Balzac of the Badlands Read online

  I just stand there with my mouth open. I know this isn’t television or the movies. I’m talking to people in a painting. Then there is a loud slap. I see the man cower and slip back into the darkness of the painting. And I hear a woman’s voice say,

  ‘Oi, you moaning again?’

  I look up. Out of the brown paint emerges a young woman, dressed in blue and white robes, her eyes full of tears, her face the most beautiful I’ve ever seen.

  ‘Don’t take no notice of him, love. Miserable bugger. Don’t know when he’s got it good. I mean, it’s warm in here – all these burnt bones and madder lake deeps. Could do worse. Could be in that painting by whatshisname, Dolly or something, Christ of St. John of the Cross. Phww! He wouldn’t wanna be on that thing hung that high above the sea, even if he can walk on water, I mean, not with his vertigo. How can we help you, darling?’

  ‘Are you real?’

  ‘Course, love,’ and she steps back into the painting.

  I feel a hand on my shoulder. Gentle. Firm. It belongs to a tall man dressed in black with white hair and a big nose that I can see up.

  ‘Hello, there. Where are your parents?’

  ‘At home,’ I say.

  ‘Well, that’s where you should be.’

  I don’t remember much else. The man took me home. My parents hadn’t even noticed I was missing. I can’t remember being told off. I went straight to bed, woke in the morning believing it had all been a dream. I never told my parents.

  It wasn’t until I was 14 and on a school trip to Rome that the ‘hallucination’ as I like to think of it – I am supremely rational – happened again. The Vatican, crowded with tourists, Spaghetti Monster and The Bush bored and on the lookout for cute Swiss Guards. I’m in the first flush of my religious mania, overexcited. I stand in line as tourists kiss the outstretched foot of St. Peter. In front of me, a large Spanish woman, decked out in full mourning, sporting a moustache that wouldn’t shame the hypertrychotic offspring of Frida Kahlo and Tom Selleck, bends down and opens her mouth. As she does so, I hear,

  ‘Oh, my word, this foul creature is going to slobber all over my tootsie and tickle me into the bargain with that dreadful cloney ‘tache.’

  I look up. The bronze statue winks at me, pulls a face like it’s just eaten rotten oysters. I pull Spaghetti Monster and The Bush over, point up at the eye, the mouth, the moue, and they shrug and say,

  ‘What? What?’

  ‘There,’ I say.

  ‘Where? Where?’ they say.

  The statue doesn’t move, never looks like it will, never looks like it has.

  ‘Forget it,’ I say. They both know now, of course, I’ve explained it to them.

  That’s why Balzac calls me The Mermaid. Because I can exist in two elements. The here and now and the two-dimensional past. Nifty.

  So, Tangier. Balzac. Yeah, OK, we had dinner, we had sex, we had breakfast, we had words. Spaghetti Monster and The Bush and I were on our way to Madagh, just as we were about to get on a bus, a police car zooms by flashing its lights, sounding its siren, and I see Balzac in the back seat flanked by two policemen. He smiles as he blurs past.

  I won’t bore you with Sufi mysticism but suffice to say when I returned to London, Balzac called me and he spent most of our first evening together laboriously punning over faqirahs, dhikrs, and ummas. We’ve had an on/off relationship ever since. Let’s put it this way, I help him battle the seven-headed Nafs. That’s not his friends with bad dress sense (see, Balzac rubs off on you, be careful – oh, my god, now that’s made me giggle).

  Trust me now? Right. Balzac has a knack for finding trouble. What he’s done, to his credit, I grudgingly suppose, is turn that into not a bad little business. He does the main work, H helps out with the brains, I assist with the media. Even Spaghetti Monster and The Bush help out when they’re not playing solitaire or patience. I don’t think Balzac’s asked them for help yet. He might. Come to think of it, he hasn’t asked for my help. He left that up to H. Typical.

  The dimensional hallucinations spread into other media – not just religious artworks. By the time I was 25, I was having conversations with a none-too- shy Marthe Bonnard, Hockney’s Mr. and Mrs. Clark, and recently one of the guys from Blur. Now, the more abstract the painting, the more skewed the speech; some of Picasso’s subjects sound like they’re squawking Martian. They speak whatever language they speak – I mean, Jesus and St. Peter spoke Aramaic, and Bruegel’s Hunters in the Snow a form of strangled Flemish, but I hear it in English. No one else witnesses this, I hasten to add. It’s over in a nanosecond. And it’s not every painting, photograph, or sketch. Just the ones that feel like a chat. Balzac showed me the picture of that poor girl who’s missing – Sarah, is it? And she just stared back at me. Dumb. Actually, I did feel as though she wanted to talk but couldn’t. Or wouldn’t. I can’t force people to talk. That would be rude.

