Christopher Fowler - Disturbia

Christopher Fowler is the director of The Creative Partnership, a film promotion

company based in Soho, and is the author of the novels Roofworld, Rune, Red Bride,

Darkest Day, Spanky, Psychoville, Disturbia and Soho Black and of the short story

collections City Jitters, The Bureau of Lost Souls, Sharper Knives, Flesh Wounds and

Personal Demons.

DISTURBIA

Also by Christopher Fowler

ROOFWORLD

RUNE

RED BRIDE

DARKEST DAY

CITY JITTERS

THE BUREAU OF LOST SOULS

SHARPER KNIVES

SPANKY

PSYCHOVILLE

FLESH WOUNDS

PERSONAL DEMONS

SOHO BLACK

DISTURBIA

Christopher Fowler

A Warner Book

First published in Great Britain by Warner Books 1997

This edition published by Warner Books 1998

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

All characters in this publication other than those clearly in the public domain are fictitious and any

resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted,in any form or by any

means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding

or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being

imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN 0 7515 1909 X

Typeset by Solidus (Bristol) Limited

Printed and bound in Great Britain by

Clays Ltd, St Ives plc

Warner Books

A Division of

Little, Brown and Company (UK) Limited

Brettenham House

Lancaster Place

London WC2E 7EN

Dedication

For Bal Croce, whose energetic pursuit of London's hidden

histories inspired this tale.

Acknowledgements

The solidarity and support of Richard Woolf made this book possible, and for this I am

eternally grateful. Jim Sturgeon is the sensible half of my brain. Our creative

partnership spans almost a quarter century, and that's where the ideas come from.

Thank you, James. Maximum love, as always, goes out to parents Kath and Bill,

superbro Steven, Sue and family.

FAQ: How do I find the time to write when I have a day job? With the help of great

friends like Mike and Sarah, Jo, Twins Of Evil Martin and Graham, David and Helen,

Damien, Sebastian, Alan, Jeff, Richard P, Sally and Gary, Pam, Maggie, Poppy,

Amber, Stephanie, Di, Kevin, Lara, Michele. My agent Serafina Clarke may not be

entirely au fait with the Internet but makes a superb champagne cocktail, a far more

desirable skill. Editor Andrew Wille and Nann du Sautoy are as essential as

Wordperfect, and I suspect represent the 'X-Files' end of Little, Brown; my kind of

folks, as are Jenny Luithlen and Pippa Dyson, international rights and UK film rights

respectively, and Joel Gotler at Renaissance. Thanks also to fellow authors Graham

Joyce, Nick Royle, Kim Newman and Joanne Harris.

Part One

'Si monumentum requiris, circumspice'

– Wren's inscription for St Paul's

('If you seek a monument, look around')

Prologue

'All That Mighty Heart Is Lying Still.'

Taken from the Foreword of City of Night and Day by Vincent Reynolds.

NO LIVING person has seen London. Its meadows and pastures are buried beneath

layers of concrete, brick and bone, its topography and history crushed by the sheer

weight of events. Within an ever-changing circumference is concentrated such a

tumultuous deluge of life that the palaces of the Bosphorus seem dull in comparison.

London is a city of myth. Its buildings hold and hide legends. Its rivers are lost

underground. Its backstreets vanish into fable. Its characters are blurred between

fact and fiction. Truths have been twisted by fantasy. Tourists are rendered blind,

stepping around beggars to photograph the past, and sit in parks reading of a city that

only springs to life in the mind, for in reality only the faintest outline traces now

remain.

London is a cruel city. Beneath the rosy veils of lore and imagery its architecture is

at best grand and callous, at worst patched, shabby and vulgar. It gives no guidance to

the lost, no comfort to the lonely, no help to the abandoned. It has no truck with

sentiment, and no interest in its own mythology. Its buildings, like its people, are often

defined by the negative shapes they leave on the retina. They lack both the florid

invention of the French and the bland utility of the American. London is muddling

through and unavoidable, like a garrulous drunk making uncalled-for conversation.

Whereas its form once sprang from a collective energy of purpose, it is now defined by

the manufacture of money. If its parks were not protected, they too would now be

built upon, and out to the very edge of the street, in order to maximise office space.

