Changeling

Flynn stood in the long, dimly-lit room beneath the Greasepaint Club, and felt the strangeness of the place ebb and flow all about him.

He had sufficient stage experience to know that a good deal of the atmosphere came from the setting – trappings, that’s all these are, he thought. Take away the sultry lighting and replace it with ordinary 100-watt light bulbs; tear down those stifling curtains, and what would you be left with? A large half-cellar under a slightly raffish Soho club.

But he’s a clever devil, whoever he is, thought Flynn. He’s set the stage exactly right, and he’s sold these people the idea of someone slightly mystical, slightly unearthly.

Even so, there was still something uncomfortable in here – something that had nothing to do with the macabre lighting or the velvet curtains and the solitary chair behind the long rosewood table. Rosewood, said his mind appraisingly. That didn’t come out of the Greasepaint’s ragbag lumber room. A bit of a hedonist, this villain. But he’s got style, thought Flynn.

Bill and the doorman, who had had to be brought in on the plot, were still being determinedly pessimistic, Bill prophesying all manner of unpleasant scenes, and the doorman pointing out that this was the creature hardened Soho pimps shuddered from, and that the buskers and the tough little Piccadilly hookers had dubbed the Shadow.

‘I don’t give a damn what they call him,’ said Flynn. ‘I’m going to find out who he is, or die in the attempt – no, all right, I didn’t mean that literally, Bill. See now, where will we have the hiding-place? It’s a pity you didn’t warn me the room hasn’t a cupboard to its name, because a cupboard would have been great.’

Neither Bill nor the doorman thought that anywhere down here would be great at all. They repeated their admonitions all over again, and the doorman pointed out that they could not take any responsibility for anything that might happen if Flynn was discovered. Bill, mindful of his slightly longer service and slightly heavier responsibilities, added that the Greasepaint and the management could not take any responsibility either. They reminded one another of Leila, poor silly cow, and said that wherever Mr Deverill hid, he would have to be very still and very quiet.

‘I’ll be as still as the night and as quiet as the dawn,’ agreed Flynn. ‘I’ll be as careful as a virginal nun with a— Will I be safe behind these velvet drapes, do you think?’

The drapes were the ones that were normally half-drawn across the door which was where the Shadow entered, and Bill and the doorman did not think that Mr Deverill would be safe behind them at all. They did not think he would be safe anywhere in this room tonight, in fact, although it was looking as if it was a waste of time to say so. And at least the curtains were thick and wide. The doorman explained worriedly about the Shadow’s entrance: they could not be sure that the curtains would not be disarranged when he came in. A remarkable entrance he made, so people said, not that people said much at all, on account of being afraid of the outcome. The Shadow did not like these meetings to be gossiped about.

Flynn said, ‘Oh, will you stop acting as if he’s Jesus Christ making his entrance for the Second Coming and Satan incarnate rolled into one! Listen now, could we draw this left-hand curtain a bit further back so that it’s across this recess here? If I stayed behind it I’d be able to see him come in and I’d have a fair view of most of the room as well, and I don’t believe anyone would suspect anything.’ He stood back, surveying the fall of the curtains critically.

‘You’ll hardly be a couple of feet away from him, Mr Deverill,’ said the doorman.

‘All the better. I’ll get a good look at him. We’ll have to cut a couple of spyholes in the curtain though – here and here, I should think, shouldn’t you? If I sit on the floor I’ll be below people’s eye-level. Bill, stand back and tell me if you can see me peering through.’

‘No,’ said Bill, after a suitable interval. ‘But you’ll have to be careful not to move.’

‘I know it. Listen, fetch me a bottle of whisky before curtain up, will you? If I’m to be stuck here half the night I’ll want something to keep me company.’

‘Yes, or you’ll be three-parts drunk by the time the meeting starts,’ said Bill. ‘I know you, Mr Deverill.’ He went off to the main door that led to upper floors and his own domain, the doorman following, both of them agreeing that this was the wildest idea anyone had ever heard of, but that was the Irish for you.

The curtains smelt of stale cigarette smoke and cheap perfume, but they provided better cover than Flynn had hoped. There was sufficient space to sit on the floor in reasonable comfort providing he drew his knees up, and he could lean back against the wall. It was half past eleven. He unscrewed the top of the whisky bottle – at least Bill had made it a good malt even if he had only brought a quarter bottle – and took a long drink. The room settled into silence. Flynn could hear the steady ticking of the clock on the far wall. Tick-tick . . . Tick-tick . . . He was aware of his heart beginning to beat a bit faster than normal.

It was a quarter to midnight when the silence was disturbed by the first group of people coming in from the main part of the club. Flynn set down the whisky bottle, and froze into immobility.

