THE IMMORTAL MISS JUDE - PART 1

THE IMMORTAL MISS JUDE

TUESDAY. 7PM.

The man dancing on the table was Donald Hawksmoor. He had been drinking in the Duke of Cumberland since early that afternoon where his gentle humour had given way to a series of moods, each one contradicting the last, the current being, “hopelessly cock a hoop.”
Throughout that fateful day he had been consumed by a combination of whiskies, stouts, port and, most tellingly, egg-based liqueurs. A mixture that would have barely troubled him in his younger years, but now as he entered the twilight of his life the effect was considerable. Back then it was fire in the belly of a dragon, now it merely filled him with a thousand regrettable memories.

Donald Hawksmoor, actor, international playboy, raconteur, hell raiser and sometime painter was a champion of the people, a shining light for the common man. His success was their success, for it had been achieved with them in mind. For a lifetime he had lived to excess to reinforce the legend he alone had created. Were the public to know, however, that he had tired of the recklessness, the constant aches and pains that such occasions gave, they would surely have allowed him to walk away and live the life a man of his advanced years warranted.
This sense of restlessness was not a new phenomenon. Even at the height of his fame after a hard day before the cameras, nothing would appeal to him more than sitting down with the Bard and a hot milk. But with a reputation forged in the pubs and clubs of Soho hanging about him he knew even then the easy life would never be his. Fame for this particular sixty-three year old was like a drug, its intensity was divine but like all things addictive it ate away at him until he was old beyond his years.
Even so it was important to remember (and this he never forgot) whatever hardships he had to bear, his audience had to suffer so much more. The working men and women that existed beneath the poverty line in their two-up and two-downs, deep in the heart of the red brick estates, they were the ones who felt the pain of the political shifts and knee-jerk reactions to the middle-class wail. They were the ones who needed the escape. And it was he who would free them. Maybe only for an hour in a week, but the joy he would give them was, to him at least, absolutely priceless.
Be it a detective, a playboy, or even a barrister, it didn’t matter, as long as there was a fast car and a beautiful woman on his arm, he would be an inspiration to them all. They would go to their beds happy, possibly even imagining themselves, briefly, in his shoes. Then, before they joined the conveyor belt once more, he would be there for them again, splashed across the tabloids. Hawksmoor’s Sex Orgy Shocker – ‘I Had Nothing On.’ Or Hawksmoor’s Drunken Binge! – ‘Where Am I?’
He was the man they could never be. Gambling it all on the throw of a dice, living life to the full. And for that they would always love him.

Donalds’ star was suddenly in the ascendancy. It had come from nowhere. For years he had been forgotten but suddenly he was back. It had been mere chance he had even seen it. So many channels had sprung up over the past few years he had given up scanning the schedules. More astonishing than that, perhaps, was that the television had been broken for months, which made the discovery all the more remarkable.
It was ten o’clock on a Monday morning and the dust-coated cuckoo clock in the lounge had just sounded its last, as he emerged from the bedroom, naked and drunk. Gingerly stepping over a pile of hardbacks in the doorway he was suddenly upended by a Maclaren-Ross lurking in the shadows. Like a skater he glided through the living room, a book under each foot guiding him on as if destiny had decreed it, until finally he collided with an ancient Rediffusion set in the corner.
When he woke an hour later he was astonished not only to find the set working, but to realise the man staring back at him was in fact a younger version of himself. There, in numbed silence, he watched a trailer for a television show in which he had once appeared. The programme itself was set for 2 O’clock the following day, and because it was the first show of his that had been repeated for something like six years, he had become as excited as schoolboy.
Rising early next morning he had decided upon the magnificently tailored scarlet three-piecer, the turquoise dolphin tie (presented to him by Jacques Cousteau after the great man had seen Donald ride on the back of a killer whale, naked) and the size 11 ostrich brogues.
Even if he did say so himself (and he usually did) he looked rather splendid, every bit the latter day dandy. Or so he had thought until that afternoon.

He had prepared the day as usual, a light lunch, consisting of roll mop herrings and oatcakes (a favourite from his Scottish repertory days) and then on to the Duke.
He had always found it necessary to share a few anecdotes with his public on such occasions. His public today was Tom, a rather elderly wiry gentleman sporting a navy single-breasted suit with matching vest. Tom had contributed little to the conversation but hugely to his newfound friend’s overdraft, but together they had watched a programme made famous by the man in the scarlet suit.
Donald had been an actor for over fifty years and witnessed, indeed experienced, much change within the profession. But it was not until the advent of television and its alluring world of opportunity that he foresaw his future; a golden sun, rising majestically from the mists of a new dawn.
Of course there had been the customary sojourn to Hollywood, but he, like so many others, had returned home shortly afterwards with the embarrassing hiss of a deflating ego.
America’s loss however had been England’s gain. For Independent Television, which on his departure had been little more than a sickly infant, was now, on his return, a dynamic youth, exporting to the world exhilarating British entertainment. And it was during this magical time that Donald had become a bright young thing.

The programme they had watched was “The Vindicator,” where Donald played the part of Lord Thackerey Spindle - the original man of mystery. It was a stylish action packed adventure set in some of the world’s most exotic destinations. Although, typical of the time, and to Donald’s great consternation, the production crew never once set foot out of Berkshire.
He had fondly remembered filming the scenes and smiled warmly as he recalled his advances to the shows gallery of beauties. Tom throughout had been the perfect companion. Whether rolling a cigarette or guiding a pint to his lips, his rosy red cheeks and fixed grin had been a constant source of encouragement to his friend.
Gradually, however, these fond recollections had turned to bitterness as Donald became painfully aware of how long ago it all was. He hadn’t worked for over a year, and hadn’t paid the rent in just as long, yet during that time he had assured himself that a lifetime of theatrical and televisual success would not allow his talent to lay dormant for too long. Soon, he had said, they would come knocking and he would be ready. But they hadn’t, and as he had watched himself on the screen earlier that day, something had clicked within him. A road to Damascus moment to eclipse them all. No flashes of light, no voice from the clouds, but shattering nevertheless.
Suddenly he could see as others did. The suit. Not magnificent, but stained and ill fitting. The hair. Not shiny and coiffured, but greasy with a ridiculously uneven fringe. Even his eyes, once adored by so many, were now bloodshot and lifeless, blank discs on an aging façade.
Of course, he had been aware of the downfall from the start. He had merely refused to admit it. Slowly his life had changed and over time he had given up life’s little luxuries, reluctantly, almost painfully, as others do with heroin or cocaine.
Why had it taken him so long?
He was a man out of place and time; a mere shadow of the star that Britain had loved so long ago. And it was doubtless for this reason that he had found solace in the Duke. For like he its glory was now nothing more than a faded memory.
True, it had survived the Luftwaffe at its might, and brewery interior modernisation at its worst. But time, that great corruptor, had dealt a more devastating blow and no longer did its once lavish interior command so much as a second glance. Together they had shared the golden years and Donald had lost count of how many nights he and his fellow actors, with applause still clamouring in their ears, had run through all sorts of weather (in all sorts of make-up) to catch last orders within its walls. Hour upon hour had been spent in deep conversation with good friends and Donald longed for those days more than he could ever say.

For more than an hour he danced in an alcohol fuelled bubble of joy. Like a magic ball it separated him from reality, until life became bearable and easier to understand. So much so in fact that in time he actually began to enjoy himself. But unknown to him (during his Ethel Merman medley) the landlord had approached and pleaded with him not to let this night go as others had in the past.
For it was always the same.
First it was the jacket. Donald had thrown it with such venom that it had flown across the room and landed on the head of an elderly sherry drinker. Oddly, nobody had noticed this. Least of all the old girl, who at this point was at a similar drunken level to Donald. The trouble really started when Donald decided to move out of his normal performing area and hurl his shirt at a young couple not very far away.
‘You nearly touched my bird with that!’ said a young man, with a baseball hat and a pierced nose.
‘My dear boy, I wouldn’t touch your bird if she was stuffed with truffles and coated in foie gras,’ said Donald leaping ungracefully through the air, removing his vest in the same movement.
‘What’s your problem anyway? You’ve been asked to get down you stupid old sod!’
Donald had indeed been asked to get down on two separate occasions. He had ignored both requests, the first with a boogaloo and the latter with a bossa nova.
‘Don’t mind me young sir,’ he said pirouetting on a stool, ‘I have the balance of Nureyev. And less of the old you little shit.’
If Donald was approaching some sort of crisis, he certainly wasn’t letting it show. And as if to illustrate this fighting mentality he now leapt from another table (where he had briefly paused to shed his remaining garments) to land smack bang on the bar.

The landlord of The Duke was a young presentable male who like his predecessors had been briefed on the antics of the naked man before him.
‘Right! Enough is enough,’ he yelled at Donald’s backside. ‘Get off the bloody bar and get your clothes on.’
His plea fell on deaf ears. Donald was now weaving through the bars ornate arches, dodging bar staff at every turn, mystifying all with his strange trance like dance. He was in a magical world of his own. He was also drawing quite a crowd, and so, laughing for no particular reason, he stepped forward and threw out his arms.
‘My Dear friends I give you a chorus from Henry the fifth!’
‘Like bloody hell you will!’ said the landlord.
‘Never mind him love, you hum it and we’ll join in,’ said a girl, with a group of hyena-like women who had been drawn in by the commotion.
‘Donald, get off the bloody bar!’ demanded the landlord again.
‘Now entertain conjecture of a time when creeping murmur and poring dark fills the wide vessel of the universe . . .’
‘Donald for Christ sake!’
‘From camp to camp through the foul womb of night the hum of either army stilly sounds!’
‘Hawksmoor! Get down!’
‘Fire answers fire, and through their paly flames each battle sees the others umber’d face. Oy!’ he said, suddenly, turning on the landlord. ‘What happened to Donald, you little twat?’
The bar, which only an hour before had been all but empty, was now filling fast as passers by, hearing the yelps and screams from within, clambered to get the best possible view. They stood on chairs and tables drowning out the naked mans performance with shrieking encouragement. Donald hadn’t provoked a response from an audience like this for years, and the Duke hadn’t been this full for just as long. As his performance continued, however, a group of men entered the room and approached the bar.
‘Don’t fancy your stripper much, pal. Any chance of a drink?’ said a hairless thug in a suit, his neck bulging at the collar.
‘In a second sir, can somebody get him down!’ demanded the Landlord, again.
‘Got problems?’
‘Nothing we can’t handle.’
‘We’ll get him down.’
‘No. There’ll be no need for that, everything’s under control.’
‘Yeah, looks like it.’
Caught up in an all consuming patriotic fervour, Donald, at great personal risk, had jumped from the bar and was now straddling the fruit machine like young Hal leading his defiant troops at Harfleur.
‘Once more unto the breach dear friends . . .’

During this mayhem, Annabelle Powell, a young dark haired girl, had entered the bar and watched in horror as the cackling mob bated this bear of a man. A man she had recognized instantly and felt great pity for. There was an intense desire to scream out and help him in some way. But the best she could do was watch, helplessly, as the situation escalated out of control.
Donald (who hadn’t even suggested “filling his wall with his English dead”) was suddenly confronted by the men from the bar.
‘Look lads let me deal with this,’ said the landlord, attempting to control the situation.
‘Right you silly old sod,’ said the leader brushing the landlord to one side. He was aggression personified; the kind that fed on violence. ‘Are you going to get down or are we going to drag you down?’
Donald, now naked and standing on the fruit machine, seemed lost for a moment, his battle, suddenly over. Slowly, he looked down at the thug below, and as he did the chaos all around the Duke receded as people leant and craned an ear to catch his words.
‘What now Gloucester?’ he said softly, tilting his head to one side. ‘The day is won?’
There was a look of total confusion on the thugs face, until suddenly he laughed and turned to his friends. The tension was palpable, the silence deafening. It was about to blow up and everyone could sense it. But in that moment, with the thug’s eyes averted, a deafening roar of laughter filled the bar. Donald was urinating on the man’s head with such precision that when the man turned again, he could barely see Donald. Nevertheless, steaming with rage, he leapt forward, grabbing at Donald’s ankles.
Annabelle, who had watched all of this from afar with an increasing sense of helplessness, then witnessed a small miracle. The crowd had turned its attention from Donald to his tormentors. A riot had occurred, and in the mêlée Donald, still showering his opponent with warmth, was jigging for his life.
Each time the thug got close to Donald, he was pulled away. But like a bull, wounded and out of control, he forced his way back through the flaying arms and legs sending beer, urine and cigarette ash into the air. Donald, now aware of the danger for the first time, leapt ever higher as the machine rocked and rolled beneath him, flashing and spewing out coins in its wake. Then, finally, there was a vice-like grip on his ankle, and now Donald jigged no more.
Up until that point his huge frame had defeated gravity at every turn, but now he was falling, forcing him to reach out blindly. It was then as he fell back that his right hand landed upon the suspended beam, running the length of the bar. The sudden jerk, briefly broke him free from the man below, but no sooner had the thug fallen to the floor than he was leaping up again like some deranged jack-in-the-box. Again and again he appeared through the crowd, each time reaching closer and closer to Donald’s buttocks as they wobbled above him.
Somehow Donald had managed to pull himself up towards the smoke stained ceiling and was now clinging onto the beam. And it was there high above the melee that reality took over once more. It was a fruit he had tasted often, but one with a bitter tang that sickened him to the core.
Then he noticed Tom waving to him from a windowsill. He seemed in good spirits. He had good reason to be, he was drinking Donald’s pint.
‘Go on there feller, fight for your life!’ he called out before putting the glass to his mouth.
This encouraging remark suddenly gave Donald a new vigour. But no sooner had it spread through his naked body than he felt a great weight pulling him back from the beam. Holding on for dear life he peered down to see his adversary, now hanging on to his legs, jerking to dislodge him.
‘Unhand me, sir!’ demanded Donald fighting for breath.
From his lofty position Donald could see the man’s shiny bald pate moving ever closer. Then, suddenly, with his energies running out fast, he felt the weight become almost unbearable. Looking down again he was astonished to see a girl swinging from beneath the thug.
Annabelle had finally seen enough.
‘Get off him!’ she screamed through her teeth as she gnawed at the man’s thighs.
Donald’s grip was slipping, and he looked in horror as gravity pulled him slowly from the ceiling.
‘Do you hear me? Get off him!’ she said almost growling.
‘Zounds!’ cried Donald, as finally and triumphantly, Annabelle drew her head back and sank her teeth into the man’s posterior, bringing all three of them crashing down.