Its residents are divided; secretive and arrogant, briskly condescending, or confused

and gentle, slightly disappointed. For some it is still a sanctuary of civilisation, to

others a living Satanophony. There are no glitzy showtunes written about this city,

only a handful of rumpty-tumpty music hall dirges.

Once, though, it was a living, breathing thing, its buildings homogenously palladian

and baroque, its roads spacious, its parks tranquil. This is the London of collective

memory; warm solid buildings of dirty white stone, dingy soot-streaked stations with

a curiously sharp metallic smell, children trudging through wet green parklands, low

sunlight in narrow streets, and people, people everywhere. A city traversed by

railway cuttings and canals, and at its heart the curious silence of a broad grey river,

glistening like dulled steel.

The war, the developer, the councilman, the car, each has taken a turn in London's

destruction. It is a city scoured by perpetual motion. All that is left now are pieces of

brilliant brittle shell, the remnants of a centuries-long celebration of life, fractured

glimpses and glances of what was, and what might once have been.

And yet...

There are places that still catch the city's fleeting spirit. Little to the West, and not

much in the centre, where only visitors stroll on a Sunday in the Aldwych. But there's

Greenwich Park at early evening, the river mist settling below the statue of General

Wolfe. The silver glow of St James's Park after dark, gothic turrets beyond the

silhouettes of planes and chestnuts, above lakeside beds of tulips and wallflowers.

Charing Cross Road beneath early morning drizzle. Bloomsbury in snow. The

dolphin-entwined lamps of the Embankment, when a hesperidian sun ignites the

Thames and the lights flick on like strings of iridescent pearls. St Paul's at daybreak,

stark and unforgiving, less barren than Trafalgar Square but just as immutable.

Sicilian Avenue, ornately silent on a hot, dead afternoon. The arches of Regent Street

like stone sunrises, sweeping across sideroads. These and a thousand other points of

brightness remain, skin-prickling intersections on a vast spiritual grid.

And there are its people; resilient, private, wilful, defiantly odd. There's little can be

changed in them. Their ability to trust is the city's greatest strength – and its most

devastating curse.

London is a city only halfway in light. Not all of its walls are bounded in brick and

stone. Its mysteries are diminished but not gone. Its keys are well hidden because the

key-holders are invisible to the public. A few last selfish truths still remain here,

cushioned and sheltered by power and class and money. They are protected by

nothing more or less than the will of the landowners to survive for one more century.

Nothing you can do will ever bring them out into the light, for the enemy is too

elusive. He shape-shifts among the buildings, daring you to find him, knowing your

task is quite impossible.

'Dear God! The very houses seem asleep, And all that mighty heart is lying still!'

wrote William Wordsworth at Westminster Bridge early one morning.

Perhaps one day, some brave Prometheus will carry the light into the city, and bring

the sleeping giant fully back to life. Then, reader, beware.

CHAPTER ONE

The Brigands

APART FROM one niggling annoyance, Sebastian Wells felt at peace with the world.

He had just ignited a particularly fine cigar of Cuban extraction, and had drunk the

decent portion of a magnum of Bollinger, albeit from a plastic cup. He was leaving one

pleasurable venue, a box at the Royal Festival Hall where he had been attending a

charity recital of Offenbach arias, and was heading for another, the Palm Court at the

Waldorf Hotel. The violet dusk had settled into a late-summer night that was warm

and starless. Ahead of him, confident couples fanned across the walkways of the South

Bank and awkwardly climbed the stairs to Waterloo Bridge to collect their cars.

Others strolled in evening dress beside the river, transforming the barren concrete

embankment into a set for a champagne commercial. There was an air of gentle

joviality. Sebastian felt unusually stately and benevolent, willing to be swayed in his

argument, although perhaps not ready to concede it.

'The point, my dear Caton-James, is that the man was successful before he was

twenty years of age.' He flicked the ash from his cigar and blew on the end until it was

glowing.

'Not wealthy, though,' said Caton-James, searching the crowd.

'What do you expect? He had five children, and he lived extravagantly. His music

was throwaway, full of topical parody, and yet here we are one hundred and twenty

years later still listening to it.' Sebastian located the source of his annoyance and

pointed his cigar to the figure emerging from one of the Hall's entrance doors. 'I think

the gentleman we're looking for is there, at the back. He's alone.'