  ***

  While she is lying there, waiting, they take some of the people away, and a bearded man thrusts his head into the back of the lorry and shouts instructions. The four-bedroom house contains two people. Sometimes three. And a dog. She shrinks back and watches the man sink his teeth into an outstretched leg, then pulls back, and in the shifting light of the parked lorry, she can see a piece of flesh, a man’s flesh, caught between the bearded man’s urgent teeth. She is back. For a while. Thought safe. Now lost. Not forever. She shifts her weight, hoping they won’t see her. The times he goes to the office because he cannot sleep has nothing to do with insomnia or a need to escape – more, an attention to detail, a final smoothing-over. She sees blood trickle down on to the dirty floor of the lorry. Her stomach aches with fear. She hasn’t told her parents she loves them. Not recently. He and his wife, happiest when pottering around the garden, are members of local clubs and societies. Not for weeks. She does not understand what these people want. Helping the community. And their daughter also. She helps. Tries to. That’s what he keeps thinking. The bearded man’s head once more comes into view. The eyes dull. The lips, smeared with blood, busy, committed, the words come forth between them scrambled with excitement, saliva, and maybe a little fear. She thinks about home. Who she is. Who he is. He ushers the people out, some fall, tired, exhausted by the long journey. She gave the man – Firat? – the keys as they set off. And the beating continues. Mr. Beckford tells them everything. But why is he with them now? They keep asking about his daughter. His daughter. Where is she? Where is she? Who are these people? ‘Turn him over,’ the bearded man says. Two people wearing masks – those clear plastic ones with no features, no expression. His daughter. He tells them he is looking for her, too. He hasn’t seen her. What does it have to do with him? With her? ‘Get them the fuck out,’ the bearded man says. And every time he asks about his daughter, they hit him again, again, tell him to shut the fuck up, and to just tell him where she is. ‘Just tell me if she’s alive,’ he sobs. And the masks grab for the people, make them kneel. They shout. She hides. The bearded man says, ‘I don’t fucking know what you are talking about.’ He’s not sure what is worse, the beatings or the not knowing. ‘Ere ya go,’ a voice with a North-East accent. Where is she? Where is she? Where am I? She thinks. They ask. He asks. She hides. She asks. He can’t hide. What’s that? ‘Shut it,’ the bearded man says. Mr. Beckford turns his head, as he does so, scrapes his ear along the rusty wall. It bleeds. British? Arab? No doubt. She snags her socks in brambles. There’s a sound. Inside? She hears cars. Outside? The biting man probably local, the silent one squat and muscular, cropped hair, maybe an ex-soldier. Outside? He can’t fucking tell any more. She rubs her ankle. Where are they? Inside? If they are coming. They are coming. She tries to remember. She tries to remember. Did they see her? They didn’t see her. They have? Have they?

  ***

  I’m in the café having a cup of coffee, frustrated with how the day’s going when my mobile rings. I look down at the number – Mrs. Beckford. Let’s hope.

  ‘Hello, Mrs. Beckford. How can I
-.’

  ‘–––-’

  ‘Really? When?’

  ‘–––-’

  ‘Hand-delivered?’

  ‘–––-’

  ‘Yeah. I’ll send someone round to pick it up. Be quicker.’

  ‘–––-’

  ‘Yeah. Good idea. Make a copy. Look, do you want to call the police?’

  ‘–––-’

  ‘Yeah, it might say that but it may be a good idea to give them a quick call.’

  ‘–––-’

  ‘I know. Yeah, calm down. It’ll be all right. Things are happening my end. You got anyone with you?’

  ‘–––-’

  ‘OK. Yeah. The Mer… Someone called Meredith Le Fanu.’

  ‘–––-’

  ‘Yeah. Yeah. She’s tall. Gin… Red hair. Freckles.’

  ‘–––-’

  ‘Soon as. And you take care. I’ll call you when I know something.’

  ‘–––-’

  ‘Of course. Bye.’