Someone had been sick in cell three. It had been cleaned away but its stench combined with that of bleach still hung in the air. On the lower part of the wall, next to the door, small splatters of orange and yellow showed up on the white tiles, turning them into some bizarre miniature exhibit. On the opposite wall hung a bed, where underneath a large man slept still clutching a grey blanket under his chin. He had been brought in the previous evening, and apart from a brief speech on the rights of the common man he had fallen asleep almost instantly.
From time to time he had grunted or yelped like a sleeping dog before rolling into a more comfortable position. The position he now found himself in had been the result of a roll too far. The fall had not woken Donald, however, merely bounced him into his darkened recess where he slumbered on.
As he slept he dreamt he was much younger sitting on a hillside with a girl with dark hair and beautiful cat like eyes. As they talked in the early evening light he was suddenly aware of a bank of dark clouds building on the horizon. They advanced and swelled encroaching on the blue sky at a pace that only dreams will allow. Like an army of giants massing for battle they moved into the valley, until Donald was overwhelmed by their size. How long he watched he couldn’t say, but during that time the girl had fallen into a sleep. Terrified, yet at the same time exhilarated, he watched as it advanced towards them draining the very life from the landscape. Day quickly became night as the darkness fell upon the sun. And in that dim light Donald reached out for the girl’s hand, only to find grass and earth. He climbed to his feet and called out for her. But she was gone.
Suddenly, as a crack of thunder filled the air, bursts of intense light lit the valley, and in a moment the eye of the storm was upon him. Staring into its heart, with the driving rain stinging his face, a huge branch of lightning reached out above him like a root from heaven. He was a child again and fell to the ground as tears filled his eyes, and thunder filled the sky.
Strangely, despite everything, he felt at peace and wanted to do nothing more than watch as the clouds hovered above him. They swirled and changed their form until slowly a human face appeared. At first grotesque, but then a face he knew well. Her features were quite stunning, but it was the hypnotic cat like eyes that drove bolts into his heart; as was the voice, as she uttered his name from the sky.

Someone was calling Donald’s name, but he was having serious problems opening his eyes to see who. The lid on his right eye was badly swollen and the cheekbone below it, heavily grazed. He had considered touching that particular side of his face a number of times, but had thought better of it.
The left eye, it appeared, had taken on most of the responsibility for his considerable hangover, but, nevertheless, he had managed to open it sufficiently to see a figure standing before him.
Bright fluorescent light was pouring into the cell through the open door and it took Donald a moment or two to focus on the silhouette.
‘My name is Marlowe. Sergeant Marlowe,’ he said, staring down at the bed. He was a tall Police Sergeant, standing feet apart with his hands on his hips. His scalp, it appeared, had grown through his hair into a small shiny peak, reflecting even more misery into Donald’s aching eye. ‘Now don’t hide from me Mr Hawksmoor. I know all the hiding places in this cell.’
After a couple of coughs and a grunt, Donald slowly appeared from the darkened recess, and there he made for a pitiful sight indeed. Apart from a grey blanket, clenched round his neck, his torso was naked. At one time his body had been toned and lusted-after by both genders, but now it was blanched and shapeless, which did little to set off the ill-fitting brown flared trousers he had been dressed in whilst he slept. On his chin white whiskers had sprouted through the creased pale skin, giving away the secret of his jet-black hair, which was now knotted and ruffled.
‘Oh! Dearie me. We have been in the wars haven’t we? Can we stand?’ His voice was that of a drill sergeant, precise, yet littered with peculiar intonations.
A nod was the only response Donald could make, until slowly he pulled himself up and fell back onto the mattress.
‘Could I have a drink?’ he muttered with a resonating hum.
‘No.’
Donald sat himself up and tried to focus on Marlowe’s face. ‘Why not?’
‘Because I’d like you to answer me a question first. Do you think you could do that?’ Donald rested his eyelid and said nothing. ‘Last evening, do you remember last evening? No. I don’t expect you do. But last evening as I was completing your charge sheet, you told me you’re name was Armitage Shanks, and then promptly vomited on my desk.’ Marlowe took a step closer and bent forward casting a shadow over Donald’s face. ‘Now who do you think you are? Can you answer me that? Who the hell do you think you are to come into my station and behave in this manner, eh?’
Again Donald had no reply, but this time it was more out of fear that anything else. He sensed danger and despite his size the thought of physical violence had always sickened him.
‘I don’t feel very well’
‘Oh! I don’t remember asking you how you were? My question was on another subject altogether!’
‘I feel dreadful.’
‘Shut up!’ he screamed in Donald’s face, saliva dotting the prisoners cheeks. ‘Now then, what do you say?’
‘Look, I had a bad day yesterday and the drink certainly didn’t help.’ Donald had been blessed, and he’d been aware of it since an early age, with a silver tongue. The art of sounding profoundly sincere without meaning a single word of it. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve caused any offence.’
‘Are you now?’
‘What else can I say, I offended you and I’m truly sorry. It won’t happen again.’
‘Damn right it won’t!’ Suddenly Marlow took a step back and brought himself bolt upright in the same movement. Donald, sensing an imminent attack, dived on the cell floor and rolled back underneath the bed. For a moment or two there was silence and Donald feared for the worst. ‘Have our paths crossed before Hawksmoor?’ Slowly a look of recognition appeared on Marlowe’s face. ‘Hang on. Haven’t I seen you on the telly?’
After a couple of seconds a smiling face appeared through the darkness. ‘Why, yes.’
‘I had a feeling I’d seen you before.’
‘Not recently I must admit,’ said Donald crawling from his lair and slowly standing. ‘But I’ve got a few things in the pipeline.’
‘You were in Z cars weren’t you?’
‘Er, no.’
‘That’s right late sixties, I must have been about thirteen or fourteen.’
‘No really, I wasn’t.’
‘An all time classic that one.’
‘I’m sorry to say . . . ’
‘Fancy you being in one of my cells. Isn’t life a funny thing?’
‘Sorry, I think you may be confusing me with somebody else.’
‘Somebody else Mr Hawksmoor? If it wasn’t you in Z cars, who was it?’
Donald had no answer for that. ‘Yes, you’re right of course, Z cars, how could I forget?’
‘Well, it was all a long time ago. One of my favourite shows that was, one of the main reasons I joined the force, you know? Well, that and Softly Softly.’

Having signed for his release the bruised and dishevelled Donald was led out into the reception area where Annabelle sat hugging a black bin liner. She didn’t look much better herself. Her mascara had run, most of the blusher had gone and there was a large tear on the shoulder of her leather jacket. But as Donald approached she stood and gave him a comforting smile.
‘How are you feeling? Do you want me to phone anyone for you?’
‘Are those my things?’ he mumbled before snatching the bag from her.
‘You may have been a star of one of Britain’s pioneering cop shows,’ said Marlow as Donald emptied his clothes onto the floor, ‘but if you think for one second that I’m going to let you use my reception area as a changing room, you are very much mistaken. Now get out!’
‘But . . .’ said Donald.
‘Get out! And I hope for your sake our paths never cross again.’
‘But it’s raining,‘ said Annabelle.
‘I’m aware of that Michael Fish. Out!’

Despite the darkness and the falling rain, the morning chorus was tentatively announcing the arrival of a new day. Coloured lights from shop fronts and traffic lights danced in the pools of rainwater on the high street, whilst, from a busier part or the city, a siren sang out its sorrowful song.
‘I couldn’t find your underwear,’ said Annabelle as Donald searched through the bag. She was lying. She had found them straight away, but since they hadn’t been acquainted with a washing machine for some time, she had left them where they lay.
Undeterred, Donald sat on the station steps and removed his trousers.
‘Who are you?’
‘Annabelle,’ she said looking away. ‘I was in the bar last night.’
‘What?’ he said with a glare. ‘Oh, yes.’
The fresh morning air was clearing his head and with it the recollections of the previous evening we’re slowly beginning to surface. Then as the rain began to ease and the sun filtered through the clouds, Annabelle tried again.
‘Are you feeling any better?’ Still she looked away as he dressed. ‘I don’t think they got that lad. You know the one that . . .’
‘Where’s my wallet?’ he snapped suddenly, his hands flapping through his jacket pockets.
‘Oh! Sorry. I’ve got it here, I put it in my bag to keep it safe.’
Again she forced a smile and again Donald growled. Opening the large scuffed pouch only to find it empty of banknotes he threw up his arms and glared at her.
‘Christ! Where’s my money? There was over a hundred pounds in there yesterday!’
‘I don’t know. There was nothing in it when I looked.’
‘What does that mean?’ he demanded. ‘What were you looking in there for?’
‘To see if there was any contact numbers in there.’ Tears welled in her eyes as she tried to explain. ‘I thought I might be able to ring someone for you.’
‘Oh! Arseholes!’ he walked to the station door and kicked it hard. ‘Bloody fascists bastards! Don’t you realise who I am? I’m Donald Hawksmoor! Donald bloody Hawksmoor, I tell you! I have dined with ambassadors, politicians, Kings. I’ve danced in places that you fools could only dream of. Burton, Reed, Harris, Wyngarde, Hemmings; I’ve drank with them all, you know!’
He span dramatically and walked to an imaginary apron.
‘In this city I have lived to excess. Lived more in a moment than you swine will in a lifetime.’
Suddenly he was aware of a figure at the station door. Marlowe. He had come to investigate the commotion and when Donald saw him, he was filled with that terrible sense of fear once again.
Like a child he turned to Annabelle for protection. But Annabelle was gone.

Antonio Carlotti had walked off a ship at Portsmouth clinging to his mothers hand in nineteen fifty-four. He had worked hard from an early age and in no time at all, opened his own café. Antonio opened early and closed late. His doctor had told him to cut down on work but that wasn’t in his nature, he liked being at the helm, observing life and people. He had been watching the young girl with the torn leather jacket ever since she came in. She had been his first customer earlier on that morning, and her warm smile and pleasant nature had made an old Sicilian very happy.
This, however, had all changed on her return. Now she was distant, troubled somehow, and this had saddened him. He felt he should say something, and was preparing to do so, when the door opened and a large man appeared through the rain. For a moment he stood in the doorway, gazing at the girl. But Annabelle didn’t look up.
Donald looked ridiculous. His hair, flattened by the rain, formed a ridiculously uneven fringe that skimmed his bushy eyebrows. His right eye was black and swollen; whilst under his chin his right hand (in what must have been a vain attempt to keep out the rain) clenched his jacket lapels.
Allowing herself a glance Annabelle noticed how sad he looked. It wasn’t clear how long he had searched for her, or why, but when he released his grip the lapels remained upright, despite the damp, in the shape of his palm.
Antonio, not wishing to see a customer in distress rushed forward. ‘Please, sir,’ he said in his unique mix of Sicilian and North London, ‘let me take your jacket. Your eye, have you been attacked?’
‘Not recently,’ said Donald softly, his eyes still fixed on Annabelle. ‘No, really, I’m fine. Thank you.’
‘Take a seat; I hang this up for you. This weather is bloody terrible. Who would have thought we are in the middle of August. Typical, eh?’ Antonio disappeared into the kitchen as Donald made his way to Annabelle’s table.
‘May I?’ he said with a pitiful smile.
She looked up from her coffee and gave a nod. ‘How did you find me?’
‘Well, I just walked in the direction I presumed you had; hoping, of course, you hadn’t caught a taxi. Then, just as I was about to give up all hope, I passed this place and there, or rather, here, you are.’
At that moment Antonio reappeared and gave the couple a smile. ‘Ah, you know each other. That is nice. Now sir, what can I get you?’
‘A double espresso for me,’ said Donald.
‘Nothing to eat?’
‘Not sure if I could, bad night,’ he said thoughtfully. Then, suddenly, he sat up and sighed. ‘Oh! Go on then, why not. A smoked salmon omelette, frisee salad and a couple of finely chopped rashers of bacon, crispy bacon, mind. And…?’
‘Annabelle,’ she said.
‘Annabelle!
‘Just a coffee for me please, Antonio.’
‘Thank you,’ said Donald. Smiling awkwardly at his new customer Antonio then turned and disappeared into the kitchen. ‘I say do you know the old boy?’
‘I came in earlier, while I was waiting for you.’
‘Look, actually, that’s the reason I wanted to find you. I simply had to apologise for what I said earlier. Awfully unfair after all the help you gave me. What with that arsehole last night and my clothes, not to mention hanging around a police station all night. Mind you, you have found a new friend in our Italian host.’
‘He’s Sicilian.’
‘Is he really?’
‘He’s been very kind.’
‘That’s nice to hear,’ he said with a fatherly smile. ‘But as I say, awfully sorry.’
‘Don’t worry about it.’
‘But I do. I’ve obviously upset you and for that I’m truly sorry. You’re a bloody nice girl . . .’
‘That’s true.’
‘That’s the spirit! Now tell me all about yourself.’

For half an hour she did exactly that. But as she rose like a morning lark chirping the joys of her childhood life on the south coast, Donald relived the nightmare of the previous evening. Gradually his newfound enthusiasm disappeared as he considered his current and professional situation. It was if at some point he had fallen into a deep well and only then, in that moment of clarity, had he hit the cold waters of realisation. There was, he concluded, nowhere to go, but up.
It was at that point he was aware that Annabelle had stopped talking.
‘What was that?’ he said, awkwardly.
‘The Laughing Pig, do you know it?’
‘Depends. What is it?’
She laughed and warmly tapped him on his hand. ‘A pub of course! That’s where we’ll be appearing tomorrow night.’
‘Dare say I’ve crossed the threshold at some point or other.’
As she studied his bloodied face she wondered how he had got himself into such a mess. She wanted to help but felt powerless in his presence. She knew him well. Better than he would ever realise. As a child her mother had allowed her to stay up late and watch the fondly remembered British thrillers of the early seventies. Donald had appeared in most of them and she was finding it increasingly difficult not to blurt out some ridiculous statement of admiration.
All of this, of course, was in complete contrast to the other side of the table, where Donald was fighting a constant battle to keep his only serviceable eye open. Fighting off a yawn he glanced round the now busy café, before checking his watch. It was time to move on.
‘Er, Amanda.’
‘Annabelle’ she corrected him.
‘Annabelle, of course. I was just thinking I should possibly be on my way. Still feeling rather frail.’
‘Yes, sorry. I do go on.’
‘No, really. It’s been fascinating.’
‘And remember what I said.’ Donald seemed puzzled. ‘DVDs? They’re releasing lots of those programmes you were in, but on DVD. Maybe you’re owed money?’
‘Bloody will.’ he said with a smile. ‘Speaking of which, I seem to have found myself rather short after last nights escapade. You couldn’t lend me a few bob could you?’
‘Ten be ok?’
‘Twenty would be better.’
Locating her purse, she smiled again. ‘And don’t forget tomorrow night, eight o’clock.’
‘Tomorrow night?’
‘Donald!’ she laughed. ‘Have you listened to anything I’ve said?’
‘Sorry. Miles away.’
‘The group I sing with, “Adverse Camber.” We’re doing a gig at the “Laughing Pig.”’
As Antonio helped him into his jacket he promised he’d try his best to make it. Then, walking out into the morning light he took in a lungful of air and checked the street. The police station and Sergeant Marlowe, he concluded, was west. So, turning east towards the sun, he walked hurriedly to the nearest tube station, and home.

WEDNESDAY. 2:46 PM.