The room filled up quite quickly, and in a much more orderly fashion than he had visualised. There was a low murmur of voices but it was a subdued murmur, and it was virtually impossible to hear what anyone was saying. None of these sounds were the sounds that Flynn had expected to hear, given the character of the people, given the nature of the venue. According to Bill this was a roomful of street girls and rent boys and street musicians. Probably there would be a few drug pushers as well. It was remarkable for such a gathering to be so quiet.

There were ten minutes to go. Flynn put his eye to the tiny spyhole, and saw that there were easily eighty to a hundred people in the room already. And they were still coming in. They were coming down the steps at the other end of the room, in twos and threes, the girls mostly in mini-skirts and low, clinging sweaters and high heels; the men wearing jeans or chinos, and leather or cheap velvet jackets. There was a sprinkling of drag artists and several people whom Flynn thought were professional buskers. They sat on the rows of chairs that Bill and the doorman had put out, some of them studiedly nonchalant, others quieter. The thought that this mysterious, hedonistic gentleman wielded a greater power than Flynn had bargained for, formed rather chillingly on his mind.

And then little by little, as the hands of the clock inched their way to midnight, the low murmuring died away and a waiting silence replaced it. Flynn could feel the blood pounding in his head, and he could almost hear his own too-fast heartbeats – damn, I’m as bad as the rest of them! But something very eerie was approaching. Flynn could feel apprehension filling up the low-ceilinged room; he could feel the silence becoming charged with nervous excitement. One minute to go, he thought, glancing across at the wall clock. Sixty seconds . . . fifty . . . There’s someone coming . . . Is there? Yes, I can hear soft footsteps. Someone’s just outside the door.

And then above the footsteps he heard a faint snatch of music – someone humming or someone singing very softly, so softly that it was as if the person was doing it unconsciously. This was so unexpected and somehow so bizarre that Flynn felt prickles of fear scud across his skin. The masked creature? Or only a stray passer-by, humming to himself as he wended his way home?

The tension in the room was so strong that the air was nearly shivering with it. And the footsteps were unmistakably approaching the door; they were in exact synchronisation with the ticking clock. Tick-tick . . . Pad-pad . . . Tick-tick . . . Tap-tap . . . They were in time with the low humming as well. Flynn frowned, trying to hear the melody more clearly, and then it came suddenly nearer, and he heard not only the tune, but the words.

O never go walking in the fields of the flax

At night when the looms are a-singing . . .

Flynn knew instantly what it was. He thought he should have been prepared, given the grisly nature of the Harlequin murders. The Shadow was singing the macabre lament from Tod Miller’s Dwarf Spinner, the chant that the evil Rossani sang as he padded after his victims, and that the BBC had tried to ban on Radio One, not so much because of its gruesome content, but more because of the dwarf magician’s exultant sensuality as he savoured his victims.

Rossani’s at work and he’s hungry for prey;

He’ll melt down your eyes and he’ll spin them for gold.

He’ll peel off your skin and he’ll sew him a cloak.

He’ll cut out your heart and he’ll weave it to gold.

He’ll grind down your bones and he’ll shred up your soul.

Flynn had never heard the original rendering, and subsequent recordings lost a good deal of the blood-thirsty voluptuousness. But on the opening night of the Dwarf Spinner this song had stopped the show, and even in the milk-and-water revivals it was powerful, sung by the tormented Rossani as he stood alone on a dimly-lit stage, spotlighted by a single crimson gel, the only musical accompaniment a sinisterly-throbbing bass-viol, and a rhythmic, low-key tapping of the base drum.

Heard like this, crouched in a dark corner of a dimly-lit room, the soft music thrummed with its own inner menace, and Flynn felt a lurch of fear again. But at least it proves the connection, he thought. This is the killer who butchered poor old Toddy Miller and that vain, silly Mia.

There was a faint movement in the shadows by the door, and as the chimes of midnight sounded, between one heartbeat and the next, he was there. Flynn had thought he was prepared and to some extent armoured, but his mind still jumped with surprise. It almost seemed as if the figure had materialised.

A little sigh ruffled the still surface of the room, releasing some of the nervous tension. He was here. Now the evening could be dealt with and forgotten until next week. It’s as if he exerts some kind of hypnotism over them, thought Flynn, unable to take his eyes off the small cloaked figure as it moved to take the waiting chair. My God, this is one very clever gentleman indeed! He’s just performed the subtlest, most brilliant piece of stage illusion I’ve ever seen! The door hardly moved – I can’t quite see it, but I should certainly have heard it, for God’s sake! He forced himself to concentrate. The stranger was studying the company and his whole manner was cool and unhurried. Flynn stared at him, forcing himself to remain absolutely still. Because if he suspects I’m here he’ll probably haul me out and cut out my heart and weave it for gold . . . No, that was Rossani. And he’s already done that with Tod. In any case, people don’t do that kind of thing in the real world. No? What makes you think this one belongs to the real world? jeered his mind.

