The turnglass, p.35
The Turnglass, page 35
The alley was full of trash, and a nest of rats squealed as he leaped over them. The man he was chasing had pace, for sure, but instead of running out the other end of the alley, the man ducked through the doorway of a derelict timber building that was more rot than wood.
Ken reached the entry and stopped. The guy could be armed – more people bought guns than bought candy in LA these days – and there was no one else in sight. But the fight had come to his home now, so he wasn’t going to back off and hope it all went away.
He trod carefully. It was a big building – it had been some kind of warehouse or factory. Shards of glass splintered under his feet as he entered. All the windows were filthy or broken and the dimmest glow from the streetlamps was filtering in. Some hulking piece of machinery at the side of the room was covered by a sheet and there was an empty doorway at the other end that looked like it led to a stairwell.
Ken stopped and listened. There was something that could have been wind through a broken-down building or the breath of a panting man. He moved in, his tread making only a light tap as he went. There had to be at least one other way out of the building and he wanted to trap his rat. He went towards the doorway at the end, but as he was about to reach it, he stopped. A slight rustling had caught his attention, like the movement of textile. He looked over to the covered machinery. Slowly, he went back to it. It was seven or eight yards square and a couple of yards high. The dirty sheet thrown over it was torn here and there. Ken picked a stone from the floor, one of those that the local boys had used to smash some of the windows. It would do as a weapon.
Was his quarry hiding inside the machine? Ken took hold of the sheet and pulled. It wouldn’t come down. As he looked up, something fell towards him, blocking out the ceiling. It fell swiping at him with a heavy metal tool, cracking into his temple, knocking him to the floor, where he sprawled. The pain seared, pinning him to the ground. So when it had abated enough that he could stand to lift his head, it was only to see the figure sprinting away.
He could have staggered to his feet, but he was in no shape to give chase. He lay back on the smashed glass and let the waves of pain wash back over him.
It crossed his mind to report all this to Jakes, but would the detective believe him? Not for a single second.
* * *
Back in his room, having drawn the blind and waited a few minutes to make sure no one was waiting to burst in, he reached under his bedframe. He had tied something to the middle slat with thread and now he pulled it out. It was a small, oval, china object, inlaid with delicate mother-of-pearl lines: the holder of miniature pictures painted by Florence that he had found in the house on Ray. He carefully opened the egg-like item to reveal the two images inside: the house in Essex, the house in California, head-to-tail.
The artist had talent. Ken turned it around, so that the two houses flipped. But as it turned, he heard something that he hadn’t noticed before: a slight ticking sound, like thin wood tapped by a nail. He spun it again and it happened again. There was something behind one of the pictures.
With the edge of a spoon, he carefully lifted the California picture from its housing. Nothing there. He did the same to the other side. This time, when the picture of the Ray house came away, there was something. It was a tiny model of a horse, carved out of wood, half an inch long. The sort of thing a child might have as part of a nursery menagerie. Wrapped around the horse was a thin slip of paper. Ken unfurled it:
Oliver, my brother. Sleep well.
Alexander
Alexander. He had written this.
And what was unmistakable was that the handwriting was neat and sloping. It wasn’t the kind of scrawl that a four-year-old drags across a page. An adult had written this note.
Ken took the little model horse between his forefinger and thumb and held it up to the electric light. The wood was reddish brown and had a faint smell of ripe apples. What was that about a foal in Oliver’s book? He grabbed his copy from the trunk. Yes, a foal had been put out of its misery and Simeon shown the carcass.
‘Lame fro’ birth. Best thin’ for ’im,’ Cain informed him.
Ken stared at the miniature for a long time. In its shadow was the truth about why Oliver had died. And Ken was beginning to see it.
Chapter 19
The radio was playing in the background as Ken ate breakfast, squawking out band numbers alternated with a warning of severe weather on its way. The tropical storm building a few miles out to sea was expected to hit that night. No one knew how bad it was going to be, but every hour the weather service said that it was getting heavier and nastier. Householders should put up storm shutters on their windows. Children should be kept indoors and adults should leave home only if absolutely necessary. That wouldn’t be popular.
He finished his toast and jelly, musing over the fact that he had resigned – well, kinda – from his job. He wouldn’t miss it, but he regretted losing access to the newspaper’s archive. He wanted to see again the stories he had been given about the family tragedy that had wrapped around the Tookes. No, he needed to see those stories.
So after clearing up, he headed over to the office, keeping a look-out for anyone he actually worked with who might question his presence in the building. He was lucky enough to get inside and down the stairs to the library without spotting anyone or being spotted.
‘You brought me some cuttings about a kidnapping case back in 1915,’ he told a malnourished man with a green dealer’s visor.
‘You here to complain?’ He was at a desk in front of row upon row of bookshelves, each stuffed with large boxes. ‘Only we’re short-staffed. We can’t send everything. You want cuts from the other papers, you need to spell that out and wait.’
Ken perked up at the information. ‘You mean there might be more in other papers?’
‘Sure. We got the back copies of the Examiner, the Press and the Express.’