'Opera was invented for a closed society,' said St John Warner. He had the

misfortune of speaking in a high, strangled voice that irritated everyone in earshot. 'It

was never meant to be understood by the proles, but Offenbach made it accessible to

all. I thought you'd be against that sort of thing, Sebastian.'

'Not at all,' Sebastian replied magnanimously. 'It doesn't hurt to give your workers

some little tunes to hum. Besides, I defy anyone to resist La Perichole's "Letter

Song".' He pointed in the direction of the entrance doors again. 'Look, will somebody

stop this chap before he simply wanders off?'

Caton-James eased his way through the last of the departing audience and slipped a

friendly arm behind the startled man's back.

'I wonder if we might have a word with you.' He attempted a pleasant smile,

revealing a rictus of grey pegs that could make a baby cry.

His hostage, a smart, dark-complexioned man of twenty-two or so, checked the firm

fist at his waist with an outraged 'I'm sorry?' and shorthanded such a look of violated

privacy that he failed to see the others closing about him.

'Not that the working classes could comprehend such music now,' said Sebastian

testily as he joined them. 'They make a sort of mooing noise in their public houses

when Oasis comes on, wave their cans of Hooch and busk along with a few of the

words to "Wonderwall", but ask them to remember the chorus of "Soyez Pitoyables"

from Les Brigands and see where it gets you.'

Moments later their victim found himself separated from the concert stragglers and

forced into a litter-strewn alley at the side of the Hall. The area seemed to have been

designed for the facility of brigands. In front of him were five imposing young men in

Edwardian evening wear. Alarmed and confused as the shadows closed over him, he

was still considering the correct response when Caton-James punched him hard in the

stomach. To everyone's surprise, the boy instantly threw up.

'Oh God!' squealed St John Warner, jumping back, 'all over my shoes!'

'Hold him still, will you?' asked Sebastian. 'Where's Barwick?'

'Over here.'

'Keep an eye out. There's a chap.'

Caton-James waited for the thin string of vomit to stop spilling from the young

man's mouth onto the concrete, then punched him again, watching dispassionately as

he folded over, moaning. Sebastian drew back his shoe and swung it hard at the

frightened face beneath him. The shoes were new, Church's of course, and the heels

still had sharp edges, so that his first kick removed most of the skin on the boy's nose.

He was haematose now, his eyes dulling as he kicked and kicked, his mind in another

place. The body beneath him fell back without resistance. Even from his position at

the alley entrance, Barwick could hear the sharp cracking of bones, like explosive caps

being stamped on. Sebastian lowered his leg and bent forward to study the cowering,

carmine-faced figure. Blood was leaking from his ears.

'Looks like you've fractured his skull,' said Caton-James. 'We'd better go.'

'You're right. We'll lose our table if we don't get a move on.' The light returned to

Sebastian's eyes as a chorus from La Chanson de Fortunio forced its way into his

head. Nodding along with the melody, he reached forward and pulled the young man's

cracked head up by his hair, then gently blew on the tip of his cigar. Forcing his

victim's mouth open, he pushed the glowing stogie as far into his retching throat as it

would go.

'Christ, Sebastian.' St John Warner grimaced, turning away.

With the annoyance taken care of, Sebastian rubbed the toecaps of his shoes against

his calves until they shone, and straightened the line of his brocaded waistcoat. The

Offenbach chorus rang on in his head, unstoppable now.

'I'm famished,' he said, glancing back at the convulsing body with distaste. 'Let's eat.'

He led his men from the alleyway towards the bridge as Barwick attempted to lighten

the mood, regaling the group with a scurrilous story about Sir Thomas Beecham. As

they left the dying man behind, their dark laughter was absorbed in the gaiety of the

dissipating crowds.

CHAPTER TWO

The Assignment

'BECAUSE I saw you trying to nick it, smartarse,' shouted the stallholder. The name

of his stall was Mondo Video, and supposedly sold cult trash/rock/horror items on

VHS, but these days his stock had been decimated by the need to conform with

tougher censorship restrictions. It didn't help being sandwiched between a woman

selling secondhand children's jumpers and a falafel takeaway, either.