  Mrs. Beckford’s received a note and a photo of Mr. Beckford and it ain’t exactly a portrait.

  ‘Yeah, it’s me.’

  ‘………!’

  ‘I know you know it’s me. I don’t know why I say it. Look…’

  ‘………!’

  ‘I know. I did mention you. And H. It’s just…’

  ‘………!’

  ‘Look. I haven’t got time. Listen, an envelope’s been delivered to Mrs. Beckford from whoever’s got Mr. Beckford. And you can bet whoever’s got Mr. Beckford has also got Ms. Beckford.’

  ‘………!’

  ‘I’m not being flippant. What are you doing?’

  ‘………!’

  ‘Well, they can wait. Nip round to Mrs. Beckford’s, will ya? She’s gonna scan the note and a photo they sent with it. Pick it up and bring it back here. Don’t look at the photo until you get here. I wanna see if anything speaks to you, so to speak.’

  ‘………!’

  ‘The address is 43 Dukes Avenue. She knows you’re on your way.’

  ‘………!’

  ‘Bridge Café.’

  ‘………!’

  ‘No, I’m not. Honest. Cup of coffee.’

  ‘–––-’

  ‘OK. And be quick about it. Love you.’

  ‘Cheers, Max,’ I say as he slides a plate of bacon, eggs, sausages, black pudding, and two slices of buttered toast on to the Formica table. The Mermaid would have a fit. Not the fry-up – that’s fine. It’s the bread. Now, I’ve got to get this lot down my neck before she comes back with the info. Poor Mrs. Beckford. What a few days. I’ll give H a bell in a minute. Ozan reckons he doesn’t know anything about the Kurds in the Saab. I reckon he does. He wouldn’t grass ‘em up. Need to have another word in his conch-like. Now, let’s think on this while I dig into this nice juicy – and none too pink – rasher of bacon.

  The café is full of locals. Shift workers. Railwaymen. The unemployed. The steam from the coffee machine hangs in the air above our heads like the London sky outside. I can smell leatherette, dried ketchup, mustard and the sweet whiff of marijuana. I take out my notebook as I slip a tricky piece of egg yolk and the butt of a sausage into my mouth, my head turned sideways so I can eat and read at the same time. Tuesday 7th May, SB goes missing. Last seen lunchtime 2pm, Palmers Green, getting into black Saab with three guys, look like Kurds. Friends, relatives, boyfriend – nothing. Thursday 9th May, Mr. Beckford goes missing. Last seen morning, 6 a.m., home Muswell Hill. Wife, employees, friends – nothing. A piece of black pudding crumbles as I fork it, a large fatty piece falls into my second egg yolk turning it a purpley orange. Now it looks like an embryo. Toss! I cut round it, excising as much of the yolk as possible, spear a slither of bacon and a thumb end of sausage, so on my fork I have what looks like a small kebab of English breakfast stuff. I then sink that into a triangle of toast, lift it to my mouth. I reckon it’s all connected. Not the food, I mean, the disappearances and the stomach pumps. So, H can take his Sherlock quip and stuff it up his bleeding bulbocavernosus, or whatever he’d call it.

  I’m still not sure how they connect but they do. I can feel it. Right, last bit of bacon, scrape it through the egg snot, saved the butteriest piece of toast until last, and job done. JD. Max is on it like a crow on a drop-dead wood pigeon.

  What’s H up to? My mobile rings.

  ‘Just about to call you.’

  ‘–––-’

  ‘Really? I thought as much.’

  ‘–––-’

  ‘Look. Mrs. Beckford’s been sent a note.’

  ‘–––-’

  ‘Not sure. The Mermaid’s gone to pick it up. There’s a photo. She should be back any minute.’‘-‘–––’

  ‘No. You stay there. Keep an eye out. I’ve got a feeling we may have to take a look inside.

  ‘–––-’

  ‘Yeah, I will. Soon as. And, H?’

  ‘–––-’

  ‘Not a drop. Not until later.’

  ‘–––-’

  ‘And you.’

  As I put the phone down, The Mermaid comes in, wrinkles her nose at the smell and the customers, and hands me an A4 envelope. I peer inside.

  ‘Want a coffee?’

  ‘No. The poor woman is in a terrible state. Her sister let me in. Mrs. Beckford was curled up on the sofa with her dog. Could hardly speak.’

  ‘Wh…’

  ‘Ah! Not the dog. You know who I mean. This is the original. The envelope’s in there as well.’

