I Remember You

Chapter Twenty-Five

‘I don’t understand,’ said Sophie, when she had answered his second question.

Harry had anticipated her reply. No doubt was left in his mind that at last he knew the truth.

‘You don’t need to.’

‘Surely you can’t imagine that…’

‘Never mind my imagination.’ He spoke more harshly than he had intended. Sophie had confirmed his suspicions, but that afforded him no pleasure. All he wanted was to bring matters to an end.

‘I must be getting back to Baz,’ she said. ‘Oh — here’s Nick!’

Nick Folley approached them, blowing a kiss at Sophie, giving Harry a dismissive nod. His elaborate make-up failed to disguise the self-satisfaction of his features; he gave no hint of the loneliness and misery of Mary Shelley’s monster.

Harry tensed. Folley’s arrival gave him a chance to put another of his ideas to the test. He recalled that Frankenstein inspired loathing in anyone who saw it: in that, at least, he saw a point of resemblance between Folley and the creature created from the bones of charnel houses.

‘Doing any business tonight?’ asked Harry, not bothering to hide his contempt.

‘You never make much sense to me, Mr Devlin. What kind of business would I be doing?’

‘I suppose this kind of event is ideal for trade. Plenty of rich people looking for kicks.’

‘What in God’s name are you talking about?’

‘Cocaine,’ said Harry softly. ‘Easy money for a man with the right contacts. No wonder people reckon you have the Midas touch. Even if your media ventures run into trouble, there’s always a market for drugs in your crowd. Does Graham-Brown help you launder the cash?’

Folley gave him a hard unblinking stare: a form of cover whilst he thought fast. Harry pressed on.

‘When I appeared on Pop In, I heard the news about the haul made by Customs and Excise. Was that why you had to slip down to London last night: to pick up alternative supplies so you could be sure of keeping your customers satisfied?’

‘You’re off your head,’ said Folley.

‘Nick. …’ began Sophie.

‘Shut it!’

She made as if to voice a protest, then changed her mind and slunk away, dejected. Had she been aware exactly how her lover had made his fortune? Somehow, Harry doubted it.

‘What I hate about it all,’ he said, ‘is the way you treat people. Take Melissa. You make her dependent, then you cast her aside — you even sack her, so — ’

Folley leaned forward, his hands on the lapels of Harry’s jacket. ‘What has Melissa said?’

Harry remembered the man’s uncontrollable temper. On another occasion he would have welcomed the chance to hit him, to strike a blow on behalf of lives ruined by addiction. But not tonight. He had so much yet to do.

He squirmed out of Folley’s grasp. ‘She hasn’t betrayed you yet, though God knows why. I hope she’ll change her mind.’

With that, he headed off through a group of fiends and phantoms, towards the makeshift studio rigged up on the stage. A glance over his shoulder confirmed that Folley was not in pursuit. Ahead of him, the bearded engineer from Pop In was testing for sound levels, whilst Rosemary Graham-Brown chatted to a man with the head of a wolf.

‘Baz!’ he called. ‘I’d like a word.’

The disc jockey pulled off his savage mask, his mouth stretched in a smile that his eyes did not share.

‘Doesn’t he make a good lycanthrope?’ asked Rosemary, with a witch’s glee. ‘We ought to beware, of course — the werewolf is cursed by a horror that turns him into a murderous beast against his will.’

Baz raised his eyebrows in weary amusement. ‘Harry! We must stop meeting like this.’

‘I know you’re busy, but can you spare me a minute? I’d like to talk in private.’

After a second’s hesitation, Baz shrugged. ‘Okay. But I don’t have long.’

Harry led him to the fire exit at the far end of the room and lifted the bar. It gave onto a space floored with concrete at the foot of an emergency staircase: a cold and gloomy place, with one barred window barely letting through the dull glow from a riverside lamp outside. The echoing of their footsteps contrasted oddly with the muffled noise coming from the other side of the door; the antics of the party-goers seemed suddenly absurd.

Baz leaned against the wall, nonchalant. ‘So what’s all this about?’

‘Your twin. John.’

Baz gnawed at his lower lip. ‘What possible interest can you have in my brother?’

‘He was killed by Irish terrorists, isn’t that right? And specifically, I would guess, by a man called Pearse Cato.’

Baz straightened and clenched his fist. Even mention of the name seemed to anger him.