‘Can you get them for me?’
‘What, all of them?’
‘Is that possible? Just for 1915. No, make it ’16, too.’
‘Look, I got other work to do, you know.’
‘Okay, I’ll do it myself.’
The man in the green visor jerked his thumb towards the shelves. ‘Knock yourself out.’
It took Ken a long while just to find the right volumes. The Press and Examiner had no more details than the Times had provided. But the Express had really gone to town. It had sent a reporter to talk to everyone and anyone connected to the story, and returned to it whenever it had an excuse. And there was a name, buried deep in one of its articles, that Ken recognized. It was from the 1916 batch, after the family had returned from Europe. There was a photograph of them pushing Oliver in a wheelchair towards an office that he also recognized.
Some good news at last for the tragic Tooke family. After the shock of his brother’s terrible kidnapping, little Oliver Tooke is seen being taken to the surgery of society doctor Arnie Kriger [the reporter had mis-spelled his name, but it was clear who they were writing about]. Kriger is an expert in childhood diseases. One of his staff told the Express that the boy’s polio had improved remarkably during his time in Europe and he might soon be able to walk, albeit with some difficulty. We at the Express pray that he does!
Ken wondered which nurse or receptionist had received a few creased dollar bills in return for that information. He packed up and returned home to work out what that story meant. He left a message for Coraline to call him. They needed to talk.
* * *
The storm hit that night.
Sheets of rain shot along the streets, throwing trees against walls, smashing through window panes. Anyone caught on the road – those who had missed the radio messages and the warnings in the newspapers – cowered in shop doorways, looking for a way out. When they tried to shout to each other, they could barely make a sound.
Ken stood in his room. His landlady had run about the house, handing out wooden boards to place inside the windows in case they shattered – it was too late to nail them across the outside. When the power had cut out, Ken had stumbled out onto the landing and found a candle.
He was deciding how best to hold back the flood when a frantic knocking sounded on his door, someone trying the handle, against the bolt. ‘Who is it?’ he called. He wasn’t expecting anyone, so he was on his guard after the last unannounced visitor.
‘Coraline,’ came the answer.
He slipped back the bolt. The weather had soaked through her clothes and he watched the water trickle down her skin. Her air of sophistication was gone, leaving a natural beauty.
‘Come in.’
‘No. You have to leave. Now.’
He was alert. He had been through enough to know that the threats around him weren’t idle. ‘Why?’
‘The police. Jakes called me. They have a witness who saw you arrive at the house with my mother. They asked me if I could explain that.’
‘It’s a lie,’ he growled. He pulled her inside and shut them both in. ‘I should have seen something like that coming.’
‘I know it’s a lie. But they told me something else.’
‘What?’
‘They found a knife, a lock-knife at the house. Kicked under the furniture, they said. It had white fibres in it that look like they’re from cutting a rope like the one used to… kill her.’
‘Okay, well…’ He was about to say that the knife wasn’t his. Then something struck him. He went to the trunk of his possessions and hunted through it.
‘What are you looking for?’
He sat back on the bed. Now the break-in of his room made sense.
‘I had a knife like that. I use it for meals. It’s been taken.’ A shadow of scepticism slipped across Coraline’s face. ‘Save it. I know how it looks. Some cops tried to kill me last night.’
‘What?’ Even with all the rest that had happened, she sounded amazed.
‘Maybe they just wanted to scare me for punching that cop yesterday. I don’t know. Anyhow, they held me down in the station and put a noose around my neck. That wasn’t a barrel of fun.’ He rubbed his throat. ‘It could be they’re in someone’s pocket.’
‘Everyone’s in someone’s pocket.’ She paused. ‘Will your fingerprints be on the knife?’
‘Covered with them.’
‘We have to go. Now. I’ve got Oliver’s car.’
He grabbed a raincoat and hurried out with her, doing his best not to make an impression on the other residents, who were standing around with storm lamps and armfuls of boarding. Madame Peche, carrying a heap of bedding that had been soaked through, stopped him on the stairway.
‘Mr Kourian. You can’t possibly be going out in this,’ she told him.
‘I have no choice.’
She stared at Coraline with an arched eyebrow. ‘I see. Well, the door will be locked when you return this evening. If you return this evening.’
‘I understand.’
They forced their way out into the torrent. It was coming straight down now, a mass of freezing water pouring from black clouds that had swamped Los Angeles. The power was out everywhere and the only light came from the gas streetlamps and flashes of lightning.
‘The electricity’s gone,’ Coraline shouted.
‘Lines must be down. It shorts out the whole city grid when that happens,’ he cried back. ‘Where’s the car?’
She pointed to the other side of the street. The Cadillac stood idle in front of a liquor store. She slipped in the river coursing along the road and he caught her just as she fell.
They closed themselves in the car as a tree branch flew across the road, followed by other debris: a newspaper, some packaging, a billboard that would never convince anyone else to buy Johnson & Johnson’s tooth powder.
Coraline started the motor. It must have been warm from the journey she had just made, although the water pouring through it threatened to seize it up.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the china picture holder. ‘You remember this from the house in Essex?’
