expectations ever being attacked by a knife-wielding reader. Eddowes shook his head. The world had gone mad. He was lucky to be away from it all. And that, pretty much, was the way he wanted it. ***** SNAP!

Matt Myrick halted in his tracks. He tugged back the brim of his Giants baseball cap not his team but a birthday gift from his son and glimpsed along the forest track behind him. Everything looked still. The serried ranks of pine trees graded away left and right. Faint rays of grey light held their ground between the liquorice-black trunks. Nothing moving. Nothing there. Boy, the imagination can still take you by surprise, Myrick! Even after forty-seven novels, even now, youre still acting like a fucking kid! With a shrug he about-turned and continued on a few yards along the track. He was soon smiling about his jumpy attitude; goes with the territory, he thought. You dont write about terrors in the dark, the subconscious strata of mankind, and get away with it the same way a romance novelist can kiss goodbye to her work and snuggle under the duvet. Suddenly he halted again, straightened his six foot three frame, dug a hand into his leather jacket and took out Joseph Delgados last novel: Extra Sensory Deception. It was a clever piece of writing. Myrick should know because hed read it four times in the last two months. Delgado was a master when it came to dragging the reader into a narrative swift plot and complex characters combined to make you believe anything. Anything. And thats no mean feat for any writer. But for a horror writer, as Myrick knew, it was a gift from the gods. SNAP! Myrick spun on his heels, almost dropping the book to the ground. A dogs bark had immediately followed the sound of the snapping twig. And this, Myrick knew, was Chuck, his Labrador. Jumpy. Why so goddamn jumpy, pal? The truth was that he knew why. The truth was that he knew exactly why. It was because of Joseph Delgado. It was because Delgado was gone. If one man had helped Matt Myrick find his publishing legs, that man was Joe Delgado. A generous nudge in the right direction came from Delgados reviews of

Myricks first book, The Haunting of Davy Wolff. To say that Delgados praise lifted the book from minimum to maximum sales was an understatement. Who, for Christs sakes, would want to murder Joe Del Directly before him now, he saw Chuck come into view. The retriever was running ahead of a skinny ten-year-old boy, stopping occasionally to glimpse after his pursuer, then bounding on again towards Myrick. The boy, Myricks son, upon seeing his father, stopped running. After a moment Jess, Myricks wife, and his daughter, Billie, followed Chuck and Manny along the forest path. I heard you comin, Myrick said. What you readin? asked Manny, glimpsing across at the cover a skull surrounded by isotopes of light of Delgados novel. It looks kinda cool. Myrick smiled to himself: kinda cool! Now Mr Delgado wouldve loved that. Is it kinda cool? Manny pursued. The guy who wrote this one was big-time cool, Myrick said. Someday, Mans, Id like to write a book as good as this guys books. Manny screwed up his nose. You are as good. Youre cool too. Laughing now, Myrick looked up at his wife and daughter; Jess was placing Chuck on a leash whilst Billie looked on, the latter patting the retrievers golden flank with her gloved hands. After a moment Jess looked back at him with enquiring eyes. She knew he was down. She knew hed been suffering from a slight case of writers block since hed heard about Delgados murder. The whole thing, Jess knew, had affected him more than hed let on. Dont you think youre cool too, Pop? Manny was asking him now. Hes cool too, Jess answered for him, stepping forward with Chuck and Billie one on either side of her. So are you, Mans. Sos your sister. And Chuck as well, Billie said.

