The Dwarves of Death

Coda

Gasping — but somehow still alive

this is the fierce last stand of all I am

MORRISSEY,

Well I Wonder

‘I’m going out,’ I said to Judith.

‘You mean you’re not coming with me to see Tina?’

It would have been pointless trying to explain. If it meant that her opinion of me plummeted even further, it was a problem I’d have to resolve at some other time. I simply left her the keys to the flat and told her to send Tina my love. As she watched me leave, her eyes burned with indignation.

It was quite dark by now. I ran all the way to London Bridge station, caught a tube to the Angel, and was standing outside the video shop in less than half an hour. Next to this shop, there was an unnumbered door, painted blue. It seemed likely that this would lead to the flats on the first and second floors. There was a man leaning against the door, a short, swarthy-looking man who wore steel-rimmed spectacles and was chewing gum. His hair was dark, tousled and curly. As I approached, he straightened himself, blocked the doorway and stared at me until I felt compelled to say: ‘I’ve come to see Karla.’

I thought he was never going to answer.

‘Name?’ he said at last.

‘William.’

He turned and rang one of the bells. The flats were equipped with an entrocom system, and before long the speaker crackled and Karla’s voice said, ‘Yes?’

‘William,’ said the man.

‘All right.’

The door was opened for me, and I climbed four flights of narrow, tatty stairs. They led to a small landing where there were three doors, one of which was ajar. From behind this door, Karla’s voice said: ‘Come in, William.’

I pushed the door open. It was a gloomy bedsittingroom, practically unfurnished. There was no carpet and there were no decorations on the walls. An armchair took up one corner of the room, next to a washbasin and a mirror. There was a chest of drawers, an iron bed and a little three-legged table. Karla was sitting on the bed.

‘I just got your message,’ I said, when it became clear that she wasn’t going to speak to me.

‘Good.’

Her gaze was searching, as if she was trying to deduce some inner secret from my outward behaviour.

‘I didn’t realize you had my phone number,’ I faltered, after an even longer pause.

‘No.’

She seemed different, very different, from the woman who worked behind the bar at The White Goat. She was morose and aggressive but I got the impression that there was furious activity going on inside her head at that moment. I began to wonder, in fact, whether she wasn’t just as confused as I was.

‘Are you going to explain?’ I asked.

‘Perhaps you should explain.’

‘Me?’

‘Yes, William. You.’

I shrugged nervously.

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Now look, you’re in a hell of a lot of trouble. The police are looking everywhere for you, in case you didn’t know. I told you that I can help you, but I need to know what you’re up to first.’

‘I’m not up to anything,’ I protested. ‘I’m a musician, that’s all.’

‘Are you on his side?’

‘Whose side? What are you talking about?’

Furious, she got up and advanced towards me. I hadn’t realized how tall she was.

‘Look — I know you’ve been following me. You admitted as much yourself that night in the pub. And the same night you tried to scare me by having that record lying on the table. You’ve been working with him, too. I know you have. And then you miraculously turn up in the house, just in time to see this guy — Paisley — get killed. So what’s going on?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said: it was almost a whimper. ‘I don’t know.’

Karla glared at me, then went to the chest of drawers and brought out an envelope from the bottom drawer. She took out a large black and white photograph and held it up in front of my face.

‘You recognize this, don’t you?’

‘Yes,’ I said. It was the photograph from the record sleeve, showing the figure of a woman looking out over a stretch of river, flanked by the two dwarves.

‘And what about this?’

She showed me a second photograph, and I stared at it in amazement. It was the same scene. But the woman had turned around, and was now clearly recognizable — in spite of her cropped, bleached hair — as a younger version of Karla. And the two little figures, who had taken off their hoods, were not dwarves at all. They were two children: small girls, identical in size and appearance, smiling warmly at the camera.

‘This is you?’

She nodded.

‘And that was… you — singing on the record?’ I asked, recalling the voice which had screamed its way through those two hideous songs.

‘Yes.’

Karla walked to the mirror and took off her wig of thick, auburn hair. She turned to face me. Her hair was even shorter, now, than in the photograph: a close crew-cut on top, shaved at the sides and back.