18 Lucent Mews, a large, elegantly designed second floor flat, was an indication that the resident, one Donald Hawksmoor, had not always been without money. The bed, on which he now lay face down, was an oversized teak creation he had treated himself to after an early success in the west end. A success, he had hoped, that would put an end to reparatory tours of the provinces and, consequently, boarding house mattresses. At the bottom of the bed, above a soot-encrusted fireplace, a broad mantelpiece of speckled white marble strutted out into the room. Upon it, dulled by dust and grime, a collection of dramatic awards reminded him, if he needed reminding at all, that he was once a success, and a man to be envied and admired in equal measure.
On another wall, next to an unhinged door that led through to the parlour, there was a large cherry wood wardrobe. Technically speaking it wasn’t his, but due to its size the previous tenants had left it behind – leaving Donald to wonder how they’d got it in in the first place. It was ornately carved with an abundance of serpents, devils and all things macabre, and was no doubt the source of many a nightmare.
Over the years Donald had filled the monstrosity with suits, hand made by the most dexterous of hands from the finest cloths Carnaby Street could offer. During the height of his fame his fashion acumen had become legendary, so much so that in the mid-seventies he had even won two consecutive “Most fashionable man of the year,” awards. There had even been a trademark hat, a Prince Albert Homburg with an outrageously wide brim that had briefly given birth to a series of “Hawksmoor Homburgs” in some of the more select boutiques.
In time, however, as the hats had been drunkenly discarded in the bars of Soho, and his constantly expanding frame had made the suits redundant, he had become less the man of style, and more an embarrassment to one and all. Combine this reality to the drinking and the excess, and it soon becomes clear to see why life had turned him from a fop to recluse.

For over ten minutes the ping-pong of a doorbell had been calling to him. At first polite bursts, then, after a minute or so, persistent urgent stabs, and it was as they reached a deafening crescendo that Donald sat up and sucked in a mouthful of air. For a moment he swayed to and fro focusing on the foot of the bed. Then, realising the noise was from the front door and not in his head as he had first feared, he leant forward and slid off the bed. Stumbling through a moat of clothes and bottles he reached out for the heavy velvet curtains and snatched them open. In a moment, intense sunlight escaped into the room and bounced from his flabby white body, revealing him to the world.
After a yawn and a gentle probe of his bruised eye he grabbed his dressing gown and searched for the hall. Visitors were a rare occurrence; he had made it abundantly clear he wanted to be left alone. And it was this self-imposed isolation that now made him wary of any intrusion.
Cautiously peering through the letterbox he searched for his visitor. Nothing. Then, suddenly, a grey haired woman shot into view.
‘Jesus Christ!’ he yelped.
‘Open the bloody door!’ the woman demanded gesturing aggressively with a pencil.
Tentatively he did as instructed to reveal a short elderly lady. So short in fact, she was using the pencil to ring the bell.
‘Oh! There you are,’ she said in a warm Galway burr. ‘I was beginning to . . .’ She stopped suddenly as she became aware of his injuries. ‘Look at the state of you. Are you all right?’
He said he was, asked her to go away and closed the door. The old lady, however, was persistent and within a second the pencil was at work once again.
‘Mrs Kelly,’ he said reappearing. ‘Please understand you are no longer my housekeeper. My financial situation is such, that I can no longer afford your services. So please put away your pencil and leave me in peace!’
He tried to shut the door again, but the old girl was too quick for him. Darting her right foot forward, the door bounced off her heel and opened wide. It was pointless continuing the fight; her tenacity was legendary. Sighing heavily he lurched back down the hall and into the bathroom.
‘I hadn’t seen you for a couple of days I was worried,’ she said entering the living room, and surveying the chaos.
‘You need’t have been,’ he shouted through the bathroom door.
‘Doesn’t look like it,’ she said sniffing the air disdainfully. ‘Is it self inflicted?’
‘What?’
‘Your face.’
‘Sort of.’ He was rarely in a mood for a fight, especially today.
‘In that, I take it, you got drunk, upset someone and they hit you.’
‘Like I said, sort of.’
‘Have you eaten today?’
‘What day is it?’
‘Lord help us,’ she muttered, tidying frantically. ‘Wednesday!’
‘Time?’
‘Approaching three O’clock.’
‘In that case,’ he said opening the door, ‘yes. Eight hours ago.’
‘Well, I’ll make you some food.’ And before he could bemoan his acute financial situation again, she pushed him back towards the bathroom. ‘You are not putting a stitch on your back until you’ve had a bath.’
‘But, Mrs Kelly . . .’
‘Mr Hawksmoor, ever since I came into this flat, I’ve been trying to locate a particularly bad smell. Now you’re standing in front of me, I think I found it.’
On that she pulled the bathroom door shut and walked towards the kitchen.

As the soapy water lapped on Donald’s chest he came to the sudden conclusion that for the first time in days, he was sober. His overindulgence had resulted in an aching that stretched from his head to his feet and all stops on the way. Furthermore, he was quickly finding this new world of clarity a rather uncomfortable place; but he knew exactly how to get out, and the door wasn’t very far away.
Climbing out of the bath and opening a cabinet above the sink, he saw, second shelf down, next to bottle of hair dye, a half bottle of gin. Like an old friend it put him at ease and brought a smile to his face. Taking a large mouthful he closed his eye and savoured the moment. A fire deep within warmed its way to his belly and for a moment he was contented once more. Then, as he bathed in the afterglow, he caught sight of himself in the mirror. The effect was considerable.

For an hour Mrs Kelly scrubbed the flat. It was a curious mish-mash of Edwardian conservatism and seventies chic: a world of chocolate brown and tangerine. Over the years there had been several attempts on her part to inject a little chintz into this otherwise sombre interior. Nothing too outrageous: a cushion here, a lampshade there; all to no avail. Next day she would find them sailing serenely in the communal pond below Donald’s apartment.
A decade on, she could now smile at the memory. She was like a young girl on her first date. There was a lightness of step that sent her dancing around the kitchen. The gleaming kitchen that was, up until an hour ago, a haven to a diversity of exotic bacteria. She hummed as she filleted the salmon, she sang as she tossed the salad; but she froze as she heard the crash from the bathroom.
‘Mr Hawksmoor!’ she called in horror, rushing to the door. ‘What’s happened?’ Nothing. ‘Mr Hawksmoor, say something.’ For a few moments her pleas went unanswered and not a sound could be heard from the smallest room. Then without warning, the lock from within clicked back and slowly the door opened. ‘Are you alright Mr Hawksmoor?’
‘Never better,’ he said calmly. ‘Never better.’
‘What was that smash?’
‘That, my dear Mrs Kelly, was the sound of freedom.’ She frowned as he walked into the lounge leaving her none the wiser. ‘I, Judith, may I call you Judith? Am sixty-three years of age. And look at me. Look at me, Judith!’ She could do little else as he paced up and down wearing nothing more than a threadbare towel. ‘My body is a mound of flesh with no discerning shape, my hair is dyed, I drink to excess, I have no friends, and now I am aware that I smell. Thank you for that one Judith, thank you. And on top of all of this, I am, as you probably well know, in major debt.’ He stopped and looked out of the window. ‘Until yesterday Judith, I was not aware of the monster I had become. For too long I had deceived myself.’ He turned and smiled at her. ‘I was one of Britain’s finest actors, you said that didn’t you?’
‘I did Mr Hawksmoor, I did.’ Her eyes glistened as she smiled up to him. ‘And I meant it!’
‘Bless you, Judith. Bless you!’ He took her in his arms.
Suddenly a torrent of tears cascaded down her cheeks and she reached up to give him a motherly kiss. But in no time he had climbed onto the coffee table, where he stood proud and noble.
‘For too long I have lived off the glories of the past. In five years I have lost everything, my money, my friends and nearly, very nearly Judith, my sanity. But, now,’ his volume was increasing considerably. ‘I see things clearly and I will make a new start! Today, I will visit my agent, apologise for my stubbornness, and accept the first job I am offered.’ Mrs Kelly clasped her hands and jumped with glee. The great Donald Hawksmoor was back. ‘From this day on I will regain my pride and I will be a better man!’
On this euphoric note he punched the air, his towel fell to the floor and Mrs Kelly rushed to the kitchen to check on the fish.

It was five thirty and Patricia Shaw; one time actress and now agent to the stars, was on her twenty-sixth cigarette of the day, longing for a gin and tonic. She’d had a good day. Not only had she stopped a distraught young actress from leaving the profession to marry a heating engineer from Stoke, but, after a long session with a particularly unbearable producer, she had negotiated a rather lucrative deal for one of her top clients. Yes, in Patricia Shaw’s book, it had been a very satisfactory day.
Gearing herself for home, a bath and an evening with William Holden, she was hoping for a release from the stresses of the day. For, when it came to films, Patti Shaw was of the well-established opinion, that they didn’t make them like the used too.
This night of relaxation, however, was still a way off, due to the man who had appeared from nowhere and now reminisced endlessly on the opposite side of her desk.
Bunny Nichols had made more than a hundred appearances in TV and film. They certainly didn’t make them like him anymore either. Single-handedly he had cornered the market of RAF Squadron Leader types, and thanks to repeat fees and a long memory he was rarely without a drink or an anecdote.
Despite this impressive CV it often surprised people when they discovered that Bunny had actually entered the business by mistake. Swaying into a bar one day, he was astounded to find himself in the centre of an audition for an up and coming film about Vikings. Being fair-haired and moustached he had been given a part on the spot, regardless of the fact that he had only gone in to use the toilet and was in fact “three sheets to the wind.” Nevertheless, five weeks later he was in longboat wearing a horned helmet, not quite sure how he had got there.
To Patti’s consternation Bunny had strolled into the office an hour earlier whilst her secretary was out, and within that time he had barely stopped to draw breath. Despite this sideshow, she had continued with the running of the agency, for although he was an utter bore, he was also a dear friend.
‘So Johnny said to me,’ he said, chuckling to himself, ‘stick it down your trousers in Act 3.’ The chuckle became a belly laugh and his waxed tipped moustache darted from side to side. ‘So I did and we never saw the poor girl again! Good old Johnny. Died you know?’
‘Yes,’ she said without looking up. ‘I went to the funeral.’
‘Oh. Good show. Don’t think I did. Did I?’
Before she could answer the intercom on her desk buzzed.
‘Yes, Polly.’
‘Sorry to trouble you Patti, but there’s someone here to see you.’
‘Could you be more specific?’
‘Erm, well it’s,’ Polly hesitated. She knew what reaction the name she was about to utter would bring, ‘it’s Mr Hawksmoor.’
‘Donald Hawksmoor?’ she shouted.
‘Old Donny Hawksmoor? Haven’t seen him for donkeys years,’ said Bunny.
‘Shut up, Bunny. Tell him to go away, Polly.’
Before she had completed the demand the door suddenly opened and Donald entered with a broad smile, a bunch of flowers and Polly not far behind.
‘Hello Hawksmoor, you old scoundrel,’ said Bunny offering his hand.
‘Patti, it’s been too long,’ said Donald, placing some battered lilies on her desk and sitting down.
‘Sorry, Patti,’ said Polly
‘It’s okay,’ she said with a reassuring smile. ‘I’ll deal with this.’
As Polly walked out Bunny got to his feet. There was a storm brewing and he didn’t like the look of it. ‘Better be on my way, old girl.’
‘Sit down. We haven’t finished yet,’ she said.
‘Haven’t we? Oh.’
‘Those are for you,’ said Donald. ‘I recall they’re your favourites.’
‘You’ve got a good memory.’ She smiled before clasping her hands and placing them calmly on the desk. Her first intention had been to hit him, but someone had beaten her to it. Besides, that wasn’t her style. Instead, she slowly eyed him up and down. Over the years she had learnt a lot about people, their talents, their depths. And as she looked at this shell of a man before her, she realised he had been on a journey that not many would go on and attempt a return.
‘How’s Billy?’ asked Donald.
‘Dead,’ replied Patti.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’
‘No you’re not,’ she said without emotion. ‘Now what do you want?’
‘Well, I . . .’ he was beginning to feel rather queasy. This newfound euphoria that had elated him only an hour before was now waning fast. ‘I just thought I’d call in for a chat.’
‘You just thought you’d call in for a chat?’ she said climbing to her feet. Bunny felt himself sinking into his chair, as the tension became almost unbearable. ‘You haven’t shown your face in this office for over a year, and now you feel its a good time for an old chinwag. Please!’
‘I know Patti,’ he said getting up. ‘Look, can we talk privately?’
‘Better be on my way old girl,’ said Bunny pulling himself from the chair.
‘You stay there,’ demanded Patti. ‘No. We can’t talk privately. Do you have any recollection of our last meeting?’ If he did he wasn’t saying. ‘No? Well, let me refresh your memory. You were very drunk. I remember it distinctly because you were naked on a table at the time.’
‘Still getting your kit off old boy?’ said Bunny with a chuckle.
‘Be quiet Bunny! And do you remember what you called me when I tried to get you down?’ Donald was crestfallen and stared into the shag pile as she recounted one of his many nightmares. ‘Any ideas? You called me “A wrinkled old whore.” Right there in the lounge of the Ivy. In full view of London’s theatrical world, “A wrinkled old whore.” Do you think I deserved that after ten years of getting you work, fighting your corner and helping you with money when, god knows, you didn’t deserve it. You’ve thrown away more money than I’ll ever have. Well?’
‘I don’t even remember saying it.’
‘Liar!’
‘Look, Patti. If I’ve offended you I’m truly sorry.’
‘Don’t use that crap with me. You’ve never been “truly sorry,” or any other kind of sorry, your entire life.’
‘Patti, I’m a new man.’
‘Really? Where did you get the black eye?’
‘Trust me. Things are different now. I need work. Help me, you’re the only one who can get me back.’
‘Before you leave Donald I want to tell you something.’ She walked to the window, her face pale with tension. ‘It took me fifteen years of bloody hard work to build my reputation. And you very nearly ruined it overnight, and with it this whole agency. I stood by you, yet you continually let me down. If you weren’t drunk on set you were taking your “kit off,” as your friend so eloquently put it. If you weren’t missing rehearsals you were trying to screw the directors wife. And now you want me to get you work? You’ve got a bloody cheek.’
‘Well, you have to admit it old boy,’ added Bunny after a pause. ‘She’s got a point.’
‘Shut up, Bunny,’ she growled. ‘So if you two don’t mind, I’ve got work to do.’
Bunny shot up again, hoping this time he could make it to the door. Donald, however, had beaten him to it. But as he was about to walk out, he stopped and turned.
‘I’ll leave now, but before I go you listen to me.’ His voice was calm and measured as he approached the desk. ‘When you started this agency I was the only big name who was willing to take a chance on a new inexperienced agent. And apart from Biggles here, there was no actor who did as much as I did to help you. No one. I know how hard you worked, but don’t forget I was there working hard with you. For god’s sake, I probably paid for this office. I let you down, and I am aware of that. I let myself down. But as I said things are different now, and I’m looking for another chance.’
‘Bravo, old boy,’ said Bunny.
‘Shut up!’ said Donald. ‘I’m sorry I’ve not been in touch, but I’ve not been in touch with anyone for quite a while. Now, what do you say?’
‘It doesn’t change anything,’ she said, tears welling in her eyes. ‘Donald you put me through hell. This is typical of you, to walk in here after all this time and expect everything to be the same as before. Things have changed. I’ve changed. I’ve been alone for over a year and I thought it had made me stronger and then Donald Hawksmoor walks back into my life and I fall apart again.’
Grabbing a handful of tissues she rushed to a door at the corner of the room and slammed it behind her.
For a while the two men stood in silence. Contrary to popular belief Donald despised confrontation and he would go to any length to avoid it. Alcohol reversed that, but when he was stone cold sober there was nothing he hated more. With this in mind, his outburst had surprised nobody more than he.
‘Do you think she’d mind if I disappeared?’ said Bunny, awkwardly.
Donald was considering his reply as a toilet flushed and Patti reappeared at the door.
‘Where have you been then?’ she asked approaching the desk.
‘What just now?’
‘No, you bloody fool. Where the hell have you been over the last year?’
‘To be honest it’s all a bit of a blur,’ admitted Donald.
‘How can you joke, Donald?’
‘I’m not.’ She took another handful of tissues from the desk and wiped her eyes. ‘I really am sorry Patti. I realise what I put you through.’
‘Why didn’t you realise it at the time?’ She was no longer looking at him; her eyes were fixed on a photograph on her desk. ‘Are you off the drink?
‘Yes.’
‘How long?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘Yes.’
‘Patti, please!’
‘He sounds pretty genuine, old girl,’ added Bunny.
‘Shut up!’ they shouted in unison. When they looked at each other again there was almost a hint of a smile on their faces. Lighting up number twenty-seven of the day, Patti inhaled before pressing a button on the intercom. ‘Polly, get me Cameron and Kinsey.’
‘Again?’
‘Yes, again. Okay, Donald. This is for old times sake. Transatlantic gas is doing a series of ads and they’re looking for a star of yesteryear. Now, this isn’t work, I don’t think you deserve that, it’s an audition, just like the old days. If you are genuine about coming back, prove it and take this opportunity. Because if you get this it could be a new beginning for you, and that’s good for both of us.’ She sat back and looked at him. ‘What do you think?’
‘Well, what have I got to lose?’
‘Exactly,’ she said as the phone rang.
Donald suddenly felt an extraordinary rush of excitement.
‘How does it feel to be back old boy?’ whispered Bunny with a grin.
‘Bloody marvellous,’ he said.
Patti ended the call and passed him a slip of paper. ‘Tomorrow, nine o’clock at that address. Don’t let me down, Donald. Like I said this is good for both of us.’
‘I won’t let you down.’
‘Call round here afterwards and maybe I’ll buy you lunch.‘
‘You’re on. I won’t forget this,’ he smiled and looked down at the photograph. ‘I really am sorry about Billy.’
‘I know. He was very fond of you.’
‘I was very fond of him. See you tomorrow.’ He turned and walked to the door.
‘Donald.’
‘Yes, Patti?’
‘When they ask,’ she tapped her eye with an index finger. ‘Just say an incident with a kitchen cupboard.’
With a wink he smiled and followed Bunny out of the office.
As the door closed behind them, Patti spoke to Polly through the intercom. ‘Time to go home, it’s been a long day. See you tomorrow.’ She picked up the photograph. ‘You were right my darling, he did come back.’ Glancing over at the lilies she noticed a card laying between the flowers. She took it out and read. “To my fondly remembered wife, Betty. Always in my thoughts, Alfred”
Polly was tidying her desk when she heard the laughing in the next room. She stopped for a moment and considered going in. But as the laughing stopped she picked up her bag and aimed for the door. It had been a rather odd half an hour.

