Текст книги "Deviance"

Автор книги: J. F. Penn

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"Did you know Nicholas Randolph?" Jamie asked.

The woman froze, her breath catching at the name. She put a hand against the wall, her head drooping a little. Tears glistened in her eyes.

"I'm sorry," Jamie whispered. "Were you close?"

"He was Nick to us," the woman said. "And he was a good man, despite what some said about his past." A hard edge came into her voice at that. "But the Lord forgives and washes our sins whiter than snow. The darker spark within us may lapse into old habits but even that can be forgiven. Repentance is a daily practice after all, and I'm afraid that Southwark more than most is testament to the dual nature of sinner and saint. Nick was both, as are we all."

"Was his community outreach program supported by all in the church?"

The woman hesitated and doubt flickered in her eyes. "Yes, of course, we're an inclusive church. We have an altar for the victims of AIDS … Although, of course we cannot ignore what the Bible says about sexual sin. Nick was more tolerant than many, for sure, and he worked with some …" She paused and shook her head. "Well, let's just say that I'm not sure there's anyone who can replace Nick in that particular part of the community outreach program." The woman shuffled her leaflets and then handed one to Jamie. "Here's some information about the church windows and the main tombs of interest. I'll leave you to continue alone."

The woman turned away to greet a family of American tourists who would be unlikely to ask such difficult questions.

Jamie walked towards the middle of the church and paused in front of a stained glass window portraying characters from Shakespeare's plays. This had been the playwright's borough, back when theatre was part of the pleasure bank of the Thames alongside the prostitutes, bear baiting and gambling dens. The replica of the Globe Theatre stood a few streets away, and the stained glass honored the greatest of the Bard's plays. Prospero commanded the tempest with Caliban at his feet, Hamlet stood contemplating the skull of Horatio and the donkey-headed Bottom cavorted with pixies, while around them, all the world continued to be a stage.

At the very back corner of the cathedral, Jamie found the chapel to the victims of AIDS. A young man knelt on an altar cushion, his eyes closed, lips moving in silent prayer. There was a noticeboard set up by the side and Jamie walked closer to see what the church was involved in.

There were pictures from community events, people smiling at sausage-sizzles under rain-soaked skies, children making origami animals to accompany Noah into the ark. In one picture, Jamie spotted Nicholas Randolph, his dark hair recognizable with the streak of white. He looked younger in life, his face relaxed and happy. He wore a shirt with sleeves rolled up, revealing a rainbow on one arm, the promise from God not to destroy the world again and now a symbol for acceptance. Next to him, her face alive with laughter, was Magda Raven.

Chapter 4

Blake Daniel tried to concentrate on the document on his screen. He willed his brain to conjure the next sentence and strained against the need to get up. He swallowed and clenched his fists under the desk.

Just one drink and the anxiety would subside.

This need for alcohol was a permanent thudding in his blood. His father's recent death and the discovery of a dark family history had sent him back into the tangled embrace of the tequila bottle. But now he was determined to pull away. Jamie managed her grief at the loss of her daughter and she was much harder hit than he was. Coffee would be a better remedy – at least for now.

Avoiding the critical eye of his ever-watchful manager, Margaret, Blake walked upstairs, out of the research area of the British Museum into the Great Court. It was a stunning marble courtyard with glass panels overhead that allowed the sun to touch every corner, a magnificent setting for the treasures within. Blake loved his job as an artifact researcher at the museum and every time he walked these halls, he marveled again at how lucky he was to work here.

He grabbed a coffee and a cupcake from the posh bakery in the forecourt, then found a place to sit so he could look out at the crowd. He popped a couple of headache pills and then sat for a moment, watching the people go by. He tried to guess the nationalities of those who walked past, a game he often played here in the city where all could find a place. Blake felt at home in London, where his own mixed-race heritage was a cultural norm. His mother was Nigerian, his father Swedish, and his caramel skin and blue eyes were less unusual here than in either of their native countries. Not that he had been to either. He listened to chattering voices around him, most in languages he couldn't even guess at, let alone understand. Perhaps it was time to visit.

Blake sipped his coffee, holding the hot brew between gloved hands. The thin leather hid deep scars across his skin from years of abuse. His father had tried to beat the Devil from his son, intending to destroy the ability to read objects and see visions from the past, or even another realm. But the beatings hadn't worked and the visions still came – sometimes as a gift and sometimes a curse. Blake had reconciled himself to his scars years ago, but now he was almost glad of them, a physical reminder that his father had even existed at all. After years of hating the man, his death hadn't brought peace, only more questions.