And Chuck, Jess added, laughing. Matt Myrick remained silent but at the same time he let Jess take his copy of Delgados novel and replace it inside his jacket. She patted his arm and kissed him on the cheek. It was enough. A tacit signal that all would be well because she loved him. Had loved him ever since high school. And would continue to love him no matter what. And thats something more, Myrick thought. Thats something more than all my damn novels put together. He and Jess looked on as Manny, Billie and Chuck ran on along the pine-guarded track. As if suddenly moved to do so, he took Jesss hand in his own and leant against her shoulder as they walked on. He couldnt stop it, though, the slight chill from passing through him. The thought of losing them, his family. The way Joseph Delgado had lost his. Poor Joe Delgado. You work like crazy, you get it right, then We should pick up some pizzas or somethin from Kenosha, Jess said. I dont know about you, Matt, but Im starvin. Yeah, he replied after a moment. Me too. ***** Le Renoir was almost full. Saskia Laytner adjusted the hemline of her cotton-knit sweater against her best Helmut Lang trousers, crossed her legs and made a half-turn towards the nearby window. She gazed out at the passing vehicles, mostly taxis, moving along the Charing Cross Road, then pressed her mobile close to her ear once more, allowing his monotone to enter her consciousness again. Is he there yet? Oliver Gadney, Sass Laytners boyfriend, asked again. I mean, I dont want to be late. Good impressions are long-lasting impressions. Sass Laytner sighed into her mobile. Jonathans not that kind of guy. You sure?

Yeah. Reaching her hand into her trouser pocket, she pulled out a make-up compact, expertly flipped it open and eyed her reflection in the tiny mirror, licking her lips before adding, Since when did you worry about lasting impressions, Ollie? Its not every day I meet one of your well-known clients, darling. He paused to laugh down the phone. I dont usually move in such honoured company. The antiques business is less well-attired, so to speak. Ah, she laughed, tis such a shame, so to speak. Keep your sympathy in your trousers, Oliver Gadney joked, adding, Be there in ten. Sass Laytner cut the call. What a boon it had been to get Jonathan Wraith on board at Di Livios Literary Agency. It had been Di Livios expertise in negotiating subsidiary rights, film rights, etc, that had clinched the deal. But also, Sass liked to think, it had been because she worked there. She and Wraith had hit it off immediately. And Sass was joyous when Yvonne Di Livio asked her to work with Wraith. Shed had a big role in the overseas deals for his last novel, Slice. It felt good to be right in there. In at the sharp end. She smiled and reached her make-up compact back inside her trouser pocket. When she looked up again, Wraith was standing at the restaurant entrance. He was tall, pale, with a cuff of dark hair skewed across his forehead. He wore a T-shirt with the word Fender printed across the chest, a leather motorcycle jacket, jeans and baseball pumps. He looked more like a musician than a writer. But then, Sass thought, what the hell does a writer look like? Not everyone wanted to be as hirsute as Tolstoy or Dickens. Hi, she said, getting up from her seat and making as if to greet Wraith with a kiss. I hope youre okay about coming down here, Jon. Jonathan Wraith dropped his shoulders in a shrug. He immediately pulled a chair and sat to the table. I hope you dont mind, Sass continued, still standing, but Oliver wants to drop by to meet you.

Im not some kind of emissary for the United Nations, Wraith murmured as he scanned a menu. Or maybe you think Im an exhibit. Tutankhamuns mask or somethin. Sorry, she apologized, sitting down now. Wraith continued to scan the menu. After a moment he smiled as he replaced the menu-card on the table. Can I share the joke? She hated it when people did that. Overt mysteriousness. It made her kick a bit. May I share the joke? Its funny, he said. Thats all. What? Our attempt at formality. My boyfriends on his way. Wraith nudged her foot with his own under the table. Since when did that bother a shiksa like you? She couldnt help showing a half smile. Have you put a lid on the incident at the signing? she said, changing the subject. Whats to put a lid on? He shrugged. A drunk with a cigarette lighter decides to swap his Marlboro for a horror novelist instead. Didnt it upset you? Why should it? If you think about what happened to Joseph Delgado, she couldnt help letting go a full-bodied shiver then Id say its pretty damn Im not Joseph Delgado, he interrupted. Hes he was in a different league. Im lucky, I guess. I get the nutjob with the Zippo; Delgado gets the full-blown assassin. Speaking of which. She paused, reached her handbag off the chair beside her, opened it and took out an envelope. I printed off this email for you. It arrived in Yvonne Di Livios mailbox this morning. Wraith accepted the envelope. He placed it on the table a moment and looked down at it as if attempting to see inside it without opening it. Do you know what it says? he asked. Ive seen it, yes.