It was one of those warm London evenings where the slightest breeze could capture a distant aroma and deliver it to ones nostrils, exciting the senses. Donald inhaled heavily and looked up. The receding sun was turning vapour trails red as they widened in the evening sky, whilst all around Londoners sauntered to their evening pleasures. Donald was aware of this for the first time in a long time, and it made him feel fresh and alive.
He had insisted they both walked. It would be good for them he said. But Bunny, as it quickly materialised, was no pedestrian; a point that had been well illustrated by his constant stops along the way. On each occasion he had made a strong case for a taxi, but the new invigorated Donald was having none of it.
‘Look at the stone design at the top of that,’ he said pointing up at a church roof.
‘I’m willing to pay for one,’ said Bunny as he massaged his bare foot. ‘Or even a bus, I’m not fussy. I just need sustenance and a bucket of water. Couldn’t we eat around here?’
‘Is that a mistle thrush on top of that cherub? No, a pigeon. Pity, I haven’t seen one of those since I was a boy.’ Turning to face Bunny, he sighed heavily. ‘No, we will eat at Bertie’s, as I said. I can’t hide away forever; I have to show my face. We’re nearly there now, so get your shoe back on.’ Helping him to his feet, they set off once again. ‘By the way, during my wilderness years, why didn’t you come and see me?’
‘I did old boy, on three separate occasions if memory serves. The first time I could see you through the window asleep, naked, naturally, with a bottle of spirits by your ear. On the second visit you came to the door, in the buff again, obviously, and then told me to “Fuck off”.’
‘And the third?’
‘You threw an empty bottle at me and told me to “Fuck off” again.’
‘Often wondered what happened to that window.’
‘Mind you, to your credit, you were dressed on that occasion.’
‘Sorry old friend,’ said Donald putting an arm around his shoulder. ‘You deserved better than that. Now come on, let’s get some food.’
After five minutes and three stops they arrived at the entrance of Bertie’s; a dark Edwardian building with a red neon sign above the door. It had been a popular haunt for actors since the Second World War, due to the generous credit that was given.
‘Are you sure about this, old boy?’ said Bunny. ‘I mean, why don’t you just get yourself back into things first before you start showing your face. You have upset a good few people over the years and you know what nasty vengeful buggers actors can be.’
Donald smiled and patted his pal on the back. ‘Do you know what your trouble is? You worry too much.’

Bertie’s had been partly refurbished a dozen times over its eighty-year existence. Unfortunately, due to the lack of funds each fit had begun where the last one had finished, despite the changing fashions, giving the visitor a unique sense of days gone by. The bar (Forties) was situated on the left as people entered the room (Eighties) from the stairs (Twenties). Legendary British actors eyed Berties’ clientele from every wall. Over the years it had attracted the great and good of the entertainment world, and the management had taken full advantage of this by filling the walls with signed photographs of the better known. Jack Hawkins, the epitome of style in evening dress, looked his usual relaxed self as he smiled down from the wall. Below him Patrick Curtis, an ugly man, neither tall nor short, chatted animatedly to a group of young men hovering at his side.
‘I was offered the part of Reagan, you know,’ he said loudly. ‘That’s The Sweeney you understand, not Lear! Oh yes, but I felt The National at that time was more important, more relevant. Things have changed though gentlemen, everyone wants to get into TV now, even old hands like me.’ His entourage laughed and followed him to a table as he sat and gave his views on a fresh subject. Suddenly, as he was embarking on the influence of American actors on the British stage, he stopped and stood up. ‘Bloody hell fire’. Would you look at that? If you’ll excuse me gentlemen, I think I’ve just seen a ghost.’
Donald was charming a young barmaid and was unaware of Curtis as he approached.
‘Watch out for him Sarah, he’d shag the crack of dawn if he could get up early enough.’
‘Curtis,’ muttered Donald, his head suddenly filled with an assortment of unpleasant memories.
‘I did warn you old boy,’ said Bunny, in a hushed tone.
‘Well, if it isn’t Donald “in the Buff” Hawksmoor,’ said Curtis, arriving at his side. ‘I thought you were dead?’
‘Seeing you again Curtis, I wish I was.’
He threw his head back and laughed; Donald was reminded of a donkey. ‘Nice to see you’ve still got your old sense of humour. Where have you been hiding then?’
‘Wherever he’s been, its no concern of yours,’ said Bunny, defiantly.
‘I can imagine this place brings back some pleasant memories for you, Donald. Mind you, it’s just as well the management changed recently otherwise you wouldn’t have got in. What did you do again?’ He paused theatrically. ‘Oh, that’s right! You were pissing out of the window. How very dignified.’
Donald had relived enough bad memories for one day and was about to tell Curtis what he thought of him, when Bunny chirped up.
‘Look here, Curtis. Why don’t you stop being such an arse and push off.’
‘Brought you dad with you Donald?’ Moving closer Curtis stared at him contemptuously. ‘You know what . . . I don’t like you Hawksmoor; I don‘t like your type. The Oliver Reed school of drinking and acting has closed, didn‘t anyone tell you, nobody wants dinosaurs like you anymore.’
‘Put a sock in it. He could still act you off the stage,’ said Bunny.
‘Oh, really? Tell me Donald, what have you done recently?’
‘I’ve been out of circulation for a while.’
‘Out of circulation, but not punching distance I see.’
‘An incident with a kitchen cupboard.’
‘Oh, really? Well, if you are thinking of coming back, forget it. No agent will touch you with a barge pole.’
‘That’s not strictly true, old boy,’ said Bunny with a smirk. ‘Donny’s got an audition tomorrow morning, thanks to his new agent and old friend Patti Shaw.’
‘Patricia Shaw? You’re back on her books?’
‘Yes. Patti and Donald go back a long way,’ he said with a smile, happy he had touched a nerve.
‘And what part, pray tell, are you reading for Donny?’
‘Just an advert, Curtis,’ replied Donald. ‘Now just go away, please.’
There had been quite enough confrontation for Donald for one day.
‘May I ask what ad?’
‘Transatlantic Gas,’ said Bunny, proudly.
Curtis smiled broadly. ‘Well, Hawksmoor, we’ll see if you can act me off the stage. I’m up for that part as well. So, until tomorrow, don’t drink too much and use the toilets provided,’ he walked a few yards and then turned and smiled. ‘Oh, and break a leg.’

Later, positioned in a dimly lit corner of the club, Donald and Bunny were engaged in a three-course meal below the cast of Ice cold in Alex. For a while there was no conversation. This was mainly due to the large steak Bunny was devouring as if his life depended on it. Donald couldn’t face his and so studied John Mill’s bleached white hair until, finally, Bunny belched and made another observation.
‘Now if we’d gone to a nice quiet pub or my club as I suggested, we wouldn’t have had to go through all that.’
‘Like I said, I have to show my face, it’s no good hiding away.’
‘Well, you managed it pretty well for the past year. Yet within an hour of sticking your head above the parapet you’ve antagonised one of your oldest adversaries and discovered, in the same moment, you’re up for the same part.’ He belched again as if to emphasise the point. ‘Now sorry to bring this up old boy, but Curtis hasn’t been out of work for over twelve months, which won’t do him any harm at all. Nor will the dirty big shiner that his opponent’s sporting.’
Donald knew everything he said was true, overlong, but true. He felt thoroughly disheartened. Since he came into the bar he had been on mineral water. Now he wanted nothing more than a strong drink and his bed. He told Bunny as much, before sinking his water and climbing from the table.
‘Goodnight old friend.’
‘Straight home now.’
With a smile that assured him he would, Donald made sure Curtis was no longer in sight before making his way out of the club and into the warm evening light.

Making his way from Portland Place to Marylebone station, Donald decided to cut along Paddington Street and shorten his journey. As he turned onto it he could see the darkening sky and hear the faint sound of music in the distance. It didn’t take him long to realise it was emanating from a building just ahead, and within a minute or so he found the source to be a public house. The sign, above the entrance, had a bright pink pig grinning down at the public as they entered. This, with the name Adverse Camber scribbled on a blackboard, made Donald stop in his tracks and recollect certain moments from the previous day.
Annabelle, singing an up-tempo version of “a taste of honey” was dressed in a sort of sixties cat suit and to Donald’s ears sounded remarkably good. The night seemed to be some sort of sixties tribute and all around him people were dressed as well known characters from classic television. Here and there he spied a Steed and Emma Peel, a Randall and a Hopkirk, a Jason King, a Brett Sinclair and Danny Wilde, then finally, as he looked up to the balcony he spotted The Prisoner, isolated as always and, no doubt, biding his time before his escape.
More than once Donald had to convince himself this wasn’t one of his alcoholic hallucinatory flashbacks, and that it was in fact the twenty first century. He ordered water and then watched the group as they performed on a small stage opposite. They were good he decided, and it wasn’t long before he found himself humming songs he had not heard for a long time. Eventually, Annabelle introduced the group. The two guitarists’ were Toby and Ben, whilst the very tall youth on electric piano and drum machine was Charles. Finally, she introduced herself and announced a short break. It was then she spotted Donald at the bar. There was no hiding her joy as she rushed to him.
‘Donald you made it,’ she said, giving him a hug. ‘I’m so glad.’
‘Well, it’s the least I could do after all you did for me,’ he said feeling rather uncomfortable with a girl on his chest and a lie on his lips. ‘You have quite a voice young lady, quite delightful.’
‘Do you think so?’ she said stepping back with a smile ‘You’re not just saying that?’
‘No. Really, really good.’ It was there as the soft light from the bar caught her face that he saw how very pretty she was. This was a very different woman from the one with the torn leather jacket and smudged mascara. It was in that moment that he realised he wanted to know her a little more.
‘Donald I’ve got some news.’
‘Intriguing.’
‘We’ve been offered a contract in Amsterdam. Isn’t that fantastic?’
‘Wonderful!’
‘It’s only for a week.’
‘When do you leave?’
‘That’s the crazy bit. Tomorrow morning. We’re having a double celebration at the house.’
They chatted for a while until she returned to the stage and sang the final song, dedicated, of course, to the TV legend at the bar. In no time at all he was inundated with pleas for autographs and anecdotes. He hadn’t expected it, but he didn’t complain.
After the set Annabelle introduced Donald to the band. Ben, it turned out, was a huge fan of British Television and seemed to know more about Donald’s career than he did. Annabelle watched and smiled from a distance. She knew things had not gone well for him recently and it was a delight to see him at the centre of things again.
Although he had turned down numerous pleas for him to return to the house for the party, he eventually gave in on the understanding that he would be provided with food and that someone would give him a lift home. They departed en masse, leaving The Pig as empty as Donald’s belly.

It was a warm starlit night and an orange crescent moon hung over Regents park. The trees, brushed by a soft wind, swayed gently as Donald and Ben chatted in the night air. Ahead of them a small group of stragglers meandered past the lake towards the golden dome. Beyond it Donald could make out the imposing properties of St Johns Wood: homes of the rich that seemed to glow with self-assurance.
In a matter of minutes they were deep in money territory, leaving Donald to wonder if this was some sort of bizarre reverse kidnapping. But then, as he was preparing his excuses, he noticed the crowd ahead disappear into a rather plush house on the opposite side of the road. It was an immaculate three-storey building that took Donald’s breath away.
‘Who the hell lives here?’
‘We do,’ said Ben leading him to the house. ‘Well, I say we, it’s Charles’ mum and dad’s. They’re in Switzerland at the moment; tax reasons I believe. So he asked us to move in with him.’
‘Charles?’
‘The tall guy on the keyboards.’
‘Ah, yes.’
‘He’s very sensitive, gets very lonely. Needs people round him.’ He pushed the door open. ‘Right then, after you.’
Once inside Donald could see that the party was not being held on one floor, but all three. Dumbfounded, he marvelled at the affluence. Expensive paintings adorned the Mediterranean inspired reception hall. A swathe of terracotta red led the visitor’s eye towards a jungle of potted greenery, then up along the winding staircase and its gilded banisters. It was a statement, a confirmation of success. Donald shook his head.
‘Make yourself comfortable,’ said Ben taking his jacket. ‘I’ll find Annabelle.’
As he disappeared into a crowd further along the hall, Donald walked into the living room on the right. It was spacious and, like the hall, filled with the usual decorative adornments of the rich. In the centre of the room was a huge leather sofa occupied by a young woman. Dressed in a short skirt and tight T-shirt, she was blowing bubbles through a small hand-held hoop. Like moons in orbit they hovered about her for a moment before exploding onto the black leather sofa. It shone like treacle.
Behind her, at the far end of the room, a young man was playing music on an ageing record player. Donald smiled at the girl and said “hello”, which only seemed to intensify the bubble blowing. Undeterred he approached the second youth, who greeted him with a hearty smile.
‘Hi, I’m Donald.’
‘Hello there, I’m Seth,’ said the young man in a surprisingly strong Cornish accent. ‘You’re the chap from the pub aren’t you?’
‘That’s right,’ said Donald. ‘Are you the d j?’
‘Well,’ said the young man with a smile, ‘I wouldn’t go as far as that. No, I’m just spinning some lounge.’
‘Are you really?’
‘I always like to root through Charles’ library stuff, when I come round.’
‘I see.’
‘Are you into 70’s library?’
‘Depends. What is it?’
‘Library? Well, let me see. It’s music that was made specifically for T V and film in the sixties and seventies. Very hard to get hold of you know. Most of it found its way into junk shops, but good old Charles, do you know Charles?’
‘Tall chap on the keyboards?’
‘That’s the one, well, he’s been tracking this stuff down for years, plays it in the clubs you know. Very popular it is too. Here’s a good one, what do you think?’ Donald was thinking he should have stayed with Ben. ‘Recognise the style? No? It’s Tony Hatch, of course.’
‘Of course,’ said Donald, and before he could stop himself. ‘Pre or post “Crossroads”?’