‘So people say. No one was ever convicted and the victim’s family is never told exactly who tore them apart. But you’re right — the powers-that-be, as well as the media, always reckoned Cato was responsible.’

‘You know he died a couple of years ago?’

A bitter smile twisted Baz’s lips. ‘The news I’d prayed for ever since John was murdered. I wish I could meet the men who gunned him down, simply to shake them by the hand.’

‘You wanted vengeance?’

‘Who wouldn’t? I loved John. There’s a special bond between twins. We went our separate ways, of course. He joined the Army, all I wanted was to work in the music business. Even so, we stayed close — never rivals, simply the best of friends.’

‘What do you know about his death?’

Baz shut his eyes. Harry wished he had not needed to put the question, forcing recollection of the past. He guessed that the memory of John Gilbert’s murder was never far from the disc jockey’s thoughts.

‘He was shot through the head. Not before Cato had hurt him cruelly. It was all so cowardly, so sick. How any human being can — ’

Baz broke off. His eyes were open again and filling with tears. ‘What is it to you? John’s dead, Cato’s dead: we’re talking about history.’

‘Don’t they say old sins cast long shadows?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

Harry sucked in his cheeks. He’d reached the point of no return.

‘Finbar Rogan came from the same street as Pearse Cato. Were you aware of that?’

Baz stared at him. ‘No. Not at all. But — what of it? Finbar was many things, by all accounts, but you’re surely not telling me he was a terrorist.’

‘No, but…’

Something inside Baz seemed to break. His face grew tight and ugly, as if he were wearing the wicked mask again. He seized Harry’s wrist in a painful grip and spoke in a croaky whisper. ‘Christ knows why you’re raking over the old embers, but I don’t like it. Take my advice, Harry Devlin — keep your nose out.’

‘Darling, you’re wanted!’

The soft urgent voice of Penny Newland startled both men. She stood behind them, framed in the doorway. At the sight of her, Baz released his hold. Harry rubbed his wrist; when he looked at the girl, she turned crimson.

‘You’re due on soon,’ she told her boyfriend. ‘Sophie wants you behind the mike. Come on. I’ll stay here for a bit — I need to talk to Harry.’

As Baz moved back towards the party, Harry looked straight at the girl; something in his expression seemed to hypnotise her. Baz brushed her neck with his lips, but she remained motionless.

As soon as her boyfriend had disappeared, Harry nodded at Penny. ‘Over here,’ he mouthed.

As if in a trance, she shut the door behind her and walked towards him, her high heels clicking on the concrete. She too was clad as a vampire, all in black with flowing cape, minidress and patterned stockings. The whiteness of her complexion contrasted with the scarlet of her lips and talons. Beneath the neck of her cape he caught a glimpse of ivory shoulders.

She stopped within touching distance of him. ‘What do you want of me?’

‘I think you know.’

‘You tell me.’

She folded her arms, as if determined to test her will against his.

His whole body tingled with excitement and fear. He sensed that during the next few minutes, the course of a human life would change.

‘Let’s start with how John Gilbert died.’

She was standing in shadow. It was too dark to read her expression.

‘Now then,’ she said in her soft Irish accent, ‘what more is there to say about John Gilbert’s death?’

He ran his tongue over his lips. Any man would find her attractive, he thought: the thick dark hair, the almost perfect features, the bare white skin and the body-hugging dress. Penny Newland was an exciting woman.

‘I believe there’s a link with the killing of Finbar Rogan.’

‘And what might that link be?’

He leaned forward. She took a couple of steps back, pinning herself in a corner by the bottom of the stairs. Advancing, he felt her shrink away from him.

‘You,’ he said. ‘Finbar remembered you.’

She closed her eyes, seeming to hold her breath for a long moment before answering.

‘And I … I could never forget him. Hard though I tried, it simply wasn’t possible.’

She breathed out and bowed her head. It seemed to him that she had come to a decision.

‘You see, Harry, he left his mark on me.’

As he watched in silence, she fiddled with the strings knotted at her neck and the cape slipped silently to the floor. Taking the narrow straps of her dress in the crook of each forefinger, she eased them downwards. With the straps off her shoulders, she began to peel the velvet from her, pausing only when her large dark nipples were exposed. His mouth was dry and when at last he spoke, his voice was hoarse.

‘The elusive butterflies.’

And he ran the tips of his fingers over the exquisite insects that, long ago, Finbar Rogan had tattooed on the breasts of the woman who would one day run him down.