‘There,’ she said, coming closer. ‘Now do I look more like a killer?’

I backed away.

‘But — you didn’t kill Paisley?’

‘That was a mistake. Those fucking idiots: I should had done the whole thing myself. I will do it myself. He’s not going to get away again. Christ, I’ve waited long enough…’

She sat down on the bed, and fell silent.

‘Who’s not going to get away?’ I asked. ‘And who are these children?’ I was so bewildered by now, I couldn’t get the questions out quickly enough. ‘Who did you send to get Paisley? Was it those brothers from Glasgow — the same people you named the band after?’

Karla didn’t answer: not for a long time. And when she did finally start to explain, her speech was tired and slow.

‘There was never any “band” called The Dwarves of Death,’ she said. ‘It was just me and my husband. I did the singing and he played the instruments: it was all put together in the studio. We were broke — as usual — and we thought we’d cash in on the whole punk thing and try to make a bit of extra money. We were living in Glasgow, then, and you wouldn’t believe how poor we were. We did the recordings in the evenings. I was going out to work every day, doing cleaning jobs. He didn’t have a job, he stayed at home looking after the kids.’ She pointed to them in turn. ‘Claire, and Sandra. We had twins.’

The bed was covered by a single threadbare quilt. From beneath this, she produced a sawn-off, double-barrelled shotgun, and a box of cartridges. She started to load the gun as she talked.

‘And then, one day, Sandra disappeared. She ran away from home. And that was when Claire came to me, and told me what their… father… had been doing to them, while I was out all day.’ She gave the word ‘father’ a bitter inflexion, as if it was a bad taste that had to be spat out. ‘I don’t suppose you want me to go into the details, do you? A doctor examined her, anyway, and confirmed her story. But I never saw Sandra again. The police found a body a few weeks later. It might have been hers, I couldn’t tell. As for Claire…’ She got up and went to the window, leaving the gun, now fully loaded, lying on the bed, ‘… she grew up into quite a kid. She’s in this “home” now. This centre. I don’t go and see her. She won’t talk to me.’

As Karla’s story unfolded, her voice was getting harder and faster.

‘Needless to say, when all this came to light, he lost no time in clearing out. He vanished into thin air that night and didn’t leave a trace. I could only think of one way of getting a message to him, and that was why I did that song, “Insomnia". We’d just recorded a new single, you see, but we hadn’t done the B-side yet. So one night I just went into the studio and let all the rage and hatred come out. I knew he’d have to buy the record when he saw it, and I wanted to make sure he knew that I was going to track him down. I put that picture on the sleeve, too. We used to dress the girls up in these little hoods and use them in publicity shots. People started to think they were actually members of the band. I wanted that picture to haunt him. I wanted him to know what it meant: that I was going to find him one day. Find him and kill him.’

From the little table, she picked up a small, plastic, rectangular object: it was a cassette.

‘It took me years to track him down. He’d been in Europe most of the time. I followed a false lead and spent months in Canada and America. Then when I’d found him, it took me another year to raise the money to have him killed the way I wanted him killed. It cost me twenty thousand pounds.’

Dreading the answer (because I knew it already), I asked: ‘And where did you find him?’

‘He was running a studio complex in South London.’

She threw me the tape. It was a copy of our demo containing ‘Madeline (Stranger in a Foreign Land)’.

‘Vincent,’ I said.

‘That seems to be what he calls himself these days. He was Duncan when I married him.’

I looked at the tape and frowned.

‘How did you get this?’

‘It was in Paisley’s pocket. Luckily they got blood all over his jacket and had to bring it back here: otherwise the police would really have had no trouble finding you. You even took the precaution of giving your phone number.’

I said nothing, shocked into silence by the thought of all the repercussions, all the ripples set in motion by the recording of this simple song only a week ago.

‘I see that he produced it for you,’ said Karla. ‘There’s a bit too much reverb on the vocals for my liking. He always made the same mistake.’

‘I still don’t understand why the police haven’t caught up with me,’ I said. ‘Surely they’ve spoken to Chester by now? Hasn’t he told them where I live?’