After what felt like an eternity, Ben reappeared at the door. Donald took it as his cue and abandoned Seth in mid-sentence.
‘What’s this then?’
‘Food, as promised,’ said Ben.
‘Well, that’s awfully kind of you,’ said Donald accepting the plate.
‘Can’t find Annabelle. She’s probably changing upstairs. What was Seth saying?’
‘I don’t know, the man talks in riddles. Started out with something about a library in his lounge and then moved onto the life and times of Tony Hatch.’
‘Yes, he can go on a bit. It’s my own creation,’ he said pointing at the plate, ‘chicken with pine nuts and mayonnaise, with a touch of paprika.’
‘Well,’ said Donald looking down at the sandwich, ‘it does look lovely. Rather quiet for a party?’
‘Charles doesn’t like too many people in the house, lots of antiques around. Besides, we always find there’s a better atmosphere with a select group of friends. Tuck in.’
‘Yes, of course,’ he said picking up the sandwich. ‘Known him long. Charles I mean?’
‘Few years.’
‘Nice chap?’
‘Yes. Are you okay Donald?’
‘To tell you the truth, no. The thing is I get rather tense. I’ve always had the same trouble, I may be starving but as soon as I’m presented with the dish, I just can’t bring myself to do it.’
‘Why do you think you’re tense?’ Ben seemed genuinely concerned.
‘Well, between you and me, I’ve got an audition tomorrow morning.’
‘An audition? You’re a legend! Why do you have to do that?’
‘Well,’ he explained, ‘it’s a long story but I’ve been out of sorts for a while and I’m just trying to get back on my feet, as it were.’
‘I see.’
‘I’ll be fine tomorrow. Sorry about the sarnie, looks lovely. Chicken and mayonnaise you say?’
‘And pine nuts.’
‘Super.’
‘Look,’ said Ben, producing a roll up, ‘try this.’
‘Thanks. I don’t smoke.’
‘It’s not a cigarette. It’s a spliff.’ Donald seemed none the wiser. ‘Marijuana?’
‘Ah,’ he said, ‘never tried it.’
‘Never?’
‘Don’t think so. Alcohol as always been my bag, as you young people put it.’
‘I can fix you a drink if you want?’
‘No. Thanks anyway, I’m off the drink. Tell me,’ he said leaning over and looking at the joint, ‘what does it do exactly?’
‘Well it relaxes you, makes you feel good, makes you one with things for a while.’
Just then the girl on the sofa, who up until that point had ceaselessly blown her bubbles, suddenly stopped, and spoke in a deep resonating voice, ‘play him Sven Libaeks’ “Misty Canyons”?’
‘Sounds like some sort of ailment,’ Donald whispered.
‘It’s a piece of music,’ said Ben, ‘the perfect piece if you’re going to smoke that. Great choice Bethany. It’s on top of the speaker, Seth,’ he said, offering Donald the joint once again, ‘Well?’
‘Oh, what the hell! Light the bloody thing up.’
Never one to hold back, Donald inhaled heavily sending pungent smoke into his lungs. At first he coughed and spluttered, but staying with it he found that in no time at all a wonderful sense of calm descending on him. And Ben was right; the music was perfect. Strange orchestrated harmonies, laced with synthesizers and voices reverberated around the room. He closed his eyes and found that the music had somehow become part of him. He could almost see and feel the sounds as if they were massaging his mind.

Half and hour later Donald opened his eyes. He felt as if he had slept for a week, but more than that, he was aware, for the first time in a day and a half, he was without pain in any part of his body. Instead, there was a quite delightful sensation of warmth running through him that made him smile uncontrollably.
Although Seth was still filling the room with psychedelic sounds, Ben and the bubble-blower were nowhere to be seen. The inhabitants of the sofa now were two rather buxom girls who, between feeding each other profiteroles, pointed at Donald and giggled. Donald was aware he was giggling back, but he didn’t know why. More people were sitting in various parts of the room and as he watched them chatting and dancing he suddenly became aware of how absolutely famished he was. He searched the sofa for the chicken sandwich, but to no avail. He was about to approach the profiterole girls, when he was aware of a very tall man in the doorway. It was Charles.
‘You must be the actor?’ he said in a sombre tone.
‘Yes, hello there. This is your place isn’t it?’
‘It’s my father’s. He’s a capitalist pig.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘Do you like my music?’
‘Do you know, I do. Especially that Sven what’s-his-name.’
‘Um,’ said Charles narrowing his eyes. ‘I’ve got a message for you.’
‘Oh,’ he said as he looked up at him. As he waited Donald suddenly noted the young mans eyes wander from his to the wallpaper above his head. To his astonishment Donald then watched as Charles started to move like some deranged mime artist. It lasted all of thirty seconds or so, hands pushing on imaginary glass, feet running on an invisible treadmill. Then as suddenly as it had begun it was over, leaving Donald exhausted from the experience. ‘This is a beautiful piece of music, isn’t it?’ said Charles finally.
‘It certainly is. What was the message, Charles?’
‘What?’ he said, coming out of his trance. ‘Oh, yes. Annabelle wanted you.’
‘Ah, and where is she?’
‘I don’t know,’ he replied before dancing across to the door and out of the room.
Donald decided in that moment that it was probably time to go. Searching for his jacket in the hall he suddenly heard his name being called from the top of the stairs.
‘Are you going already?’ said Ben leaning over the banister.
‘Yes,’ he said putting on his jacket. ‘Feel much better thanks. Bloody hungry though.’
‘Got the munchies, huh? Look, there’s plenty of food upstairs, help yourself. But don’t go until you’ve said goodbye to Annabelle. She’s upstairs packing I think. She was asking for you.’
‘Okay, what about a lift?’
‘I’ll take you home myself, just give me a shout when you’re ready, I’ll be with Seth.’

All along the first floor landing couples kissed and fondled. Beside one particularly passionate pair, Donald noticed a large platter of hors d’oeurves smiling up at him. Grabbing a handful he stuffed them in his mouth and gorged like he’d never done before. A fusion of prawn, chicken and anchovy played like a symphony in his mouth. Heaven. “Had anyone seen Annabelle?” he enquired, his mouth still overflowing. Without breaking from their current activity, eight people pointed upwards. Thanking them he grabbed another handful of goodies and climbed the stairs to the next floor.
Unlike the first, it was devoid of loving couples and exotic pastries. Cursing his luck he moved along the hallway. Beige was the theme. Canvasses, architraves, lampshades; none had dared stray from the arrangement. Three doors: mushroom, taupe and fawn stretched off to his right. Entering the first he found it dotted with lava lamps and cushions. In the centre a group of people sat around a long coffee table. One of them (who Donald recognised as one of the guitarists) was sniffing cocaine through a straw from the table.
‘Sorry to trouble you. Looking for Annabelle.’
‘Room at the end of the hall,’ said the boy, drawing his head back and sniffing nosily.
‘Thank you. Sorry to have troubled you.’
Closing the door and making his way to the end of the hall, he suddenly felt rather apprehensive. He hadn’t been in another woman’s bedroom for years; especially an attractive one like Annabelle. Running his fingers through his hair he knocked and waited. There was no reply. Slowly he turned the handle and entered. Like the previous room it was dimly lit with only streetlights from the opened patio doors lifting the darkness. For a moment he hovered at the opened door, waiting as his eyes became accustomed to the gloom.
‘Close the door, Donald,’ came a whisper.
As he stared ahead he could make out the shape of a young woman sitting on the bed.
‘Annabelle?’
‘Close the door.’
Taking the instruction with great excitement, he approached the bed and promptly fell head first onto the floor. Suddenly light filled the room and as he looked up he saw Annabelle’s staring down at him from the bed.
‘Are you alright?’
Dazed, he looked around until he saw a large rucksack by his side.
‘I see you’re all packed then?’ he said, getting to his knees.
Shuffling towards the centre of the bed she stared at him, suggestively. ‘I’ve been waiting for you.’
‘Have you?’ he said standing up and rubbing his shins.
‘Do you find me attractive, Donald?’
‘What? Definitely,’ he replied, excitedly.
‘I mean attractive like all those actresses you chased all those years ago?’
‘Oh, yes,’ he said gulping a mouthful of air. ‘Very much so.’
‘I used to fantasize about you when I was a teenager. I imagined you coming to me in the night and seducing me. Does that shock you?
‘Well . . .’
‘I’ve dreamt of this moment.’ She was almost not aware of his presence as, with eyes closed, she unzipped her cat suit. Donald quickly saw that what she lacked in height she certainly didn’t lack in cleavage. He licked his lips in anticipation as the zip was pulled ever downwards, until finally she slipped the suit from her shoulders, revealing full well rounded breasts and dark erect nipples. ‘Could you do something for me, Donald?’ she said cupping her breasts.
‘Yes, please,’ he gasped.
‘Do you remember the film you did in nineteen seventy-six called, “The Countess”?’
‘Vaguely,’ he said, quizzically.
‘Well, I want you to do what you did to the Countess.’
Donald racked his brains. The seventies was a period in his life that would remain ever a blur, an island in the mist. ‘Could you possibly refresh my memory?’
‘Easily, it’s lived in my mind ever since I was eighteen. You climbed the ivy on the outside of the house and onto her balcony. Then you took her masterfully on the bed. She didn’t resist and, if you did the same, I wouldn’t either.’
‘I see,’ he said looking over to the balcony with a mixture of excitement and trepidation. ‘So, you want me to go downstairs and climb up to the balcony?’
‘Oh, no. Just pretend you’re climbing over, undress, enter the room and then, me.’ With a wink she removed the rest of the suit and lay back on the bed.
‘Righto,’ he smiled. Then, without hesitation, he went out on to the balcony and looked down at the street. He could hear people lower down, but he didn’t let that put him off. Glancing round at the balconies on either side, satisfying himself he was away from prying eyes, he whispered to Annabelle through the doorway. ‘Just come over the top?’
‘Yes, hurry up. I’m so hot for you.’
The tension was almost too much for him as he carefully climbed over the balcony and onto the supporting wall
‘Oh, Donald,’ she panted on the bed, ‘that’s it, that’s it. Hurry.’
Climbing back onto the balcony full of purpose and dramatic intent, he threw out his chest and improvised. ‘Stay where you are Countess, the hour has come.’
‘The accent Donald, the accent.’
‘What accent?’
‘Welsh. You were Welsh in the film.’
‘Was I?’
‘Hurry!’
She was whining and out of control as he repeated the line as instructed and undressed hurriedly. The moon, casting shadows across the balcony floor, watched his every move. He had done this a hundred times in public but, to his recollection, never sober or with such purpose. And so with Annabelle whimpering on the bed, he dropped his underpants and kicked them triumphantly off the balcony and into the night. Barely had they left his foot, however, than he heard revving engines and screeching brakes on the road below.
‘What the hell . . . ’ he said looking down
‘What is it?’ said Annabelle appearing at his side.
Below them police officers were spilling from two stationary vans and heading for the house.
‘Oh, not again.’
‘What’s going on?’
‘It’s a drug bust. Get out,’ she said, pushing him back into the room and towards the door. They ran to the banister and looked down to see police streaming into the house and up the stairs. ‘Hide!’
‘Where?’
‘Anywhere, just hurry up.’ She rushed back into her room and pulled a chair over to a wall unit. Athletically she jumped up and grabbed the bottom shelf of a small cupboard near the ceiling. Standing on the chair back, she pushed herself upwards and into the tiny recess. ‘Move the chair and hide, Donald!’ she shouted. Donald pushed the chair to one side and frantically darted over to the wardrobe. ‘Not in there! That’s the first place they’ll look!’
On this she pulled the cupboard doors to, leaving Donald naked and alone. The thought of spending another night in a police cell filled him with abject fear - especially if he was to return to the same one. He had to think quickly and as he heard the noises on the staircase getting closer and closer, he rushed onto the balcony.
To his left there was another balcony, and running between that and the one on which he now stood, was a thin stone ledge. Without hesitation, and with fear and adrenaline spurring him on, he climbed onto it. The wall was clad with ivy, and gripping it tightly he carefully shuffled across to the other side.
He had barely reached the halfway point when he heard shouting and breaking glass from below. He stopped and looked down. People were being carted out of the front door into the vans and he knew it wouldn’t long before they were searching Annabelle’s room. He could almost touch the other balcony now but as the wind picked up and the temperature dropped it seemed like a mile. Suddenly there were footsteps in Annabelle’s room and as he stopped he felt his buttocks clenching tightly.
‘Check the wardrobe,’ said a voice.
Stretching his right foot to one side he managed to get a footing on the outer edge of the far balcony. But just as he was transferring his weight over, Annabelle screamed out, breaking his concentration. He fell backwards from the ledge, but miraculously his right foot shot forward and jammed between a thick branch of the ivy and one of the stone balustrades. For a moment he swung below the balcony like a fleshy white fruit.
The pain was unbearable. The leg was not broken, he was certain of that. But if the warm blood dripping onto his chest was any indication, there was certainly a deep gash.
As he saw Annabelle and Toby being forced into the vans below, he realised he needed to move, and quickly. Grabbing the ivy on the main wall he pulled himself up towards the balcony and looked at the leg. It wasn’t as bad as he had thought, but he had to release it somehow. With a couple of desperate tugs on the balcony wall he felt the leg suddenly release and slip down. The pain was intense, but as he dragged himself over onto the balcony floor he realised it was the least of his troubles.
A few minutes later there were more noises from Annabelle’s room. This time they continued out onto the balcony. Donald peered through the ivy and watched as a young officer looked down at the road. After a brief conversation with a colleague in one of the vans he agreed to stay on at the house overnight until the house had been searched before disappearing back into the house.
Crouching on the cold stone floor, Donald assessed his predicament. How the hell had he got himself in this situation? He should be in bed now dreaming of a rekindled career. How far out of his reach was that now?
There was, he quickly realised, no simple plan of escape. But with a bleeding wound and cold eating away at his naked flesh he had to make some sort of move, and soon. Morning was a long way off, as was the street below, and for some time he peered down, judging the possibility of a late night descent. It was out of the question, of course. Even under normal circumstances, it would be hopelessly impractical. Playing the man of action was one thing, being it, quite another. There was only one thing for it. Go through the house.
There were two sets of patio doors, one directly across and one at the far end of the wide balcony. Making sure it was safe to move he got onto all fours and scrambled to the nearest doorway. Although the room was unlit there was enough light from the street to see it was empty. Pulling the handle down slowly, he was amazed to hear the door click open. Squinting in the darkness, he crawled in and searched for another door that would lead to his escape. Then he saw it, a thin border of light in the centre of a wide blank wall. Gingerly he padded across the bare wooden boards that creaked under his weight until he reached the far side, where he stopped and listened. There wasn’t a sound. Gripping the handle, he closed his eyes and turned it slowly. This time his luck was out. With a sigh, he sank to his knees and crawled back out into the night. Somewhere far off music filled the night, its pulsating rhythm a contrast to everything there on the balcony.
Slowly moving to the second doorway he suddenly realised that one of the doors was ajar. Not only that, he could also see light reflecting on the glass. He had almost decided to turn back, when it suddenly occurred to him that the owners may well be out. If that was the case, (and that was a big if) he could not only dress himself but also eat to his hearts desire. Besides, there was no other choice. Approaching the doors, he was suddenly struck with fear as something brushed across his cheek. He froze, not daring to move. Then he saw it, a lace curtain unfurling in the wind. Catching his breath, he pushed it back into the opening and slowly pulled back the door.
At first, he could see very little. Then as he peered inside he noticed an array of candles on one side of the room, flickering like distant stars. Oddly, the apartment seemed bare, but as he moved the curtains to look at the other side of the room, he suddenly stopped as a ripple of fear ran through him. Somebody, or something, was sitting in a chair in the centre of the room, its eyes fixed on his. Terrified Donald gazed at the figure before him. Its dark shape, untouched by the glow of the candles, seemed unworldly, almost ghostlike. He wanted to run, but it was beyond him. Something primeval within him, or possibly within the room, was holding him fast. Then, quite without warning, it spoke to him in a whisper.
‘Come to me. Come to me. I will give you sanctuary.’
Quite terrified, Donald suddenly realised that the dark shadow before him was a woman. He was almost powerless and entered the room as if in a trance. Then he saw her, an image that would remain with him always. Sitting in a high back chair, wrapped in a hooded fur cloak, she was like a figure from a fairy tale; an evil queen or a witch, terrifying but at the same time mesmerizing.
Far off church bells announced the midnight hour, but they could not draw him from the spell pulling him closer and closer. What was it that took him to her? Curiosity or something darker?
‘Come to me,’ she said curling a long bony finger. ‘Come to me.’
Getting closer to her, he could now see the candlelight dancing in her eyes. Hypnotic cat-like eyes that drew him to her like a moth to a flame. Then, when he was almost at her feet he watched as she leant forward and revealed her face.
‘Oh, my god,’ he muttered. ‘No, not you. It’s not possible, you’re . . .’
Before he could utter another syllable, there was a terrible blow on the back of his head. He was spinning and falling into a dark void that engulfed him from every side.

