Paranoia
He closed his eyes (pushing back a sudden panic
Push
Push)
swallowed hard and tried to focus his mind again
Tramadol
Yes
He imagined a small blister-pack in his pocket, rested an illusory hand upon it, heard the neat click and the tiny rattle
Ahhh
It worked just like magic.
swallowed hard and tried to focus his mind again
Tramadol
Yes
He imagined a small blister-pack in his pocket, rested an illusory hand upon it, heard the neat click and the tiny rattle
Ahhh
It worked just like magic.
Righty-ho
Next up: three neat paperbacks, all by the same author: a Dutchman called Johan Huizinga. These had been exceptionally well-thumbed (even by Beedes standards and he was nothing if not thorough). The first was entitled The Waning of the Middle Ages (a historical classic, it claimed on the back). Numerous pages had been turned over at their corners (approaching a third of the total), and there was still one of Beedes red pencils jammed rudely inside it (Beede liked to underline relevant words and sentences as he read a strange quality in someone usually so circumspect showing very little respect, Kane always felt, for the integrity and binding of a book).
He opened the text to its pencil marker and read (underlined with great zeal): So violent and motley was life that it bore the mixed smell of blood and roses. Smell had been circled and then asterisked. Underneath that: After the close of the Middle Ages the mortal sins of pride, anger and covetousness have never again shown the unabashed insolence with which they manifested themselves in the life of preceding centuries.
Next to this, in the margin, in block capitals, Beede had written: UNTIL NOW!
Kane shut the book with a snort. His search became more impatient.
Another Huizinga book: Men and Ideas: History, the Middle Ages, the Renaissance, was tossed on to the floor, followed by uh Homo Ludens: A Study of the Play-Element in Culture
Eh?!
with its lovely cover (red and black, the kind of graphics favoured by the best casinos in 1950s Vegas). Sample quote: The human mind can only disengage itself from the magic circle of play by turning towards the ultimate.
Wha?!
He sniffed. This was getting him nowhere, but that was okay, because it was pretty much where he wanted to be
Right
A.R. Myers, England in the Late Middle Ages; Mary Clive, This Sun of York: A Biography of Edward lV; Joseph and Frances Gies, Life in a Medieval Castle
Hmmn
Was there some kind of theme emerging here? Kane frowned. It was a little strange, perhaps this intense level of focus on such a particular time-frame but
Aw heck!
the history he could take. It was bone-dry, like Beede. The history made sense to him. It was old and silly and wonderfully unthreatening. It didnt shock or unsettle or confound. It was dead. It was done. It was after.
Phew
Next up
Ay ay
Shakespeare: The Complete Plays (markers in all of the Henries and Richard III), followed hard-upon by another ridiculously hefty volume: John Aytos Dictionary of Word Origins. Kane lugged it aside, with a small grunt, boredly. Under that, Robert Burchfields far more svelte and shapely The English Language. He flipped it over and ran his eye across a brief spiel on the back about how the mother tongue was so resilient and so flexible
The English Language is like a fleet of juggernaut trucks, he read, somewhat perplexedly, that goes on regardless.
Really?!
Well, uhOkay
Under that
Cmon, cmon
a hardback: Art of the Late Middle Ages (purchased from Abebooks.com the invoice shoved inside from its original source of Multnomah County Library at £29.50with shipping)
Huh?!
Beede buying books on the internet?! Kane gently yuck-yuckedIs this an end to the world as we know it?
In this particular instance the front flap had been employed as a marker within the belly of the text. Kane opened the book to this place, casually. He inhaled sharply as his eyes alighted upon the stark, photographic reproduction of a sculpture entitled Death Disguised as a Monk. The sculpture consisted of an eerily animated skeleton in wood, exquisitely carved the bony skull and arms of which peeked out, ominously, from the sumptuous folds of a monks cowl. Its expression was at once delirious the gaping smile, the hollow eyes, the pointing finger andand poignant, somehow.
As he held the book several more pages flipped over, revealing a small, black and white illustration of a woodcut (1493) in which a group of skeletons performed a macabre jig over an open grave. Next to this image, in Beedes characteristic red pencil (that creepy, teachery, bloody pencil), he had written:
DEATH
He said it was a dance.
Burning
Kane sniffed, then frowned, then shook his head
Dont be ridiculous
He put the book down. He was at the bottom of the pile, now, with only one volume remaining:
The Encyclopedia of Witchcraft and Demonology by Russell Hope Robbins.
Kane picked it up. It was a heavy tome (old, hardback, the fine cover preserved in plastic). He looked for a book-mark and found one (of sorts), pulling it out as he turned to the spot. It was a business card for a company called Petaborough Restorations (no address, just a number). On the back of thecard, in very shaky writing, Kane read: Peters exactly what you need (Did an absolutely superb job on Longport for the Weald and Downland Museum). J.P.