Karla laughed.

‘Chester? He’s more slippery than you give him credit for. I should imagine that when he got back last night and saw all those policemen, he made a run for it. It’ll be a while before anyone hears from him again.’

‘Him and Vincent,’ I said, ‘ — what’s the connection, then?’

‘Business, basically.’ Karla produced a pair of heavy black boots from under the bed and started to put them on. ‘A man like Duncan — Vincent — doesn’t make his living from running a rehearsal studio. Most of his money comes from heroin. Chester does odd jobs for him in that line now and again, but he’s small fry by comparison. His other big field is property. He’s got his hands on a lot of houses in the Islington area, mainly through crooked contracts. That’s why Paisley and friends were living in one of them.’

‘How did you find all this out?’

‘It wasn’t easy,’ she said, as she finished tying her laces. ‘I knew a lot of this stuff was based at The White Goat, although Duncan himself was too clever to be seen there. So I had to sweet-talk the manager into giving me a job, and then one of the guys behind the bar got me this flat.’

Karla filled in the other gaps for me as she got ready to go out. She’d tracked down the two little brothers from Glasgow, who’d been released from prison a couple of years earlier, and offered them five thousand pounds to carry out the killing. They agreed to do it for twenty. She told them what to wear, and even what position they were to take up just before they made their attack. Everything was calculated to recall the promise she had made on that record, and to fill Vincent with as much terror as possible in the few moments before he died. (I remembered, now, the strange way he had reacted to those two children, wearing matching anoraks, who had come into the studio one morning and scared the life out of him.) She knew that The Unfortunates would be out of the house on Saturday night, and she entrusted one of the brothers with the job of contacting Vincent by phone to make sure he would be there. It was only Paisley’s intervention which had made the scheme backfire.

‘Were you there last night?’ I asked. ‘Was it you driving the car?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘That was the guy you saw downstairs. He’s just someone I hired. He was recommended to me: does a lot of this sort of work, apparently. He’s going to drive us to the studio now.’

I felt a tremor of apprehension.

‘What do you mean, drive us?’

‘You don’t think I called you over here just to put your mind at rest, do you?’ said Karla, bundling the shotgun and more cartridges into a black holdall. ‘You’re going to help me.’

‘Me? How?’

‘I’m going to go into that studio and kill him. Right now, this evening. But I need someone who knows his way around, and you’ve been there before. I’ve heard the place is like a labyrinth. He mustn’t get away.’

‘Now look — ’ I started backing towards the door. ‘I’m sorry about what happened to you, you’ve been through some… terrible things. But I have to say I think you’re going about this in completely the wrong way.’

Karla was looking at me in disbelief.

‘However,’ I continued, ‘in the light of what you’ve told me, I’ll make a deal with you: let me go and I promise I won’t tell the police anything about it.’

She reached into her holdall and took out the shotgun.

‘Shut the fuck up,’ she said. ‘You’re coming with me or I blow your brains out.’

I took a deep breath and nodded.

‘Fine.’

I’d never had anyone aim a gun at me before: as an aid to decision-making, I’d say it can’t be bettered. I stood transfixed by the sight of Karla pointing this thing at my chest. When she saw how frightened I was, she started to chuckle and push me downstairs.

‘What are you laughing at?’ I said.

She chuckled even more.

‘You and your bloody folk songs.’ She prodded me in the back with the rifle. ‘Sorry, pal. I’m no Mary O’Hara.’

She put the gun away in her bag before we got outside, and then grabbed me by the arm and propelled me out into the street. It was a black, cold night, and there was nobody around to see us. Our driver was waiting by the doorway, and the three of us walked, without speaking, down to his car which was parked on the Essex Road. Karla and I sat on the back seat. She took the shotgun out of her bag and laid it on her lap, and from the pocket of her jeans she took out a piece of paper which had the address of Thorn Bird Studios written on it.

‘This is where we’re going,’ she said to the driver. ‘Now step on it.’

He took the piece of paper and turned to her, looking puzzled.

‘Step on it?’