THURSDAY. 7:50 AM

Dressed completely in shades of brown with a pale elf-like face, Elliot Randall seemed more like a librarian than a policeman. This unassuming appearance, however, was misleading. For half hidden beneath black-rimmed glasses, untainted by societies’ inhumanity, bright blue eyes revealed an exceptional man.
From the kitchen table he stared out across the sunlit garden. Long shadows of late summer reached across a dewy lawn towards banks of marguerites and evening primrose. Stillness and calm pervaded the morning air; but Randall was unaware of it all. For nearly a year now he had been alone, and the house, once the centre of everything he held close, a constant reminder of what he had lost. In one month he would be sixty, and on that day he would retire. A milestone made heavier by the loss of his closest friend.
Staring deep into the shade, half asleep in a world of shadows, he was suddenly aware of movement in the undergrowth. As if woken from a dream he glimpsed a flash of red, then saw the bold jerky movements of a robin sifting for food. Something in its manner drew his attention and for a moment, he smiled. Then, like the bird itself, the smile was gone.
Climbing from the table and turning up the radio, he fixed his tie and digested the morning news. Everything seemed as normal. Middle Eastern conflict, train disruption and environmental meltdown. Strangely, all of this put him at ease, normality always did, but then the death of a man named Harry Kessler was announced. Vaguely, he remembered the name, not to mention his legendary antics during the Second World War, and even though they had never met he was saddened by the news. It seemed heart failure had been the likely cause and the Prime Minister himself had led the tributes.
Suddenly, there was a noise in the hallway and Randall turned to see his daughter Zoë.
‘Morning dad.’
‘How are you?’
‘Fine,’ she said kissing him on the cheek. She was short and pretty, with black, highlighted hair in bunches. ‘Sorry I didn’t get round yesterday, I had to pick Clara up from ballet and then take Andrew to the station. How have you been?’
‘Since two days ago? Absolutely fine.’ He watched her as she hurriedly tidied the room. ‘How are the kids?’
‘Oh, you know. Clara’s teacher tells me her Demi-plies is coming on a treat and Daniel’s clarinet playing is . . . well, let’s just say he doesn’t lack enthusiasm. Are you sure you’re alright?’
‘Zoë, I’m fine.’
‘I’m sorry, I know I go on.’ Without asking, she cleared the table and disappeared into the kitchen. ‘Are you sure you want us to go with you next week? If you’d rather go alone we’d all understand.’
‘No, we’ll all go. I’ll arrange the flowers. Now stop worrying.’
‘Okay,’ she said, with a smile. ‘Now, you haven’t forgotten about tomorrow?’
He had, but didn’t say as much.
‘You know how important it is that we support Andrew any way we can?’
‘You can always rely on me.’
‘He says Mr. Wick has been coughing sporadically for the past day or so and he wouldn’t be surprised if he came down with something in the next twenty-four hours.’
‘It would be nice to see him on stage after all this time.’
‘Give him a chance he only graduated five years ago, and you know how difficult it is to get good parts, especially in the west end. As an understudy, he could easily walk on in the main part. Albert Finney . . .’
‘Received fantastic reviews after understudying Laurence Olivier. Yes, I know. But it has been quite a while.’ Putting on his jacket, he searched for his car keys. ‘Why does he never understudy in comedies?’
‘You can’t pick and choose. You have to take what’s offered.’
‘But they’re all so damn depressing. What was that last one he was nearly in?’
‘The Cherry Orchard? That is a comedy.’
‘Bloody hell,’ he muttered to himself.
‘Well, this is Macbeth, and you told me you liked Shakespeare.’
‘Yes, the funny ones,’ he said finally locating the keys.
‘Right then, I must go. I’ll need you home early.’
‘I’ll put out a plea to the underworld asking them to refrain from their evil deeds for the evening.’
‘I’ll pick you up at seven,’ she said ignoring the sarcastic tone. ‘Then at least you can have a drink.’
‘Thank the lord for small mercies,’ he said following her to the door.

As the sun beamed through the opened doors illuminating the white walled room, Donald felt the warmth, as he lay naked on his side. Although he was conscious he kept his eyes tightly shut until the huge vice that seemed to be clamped to his head, was removed. Motionless on the bare boards he was aware how acute his hearing had become. He could hear (and this worried him greatly) a strange pitter-patter very close to his face. Partially opening his eyes he suddenly saw that the source was, in fact, a mouse, studying his features from very close quarters. Yelping with fright, he jumped to his feet, sending the rodent scurrying back to its hiding place.
The room was much larger than it had seemed to him during the night. It was a large magnolia rectangle with three doors: one to the balcony, one to the hall and another straight ahead. It seemed to be a smaller room and so treading carefully across the glossed boards towards it, he peered through the opening, all the time aware of his experience the previous night. Thankfully, the kitchen was quite deserted. Sighing heavily he walked back to the balcony doors, now closed and locked, and stared out onto the street. As he did two thoughts entered his head simultaneously.
Firstly, what he’d experienced during that night was certainly no dream; it made no sense to him, but what he had seen was real and it filled him with fear. Secondly, he was in exactly the same predicament as before; only now there wasn’t even the cover of night to assist his escape. There was, he concluded, only one possible way out of the problem. Go to the police and tell them everything.
It then occurred to him how much explaining he had to do.
Pacing the empty room frantically he was then hit by another thought, one more shocking than the first. What was the time? Remembering the church and the clock he had seen the previous night he unbolted the door and ran out onto the balcony. The street was almost deserted; even Charles’ house was now a picture of tranquillity. Searching the skyline for the clock tower he saw it amidst a row of poplars. Unfortunately, the trees were obscuring the clock face and no matter how hard he tried, he could not see the hands. Preparing to climb onto the balcony wall to get a better view, he suddenly realised he was still naked. Running back inside and closing the door he looked around briefly before ripping down one of the thin mesh curtains from the ornate brass pole above the door. Wrapping it around his torso, turning it into an improvised toga, he strode towards the door like the mighty Caesar himself. Turning the handle he watched as it opened to reveal a carpeted hallway. For a moment he hovered in the doorway, hesitant for the fear of another attack. Then, when he was sure all was well, he stepped out onto the soft blue carpet. Noting the door number he moved swiftly towards a staircase at the far end of the hall and peered down nervously. Below he could see a smart reception area and a set of revolving doors at the entrance. When he was satisfied it was deserted he walked down and then hurried across the lobby.
Barely had he made it halfway across, when, quite without warning, an elderly woman appeared in the doors. He was trapped and could do nothing but watch as she revolved towards him. Suddenly, there she was: thin, elegant and exceptionally ugly. Donald smiled, feebly as she looked up at him. Oddly, she did not seem surprised in the slightest to see a man in a toga in her lobby. Donald however missed this lack of reaction as he stared down at the strangest face he had ever seen. All of her features seemed to be there, he concluded, but located in ten per cent of her face.
‘Good morning,’ he said breaking the awkward silence. ‘Sorry about the attire; a sword and sandal party, maybe you heard the clash of steel?’ He laughed, weakly. She didn’t laugh at all. ‘Well, I can’t stand around here chatting all day, my chariot awaits.’ On that he dived through the doors and rushed down the path.

Seth, along with the rest of the partygoers, was released by the police in the early hours and had returned to the house. There he had placed his head on the large leather sofa in the living room and had fallen asleep almost instantly. And there he would have remained for a good portion of that day, blissfully unaware of the world and its troubles, had he not been stirred from his slumber by the incessant banging on the front door.
Concerned it may be the police once again he peered cautiously through letterbox. There, to his dismay, he could see a man hopping from toe to toe in a net curtain. Then without any warning a face appeared in his view.
‘Open the bloody door!’ grizzled Donald.
‘Stone the crows it’s you,’ he said, doing as he was ordered.
‘What time is it?’
‘Err,’ he mumbled, locating his watch, ‘it’s ten thirty.’
‘Oh, Jesus! Quick, where’s Annabelle?’
‘Amsterdam.’
‘What?’
‘Well, you see, Adverse Camber, the group she’s in . . .’
‘Yes, I know all that. But I thought she was arrested?’
‘She was. We all were. But Charles’ uncle bailed us all out. So, off they all went, earlier this morning. Annabelle was a bit concerned about you and left you a message. It’s around here somewhere . . .’
‘Never mind all that. Lend me some money.’
‘What?’
‘Money, quickly.’
‘Well . . . ’
‘It’s very important.’
‘I’ve only got a tenner.’
‘That’ll do.’ Donald was shaking with nervous tension. ‘Please! I’ll give you twenty back.’
‘You’re on,’ said Seth, quickly locating the money before Donald could change his mind. In a moment Donald was off, hopping and leaping like a March hair onto the road, towards Regents Park and a cab.

Randall, in his nineteen seventy-two Rover P5B coupe, had made a detour to Putney where he had walked his first beat, nearly forty years ago. Much of the area had changed, yet there was still a surprisingly large part that had remained untouched. It was like a room in his mind, suddenly opened, and the memories of his days as a uniformed copper had come flooding back. In a month it would all be over. And he was dreading the day more than he could ever say.
The sun was now climbing above the city; cleansing it, it seemed, of its filth and corruption. Randall turned the car onto Putney Bridge and glanced down at the river stretching out beneath him. It was a powerful winding artery that fed the heart of the city and without it he sensed it would die.
In time he arrived at the police compound. Having parked the car he stared up at the concrete structure before him. He hated the shape of it, and its rectangular pebble-dashed exterior, once so fashionable, now so dark and depressing. Often he had wondered if the architect was still alive, and if so was he haunted by constructions past. But now, now his time was nearly up, it was like a face in the pub one never speaks to, but misses when he is longer there.
Climbing the steps leading to the rear of the station, he was greeted by Sergeant Marlowe.
‘Morning Derek,’ said Randal with a smile. ‘Just finished?’
‘Yes,’ he said with a shake of the head. ‘Another night of deviants and drunks.’
‘Well, at least the suns shining for you.’
‘Not that I’ll see much of it, I’m just off to my bed. The P5’s looking as well as ever, sir.’
‘Gets me from A to B.’
‘I expect you’ll be going from A to Z, next month.’ Randall gave a smile. ‘And how’s that son-in- law of yours, still treading the boards?’
‘He’s trying; it’s very trying for me as well.’
‘Have you ever actually seen him in anything?’
‘No, but according to my daughter he’s the best understudy the West End’s never seen.’
‘Never fancied the theatre much, give me an old British thriller or an Ealing comedy any day of the week.’
Just then a police van entered the yard and Randall hoped it might be an opportunity to enter the building. But no.
‘Funnily enough, we had an actor in here a couple of nights ago. Now what was his name? Was it Dennis? No, it wasn’t Dennis. Desmond?’
At that moment the rear van doors opened and to Marlowe’s utter amazement, Donald stepped out onto the yard.
‘My God that’s him?’
‘What?’
‘That is him. The actor I’ve just been talking about. What the hell is he wearing?’
‘I’m not sure, looks like curtains.’
They watched in disbelief as Donald was led up the steps to the station in handcuffs.
‘You,’ shouted Marlowe. ‘What is your name?’
‘Hawksmoor,’ replied an officer. ‘We arrested him at a TV Studio with that one.’
‘I never bloody touched him!’ shouted Patrick Curtis descending from the same van. ‘That psychopath assaulted me.’
‘You Mr Hawksmoor, are beginning to get on my nerves,’ snarled Marlowe. ‘If you don’t mind sir, I’d like to stay on and get to the bottom of this.’
‘Be my guest,’ said Randall, shaking his head and walking inside.