And? Arent you going to read it? Wraith looked at her with impatient eyes now. Just tell me what it says, Saskia. Its an invite to a memorial party in honour of Joseph Delgado. She raised both hands before her, palms upturned. Really. You got to be fucking kiddin me, Saskia, he responded, at once adding a sniff of disbelief. Since when did Delgado read anything of mine? Were we were different in our approach to the craft of writing. Per fucking se. I think Delgados quoted as saying somewhere that he stopped reading me after my third book. She gave a perfunctory look in the direction of the restaurant entrance, made an attempt to settle back in her chair, then said evenly, quietly, with a hint of a smile, You never really know people until theyre dead. Maybe Delgado was a bigger fan than you think. Wraith shrugged. I dont buy it. Wheres this memorial bash supposed to be taking place? Again she gave a perfunctory glance in the direction of the entrance. Dorchester Hotel, I believe. Sounds quite swanky, dont you think? Wraith pocketed the envelope without opening it, then without pause glimpsed up at the figure now standing beside him. The onlooker was male, tall, with neatly-coiffeured brown hair. The general demeanour was one of moderate and ongoing success. A Paul Smith jacket, waistcoat and corded slacks added dimension to this impression. Im a big fan of your work, Mr Wraith, the man said, swallowing nervously. Im Ollie Gadney. I hope you dont mind my dropping in like this. Saskia, he smiled and nodded in Sasss direction said it would be okay if I dropped in to meet you. After a moment Wraith stood up and shook Oliver Gadneys offered hand. Then he looked beyond Gadney towards

the other diners in the restaurant, saying, At least you didnt bring a cigarette lighter with you. Gadney watched as Wraith, stabbing his hands in the pockets of his motorcycle jacket, moved away from the table. Fuck, fuck, fuck, he mouthed under his breath, still watching as Wraith disappeared through the door to the Gents. Dont worry yourself, babe, Saskia said. Its just Jons way of coping with compliments. He likes you, really. Gadney hesitated a moment, then looked back at Saskia Laytner with embarrassed eyes. She was smiling at him. He couldnt bring himself to smile back. ***** Didnt you once say that you thought Dan Brown was a member of the Illuminati? The interviewer, spruce, blowdryed, clued-out, let go a false smile of self-congratulation at remembering such trifling details. You do have to wonder how he gets all that information about codes and symbols and such. Nicholas Legrand looked at his interviewer and thought, A ronin should be called for. A ronin who is powerful with his sword. A swift cut to the nape of the Your new novel, Satans Lure, is already out-selling all other horror titles out this month, Legrands interviewer poured his pliable features into a serious mask why do you think that is? Legrand frowned. Why had the powers that be decided to give the interview to such a moonstruck ? Legrand couldnt keep count of how many interviews hed agreed to do at the BBC, all of them well-researched, well-managed. But this one was enough to make Legrands itch for the Far East even more inflamed. He thought of Toshiko Ozawa. Her calm. Her spirit. Her strength. He answered the questions. One, Dan Brown: research? Two, Satans Lure: an entertaining read?

Just one thing, Mr BBC broached. Have you got any ideas about the Joseph Delgado case? Nic Legrand lifted his head slowly, looking at the smiling face before him. No ideas, he said, already reaching the affixed mic away from his lapel. Thank you very much, Nicholas Legrand. Thank you very much, you . He was glad to get away from the studio set. He took a series of deep breaths as he walked along one of many BBC corridors, his agent, Vincent Greene, at his side. Greene knew well enough to say nothing. The fact that Legrand had been on TV, peak, was enough to bump up sales of the new book. Come have a coffee, Nic, Greene said. Legrand managed a weak smile. The canteen was almost empty. Legrand sat to a table whilst Greene paid for the drinks. Greene was solidly built, a wrestlers build, and he dwarfed the young girl at the counter. Already Greene was joking with her. It was his way of putting people at ease. For a moment Legrand was reminded of Ho-toi, the Chinese god of happiness. Greene would have made a good stand-in Ho-toi if ever a god of happiness needed such. When Greene made it to the table, Legrand was his usual self again. Vincent Greene noted the calm smile as he pushed a Styrofoam of coffee towards Legrand, saying, Im glad youre back, Nic, because theres something I want to share with you. Legrand looked Greene full in the face. You didnt bring me here just to buy me coffee, is that what you mean? Sorry, Greene laughed as he began to murder a sachet of sugar, spilling some of the contents on the formica tabletop, dusting the grains to the floor and adding, Theres something Id like you to look at. Its on my phone. He paused to take a high-tech mobile from the breastpocket of his jacket. I received it earlier today. It was in the listings of my inbox. Give me a sec. Legrand sat back and sipped his coffee. He gazed across at one or two of the BBC employees in the canteen, obviously