'I wouldn't be caught dead nicking anything from this stall,' Vince countered, waving

one of the video boxes in his hand. 'Check out the picture-quality of this stuff, it's

burglary.'

'Burglary?'

'Yeah, like watching the screen with a pair of tights pulled over your face. You got a

nerve trying to offload it onto the public.'

'Well, don't bother trying to half-inch any of it, then.' The stallholder rested his

hands on his hips, amused by the boy's cheek. Maybe he'd seen him before; it was

hard to tell. The worn-over sneakers, the clipper haircut, the ever-shifting eyes and

the sallow complexion of a fast-food diet were common juvenile stigmata around here.

But this one had a freshness, a touch of charm.

'Wouldn't give you the benefit of my custom, not for this load of pants. Of course,

you probably dosh up from your export stock.' 'Export' was the universal code for

videotapes that had not been classified by the British authorities. It was illegal to sell

such merchandise to the public unless it was for export. It would have been especially

foolhardy trying to offload such material in Shepherd's Bush market, which was

constantly patrolled by police. The stallholder feigned shocked indignation, a skill he

had practised and perfected long ago.

'I hope you're not suggesting I break the law.'

'Well, you ain't gonna make your money back flogging fifth generation copies of

Black Emmanuelle Goes East with the good bits cut out, are you?' said Vince. 'This

technology's dead, anyway. If you're gonna market cult videos, you need old

BBFC-certificated stock, something the DPP can't touch, and I have the very thing.'

He looked about for signs of the law, then dug into his leather duffel bag and produced

a boxed tape. 'Check that out, mate.'

Vince had travelled the country buying up stock from dealers who had withdrawn

tapes following advice from the Director of Public Prosecutions. 'First generation

rental, and – technically – totally legal,' he explained, pointing to an original copy of

The Exorcist. He opened the lid and displayed a dealer stamp from an Aberystwyth

public library as proof. 'There you go. That's so clean it belongs in a photo-opportunity

with a politician.'

Vince knew he had made a sale the moment the tape passed into the stallholder's

hands. It was easy to spot the fanatical zeal in the eyes of a true collector. In the next

few minutes he sold the remainder of his stock for six times what he'd paid, and left

behind a grateful buyer. As he strutted between the crowded railway arches, back

towards the entrance of the market, a little mental arithmetic confirmed that he was

within sight of his financial target. He could now afford to reduce his hours at the store

and concentrate on his assignment for Esther Goldstone.

He took a last look back at the boisterous crowds. Not so long ago the transactions

taking place beneath the railways of London involved Jacobean candlesticks, Georgian

silver and Victorian paintings of dubious provenance. Now they teemed with

housewives who had been forced into scouring stalls for cheap children's clothes. Only

the contumacious energy of the multitude remained.

An hour later, he kept his appointment at Goldstone's cluttered Covent Garden

office, situated above a mediocre Italian restaurant in Floral Street. Esther was an

agent, and the mother of a boy he had befriended on his journalism course. An editor

of her acquaintance named Carol Mendacre was preparing a volume of new London

journalism for her publishing house. Esther had read several of Vince's unpublished

articles, and had been sufficiently intrigued to pass them onto the editor, who in turn

had expressed an interest in commissioning a more substantial piece. If the finished

product worked and the book did well, it would lead to further assignments. Esther

was happy to offer guidance to her protégé. She felt that his writing had conviction,

although his style was a little wild and ragged. Now she listened patiently as he

explained what he wanted to write about. She was a good listener, smiling and

nodding as she absently touched her auburn hair. Glitzily maternal, she wore rings set

with bulbous semi-precious stones on almost every finger, and sported an array of gilt

ropes at her bosom. This may have given her the appearance of being Ali Baba's

business manager but she was, in fact, a highly respected agent with a fondness for

nurturing new writers.

'I don't see why nine per cent of the population should own ninety per cent of the

land,' Vince told her heatedly, 'or why the country needs hereditary peers. It

astonishes me that a city of nine million people selects its living options from a

shortlist of outmoded ideas; that politicians are working for the common good and that

the state has the welfare of all at its heart. The state is supposed to be there to uphold

a sacred trust; to protect what rightfully belongs to its people. That concept

disappeared when everything was sold off. How did we let it slip away? Isn't it time

politicians learned that you can't excuse an incompetent career by having your picture

taken with your arms around your children?'