‘Not the paper, stupid. I mean hurry. Rápido!’

‘Ah.’

He started the car and drove off at a furious pace. I thought for a moment about what Karla had just said. A new, astonishing suspicion was creeping over me.

‘What did you say to him?’ I asked.

‘Rápido. It’s Spanish for “quick”.’

Her eyes were bright with anticipation, now, and she was tapping both her feet excitedly. It scared me to see how much she was looking forward to the task ahead of her: the fulfilment, I suppose, of a craving which had been burning inside her for years. She certainly didn’t look as though she felt like answering any more questions; but I had to ask, in a whisper: ‘Is he Spanish?’

‘That’s right. His name’s Pedro.’

She continued to fix me with this mocking, teasing, irrepressible smile. At any other time, and in any other woman, it would have been captivating. I beckoned her closer and whispered in her ear: ‘I know him.’

‘You do?’

‘He’s been seeing my flatmate. He’s an absolute bastard.’

‘Really?’ She pretended to look amazed. ‘And I only hired him because he seemed such a nice sort of bloke.’

All the indignation I felt about what he’d done to Tina started to boil over, suddenly. Back at the flat, it had been held in check by a level of panic and mystification which wouldn’t allow room for any other feelings. Now it welled up into a kind of hatred.

‘He’s been giving my flatmate hell,’ I whispered. ‘Doing terrible things to her. She even tried to kill herself.’

‘Too bad,’ said Karla flatly.

‘If I could just have five minutes alone with him…’

She looked at me, smiling again.

‘What would you do?’

This was a difficult question.

‘I’d… give him a really good talking to.’

She permitted herself a quiet but emphatic laugh, and then turned her gaze on Pedro.

‘Well, let’s see if we can do better than that,’ she said.

We drove along in silence for a few more minutes. Then Karla leant forward and tapped Pedro on the shoulder.

‘Nearly there?’ she asked.

‘Nearly. I think so.’

‘I suppose when we get there you’ll want to be paid, eh, Pedro?’

‘That’s right. When we get there.’

‘And how much was I going to pay you again? Five thousand, wasn’t it?’

‘That’s right, five thousand pounds. Cash in the nail.’

She drew in her breath.

‘Five thousand pounds — that’s a lot of money, isn’t it?’

He giggled stupidly.

‘It is, señora. It’s a lot of money.’

‘What are you going to do with all that money?’

He giggled again.

‘I don’t know. Maybe I’ll be going back to Spain.’

‘Is there someone waiting for you out in Spain, eh, Pedro? Some little Spanish señorita?’

He grinned and fondled his stubbly chin.

‘Maybe. Maybe there is someone, yes.’

‘But I bet that hasn’t stopped you from having a bit of fun while you were over here, eh, Pedro? We all like a bit of fun, don’t we?’

‘That’s right, señora,’ he said, laughing. ‘We all like a bit of fun.’

I interrupted them. ‘You turn left here. The studio’s only about fifty yards up the next road.’

‘OK. Stop the car here, Pedro. Stop the car.’

We were parked in the darkest and most deserted of back alleys. Pedro turned off all the lights.

‘So are you going to get her a present before you leave, Pedro? A present for your little bit of fun?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe I will.’

He was grinning again, and his teeth, reflected in the driver’s mirror, looked yellow and shiny in the darkness.

‘Does she know what you do for a living, this girl, Pedro? I bet you didn’t tell her what you really do.’

‘That’s right,’ he said, between more of those stupid giggles.

‘What did you tell her, then? What does she think you do?’

‘She thinks I drive cars. You know, for passengers.’

‘You’re an old dog, aren’t you, Pedro, eh?’ said Karla, provoking fits of laughter. ‘You’re a bit of an old rascal, aren’t you?’

‘That’s right. I am a bit, yes.’

‘Now — I’ve got this little problem, Pedro, which is that I can’t give you all the money right now. I’m going to have to give you something else, to be going on with.’

‘Something else?’

He turned, and she leant very close to his face.

‘Something else. Do you know what I mean?’

His long, slow smile spread itself again.