taking a break from this or that studio, and he felt a pang of guilt for being so overheated during his moment of air-time. But that was the crux: writing, storytelling, yes; celebrity sound bites, impromptu speculation, no. The media always went for Take a look at this, said Greene, pushing his mobile towards Legrands free hand. Its legit. A suite has been reserved at the Dorchester Hotel. I checked. The name is Miles Haining. A lawyer, I believe. Apparently, hes been hired to deal with Joe Delgados posthumous ventures. Legrand read the beginning of the email in silence, Dear Nicholas Legrand please attend meeting/memorial supper @ the Dorchester Hotel, 29th October, Re: your esteemed and departed colleague, Joseph Delgado. After a moment he lowered the phone, saying, You have contacted Delgados people? Im on a call-back with a representative of Joe Delgados estate. Greene paused and nodded. As I say, Nic, this Haining fellow responded to my reply with another email. He said that full details regarding the Dorchester meeting, regarding the firm he is working for, will be made available shortly. Legrand looked under his eyes at Greene. Oh, come on, Nic, Greene responded with a laugh. I hope youre not thinking what I think youre thinking. What would that be? That would be something outrageously bad. Such as? Such as you think this is to do with Delgados murder. Yes, Legrand thought. Maybe I do. Hes dead, isnt he? He was cut to ribbons, wasnt he? You and Joe Delgado were good friends, Greene continued with a light-hearted sigh. You enjoyed and

respected each others work. Whats so strange about Joe Delgado requesting your presence at a memorial do? Nic Legrand leant himself forward against the table, undaunted by Vincent Greenes fixed stare, then he said flatly, I dont like memorial get-togethers. Thats one thing. And I know Joe Delgado was well-aware of my distaste for them. Thats two. Greene remained silent a moment. Then he sighed wearily, saying, Ill get more info, Nic. The familiar smile broke across Vincent Greenes lips as he added, By the way, that interviewer who tried to stomp on you back there. I dont know if you did any prior research or anything, but he used to be a Conservative MP. He wrote a kiss-n-tell about the Houses of Par The glint in Legrands eye stopped Greene mid-sentence. ***** The stones seemed to dance beneath the lick of the flames. No, there was definite movement, more than the play of shadow and light. The cowl of something ancient and primal was about to be pulled across the starry sky The stone slab beneath him grew ice-cold. The surrounding flames began to fritter away. A few sparks of light seemed to spit themselves towards his naked torso. Darkness. Whispers. The Unknown. That was it. The Unknown. It clothed itself in darkness. It flayed and peeled skin from flesh. It disguised itself with form. One moment you saw a stone, then He opened his mouth to scream. Instead, from the darkness, he heard laughter. The laughter of a demented child. The laughter of someone driven insane by the thought of his coming annihilation. By darkness. By The Unknown. By the hand of