In a tiny box of an office, between a dying rubber plant and an ancient filling cabinet, Elliot Randall was fighting a losing battle with a tower of paperwork. Behind him, through a dotted window of condensation, the sun had appeared above a row of office blocks behind the station and was now making the tiny space a little less drab.
‘Sorry to trouble you, sir,’ said Marlowe appearing at the door.
‘That’s alright,’ he smiled looking over the top of his glasses. ‘I could do with a break.’
‘Well, it’s that actor I was telling you about earlier. The one that was brought in.’
‘The one in the curtains?’
‘That’s him. Well, he wants to speak to you.’
‘Me?’
‘Well,’ he paused, awkwardly, ‘someone in charge, and knowing Superintendent Tomblin is with the Commander all day, well, technically, you are.’
‘I see,’ he said removing the glasses. ‘What does he want?’
‘He won’t say, sir. But he assures me it’s a separate matter and very important. And he’ll only speak to someone with authority.’
Randall almost smiled. This must have been quite an insult to Marlowe’s sense of self-importance. ‘Okay, Derek, after you.’

Having informed him of Donald’s arrests (not to mention his appearance in Z Cars) Marlowe lead Randall to a small interview room where Donald sat, legs crossed before a small coffee stained table. As they walked in a young officer jumped to attention and straightened his tie.
‘Now, Mr Hawksmoor,’ said Randall sitting down. ‘I believe you have some information for us.’
‘Yes,’ said Donald, looking suspiciously at Marlowe. ‘Are you in charge?’
‘I am at the moment. Do you need a solicitor?’
‘No.’
‘I would strongly advise it.’
‘I haven’t done anything wrong, I just need to give you some information.’
‘Okay, then.’ Randall sat back and folded his arms. ‘Off you go.’
‘Well, ‘ said Donald taking a deep breath, ‘it happened last night at a party.’
‘Fancy dress?’ said Randall, smiling.
‘Er, yes.’
‘Where was the party?’ asked Marlowe.
‘What?’
‘The party. Where was it?’
‘Is that important?’
‘Well, if you’re giving us information of a criminal act, and I hope that that’s the reason you’ve asked to see the Inspector, you’ll have to give us all the details.’
‘Oh, god,’ muttered Donald, placing his head in his hands.
‘Look Mr Hawksmoor,’ said Randall, ‘if you’ve got something to tell me. Tell me it all. Believe me it will better in the long run. Now are you sure you don’t want a solicitor?’
‘Right,’ snapped Donald, ‘I was at a party. Not at a fancy dress party, just a party. Now I was with a lady in one of the bedrooms.’
‘I see,’ said Randall.
‘That’s why I had no clothes on and that’s why I had to wear the curtains.’
‘Right.’
‘Well, this is the tricky bit. There was a police raid on the house.’
‘What sort of raid?’ said Marlowe.
‘A drugs raid.’
‘Melrose crescent?’ .
‘I think so.’
‘You’ve got a bloody cheek.’
‘All right, Sergeant,’ said Randall. ‘Mr Hawksmoor what information are you trying give? Is it about the raid?’
‘No.’
‘Well, what is it then?’
‘Well, because I was arrested the previous evening, for something I was totally guilty of, I admit that, I admit that! I panicked. I was completely innocent, but I panicked.’
‘Carry on.’
‘Because I didn’t want to get arrested again, I climbed across to the next balcony.’
‘Breaking and entering as well?’ said Marlowe.
‘Please get to the point Mr Hawksmoor.’
‘Well, when I got over there and looked in one of the rooms,’ he searched for the right words. ‘Well, in one of the rooms, in the house, I saw someone.’
‘Go on,’
‘Someone I recognised. Someone I had worked with. I’m an actor, you see.’
‘Mr Hawksmoor,’ said Randall finally running out of patience. ‘As much as I admire your dramatic and, if you don’t mind me saying, elaborate soliloquies, I really need to get on, so if you don’t mind.’
‘Well, it was a woman I’d known many years ago. Her name was Dorothy Kite,’ Donald waited for a reaction, but there was none. ‘You see, I say was because Dorothy Kite was killed in a plane crash in nineteen sixty-nine.’

Through the car window Donald watched the trees skirting Regents Park sway in the breeze. Everything seemed so calm. Yet there he was, handcuffed to Marlowe and, despite the excursion, officially still in custody.
Randall sat up front chatting with a young detective constable named Hodges. Eventually, the young man turned the car into Melrose Crescent and once again Donald Hawksmoor was confronted with the horrors of the previous night.
‘Is this the place?’ asked Marlowe.
‘Yes, this is it,’ replied Donald looking up at the building.
‘Which balcony was it,’ enquired Randall as the car came to a halt.
‘That’s the one I went from,’ he said pointing up to Annabelle’s room. ‘And that’s the one I went to. Dorothy was in the second room across.’
The four men stepped out into the midday sun and entered the revolving doors of Melrose House. Donald had given Randall such a rich and detailed account of the incident that when they reached the top of the staircase, he made directly for the door Donald had passed through earlier that morning. With an officious flick of the wrist Marlowe rattled the doorknocker and for a moment there was silence.
‘You do realise this is a complete waste of time?’ Donald huffed. ‘Did you listen to anything I said? The room is empty. They’ve gone.’
No sooner had he uttered his last syllable, than the door suddenly opened to reveal a fully furnished room and the strange woman Donald had passed in the foyer earlier that day.
‘Yes?’ said the woman.
‘That’s not possible . . . ’ said Donald in amazement.
‘I’m sorry to trouble you,’ said Randall, suddenly aware that he was staring at the woman’s face; but then they all were. Pulling away his gaze he fumbled through his jacket for his warrant card. ‘My name is Inspector Elliot Randall. Do you live here?’
‘Yes, is there a problem Inspector?’
‘Not really, Mrs. . . .’
‘Kraner. Mrs Linda Kraner.’
‘No, there’s no need to be alarmed Mrs Kraner. But there is something you could possibly clear up for me. If you don’t mind?’
‘Certainly, if I can. Would you like to come in?’
‘Thank you, that’s very kind.’
As they entered Donald stared in disbelief. The room that he remembered was now fully furnished. Where before there were bare walls and floorboards, there were now paintings, ornaments and armchairs. Donald studied the old woman closely as she walked into the kitchen before catching Randall’s attention with a wave.
‘That’s the woman I was telling you about, the one in the foyer. And that’s where Dorothy Kite was sitting, and over there near the window, that’s where I was attacked.’
‘There you go,’ said Kraner, returning from the kitchen with a plate of biscuits. ‘Would you like tea?’
‘I’m afraid we don’t really have the time Mrs Kraner, but if you don’t mind answering a few questions.’
‘Yes, of course,’ she sat down and offered Hodges a biscuit which he gratefully accepted.
‘Now,’ said Randall. ‘These two gentlemen are Detective Constable Hodges and Sergeant Marlowe. This man is Mr Hawksmoor, whom I believe you’ve met?’
‘Have I?’ She leant forward and stared at Donald, ‘I don’t think so. Oh, but silly me! I’ve got my reading glasses on. Now, where are my other ones?’ Donald rolled his eyes as she went to a bureau near the door he had peered through earlier that morning. ‘Ah, here they are. Now then . . . oh,’ she said, noticing the handcuffs for the first time.
‘It’s okay, it’s just a precaution,’ Randall assured her. ‘Now, have you seen this man before?’
‘Now let me see,’ she leant forward again. ‘No. I think I can safely say I have never met this man before.’
‘But I spoke to you this morning in the foyer downstairs, I was wearing a toga.’
‘Ah,’ she said giggling. ‘Well, if I’d seen a man in a toga I’m sure I’d remember. But, I couldn’t have seen you, dear. Because I haven’t set foot outside this flat all day.’
‘She’s a bloody liar!’ shouted Donald.
‘Watch yourself Hawksmoor,’ snarled Marlowe yanking the cuffs.
‘You have to believe me. I was knocked unconscious over there! And that’s where I woke up this morning. She’s lying for god’s sake!’
‘Get him back to the station.’ Randall had heard enough. ‘I’m sorry about that Mrs Kraner. We won’t trouble you any further.’
‘Is he okay?’ she asked as Marlowe pushed Donald out.
‘He’ll be fine,’ said Randall approaching the door. ‘My apologies once again Mrs Kraner.’

Later on that morning Hodges was summoned to Randall’s office. Peering through the opened door he studied the man as he worked. Much had been said about him, but with receding grey hair and a pleasant face he seemed anything but a legendary figure.
‘Don’t just stand there,’ he said without looking up. ‘Come in.’
‘Sorry, sir?’ said Hodges, slightly startled.
‘Detective, I have a little job for you. I want you to find out a little more about Mrs Kraner and Melrose Crescent.’
‘Can I ask why, sir?’
‘Because I want you to,’ he said looking up with a smile.
‘We’ve just let Hawksmoor go.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘And I was just going down to the canteen.’
‘Treat yourself, eat out today.’
‘What do you want to know?’
‘As much as you can find. Give me a call when you’re done.’
‘Do you think she’s lying?’
‘No. But it doesn’t hurt to make sure.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘Go to the canteen. See you later.’
Perplexed and hungry Hodges turned to leave, only to find two senior officers in the doorway. Superintendent Tomblin, Randall’s immediate superior, and Commander Appleby were close friends; something Randall was very aware of. As Hodges went out Randall stood and stepped forward to meet them both..
‘Elliot,’ said Appleby. ‘Great to see you, it’s been too long. How are you?’
‘Fine, thank you.’
‘I was saddened to hear about Emily. How’ve you been?’
‘Well as can be expected,’ he heard himself say. He wanted to say so much more, but that had become his standard reply.
‘Apologies for not making the funeral, I was in Brussels at the time.’
‘I understand.’
‘Was that young Hodges going out?’
‘Yes,’ said Tomblin, a tall man balding man with a pug face. ‘Elliot has taken him under his wing until next month.’
‘And that’s why I’m here. I don’t think I’ve got the energy for those retirement dinners any more, so I’m taking you out to lunch.’
‘I was just going down to the canteen.’
‘Never mind all that, be ready in five minutes.’
Within seconds Randall was alone again. Walking to the window he folded his arms and watched as the sun disappeared behind a bank of cloud. At first they seemed grey and unassuming, little more than a welcome break from the relentless sun. But as he gazed to the horizon he saw they were something much more; storm clouds, dark and grey, slowly approaching the city from the north.

Staring at the menu with all the apprehension of a condemned man, Randall felt very out of place. The restaurant was a small eastern European affair tucked away in downtown Knightsbridge. There was no first floor. Instead a network of shell-shaped cobalt lanterns hung on chains from the darkened recesses of the eaves, casting down a sombre tone. Each wall, except one, was tiled, that one, high above the entrance, featured a faded mosaic of dancing mermaids on a backdrop of yellow and crimson coral, which suggested to Randall that where they now served caviar and smoked salmon, they had once sold winkles and jellied eels.
He felt uncomfortable; restaurants always made him feel that way. The only time they had ever been bearable was when he was with Emily. And how he wished it were she and not Appleby on the other side of the table now. Appleby had always reminded him of Stewart Grainger. White hair, pencil moustache, good looks; he was every bit the leading man, which only added to Randall’s unease.
Suddenly a squat man appeared from nowhere and hobbled up to their table.
‘You eat?’
‘We eat,’ said Appleby. ‘What do you fancy, Elliot?’
‘Um, still undecided. There’s quite a choice,’ he said glancing at the prices.
‘Yes, there is, isn’t there? I’ve been coming here for years. The perfect place to bring politicians when we like them to see things our way, if you know what I mean,’ he laughed as the waiter snapped open a napkins and tossed it onto his lap. ‘Come on now, this is on me don’t forget, treat yourself.’
Eventually, an order was made and in time Randall felt a little more relaxed.
‘Its more service with a scowl here than a smile, but the food is first class. The waiter’s name, incidentally, is Klaus. Panzer division. Captured shortly after Caen was taken. Spent the rest of the war here and decided to stay on. Well, that’s his story anyway.’
‘You don’t believe him?’
‘I’ve always been of the opinion that people want to make themselves a little more than they are. Lives unfulfilled, that sort of thing.’ Randall wasn’t quite sure what he was getting at, if he was getting at anything at all, and so smiled and glanced up at the lights. ‘How are you bearing up, anyway?’
‘Okay.’
‘How long has it been since Emily . . . well, you know?’
‘A year next week.’
‘Retirement won’t be the same I imagine.’
‘No.’
‘Good god listen to me. We’re here to celebrate your career and all I’m doing is churning up the past for you. What have you got on at the moment?’
‘Paperwork, and lots of it.’
‘And what about this Hawksmoor character I’ve been hearing about? I used to watch him on television in the seventies. Old Marlowe told Tomblin and myself what had gone on and had us in hysterics. And you know Marlowe, he’s not known for his anecdotes.’
‘No,’ said Randall, awkwardly. ‘He claimed to have seen a woman called Dorothy Kite.’
‘Kite?’
‘She was an actress, died in the sixties.’
‘That rings a bell, died in a car crash didn’t she?’
‘Plane crash, apparently.’
‘So old Hawksmoor claimed to have seen the ghost of a dead actress and of course you’ve got to investigate. Well, I’m glad it was you and not I. But of course that’s typical of you, a month off your retirement and you’re still doing it by the book.’ Randall gave a weak smile as Appleby topped up his glass.
The lunch was long and Appleby took full advantage of it by giving a lecture on crime and how it wasn’t what it used to be. Then finally, and predictably, he arrived at the imminent retirement.
‘You’ve been a credit to the force Elliot, and I’m not just saying that. Every week I have to utter a few words on somebody’s departure and, to be honest, half the time I’ve never laid eyes on them before. But I hope you realise that what I’m saying now, despite the liquor, is heartfelt. You’ve been a bloody good copper and you’ll be sadly missed. There aren’t too many like you around any more.’
He had half expected a clichéd farewell, and hadn’t been disappointed. But there was something in the way Appleby spoke that made him feel he meant it.
‘To you, Elliot.’

Ted Mullins, the doorman of the Duke of Lancaster theatre was taking full advantage of the pre-show inactivity by taking a nap. No sooner had he closed his eyes, however, than he heard footsteps at the stage door.
‘Hang on there!’ he demanded, jumping to his feet. ‘Oh! Mr Hawksmoor, it’s you. Sorry to shout. What a pleasant surprise seeing you again. I haven’t seen you in a long time. How are you, sir?’
‘Fine,’ said Donald, almost in a whisper.
‘I was just talking about you the other day with the wife. I said “Marjorie,” that’s the wife, I said “Marjorie, I wonder what old Mr Hawksmoor’s up to these days”. I was reminding her of the times I had to throw you out of the upstairs bar; you were quite a handful. But I must admit it’s not quite the same without you, sir.’
‘Yes,’ said Donald who was getting a little sick of the good old days. ‘Is Lizzie around?’
‘Ms Paillard? Yes, came in about half an hour ago.’
‘Would it be okay if I nipped up to her dressing room to see her?’
‘No.’
‘And why not?’
‘Because she’s in the bar.’
‘Ah.’
‘And if I’m not mistaken she’ll be sat down right now with a glass of port, lighting up one of her cigarillos.’