A gaggle of chattering schoolchildren caught Blake's eye, their laughter a welcome remedy to his melancholy. As they walked past, the shifting crowd around them parted for a second and Blake saw someone in their midst, a craggy face with a hint of familiarity. The man's eyes were a piercing blue, his features sculpted by northern winds, a scar across his nose like a mountain gulley. His body was like a menhir carved from ancient rock. He was still, his limbs tense. It was as if he waited for something – or someone.

Blake shivered, his skin goosebumps as he remembered the vision of the bloody rite of Odin, a human sacrifice to the gods of the north that he had glimpsed through the Galdrabók, a grimoire of Icelandic spells. His father had kept the powerful book under lock and key, but now it lay wrapped in sailcloth under Blake's own bed. He sometimes looked at the runes within, his gloved fingers tracing the angular lines that marked out his name as gifted, wondering about the others whose names were etched in a similar fashion. For the men who renewed the sacrifice of Ymir were his kin, and he saw an echo of them in the man here now.

He stood, trying to see the man more clearly even as the tourists whirled about, sweeping him out of view. Blake walked quickly towards the place the man had been standing, but he was gone. If he had even been there. Blake rubbed his forehead, urging the pain to subside. Could his visions be bleeding over into the real world? Or was he just seeing his father's face in the visage of another old man?

Blake walked back to the research area and pushed the glimpse of the man from his mind. His supervisor, Margaret, gave him a stern look, as she always did when he took too many breaks for her workaholic sensibility. She beckoned him into her small office.

Time to go on the offensive, Blake thought. He smiled, meeting Margaret's eyes with a direct gaze that made most women blush, a hint of promise for pleasures after dark. He had the look of a boy-band singer after a night partying, perennial stubble and close-cropped dark hair, and Blake knew he could turn on the charm when needed. He walked into Margaret's office, a mischievous smile on his lips.

"I've had some ideas about what we could call this new exhibition," he said, seating himself on the side of her desk, leaning towards her a little, his posture deliberately relaxed.

Margaret was the archetype of a middle-aged museum researcher, a little wide in the hips, no makeup, greying hair. But Blake liked that in an academic. One of his idols was Mary Beard, a professor of classics at Cambridge who brought Roman culture to life with her down-to-earth ways, uncaring of what the world thought of her looks while she stunned the public with her brilliant mind.

"You know that's up to the marketing team," Margaret said. "They're trying their best with the – unusual – material."

"How about the Las Vegas of Londonium," Blake said with a cheeky smile. He indicated the clay sculpture of a phallus lying on Margaret's desk. "Or Cocks of the Capital."

Margaret's mouth twitched.

"Cock of Ages?" Blake added.

She couldn't help but laugh at that. The musical, Rock of Ages, played down the road from the museum and was popular with tourists.

"Hmm, not sure that will fly," she said. "Although it looks like we're going to have to make it over-eighteens only."

"Better for marketing anyway," Blake said. "After all, the British Museum does have one of the largest collection of pornography in the world. Bless those Victorians."

Few were aware that the British Museum had the Secretum, founded in 1865 after the Obscene Publications Act, which preserved a chronology of pornography from the era. Blake stood up to leave.

"Can you shut the door a minute?" Margaret said, her voice suddenly serious. Blake pushed it shut, and the click of the door echoed in the pit of his stomach.

He sat back down on the chair opposite her.

"How's your paper coming along?" she asked, her voice losing all trace of flirtation now. "You seem to be behind … again."

Blake looked away. "I know. I'm sorry – my father's death …"

"I'm sorry about his passing, but we have a hard deadline on this exhibition. You know that. I need researchers who can deliver on time, and you've been repeatedly absent or late this last year." She paused. "Sometimes when you come in, I know you've been drinking, Blake." She pulled a paper from a folder next to her computer. "This is a formal warning about your behavior. It goes on your record and it means you're on notice."

Blake took the paper, but he couldn't read the words. They swam in front of his eyes, a mixture of legalistic terminology and HR gobbledygook. If only he could just have a drink. It would help his concentration.

At heart, he knew the discipline was deserved but it felt like he'd been slammed into a wall. His life was a balancing act, for sure, but he had thought he was managing it well enough. This job was stability even as his personal life was in shambles. He couldn't lose it.

"Blake, do you understand what this means?" Margaret's voice was a little softer now.

He nodded.

"Yes, I … I need to get back to work." He waved the paper, attempting a smile. "Lots to do."

Margaret nodded. "I'll expect an update at the end of the week."

Blake left Margaret's office and went back to his own desk, a little corner haven in the bustle of the museum. He sat down heavily and stared at his computer screen for a moment. He ran his gloved fingers along the edge of the desk, considering the possibility of just walking out.