‘Of course. My mother’s pictures. God knows why Oliver wanted to leave it in that wreck. God knows why anyone would want to be there at all.’
Ken opened it and lifted out the picture of the house on bleak Ray. The little horse lay nestled behind it. He took it out into the light. ‘I think it’s something to do with this. I found it last night. At first, I thought it was a horse.’
‘It’s not?’
‘Not quite, it’s a foal.’ He didn’t show her the slip of paper that had been wrapped around the model. The slip that read:
Oliver, my brother. Sleep well.
Alexander
‘And the difference is?’
‘Oliver’s book. There’s a foal in it. The foal dies. I had forgotten all about it until I found this. It seems so insignificant when you read the story. So I’m only now realizing what it really means. Oliver was clever. There are a lot of subtle messages in his book. But some are so subtle, only the person they are meant for would understand.’
‘Tell me about this one,’ Coraline said.
‘There’s something else we need to know first, but we’ll find out tomorrow. And right now, we have to keep out of sight.’
They pulled into the street. The methane streetlights meant they could find their way on the road, but the water, six inches deep on the asphalt, slowed them down. They passed shut-up and shivering diners and stores, but had only gone a few streets when Coraline began checking over her shoulder.
‘What is it?’ he asked. He already had an idea what it was.
‘There’s about three cars on the road tonight,’ she replied. ‘I think the one behind us was parked outside your boarding house.’
He twisted around to see a racing green Desoto Sedan. Someone was screwing with his life, that was for certain. The chances were that it was either a cop or the plain-faced man in the gabardine suit who had previously paid him a visit. ‘Are you sure?’
‘No.’ But Ken kept close watch on the vehicle for two more streets until Coraline took a sharp, last-second turn, spraying a thick wave of dirty water across the sidewalk, and the car made no attempt to follow. Whether it had been thrown off or they were imagining a threat where none existed, he couldn’t tell. ‘So, we keep running away,’ she said.
‘Listen. Whoever they are, they’re after me, not you. I can get out here. I’ll find my own way. You’ll be safer.’
She turned the wheel and pressed the pedal. ‘I doubt it.’
They drove, buffeted by the wind. Fence posts lifted into the air and cracked down onto the ground. Parked cars shook on their wheels and uncovered windows exploded into fragments. ‘We should find somewhere to put in,’ he said. ‘Take the next right. There are some cheap hotels that way.’
‘Wonderful,’ she replied.
They hung a right, carried on a few blocks and found a row of flop-houses with names that promised luxury they couldn’t even pretend to offer: The King’s Hotel, Shangri-La, Excelsior Rooms. All would normally have been lit up, but the electricity grid was out and they looked like cemeteries.
They pulled into one that offered parking, a narrow brick building with an unfinished fire escape. It wasn’t even clear if the hotel was yet to open or already closed down, but they took a chance.
Behind the front desk, a man was asleep on a mattress, his wire spectacles still on his nose, all dimly lit by a kerosene lamp. Ken smacked the bell and the night clerk, who smelled strongly of cheap sourmash, roused himself with a groan.
‘Buck fifty per night. Hot water extra. Sign here,’ he mumbled. ‘Got a car?’
‘No.’ The clerk might take it upon himself to go out and take a look at the number plate.
‘Fine. Cash up front.’
Ken handed over the money. The man either didn’t notice or didn’t care that they had no luggage. He handed them a grimy lamp and they climbed the steep stairs to their room.
It was a ten-feet-square firetrap. The bed was spread with two sheets that between them just about covered it.
‘What do you think, Ken?’
Her hair was running with water, delicate beads falling to the floor. And the lamp flame lit her eyes so that he saw the room reflected in them; and he strode across and to hell with it and he pulled her by the shoulders so her mouth turned up to his and he pressed their lips together hard. She was warm and yielding; until she pulled back and away from him, dabbing her mouth with her sleeve.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
‘Don’t be,’ she replied quietly. ‘Another time and it would have been—’
‘I know. I know what it would have been.’
‘I guess I’m just the unlucky type.’
‘I guess we both are,’ he said, staring out at the dark.
* * *
Just as he was drifting off to sleep, Ken heard a new voice coming up from reception.
‘Hello, Mick.’
‘Hello yourself.’ It was the night clerk’s voice.
‘We had a call come through. Looking for a couple. Twenties. Sound like swells. Could be driving. Anyone arrived in the last few hours?’ Ken sat up, alert.
‘Last few hours? I been asleep the last few hours.’
‘That so?’
‘Sure is.’
There was a pause. ‘Yeah, well, holler if they turn up.’
‘There a reward?’
‘Reward? Sure there’s a reward. The reward is we don’t shut you down.’
The voices fell quiet. Then the stairs creaked. Someone was coming up. Ken jumped to his feet. There were bars across the window, so he would have to make a stand. The footsteps halted outside the room. Ken held his breath, ready for the cop to burst in. But it was the clerk’s voice.
‘Get the fuck outta here. I ain’t seen you.’ And the stairs creaked again as he returned to his post.