With a sudden moan Lindsay Eddowes lunged away from the pillows behind him, kicking himself free of the tangle of bed sheets holding him fast. He almost fell to the floor in his attempt to reach consciousness. If it hadnt been for the bedside table a crack on the knee being the result then a disaster was just waiting to happen. His wife groaned sympathetically. It was lucky she was one of those people who could sleep through the opening of the Gates of Hell. Not so lucky for me, Eddowes thought. I get the nightmares and the bruises. He shrugged. Maybe it was the email that had done it. Why would Joseph Delgado want him to go to the Dorchester Hotel? What was that all ? He remembered the last time hed met Delgado: a sci-fi and horror bash in the Midwest. Eddowes had been having a tough time getting the yokels to respond to his latest book. One guy in a plaid shirt and a Stetson had come up to his table, slapped a paperback copy of Eddowes latest in front of him, and drawled, Ya gotta get a bit o Louis LAmour in there, man! It had been Joe Delgado who came to his rescue. Chin up, Lindsay! That guys taken the top off too many bottles of Jack Daniels! Whats more, Joe Delgado had admitted to a deep enjoyment of Eddowes first three novels. Especially Lunar Voices, Eddowes first book. But that had been it. Never again had Eddowes bumped into Joe Delgado. He had continued to read and enjoy Delgados writing, yes, but there had been no contact. Then. Out of the blue. A memorial supper at the Dorchester Hotel. To which Lindsay Eddowes had been cordially invited. Everythin okay, Lin? his wife suddenly asked him, raising herself a little on the bed and blinking across the room towards his shadow.

He flipped the curtain back from the window a moment, letting a bar of moonlight into the room. He could just about see the first of the Avebury stones in the distance, a lone shadow beneath a scud of moonlit cloud. For a moment it became a hooded figure, a witch seeking a sabbat. He was reminded of the whispers, the darkness, in his dream. Lin! Kerry called again. Yep, he said. Fine. Im okay. There was no immediate response, then, Dont lie to me, Lin. I know somethings bugging you. You can talk about it, you know. Even at, a pause while she checked the bedside clock two-fifty in the morning. He sighed. Its everything and nothing. Sometimes I get the feeling that achieving your dreams is the worst possible thing a person can do. Its like, he searched for the right expression its like youve hooked that big fish. At last youve reeled her in. The hunger of the chase is gone. The battle is over. You can allow yourself to sit back on the bank and...and what? Live happily ever after? Moments passed. Then, into the silence, Kerry said, It sounds like youre not happy. His shoulders jerked involuntarily. Im saying Ive been thinking of going back into advertising. Seriously. I thought you loved this place, came the inevitable response. Thats what youve been telling me, at least. I do. Do you? Really? Yes, really. He dropped the curtain to and turned himself towards the bed. I love you. I love the kids. And I love this house. What is it, then? She held another considered pause. Tell me about it, Lin? Work, I guess. He let go a weary shrug. Your new novels doing well, Lin. Its right in the mix at Its its the egotism of it, he interrupted. The egotism behind the act of writing, I mean. People in the UK are brought

up to resent success. I think theres a part of that way of thinking still inside my soul. I cant shake it off. I reckon thats why Ive been thinking of advertising. He paused. I know, I know. I cant believe what Im saying here. Do you think advertising is less about the ego than writing? she threw back, her voice slightly sardonic now. It was advertising that drove you to writing in the first place, Lin. He made a face. Thanks for that. Its true, she continued, adding, Do you fancy coming home from cuckoo land? He remained silent now. He could see that Kerry was removing her nightdress, and after a moment he felt a flash of silk as the familiar material brushed against his face. He couldnt help letting go a bubble of laughter. Anyway, Kerry Eddowes was saying to him now, I dont resent success. Its kind of sexy, actually. He grinned as she switched the bedclothes away from her shoulders. It was enough time to take in the contours of her body, the V of honey-coloured freckles above her cleavage. He was still grinning when he reached the bed and eased himself into her arms. Even when Joe Delgado flashed into his mind. That cigarchomping smile of success following close on. Chin up, Lindsay! ***** Matt Myrick downed the glass of Chivas in one go. It was unusual for him to turn to the firewater but hed had a busy one. There was nothing worse than a bunch of film producers messing with a persons work fucking up that persons work right at the same time as that person, like, er, Myrick himself, was wracking his brains with suggestions as to how to put things right. He was the damn writer, after all. In the end hed been so sick of the toing and froing over the script, which happened to be an adaptation of his own story, The Calling