‘I think I do. I think maybe I do.’

‘You like British girls, don’t you, Pedro?’

‘Oh yes. I like them very much.’

‘This other British girl — I bet she’d do anything you asked her to, wouldn’t she?’

More giggles. ‘Well… she’d do a lot of things. And sometimes, you know, what’s wrong with a little…’

‘Gentle persuasion?’

‘That’s right.’

‘A bit of pressure?’

‘Yes.’

Karla raised the shotgun to the level of his head.

‘Pedro,’ she said. ‘You’re a waste of space.’

The noise of the shot was deafening, and — well, I’ve never seen anything like what happened then. His head exploded. Literally. It went everywhere. Bits of Pedro were splattered all over the windscreen, the dashboard, the seat covers, the roof. Blood shot in all directions and I got drenched in the stuff. In was in my hair, warm and sticky, and it was on my face and on my coat and on my hands. I was covered in Pedro. He was all over me. I must have been screaming or crying or some thing because suddenly Karla hit me in the face and shouted: ‘Shut up! Shut the fuck up! Now get out of the car!’

She pushed me out of the car and I fell into the street. Then she dragged me up off the floor and started pulling me along with her. I looked back at the car. The driver’s door was open — he must have grabbed the handle just as he realized what she was going to do to him — and what was left of Pedro was lying, half in and half out, slumped against the kerb. When Karla saw that I was looking back she struck me in the face again and pushed me on.

We reached the main door of Thorn Bird Studios, which she kicked open. I went in ahead of her. It seemed light and warm inside, almost homely. Vincent was sitting behind his desk drinking a cup of tea and reading a Sunday magazine. Seeing me, covered in blood, shaking, barely able to stand, he dropped the magazine and got to his feet. He was about to say something when Karla appeared. They stared at each other for perhaps three or four seconds: it was the first time he had seen her in ten years. Then she said, ‘This is for Sandra. And this is for Claire,’ and fired twice.

Both shots missed.

She lunged at him, then; but with a show of unexpected strength he lifted up the desk and shoved it at her. Thrown off balance, she fell to the ground.

‘Follow him, you bastard, follow him.’

Vincent had made a dash for it down an unlit corridor. I found the time-switch and slammed it on just in time to see him disappear round a corner. Karla pushed past me, nearly knocking me over, and without stopping to ask myself why, I followed her.

The pursuit can’t have lasted more than a couple of minutes. Every few seconds the lights would go off and the corridors would be thrown into darkness, and I’d have to grope frantically for the nearest switch: I knew that Vincent could find his way just as easily in the dark. He took us up and down all those countless little staircases until we were dizzy and hopelessly disorientated. Finally, it seemed as though we had lost him altogether. We stood there, panting in the darkness, straining to hear his footsteps above the muffled noise of bands practising in the adjacent rehearsal rooms.

‘Shit,’ said Karla. ‘SHIT!’

Then I found a light switch and turned it on: and there was Vincent, at the far end of the corridor, struggling to unlock the door of Studio B. Before we could get there he had slipped inside and closed the door behind him.

The lights went out again. I put a restraining hand on Karla’s arm and took a few breaths.

‘We’ve got him,’ I said. ‘He can’t lock the studio door from inside.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes.’

‘What’s in there?’

‘I don’t know.’

She shook free of my hand and stepped back.

‘Then we’ll soon find out.’

But now I did an amazing thing. I said, ‘Hold on’, and blocked her way. Some maniacal form of bravado seemed to have possessed me, and I heard myself saying, ‘I’ll go in first.’ When this suggestion met with incredulous silence, I added: ‘It might be dangerous.’

In one swift, decisive movement, I pulled open the door of Studio B, and charged.

If I had stopped to look down, just for a second, I would have seen that there was a narrow iron ladder fixed to the wall. It led to a little landing-stage from which, sometimes, the shouts of sailors would rise up into the night air as they loaded and unloaded their boats. But I didn’t stop. I caught a sudden glimpse of clouds skimming over the face of a lambent moon, and plunged headlong into the ink-black ice-cold waters of the Thames.