Standing in the doorway of the lounge, Donald saw that Mullins was correct. Miss Paillard (Lizzie to her friends) was indeed in the company of a glass of port and a thin brown cigarillo. Sitting near the bar whistling rings of smoke into the empty lounge she looked every bit the faded star. Despite the heat she was wrapped in a flea bitten fur coat, whilst at her feet an assortment of battered luggage snuggled for attention.
Walking towards her he could see her once beautiful face was hidden under a thick layer of make-up, which far from hiding the ravages of time, merely emphasised them. Her velvet-like skin so jealously adored by women so many years ago now hung from her cheekbones, lifeless and grey. A face not unlike the one he had studied in the bathroom mirror the previous day.
It wasn’t until he reached the table that she looked up. Even then it seemed to take her a moment or two to recognise him. Had he changed so much?
‘Donald,’ she whispered, before jumping up and hugging him. As they looked at one another he was certain he saw the sparkle of youth in her eyes once again. Then in an instant it was gone and he felt older still. ‘My god, I don’t know what to say, how are you? Wait! Let me get you a drink. Frank! Frank!’
‘It’s okay Lizzie. I’m . . . I’ll have a large scotch.’ A drink now was exactly what he wanted.
‘Coming up. Frank!’
She continued to bellow until a humourless baboon of a barman appeared and Lizzie ordered for them both.
‘Don’t remember you ever requiring liquid courage,’ he said as they sat down.
‘Courage nothing! It’s just that us old boilers need to be warmed up slowly,’ she cackled blowing more smoke out of the side of her mouth. ‘How did you know I was here?’
‘I haven’t been too far away and I still read the reviews,’ Donald watched the barman as he approached with the drinks. ‘What was it again “Miss Paillard seethes like a wounded dog”.’
‘Reviews don’t touch me like they used to.’
‘I would have taken that as a positive note considering the part.’
She laughed and leant forward, ‘Donald Hawksmoor I’ve missed you.’
‘Like wise, old girl.’
‘Where have you been?’
‘Just keeping myself out of the limelight for a while.’
‘You? You wouldn’t know how. Come on lets have it? Is it a jealous husband? A solicitor? Who are you hiding from?‘
‘No, nothing so dramatic,’ he said running his fingers threw his hair. ‘I just . . . I just got tired.’
‘I know the feeling.’
For a while they chatted about the past and in time Donald felt a little more human. Human enough to feel guilt for the glass before him, the glass he had watched but dare not touch. Suddenly, however, as Lizzie was reminding him of a particularly embarrassing episode, the temptation became too much and he sank the contents in a single go.
‘My,’ she said, ‘we have got a thirst. She lit up another cigarillo and leant towards him. ‘How’s your old pal Bunny? I haven’t seen him for a while.’
‘Oh, you know Bunny, still the personification of everything English.’
‘No upper lip stiffer than Bunny’s. But he was always a good friend to you, I remember.’
‘And still is.’
‘Do you remember the night you two danced the tango in this bar? Stark naked with roses between your teeth and one each up both your . . .’
‘How could I forget?’
‘It took Mullins half an hour to get you both out. I laughed so much I thought I would die!’ She laughed again allowing more curls of smoke to escape from her mouth. ‘Look at us Donald, where did it all go wrong?’
‘I try not to think about it.’
‘Now,’ she said tapping him on the knee, ‘are you going to tell me why you really came to see me?’
‘Mind reading? So it’s right what they say, you really are an old witch.’
‘I try my best.’ Finishing off her drink, she waited for the reply.
‘When was the last time you saw Dorothy Kite?’
‘My god, what a question,’ she put the glass down and stared at him. ‘Why do you ask me that?’
‘It’s a long story.’
‘Well,’ she said after a brief pause, ‘probably around the same time that you did, a couple of weeks before she died, as you well know. Donald? What’s the matter?’
‘What would you say if I told you I had seen Dorothy in London this week?’
‘What?’
‘It’s true Lizzie, I saw her last night.’
‘Donald that isn’t funny, that’s an awful thing to say.’
‘I mean it. I saw her.’
‘Donald . . . ’
‘Please believe me Lizzie.’
‘Stop it your scaring me!’
‘Is everything alright Ms Paillard?’ said the barman.
‘I’ve got to go,’ she said collecting her bags. ‘Go home and rest Donald, you’re not well.’
‘Listen to me,’ he pleaded, following her towards the doorway. ‘Lizzie let me explain . . . ’
‘You’ll explain nothing,’ said the barman, grabbing him by the collar and dragging him out of the bar.

Parking the car Hodges made his way to the waterfront as instructed. In the distance he could make out Tower Bridge glistening majestically as the sun appeared through the thick dark clouds, massing above. He studied it for a moment before turning away and discovering another part of London; a decaying corner that had rotted unchecked for too long.
Crossing a narrow wooden lock he followed the dark strip of water away from the Thames into a u-shaped derelict warehouse. Below him flotsam, undistinguishable below a film of brown foam, pitched and ebbed on the receding tide, whilst to his left an archway led his eye back to the river. Half expecting Bill Sykes to step out of the shadows at any moment he entered the passageway and walked to the quayside.
‘You’re late,’ said a voice, as he appeared.
‘Jesus! I didn’t see you there.’
‘Obviously not,’ said Randall sitting on a bench looking out over the river. ‘I got you a coffee.’
‘Thanks,’ said Hodges sitting down. ‘No milk?’
‘You’re lucky you got the coffee. How did you get on?’
‘Right,’ he said, producing a small notebook. ‘The building is owned by the Kessler Organisation.’
‘Kessler as in Harry Kessler?’
‘That’s right he died on Wednesday morning. It’s been all over the news. Anyway, the Organisation itself is big, very big. I spent an hour or so down there. They are one big outfit.’
‘What’s their line of work?’
‘You name it. Oil research, investment, technology, the list goes on. Now, from what I could gather they’ve owned Melrose house since the late sixties, where it was converted into apartments for their employees. But more recently though, it’s hardly been used for that at all.’
‘So what about Kraner?’
‘Kraner is an ex-employee. She took early retirement and as lived there since the mid-seventies.’
‘What was her position?’
‘I didn’t think to ask, to be honest, it was pretty chaotic down there. I was lucky to get what I did.’
Randall thought for a few seconds and then continued. ‘What about the other apartments?’
‘Unoccupied. Kraner was the only tenant.’
‘You found that out from the Kessler people?’
‘No, the postman, I managed to catch him at the depot. According to him in all the years he’s been delivering to that address he’s only ever delivered mail to that apartment.’
‘Curiouser and curiouser.’
‘And do you want to know the oddest thing of all?’ Randall felt Hodges had been building to this. ‘In all those years he has never ever seen a Mrs Kraner.’
‘What does he do about recorded mail?’
‘There isn’t any.’
‘What never?’
‘Never.’
Sipping at his coffee Randall looked out across the Thames. As he did a large ugly gull glided to a stop on the river wall and eyed him suspiciously.
‘What shall I do next?’ said Hodges.
‘Forget about it.’
‘What?’
‘Go home. It’s been a long day.’
‘But . . .’
‘No buts, no crime has been committed and I’m certainly not going to start delving into the death of an actress on the strength of a drunken actor. We’ve covered all the bases, and that’s enough for me.’
‘But it all seems pretty odd.’
‘Hodges let me tell you a story. Shortly after I joined the force I was on desk duty one day when a well-dressed middle-aged man by the name of Teal walked in and announced he’d killed his wife. I cuffed him, locked him in an interrogation room and went to find my sergeant. To my surprise he smiled, wished the man good morning and asked him where we could find the body.’
‘What did he say?’
‘The coalbunker. Without batting an eyelid, the sergeant thanked him, asked me to unlock the cuffs and let him go.’
‘No?’
‘Yes. You see Mr Teal had made the same admission every week, for ten years. He wasn’t even married, and never had been. They called him “The Phantom killer of SW15”. So you see Hodges there will always be cranks. It’s just a matter of spotting them.’
‘Bloody hell,’ said the young man, taking a mouthful of the coffee.
‘But Hawksmoor’s story was so,’ he searched for the right word, ‘believable.’
‘I spoke to his agent earlier and according to her she hadn’t set eyes on Hawksmoor for over a year. That was until yesterday. He’s had problems, apparently, mostly fuelled by drink. But yesterday out of the blue he turned up at the agency and persuaded her that he was a reformed character. She believed him, sent him off to the audition this morning where he was arrested for punching the man who got the part.’
‘He did seem pretty convincing, though.’
‘He’s an actor, and in his day a pretty good one.’
‘Oh,’ Hodges was disappointed, and it showed. ‘Shame, I bought you a present as well.’
‘What is it?’ he said taking up the plastic bag
‘A video of a TV show from the sixties, I thought you’d find it interesting.’
‘The Immortal Miss Jude,’ said Randall studying the cover.
‘Remember it?’
‘Vaguely.’
‘Recognise the actress?’
‘Dorothy Kite.’
‘And the guest star in one of those episodes, is one Donald Hawksmoor.’
‘Well, it’s not wasted. I’ll take this as a retirement present.’
Hodges stood and looked out over the Thames.
‘Nice spot.’
‘Nice and quiet, good place to think.’
‘I’d make the most of it if I were you,’ said Hodges pointing up the river towards a group of cranes.
‘Progress,’ said Randall with a smile.
‘Where are you parked?’
‘Back at the station, Appleby plied me with expensive liquor.’
‘Come on I’ll give you a lift back.’
‘No, I’m fine. I’ll sit here for a while.’
‘See you tomorrow.’
Randall watched as he disappeared along the passageway. Then sitting back on the bench he returned his attention to the gull still pacing the wall. Slowly it came to a stop and fixed its eyes on his. It was as if it had heard every word but remained unconvinced, and in that it was not alone. For despite everything he had said to Hodges, there was a nagging suspicion deep within him that something untoward had occurred at Melrose Crescent.
For some time he stared out, lost before the ebbing waters, until the horn of a passing barge sent the bird skywards. As it caught the wind and skimmed low across the murky waters, Randall watched it closely, until, finally, it pulled sharply against the darkening evening sky, leaving him alone once more.

Bunny Nichols lived in a house that was reminiscent of something from a Hammer horror movie. Suits of armour stood guard at every doorway, whilst the walls, overrun with tiger and antelope heads, reminded the few visitors to the house that Britain once had an empire, and that Bunny rather missed it.
The house was large, very large: eight bedrooms, a library, a billiard room, conservatory; and so on. On one side of the lobby, ivy, decades in the making, cascaded from the first floor onto a forest of Yuccas, creating a wall of green. It was as gothic as you can get in NW3. Donald had suggested opening it to the public, but Bunny had found the joke to be in bad taste. He had seen the general public on the television; and he didn’t like what he saw.
Emerging from the living room humming a tune, Bunny was about to climb the rather elaborate staircase, when, suddenly, the jangling of a hand-pulled doorbell stopped him in his tracks. Mumbling to himself he started towards the door as the hum of the bell resonated around him.
Pulling open the heavy door he stepped out onto the porch and he peered into the darkness. The bank of cloud that had massed above the city through the day was now low and heavy with rain. ‘Hello! I say, is there anyone there?’ Despite an orange streetlight at the bottom of the drive the darkness was considerable. ‘Look stop fooling around will you.’ Suddenly, there was a movement, causing Bunny to jump back towards the door. ‘Good lord! It’s you.’
‘Hello, Bunny,’ said Donald, stepping into the light. The stench of alcohol on his breath was all too obvious.
‘Good god man you look terrible,’ he said, moving towards him.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Come in old boy.’

Plied with a constant stream of cocoa and a mountain of buttered toast, Donald described his experiences since they had parted the previous night. No detail was left uncovered and apart from the intense fear that he had felt, nothing was laboured.
When he had finished they talked at length about his experience. Knowing Donald as he did, Bunny made all the right noises until he sensed the time was right to introduce his suggestions as to what may have really occurred during the early hours of that morning. After much deliberation and pacing of the carpet, Bunny finally concluded that it could only be put down to an adverse reaction to the marijuana. But Donald wasn’t so sure. Even he, with his limited knowledge of narcotics, knew that one spliff couldn’t ‘conjure up’ an actress dead for over thirty years.
Finally, exhausted and full to the brim with cocoa, the two men sat in silence staring into the gas fire, their minds obsessed with the unnatural occurrence of the previous night. That was until Donald, quite unexpectedly jumped to his feet.
‘My god! There was a girl.’
‘Not another one?’
‘There were other people in the room. And I remember a girls face.’
‘Donny, I’m confused enough.’
‘It must have been later, I was lying on the floor and I could hear voices, people whispering. I must have come round, briefly. I remember a girl, it certainly wasn’t Dorothy, and there were others. There was a man; a huge man, he was carrying something.’
‘Now Donny, why don’t you just relax for a second or to and I’ll make us another mug of cocoa.’
He walked through to the kitchen leaving Donald pacing by the window. Outside the rain had begun to fall and was now hitting the side of the house hard, like stones. When Bunny returned to the living room again, he slowed to a stop at the door as he heard Donald’s voice.
‘Donald Hawksmoor. No, Hawk, like the bird . . . and moor, as in Bodmin . . . That’s right. Oh, I see. Well is there anyone else I can speak to? Who? Marlowe! Jesus, no! Never mind. Could you just ask him to ring me first thing?’
‘Now, who are you talking to?’ said Bunny timing his entrance perfectly.
‘I was trying to speak with Randall, but he’s gone home. I have to tell him this.’
‘Is there no-one else?’
‘Yes, a sergeant, but I’ve seen a little too much of him for one week.’
‘Now look old boy, why don’t you move in here for a while? We can keep an eye on one another.’
‘Maybe I should go back?’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘Maybe I should go back and confront the Kraner woman? She’s obviously lying, she’s part of the whole thing.’
‘Now, steady on . . .’
‘Or do I wait until she goes out and search the flat for evidence?’
‘What evidence? You said the flat was empty when you in there?’
‘I’m talking about Kraner. There’s something about her, I’m sure I’ve seen her somewhere before. My god,’ he said rubbing his eyes. ‘Tell me I’m not going mad.’
‘Sorry old boy, can’t say either way on that one.’ Donald sat down and buried his head in his hands. ‘Now, Donny. Over the past twenty-four hours you claim to have seen a roomful of ghosts, in a flat owned by the ugliest woman in the world, and despite seeing you dressed as an emperor only a few hours before, she claims to have never laid eyes you. Now, this may come as a bit of a surprise old boy, but I’m worried about you. Especially now you’re back on the bottle. Now why don’t you stay here for the night and we’ll talk again in the morning?’
‘I can’t,’ he said getting to his feet. ‘I’ve left a message for Randall to ring me first thing in the morning. I’ve got to go. Look don’t worry, I’ll be fine.’
‘Well, at least let me get you a taxi.’
‘I’ll flag one down, I’ll be fine, I’ll ring you tomorrow.’
‘What about Patti? She’ll be pretty mad.’
Reaching the living room door he turned, slowly. ‘Do you know Bunny, the living don’t hold the same fears for me the way they used to.’
The remark was made in jest, yet as he made his way to the door there wasn’t a hint of a smile, only genuine fear. From the porch Bunny watched as the rain battered the umbrella he had given him. Then as Donald disappeared at the end of the drive and he turned to go inside, he heard a car engine start along the street. For a moment he turned and stared back, only to dismiss it as a coincidence as he closed the door and approached the stairs for bed.