Angel, that he signed away the rights regarding his agreed authorship of it. Fuck em, he whispered through gritted teeth, feeling the whisky as it hit the spot. If they think William Goldman knows my work better than...fuck it! Thank God LA was merely a stop-off on the way to England. In so many ways hed come to detest the place. Even the Mulholland mansion which his agent had secured for his stay was grating on his nerves the clean, antiseptic spaces, all tiles and fake pillars, the whole environment like a Universal studio. It was a long way from his usual sanctum of pine woods and New England townships. No doubt the latter leaning was the influence of a bloodline of Boston breadwinners and strivers whose idea of Hollywood was something like the Biblical version of Sodom and Gomorrah. He had been reluctant to leave Jess and the kids and the word processor. But the invite to Joseph Delgados memorial party was something he couldnt bring himself to ignore. It was respect for a fellow novelist that had brought Myrick away from his Illinois eyrie. The proviso: back home in four days time. In mind, if not in body, he was already leaving LA behind him. His hand moved towards the bottle of Chivas Regal, then automatically halted no more than a few inches away from it. Con permiso, seor. Perdita, the head cook and bottlewasher who had come with the mansion, was peering at him through the double doors. She was smiling her usual white-toothed smile as she glimpsed across the room at Myrick. Take rest, seor, she continued, already bustling across the tiles. You have long journey tomorrow. Momentito, reaching the bottle away from him Ill pour you. He smiled at that: Ill pour you. His first smile in twentyfour hours. Enough, seor? she asked, filling his glass. Enough, he said, still smiling as he took the glass from her. Thanks.

Si. She nodded, a wisp of dark hair falling across her nape. She then looked at Myrick as he sipped whisky from the glass before she added, You must do supper, si? You not think so? Myrick shrugged. Im not hungry. You must, seor? Im okay, thanks. But you have journey long. Journey long, he repeated to himself with a smile. I suppose I have. I can get something at the airport, Perdita. Thanks. She nodded brusquely. Ill leave somethin in the kitchen, Seor Myrick. I will not see you before you go. Have good journey. Hasta la vista. Hasta la vista, Perdita, he responded, raising his glass to her as she hurried away towards the study doors. Why couldnt the world be like Perdita? Efficient, without any spin. Everything in the world the universe, even had spin to it. Everything in Myricks work had spin to it. Horror had to have what Delgado had termed the revolving mechanism; in a world of horror you were never sure what would unveil itself. A dark corner pulses with shadow. A human being is found to be anything but human. The world revolves. A crazy merry-go-round of horrific possibility. A hall of mirrors and maladjusted perspectives. The spin spins you about. And yet. Joseph Delgado. A master spinner of tales. Even Delgado cant see whats coming. The world throws him a curve ball, a real bastard of a curve ball, and it smacks him right between the eyes. Somebody, something, decides to crack open Joe Delgados heart. That same something decides to strip Delgado of his manhood. Nothing can prepare a man for that. Even if that man happens to be the worlds best writer of horror novels. Maybe, just maybe, Myrick mused, moving now towards one of the tall windows overlooking the City of

Angels, maybe certain writers, writers like me, like Delgado, court disorder. Were always digging, always trying to find that extra spinable fragment of horror. Always pushing the boundaries. Always just one push away from Look at Jon Wraith, for Christs sakes, he thought. The guy walks into the local bookstore to sign a few copies of his latest story and almost gets set alight by a maniac. What the hell is all that about? Wraith, though, was lucky. Delgado wasnt. Trying to sigh away the jab of anxiety within him, Myrick looked out the window at the chains of lights beyond the dip of the canyon. He could imagine the chaos and confusion beneath those lights. The shrill screams. Cries of despair. Insane laughter. Sirens. Gunshots. How do you get all that down in words? The book you attempted to write would be as large as the city. The book you attempted to write would go on forever. He could only scrape away a little of that chaos. He could only turn a scrap of that darkness into some kind of metaphorical meaning. Myrick sighed and turned away from the window. No wonder I always try to give my books a positive ending, he thought. ***** Sass Laytner picked up another letter and began to read it to herself. After a few seconds she began to laugh aloud, almost dropping the letter on to the bedroom carpet. Whats the joke? Wraith called through from the bathroom. Sass shook her head as she continued to read the letter. Then she said, Its your fanmail. Theres a girl here called Thea who wants to suck you off whilst you read your new novel to her. You should read the letters I get from Dee, Wraith responded, stepping back into the bedroom and sniffing hard