'You're ranting, dear; I don't like that,' Esther gently chided him. 'Opinionated

rhetoric is the province of the elderly, not twenty-five-year-olds. I read the piece

based on the interviews you conducted. It was interesting enough, in a hectoring way.

What Carol needs for this anthology is balanced reportage, not mere vocalised anger.

No kneejerk stuff. Nothing in life is as clear-cut as you think. Don't turn this into a

bleat about the class system; it's all been said before, and by writers far more

articulate and experienced than yourself. Let's discuss practicalities. What I'll need

from you fairly quickly is an outline of your intended piece.'

In the street outside, the Garden's performers were calling to the crowd,

encouraging them to chant a set of comic refrains. Beyond this chorus, Vince could

hear a coluratura soprano singing scales in the rehearsal room of the Opera House. A

peppery cooking smell was wafting through the open window. There was an undertow

of garlic in the air; restaurants were preparing for their evening sittings. On the roof

above, someone was having a barbecue. So much life crowded on top of itself.

'You want me to pick something else to write about,' he said moodily.

'Not at all! The subject of class fits perfectly with what the editor has in mind, so

long as you find an involving approach to your material. Don't just create a patchwork

of facts and opinions. Find a vessel in which to present your argument. Don't forget –

if she likes what you write, a quarter of the book will be yours. The other authors in

the anthology all have extensive previous experience. You'll be her wild card, her new

face. I'm counting on you to do this, Vincent.'

He sat back in his chair, chastened and feeling foolish. He wanted to leave her with a

good impression. Esther reached over and placed a plump hand on his, her bracelets

chinking. 'Stop looking so worried. You'll do fine, I'm sure. Just go back and

concentrate on the project. Ask yourself if you've chosen your topic for the right

reasons. It's obvious to me that you care, but that's nowhere near enough. Everyone

feels passion about something. Everyone has ideas about their world. You need to

refine yours through individual insight and experience.'

Her business manner returned as she withdrew her hand. 'It's not official yet, but

this book is going to be part of a more ambitious project. Carol is hoping to sign a deal

for a whole series of volumes, probably twelve in all. Each will feature the work of

between four and six authors. They'll be setting out to chronicle the state of the world

at the end of the twentieth century. She's come to me to help her find fresh young

talent, and I don't want to disappoint her. You know I like your style, Vincent. I loved

your London pieces and I'd love for you to become one of the series' regular authors.

But you're not a recognised journalist. You're young, and the ideas of the young are

not always thought through. You've only been published in fringe magazines. It all

depends on you getting this first project right. I don't want to interfere editorially, but

if you have problems with your material, bring them to me and I'll be happy to help

you sort them out.'

'You have more faith in me than I have,' he said quietly.

'My interest isn't wholly philanthropic, I assure you.' She twisted a thick gold band

on her finger, a gift from her divorced husband. 'As you know, I left the agency to set

up on my own. This office is expensive, and Morris's settlement only goes so far. I

promised Carol I'd find her fresh talent. I have to make this work. I search the

literary backstreets for new blood, and what I find rarely holds promise. When I get

someone like you, I hang on in hope. That you'll come through, that you'll be different

from the rest. So write about London, if that's what interests you.'

'It's just... finding where to start.'

'Listen to that.' Esther sat back in her chair and nodded in the direction of the open

window. 'What do you hear? Street vendors, tradesmen, punters, hawkers – and

ranging above them, the opera singers. The centuries haven't overturned their roles.

You talk about class. If the class system is so terrible, how come it's still here? What

keeps it in place? Money? Breeding? Sheer selfishness? Perhaps you can find out.'

She rose suddenly, closing the session. 'Make it human, Vincent. There's much you

won't understand unless you can find someone who'll explain from the inside how the

system works. Try getting to know such a person. Assemble facts and figures, by all

means –' she leaned forward, smiling now, and prodded him with a varnished nail, '–

but filter them through that pump in your chest. Give your writing some heart.'