But he pushed this very disturbing thought away, and watched carefully as the orderly procession to the rosewood table began. He saw at once what Bill and the doorman had meant by calling it organised. It was very organised indeed; in fact it looked orchestrated. It’s some kind of accounting, thought Flynn. They’re all handing over money. Is that all he is, then? A highgloss pimp? Is this only a souped-up protection racket? Perversely he felt a stab of disappointment because it would be something of a let-down if this charismatic gentleman turned out to be nothing more than a common-or-garden Soho racketeer.

If he’d turn his head a bit I could get a better look at him, thought Flynn. Damn! Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to be behind the curtain after all! I’m behind him and I can only see the back of him. But then, as if in mocking response, the man did turn his head, and Flynn saw with a little thrill of repulsion that he was wearing huge-lensed, thickly-black glasses and that the lenses caught the dull light, turning them into hard, shell-like growths that gave an eerie impression of sight. Like a giant fly’s head, with enormous bulbous insectile eyes, thought Flynn, in appalled fascination. He’s like a mutant creature – something out of a necromancer’s crucible or an evil geneticist’s laboratory. Flowing Rastafarian-type plaits hung from beneath the slouch hat, covering most of the face, but Flynn, inching as far forward as he dared, could not make out anything behind the plaits.

Several times he caught the low, soft voice as it spoke to the people trooping up to the table, but he was not sufficiently near to hear what was being said. And then, without warning, it appeared to end; the bizarre figure stood up and the rustlings and scraping of chairs – the little trickles of conversation that had broken out here and there – ceased instantly. The man said, ‘I will bid all of you goodbye now,’ and a stir of surprise went through the listeners. This is something new, thought Flynn, straining to hear. This is something different.

The soft voice said, ‘Our association must end now. I am leaving. You will work for yourselves in future. You will look after your own interests.’ He paused, and Flynn unknowingly shared a thought with Fael, who had noticed that her dark, satanic familiar often sounded stilted, and with Mia Makepiece who had thought her unknown lover wrote in an old-fashioned way. He’s awkward with words! thought Flynn. He’s no fool and he possesses that extraordinary magnetic power, but when it comes to addressing people in an ordinary way he’s very nearly inept. Because he’s unused to human contact, is that it?

The murmur of surprise had grown momentarily louder, and Flynn could hear people asking one another whether they had suspected this, and whether it was a good thing. One or two of the girls were being loudly nonchalant, tossing their hair and saying they would do better on their own anyway: you did not need a protector or a pimp these days, what century did the Shadow think he was living in, for God’s sake? Several of the men told one another they would be bloody glad not to have to hand over five per cent every sodding week, never mind it got you a bit of security and a reasonable deal from landlords and such. You could sort your own landlords out, thank you very much! Who needed a protector?

The dark figure was stepping back unnoticed, going as silently and as dramatically as he had come. Hell and the devil, I nearly lost him! thought Flynn, and moving as swiftly as a cat, slipped unseen from behind the curtain and went out through the door in pursuit.

Even on a Sunday night this part of London teemed with life, and Flynn wondered what he would do if his quarry hailed a taxi, and whether it would be as easy as it looked on films to summon a second vehicle and utter the classic line, ‘Follow that cab.’

But at length the cloaked figure turned into a quiet, tree-lined street near the river, and vanished into a tall, narrow house. Flynn stopped and looked about him, and for the first time since leaving the Greasepaint was able to focus on something other than staying out of sight.

Once or twice he had lost his bearings, but he had spotted several familiar streets or squares on the way, and now that he could look about him without fear of being seen, he knew exactly where he was. He knew this part of London, in fact he knew this very street, close to Christchurch Street. He thought cynically that if this villain could afford to live in this part of Chelsea, he must be a very well-heeled villain indeed.

But Flynn not only knew the street, he knew the house into which his quarry had vanished. He knew because when he first came to London, with scarcely a penny to his name, he had been made very welcome at this house at any time he cared to turn up.

‘No need for warning,’ the house’s owner had said. ‘Just arrive on the doorstep. There will always be a meal here for you; there will be a bed for you as well if you need it.’

There had always been a meal and there had often been people from the theatre and music world as well. It had been a tedious journey from the cramped basement flat which had been all he could afford in those days, but it was a journey he had always made with a sense of grateful anticipation. Sometimes there would be dizzyingly important theatre people there, which had been heady stuff for a twenty-one-year-old who had still to make his mark in this chancy world. On other nights impromptu musical evenings would start up out of nowhere, and a disparate collection of people would take over the entire ground floor of the house, and improvise or rehearse or simply flop on cushions on the floor and talk into the small hours. Flynn’s mother, who belonged to a generation who believed that piano-playing was a useful social skill, had insisted that Flynn learn the rudiments of music, and as well as that he had the Irish ability to blend with any company. He had enjoyed it all: the musicians and the embryo conductors and the would-be composers, and the directors and the actors.

Most of all, he had been unceasingly grateful for the curious sense of security that he was always given by the owner of the house.

Chapter Twenty-One