The craving for a drink was overwhelming, but he had removed the flask of vodka from his bottom drawer last week in one of his attempts to go cold turkey.

There was a bar across the street, though.

He only had to walk upstairs and over the road and he could soothe the crazy and focus again.

He took off his watch and laid it on the desk next to him. I don't have to stop drinking forever, he thought. Just another ten minutes.

He opened the file on his computer and focused on what he needed to do. The research team had a lot of objects to sift through for this exhibition, searching for the ones that would be the most effective to convey the desired message. It was about the sexual history of London, a daring subject that skated near some difficult truths about the capital's past. But history didn't have to be portrayed as dry and dusty.

Blake's visions enabled him to see the real people behind the objects, and his job was to help others see them too by putting together insightful curated displays. He loved to bring history to life, giving a glimpse into a past that might inspire others to learn as he had. What better place than the British Museum to do this work? There really was no substitute, so he couldn't lose this job. He just couldn't.

He started typing up his research notes, making suggestions for his specific area. The idea for the exhibition stemmed from the remains of a substantial Roman temple discovered to the south of Southwark Cathedral, with stone foundations and tessellated floors. A jug inscribed with Londini ad fanus Isidis – 'In London, at the Temple of Isis' – had been found nearby in 1912, a relic from Roman times.

Southwark back then had been outside the defended area of the Roman city, a no-man's land where any sin could be indulged. There was evidence that Isis, Apollo and Hermes had been celebrated in wild processions culminating in frenzied public orgies on the same land where the cathedral now stood. Every night was Saturday night in Roman Southwark, and alcohol played just as much a part in the lives of the Romans as it did for contemporary Londoners.

Blake forced down his itch for a drink, checking his watch.

Another ten minutes.

He rested gloved hands against a spintriae, a Roman brothel token with lists of services for purchase. He wondered what he would see if he tried to read it with bare hands. Would he glimpse the life of the Roman red-light district? Did he want to?

There was a room in the museum that few knew of where he would go to read sometimes. Not read with a book, but with his bare hands, to see into the past of the objects he researched. As much as he considered the visions a curse, he also craved them. Just like the tequila bottle. Was it the lure of the unknown, a break from stifling normality? When he drank, and when he read, Blake didn't know what would happen. Was it about loss of control?

Blake pulled his hand away from the object. He wasn't strong enough to witness what this token might show him this morning. The Romans understood appetite in all its forms: food, sex, violence. All were celebrated to excess in the Roman world. Perhaps our time is not so different, Blake thought. There is such a thin veil of civilization over our animal nature, after all. It takes little to let our teeth show. 

The face of the man upstairs flashed into his mind, and then a memory of the vision in the Nordic forest. The groans of the dying strung up in trees, the grunt of the men who hacked at the corpses, the moon on the dark blood that soaked the earth.

Blake shook his head, banishing the images. He began to search the database for details that would add color to the description of the spintriae, attempting to balance the truth with language that would educate but not offend. He tried several different descriptions, chuckling to himself as he wrote, trying for a balance of double-entendre that skirted the edge of acceptability.

As he delved into the archives, he discovered the lists of sexual services were not only displayed on tokens. There were women, known as bustuariae, who worked the cemeteries lining the roads out of London. They used gravestones to advertise their services, chalking up their specialty and prices during the day and liaising with clients after sunset. Sex and death were intimately wound together and this could add a new angle to the display.

Blake pulled up the records from the Pompeii exhibition from a few years back, one of the most popular for the museum. The ancient city was the ultimate combination of sex and death, with art depicting satyrs raping animals and gods abusing maidens, where myriad clay penises were dug from the ruins and wall frescoes depicted scenes of orgies. Blake leaned in to type more quickly, the thrill of discovery suppressing his cravings, at least for now.

Chapter 5

Jamie looked more closely at the photograph on the church wall. Magda was clearly a friend of Nick's, their easy camaraderie caught on camera. Jamie knew she should let Missinghall know about the picture, but perhaps this wasn't anything important. After all, both of them worked with people in the community. But maybe it was time to meet Magda Raven officially. Jamie walked back down the nave towards the exit and out into the sun.

Magda wasn't hard to locate. She was a photographer and artist with a studio address listed on her website a block away. Jamie walked down a small alleyway, past the place where the Tabard Inn once stood, where Chaucer's pilgrims had met in the Canterbury Tales. Jamie smiled as she passed the blue plaque marking the spot. It was surrounded by scaffolding from building works in an area that was forever being reincarnated, with layer upon layer of history and life. This was one of the charms of living in London. Every square inch was saturated with history and the echoes of the past could be felt in every footstep.