through both nostrils as he padded back to the bed. Thats Dee from Halifax. Sass studied Wraith a moment. He looked lean. In shape. Not overly muscular; wiry. What does Dee from Halifax write you about, then? she asked. Put it this way, Wraith said, Dee from Halifax makes De Sade look like Enid fucking Blyton. Sass Laytner smiled. She looked down at Jonathan Wraiths hand as it travelled down her belly towards the black V of pubic hair beyond it. She gasped as Wraiths fingers parted her thighs. His palm was warm as he brushed it against her hips. Wheres jolly Ollie tonight? he asked, allowing the tips of his fingers to skim across her moistness now. Its a wonder he didnt want to drop by for a chat. She didnt answer. She allowed Wraiths fingers to draw more wetness from her. His touch was light, delicate; teasing her, toying with her. Its a bugger when one party in a relationship likes to play around, Wraith continued with a bubble of laughter, whilst the other party dont wanna share his marbles. Fun-ee, she managed to say eventually, leaning her head back against her pillow and beginning to laugh under her breath. Ollies last trip to Brussels was a success. Hes busy with the accounts. Theres a promotion in the offing, I reckon. Good old Ollie. Wraith withdrew his fingers from her pubic hair. What a drag, though, working for Sothebys. She sighed, shook her head. He gets a free hand. Ollie enjoys the Wraith zeroed across the bed, his wiry limbs flexing as he positioned himself between Saskia Laytners long legs. Already she had taken hold of his erection, her fingers running up and down its engorged length, squeezing, playing. I must be mad, she mouthed, feeling the stirring heat of him as she guided him towards her. He laughed. How so? To be so unprofessional.

Youre anythin but unprofessional, Miss Lovelace. Very funny. Youre a one-off. He paused to pick a remote from the bedside table. Londons a greedy monster. It reaches through the cracks in the wall...gets right deep down inside you. Everyone needs a port in the storm, yeah? She nodded. She watched as Wraith flicked a button on the remote. Within seconds music pumped from the surround of hot-wired speakers: Iron Maiden, The Number of the Beast. It made her think of the long hard slog from wartime Poland to Britain. Her father had made it somehow by the skin of his teeth. She had continued that fighting spirit. Shed passed from university to journalism, an unwanted pregnancy to the City, banking and brokerage to publishing. The greedy monster took her in. Same way it took in Jonathan Wraith. Same way it took in Ollie Gadney. Same way it took in every dreamer and searcher on the planet. For better. Or worse. Suddenly they were both laughing. Wraith remained inside her a moment, enjoying the final involuntary spasms of her internal muscles before rolling on to the bedsheet beside her. For a while the music washed over them. Loud. Clean. When the track had finally stopped, Saskia turned to Wraith and said, I was wondering if youre going to go to the Delgado thing? I know Miss Di Livio sees it as a great publicity op. Fuck Miss Di Livio, he laughed. Saskia laughed too. Then she said, Arent you inquisitive, though? He shot her a weary glance. Ive only read a couple of Delgados books. Were not in the same stream. It would bore me. End of. What about the circumstances? What about them? She made a quizzical face. The murder and everything.