Kane gazed at this card for a minute, half-frowning, then casually pocketed it.
Good
He glanced down at the text. He found himself in the segment entitled Possession. It consisted in the main of a series of lists. His eye settled, arbitrarily, upon one of them: a treatise (Rouen, 1644) which detailed the eleven main indications of true possession. Next to each item on this list Beede had inserted a series of tiny, red marks. Item One: To think oneself possessed carried a minute question mark. Item Two: To lead a wicked life had a minuscule cross
etc
Point Nine: To be tired of living [sennuyer de vivre et se désespérer] had been strongly underlined
Burning
Kane sneezed, hard, as he slapped the book shut (a sudden interest in the wonders of Satanism? Well this was definitely a turn up). He blinked, winced, inhaled
No. No. Hang on it was burning. For sure. He quickly glanced behind him
Shit!
A cat! A fucking Siamese cat. Just standing there, its blue eyes boring into him, unblinking, its grey tail twisting up like a plume of smoke. He looked down and saw his Marlboro burning a hole in the rug. The cat lifted its head and then coughed (with just a touch of fastidiousness).
Fuck!
Kane lunged for the cigarette. The cat pranced away. Gaffar jumped up, with a hiss (Gaffar hated cats).
You bastard! Kane yelled, snatching up the still-red-embered stub and observing much to his horror the ugly, black hole in Beedes Moroccan rug.
Shit, shit, shit.
Beede loved his rug. Kane thought of it as Moroccan, but it celebrated in words and pictures some kind of crazy, phallic-shaped public monument in Afghanistan, surrounded by tiny planes (which looked like birds) with MINARET OF FIAM written on the periphery, semi-back-to-front. It was a ridiculous object. Kane remembered it almost fondly from his boyhood
No
Perhaps thats a false memory
Gaffar had already bounded over. He was staring down at the spot in dismay. He seemed to instinctively appreciate that this unsightly burn was a big deal for Kane (and Kane instinctively appreciated his awareness of this fact).
Smoking could seriously damage your health, Gaffar announced portentously, his accent almost cut-glass. Youre not wrong there, Kane murmured despairingly. Beede loves this stupid rug.
He go crazy? Gaffar enquired.
No, Kane shook his head. Not crazy. Itll simplyuhitll confirm something He paused, then gave up. Yeah, absolutely fucking psychotic, he muttered.
Leave, Gaffar said. I do. Go!
He waved Kane away.
Kane glanced over at him, almost poignantly. You think you can fix this?
Gaffar nodded. Turkish. He pointed to himself, as if that was explanation enough.
Really?
Gaffar nodded. My mother, my grandmother, my great-grandmother, he lied, effortlessly, all sweated blood over the carpet looms of Diyarbakir.
So you know about rugs? You think you can sort this out for me? Gaffar nodded again. Leave, he ordered, I am mend.
Kane stood up just in time to observe the troublesome Siamese jumping lightly on to the kitchen counter. He glowered at it. I cant believe Beedes got himself a cat, he murmured, taking a speculative step towards it, and a fucking pedigree at that. Beede hates domestic animals. Cats especially
He paused. At least He frowned, his voice petering out.
Gaffar hissed. The cat flattened its ears in response. Gaffar picked up Beedes Tupperware beaker and lobbed it at the cat. He scored a direct hit. He whooped. The cat kicked off the counter its hackles up and dashed, full pelt, into the sanctuary of Beedes bedroom.
Kane rapidly shot after it, across the living-room, through the kitchen, but then faltered like a mime suddenly hitting an invisible wall
Bang!
just on the cusp of entry.
I mean Beedes bedroom? His monkish cloister? His inner sanctum? His lair?
Beedes bedroom? Was nothing sacred?
Kane drew a long, deep breath (steeling his resolve; throwing back his shoulders, sticking up his chin and squinting; like a heroic Sir Edmund Hillary trapped inside a damnable snowstorm), then entered, boldly, on the exhale.
SIX
She was lying on a trolley in the hospital corridor, propped up on her elbow and reading an old copy of Marie Claire. Shed already made firm friends with two of the porters, one of whom was still buzzing around in the background; perhaps imagining even though she was obviously suffering from a serious fracture that he might be on to a Good Thing here.
And what more could she expect (the porters lascivious expression seemed to proclaim, as he slouched priapically against the Nurses Station and hungrily appraised her)? She was a Broad, after all. They were a degenerate bunch. The now-legendary Jason Broadd had his stomach pumped on the exact same Casualty Ward a mere eighteen months earlier, and had celebrated this momentous occasion with wait for it a can of Budweiser (downed it in one, the nutter)! Dr Morton almost had a coronary; was actually quoted as saying that Jason Broad should take out a restraining order on himself (and if his current three-year prison sentence was anything to go by, then hed pretty much followed the doctors orders to the letter).