The building ahead was an old warehouse converted into studio flats. It looked to be mixed industrial and residential, a working artists' haven. The main door had buttons with labelled names and businesses. Jamie rang Magda's bell, and a minute later the intercom crackled.

"Magda's Art. Can I help you?"

"Hi," Jamie said. "I'm new to the community and I was on the walk last night. My name's Jamie Brooke. I wondered if I could talk to you about it."

There was a pause and the sound of a brief muted conversation, before Magda replied.

"Last night was terrible. I don't really know what to say about it, but of course, come in."

The door buzzed and Jamie pushed inside. The corridor was bare, concrete walls presenting a neutral face to the outsider. There were sounds of banging upstairs and the faint tinkle of a piano. A door at the end of the corridor opened to a bright space beyond. Magda Raven stood in the doorway, a tentative smile on her face. She wore a black t-shirt with butterflies all over it and blue jeans over bare feet.

"Come on in," Magda said. "Kettle's on."

The studio was spacious, with a high ceiling supported by metal beams. A row of rectangular windows allowed light to penetrate the space. A stepladder with a wide platform stood underneath one open window, a pair of binoculars and notepad resting on top. There were doors at the other end of the room, one open to give a glimpse of a kitchen. On one side of the studio, white panels separated part of the space, with cameras on tripods and distinctive silver umbrella flash lighting set up. Jamie could see a shadow moving in the space beyond.

"I'm in the middle of an impromptu photo shoot but we're on a tea break right now. Why don't you have a look around?" Magda said. "Would you like tea or coffee?"

"Coffee would be great," Jamie said. "Black, one sugar, please."

Oversize prints covered the studio walls, grouped by theme. Faces of Southwark residents captured in stark black and white, an old woman with wrinkles as deep as scars, a Rastafarian with dreads swinging, smoke wreathed around his head. A young woman leaned against a brick wall, cigarette in her hand, figure-hugging dress revealing slim curves. Her posture invited attention, but her eyes were haunted and cynical.

Birds dominated the next set of prints. Some whirled above the backdrop of the City, silhouetted against the stark outline of the Tower of London. A murmuration of swallows swooped above Stonehenge, a cloud of synchronized beauty in the beginnings of a storm. Then there were close-ups of the ravens Magda had tattooed on her skin, their feathers glossy blue-black, eyes bright. The final panel contained a series of prints in full color, scenes of the Borough streets that brought a smile to Jamie's face with their optimism. Red balloons against the white backdrop of the Globe Theatre. Street performers outside the Tate Modern striking poses for the passing tourists. The silver arc of the Millennium Bridge across the Thames with St Paul's haloed by a sunbeam. The multi-colored ribbons tied to the gates of Cross Bones Graveyard.

There was a corkboard next to the prints, covered in fliers about local events: a masquerade ball, the London Tattoo Convention, and exhibitions coming soon at the British Museum. Jamie's mind flashed to Blake and she wondered what he was working on at the moment.

"See anything you like?" Magda said as she handed Jamie a mug of hot coffee, waving her hand to encompass her prints.

"They're all beautiful." Jamie pointed at the picture of the ribbons. "Cross Bones must mean a lot to you."

"Last night …" Magda shook her head. "Well, I hope that last night wasn't the last memorial there, but the trauma of seeing what we did might mean we have to cancel it for a while." She looked at Jamie more closely. "You're the woman who went to the body."

Jamie nodded. "I used to be a police officer, so I'm used to crime scenes." Jamie noted that Magda's body stiffened at her words. "But I'm a private investigator these days and I'm not involved in the investigation into the murder. That's with the police now. I recently moved to Southwark, so I'm keen to get to know the community. That's why I came along last night."

"I'm sorry your first experience here was so memorable for all the wrong reasons. But this community is a rainbow of people, which means we have dark as well as light on the spectrum." Magda pointed at the wall of images. "It's not possible to have life without the shadow side."

"Did you know –"

Jamie's question was cut off by a voice from behind the screen.

"Where's my tea, Magda? I'm parched."

O emerged from behind the screen, pulling a sarong around her body to cover her nakedness. Her elfin features were highlighted by dramatic eye makeup, as black as the tattoo under her clothes and emphasized by her ash-blonde cropped hair. Her eyes widened as she caught sight of Jamie.

"I remember you," she said, coming closer. "Last year when Jenna Neville died, you came to the club. What are you doing here?"

Jamie was disarmed by seeing her there. O had broken through her defenses that night at Torture Garden. She had helped with a clue to the case, but also saw through Jamie's professional veneer to the pain beneath.

"I … I've moved here actually. I was there last night. I wanted to see if there was anything I could do."