Everybody lives; everybody dies. He paused to draw the tip of his index finger along her side. Novelists included. She watched as Wraith padded across the room to the bathroom. Its unprofessional, she thought. The whole damn things just so unprofessional. She switched herself over on the bed and closed her eyes. The warm glow was still there. Inside her. ***** Thank you, Vincent, Legrand thought. For your common sense. Your business acumen. But most of all for the loan gratis, of course of your Harkstead hideaway. It was precisely what Legrand needed. A delightful redbrick cottage, as wide as it was long, all Tudor facings and thatched roof. It reminded Legrand of a Constable painting. The views of the Stour and nearby Holbrook Bay were a boon after the busy streets of London. Legrand repositioned himself in the centre of the lounge. He adjusted his kimono, took a deep breath and raised his hands towards the ceiling. He could almost touch the beams overhead; not that this was his aim. The rightful aim was to stretch out the skeleton and adjust the flow of qi or life force energy in his body. Thanks to a student friend of Toshikos who had helped Legrand to master the practice of Qigong, a renowned and very useful system of tai chi, Legrand had maintained notable progress in the harmony of mind and body. Usually his practice brought a definite clarity of vision to Legrands thinking, a way through most obstacles, as Legrand told himself, whether real or imagined. But todays practice didnt seem to bring him back in sync with himself. Youre trying too hard, hed said to himself and at the same time hed thought of Master Itteis words: If one were to say what is to do good in a single word it would be to endure suffering. Not enduring is bad without exception. In an attempt to pull himself together he thought of his and Toshikos visit to Mount Fujiyama. The incredible beauty of

the snow-capped mountain, rugged and volcanic, and the fragile and insecure signature of man as symbolized by the hand-built shrine of the sungoddess, Sengen-Sama, at Fujiyamas peak, these things had entered Legrands soul. This balance of myth and nature was necessary, Legrand saw. This was the counterpoint, the tenor, of all existing things. We not performin monkeys, Toshiko had whispered to him during the climb down from the top of Fujiyama. Were like the rivers and the mountains, see. Were like Izanagi and Izanami, the mother and father of the earth. Were like Kami. Like God. He remembered Toshikos kiss. There was something beautiful, fragile, porcelain-like something of the shrine of Sengen-Sama about that kiss. It had made him turn round to glimpse back at Fujiyama. The sight stirred him, yes, but also he couldnt help but feel a sense of unease. And fear. It was that sense of fear, he knew, that sense of unease, that had and was keeping him out of balance with himself. The whole Delgado affair had burrowed right through to his core. It had prompted fresh questions questions about Joe Delgados attempts to understand the tragedy bequeathed to him, and questions about Legrands own attempts to understand his own tragedy and loss. Both had lost people close to them in accidents. They were there, Nic, Joe Delgado had once said when referring to the loss of his wife and daughter; but not anymore. But not anymore. A freeway dust-up had seen to it. And those words had stuck with Legrand. Whenever he thought about his father, especially then, he heard them. A fall in the Swiss Alps had broken Legrands fathers neck. He had died two days later, after a battle with death, in a Zurich hospital. Legrand shook himself. After a moment he moved across the carpet towards the nearest window. Adjusting the lapels of his kimono, he looked out at the darkening sky. A few stars hung above the inky rills of the Stour, and a vague orange

glow from not so vague Harwich showed at its easternmost mouth. You were there, Joe, Legrand whispered. No, he couldnt bring himself to say the next bit. It would be too much like a confirmation of the arbitrary nature of the human mind. Or, to be more specific, the mind that killed Joe Delgado. In cold blood. Nic Legrand swallowed hard and looked again out the window. It had begun to rain. A few drops hopscotched across the windowpane. How very different it all was from Key West, Delgados home. The steady flick of palm fronds in a sea breeze; the crystal-clear sunlight in the morning and the sticky, cricket-chirping heat of the evening. He and Delgado had shared some fabulous evenings looking out towards the Atlantic, shooting the breeze about nothing in particular just time. And life. For Legrand it had been one of the best times in his life. His time with Joe Delgado was as precious to him as was his time with Toshiko Ozawa. Both people were key personalities in Legrands attempt to overcome past losses. Strangely, it had never crossed his mind that one of them He didnt flinch as the tears came. Outside, it was raining hard now. It matched his mood. And again he thought of Master Itteis words; Not enduring is bad without exception.