CHAPTER THREE

The Elite

AS HE emerged from Esther Goldstone's office and crossed the road, clearing clouds

released the afternoon sun, gilding the terraced buildings of Floral Street in brassy

light. Vince knew he could not spend the rest of his life studying. He had taken night

courses in photography, advanced English, history and journalism, with varying

degrees of success. He had written and published sixteen poorly-paid articles on

London, its history and people in a variety of fringe newspapers and

desktop-produced magazines. Now at the age of twenty-five, he felt himself in danger

of becoming a permanent student. He did not have enough cash saved to go travelling,

and he was too tired to consider the prospect of backpacking across the campsites of

Europe in search of sensation.

His mother wanted him to find a regular job, start a family and settle down, or at

least stay in one place long enough to save some money. He wanted to work at a single

project instead of half a dozen, to pick a direction and stick with it, but so far writing

had earned him nothing, and the spectre of hitting forty in a ratty cardigan and a

damp flat surrounded by thousands of press clippings filled him with depression. He

did not want to fight his way into the media world determined to produce

award-winning documentaries, only to wind up writing video links for cable kids'

shows. He was more ambitious than that.

His brother Paul had screwed up royally, telling everyone he was holding down a

highly-paid job at London Weekend Television as a technician. Far from being

gainfully employed, he was caught breaking into a stereo component factory in

Southend, and served four years of a six-year sentence for inflicting damage to one of

the security guards. He was now working on an army base in Southampton. Vince was

determined to do better than that, just to convince his mother that she hadn't raised

her children in vain.

He rubbed a hand through his cropped black hair and looked back at the

tourist-trammelled Piazza, at the gritty haze above it caused by street-cooking and

car exhausts, then at the quiet curving street ahead. It was his afternoon off from the

store, and he planned to visit Camden Library to raid their reference section. Now

that he had set aside his misgivings and accepted the commission, he needed to

develop a working method that would allow him to deliver the assignment on time.

More than that, he needed a human subject to interview, but had no clue about how to

find one.

As he passed a newsagent's shop in Charing Cross Road, he glanced in the window

and idly studied the incongruous array of magazines. Between copies of Cable TV

Guide and Loaded were a number of sun-faded society magazines, including a copy of

The Tatler. On its cover was a laughing couple in evening dress, attending some kind

of hunting event.

It made sense to purchase the field-guide to his chosen subject. As he thumbed

through the pages, checking the captioned photographs, he felt as though he was

facing an enemy for the first time. His knowledge of the class system's upper reaches

was minimal and, he knew, reactionary, but studying a display of guffawing nitwits

tipping champagne over each other in a marquee – 'The Honourable Rodney

Waite-Gibbs and his girlfriend Letitia Colfe-Burgess, raising money for Needy

Children' – filled him with an irrational fury that deepened with each page he turned.

There were photographs of silky, bored debutantes seated beside improbable floral

arrangements in Kensington apartments, drunk young gentlemen collapsed over

wine-stained tablecloths, elderly landowners awkwardly posed at their country seats,

their slight smiles hinting at perception of their immortality.

They struck Vince not as sons and daughters and brothers and sisters, but as

dwindling continuations of lines buried deep in the past, barely connected to his world.

Their forefathers' determination to civilise others had certainly earned them a place in

history. Thumbing through The Tatler though, he could only assume that their

children had collectively decided to abandon themselves to less altruistic pursuits.

One series of photographs particularly intrigued. They showed a handsome,

haunted man with a contrite look on his face shying from cameras as he entered a

grime-covered granite building. The caption read: 'The Honourable Sebastian Wells

puts his troubled past to rest over a conciliatory dinner with his estranged father, Sir

Nicholas Wells, at the Garrick Club.' In the entire magazine, this was the only hint that

something was wrong in the upper echelons. He found himself wondering what sort of

trouble the honourable Sebastian Wells had got himself into. He planned to write

about London from the view of his own working-class background, but it needed

someone like this to provide his ideas with contrast. What were the chances of getting

a member of the aristocracy to talk to him? How did he even set about obtaining a

telephone number? Wells's father belonged to the House of Lords, which at least made

him easier to track down.

Vince closed the magazine and headed off towards the library at a renewed pace. He

had found his human subject. And his method of choosing Sebastian Wells could not

have been more constitutional if he had simply stuck a pin in an open telephone

directory.

Christopher Fowler - Disturbia

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