O came closer, her eyes fixed on Jamie's. "Does death follow you, Jamie Brooke?" O whispered. "Or do you seek it out?"

Jamie couldn't speak. The words were too close to her own thoughts. O broke the moment with a dramatic half turn.

"Why don't you stay while we finish the photo shoot?" she said. "We're trying to counter the images of death with life. Magda is a fantastic artist."

"Only because you're such a great model to work with," Magda replied with a laugh.

O walked back to the set, unwound her sarong and dropped it to the floor, completely at ease in her naked state. Jamie had seen her tattoo before when O had danced at the Torture Garden nightclub, but in the daylight, it seemed more unusual. Her back was inked with the head of an octopus with tentacles that stretched out to wrap around her slight frame. As she walked in front of the camera, the octopus moved with her, part of her spinal cord.

One tentacle wound up onto her skull, the black visible under short hair, another wrapped around her waist and dipped down between her buttocks. O turned to face the camera and Jamie couldn't help but gaze at how the tentacles of the creature roved across her body. Her breasts were encircled, with one nipple caressed by the creature, while another tentacle wound down between her legs, touching her hairless sex as it penetrated her there. The detail was exquisite and it was incredible to consider the hours of work involved in the entire piece. O was a work of art and her body the canvas. She stamped her originality on the world with her ink, and Jamie wondered if she could ever be as brave herself.

"How do you want me, Magda?" O asked, and there was a trace of flirtation in her voice. Magda walked round in front of the camera and turned O, her fingers lingering on the woman's shoulder, caressing her skin.

"Look up towards the window. We're going for angelic in the next shots."

"A fallen angel, perhaps." O laughed, her cornflower-blue eyes bright. She composed herself and stood as a statue while Magda clicked away.

Every few seconds, O shifted her posture slightly, changing the angle of her head or her limbs. Her dancing at the Torture Garden had been explicitly erotic, an invitation to sin in a venue that celebrated the physical and the unusual. But here, her body was an embodiment of creation, of human perfection, and the tattoo seemed only to emphasize her vulnerability. Jamie wanted to know why O had chosen this design. Now their paths had crossed again, perhaps she would be able to find out.

Eventually, Magda put the camera down, her face relaxing from the taut posture of the concentrated artist.

"We're done," she said. "There are some great shots in there."

O looked up out of the window, suddenly pointing.

"Look, Magda, the ravens!"

Magda spun quickly and climbed the stepladder up to the high window, gazing out at the birds above, transfixed by their flight. She pushed open the window and began to whistle, soft notes that lilted with a Celtic refrain. It would seem impossible for the tune to be heard above the din of the city and the wind that swept Southwark, but the ravens began to wheel closer.

Magda's song was like a silken cord, drawing the birds to her, and soon there were hundreds of them flying close to the studio windows, their dark eyes fixed on the woman who sang within.

There was a vibration in the air, a heightened sense of connection to the natural world, something Jamie hadn't felt so strongly before in London. It was as if the wild had been brought in here, the rhythms of a far older world reasserting themselves in this cornered civilization. Magda finished her song and threw her arms wide on the final note, the ravens cawing as they winged away and the sky was clear again.

"The ravens are my totem," Magda said, her eyes dark as she descended the ladder. She pulled up her sleeve to reveal the tattoos on her arm in more detail. "They are on me and in me, and they channel my deeper connection to the city."

"I've heard you called an urban shaman," Jamie said. "Is that to do with the ravens?"

Magda smiled. "If I see beyond the skin of the city, then my sight is from the birds. But mainly I live in the world of the practical and human. Like last night."

"Did you know the victim, Nicholas Randolph?" Jamie asked.

"I didn't recognize his body at first. I didn't know it was him …" Magda sighed. "Nick was a friend and we worked alongside each other. He used to work the streets himself years ago, before finding the church. He was gay and spent a lot of time helping the young male prostitutes. He didn't judge them, but helped them with health issues, education, even with places to stay when they were desperate. He visited them in hospital if they got beaten up. He bought their meds. He was a bloody saint and he didn't deserve to die like that."

"But despite his good works, people judged him as they judge the rest of us," O said. "Especially the Society, those bastards who marched behind us last night." She shook her head. "Suppression of Vice – it's a crazy aim, especially around here. The sex trade has been in this borough since Roman times, through medieval London and up to today. The Society tell themselves that they're trying to save us, but they're really trying to get us to conform."

O pulled on her clothes. Skinny jeans and a man's shirt soon covered her tattoo and she could easily pass for an art student on the street. Then she turned around sharply, her face set in determination.

"Tell her, Magda," she said quietly.