  I pull out the envelope. Me being melodramatic, I expect the address to be made out of letters cut from magazines and newspapers. But it isn’t. In fact, it isn’t addressed at all. It just says, Mrs. Beckford. Bit familiar for your average kidnapper. The envelope – run-of-the-mill, usual stationery fodder, colour of wet sand, self-adhesive, A4. ‘Mrs. Beckford’ written in black ink. Looks like felt pen – medium tip. The B has a little tail slanting downward and dislocated from the bottom, and the middle bar doesn’t quite reach the spine. Fancy. The M and r are pretty standard but the s also has that little tail-like flourish at the bottom. Female? I take out the letter. Again A4 paper. Ruled with a margin. Four holes. Lined. Red line at top. Gum at the side. Obviously from one of those refill pads. Ryman’s probably. Not folded. Writing on one side. It reads: Mrs. Beckford. We have your husband. Do not go to the police. Where is your daughter? We will call. I hold the paper up to the light to see if I can see any evidence of an imprint. Nothing.

  ‘Anything?’ asks The Mermaid.

  ‘Nah. Not a sausage,’ I say, and immediately feel guilty.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Nothing. I had a sugar low earlier. Still feel a bit rough.’

  ‘What about the photo?’

  ‘You ready?’ I say, holding the edge of the photo just above the flap of the envelope like it’s the fucking Oscars or something.

  ‘Yes. I’m not promising anything. It doesn’t always work. If it did, my life would be a nightmare.’

  ‘You said it was the other day.’

  ‘No, I said YOU were a nightmare. Come on. Get on with it.’

  I pull out the photo and look at it before placing it in front of The Mermaid. And when I see it, I’m really not sure I want to show it to her. No wonder Mrs. Beckford’s in a state. It’s a photograph of Mr. Beckford. He’s naked except for his underpants, M&S by the looks of it.

  One beautiful May day this turned out to be. I’ve seen bad things. I mean, I spent three days in a Moroccan prison. I spent a week in Salford. But, kidding apart – it’s a reflex action, a safety valve – there’s absolutely no need for this. My thoughts instinctively turn to Mikey (Crikey) O’Reilly. If this goes down the way it’s looking, we’re gonna need some extra muscle. And I’m not talking Spaghetti Monster and The Bush.

  ‘Forget it,’ I say to The Mermaid, ‘you don’t wanna see this.’

  ‘What is it? Give it to me, Balthazar Zachariah.’
/>   Shit. Now she’s got the full name out and is shaking it like a dog with a rat.

  ‘Look, sweet, you really don’t want to see this. We can sort it without you needing to look at it. It’s sick.’

  ‘I want to see it. Please, Balzac. I might be able to help. If he’s in trouble, it could be a way to find him.’

  ‘Oh, he’s in trouble, all right,’ I say, looking down at the bruises, the cuts, the blood spatters, the pool of vomit.

  ‘Here,’ The Mermaid says, waving the fingers of her right hand as if directing traffic.

  I bite my lip. I don’t want her to see it but it might help find the poor bastard.

  ‘Don’t get upset, now,’ I say, ‘we’ll find him.’

  ‘Look, Balzac, I’ve had conversations with crucified Christs, spent a very dull afternoon in Washington DC with a half-comatose Jack Dempsey, and had my ear chewed off by Holofernes while Judith prattled on about how itinerant sword-sharpeners overcharge when they know you’ve got a rush job on. So, hand the bloody thing over.’

  I look at it again. Put it on the table face down. The Mermaid looks at me and knows something is not quite right. We both bite our bottom lips.

  ‘Is it that bad?’

  ‘Not great,’ I say, ‘but you’re right. It might help if you take a look at it.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘You don’t know him. Just pretend it’s a still from a film or something.’

  ‘OK. Right. Here goes. Ready?’

  I nod. She turns it over and places her hands either side, stares down at it. Her right eye twitches as it does when she’s nervous. She looks up at me, tears in her eyes. Looks down.

  And The Mermaid hears, ‘For the love of God, someone help me.’

  ‘You all right, babe?’ I ask The Mermaid.

  ‘Yeah. Give me a second, will you? And don’t call me babe, Balzac.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  I look up and then straight down again as I see Inaccessible outside. He stops and looks in the window but is looking over my head at the menu on the back wall. I rest my head in my hands so he can’t see my face. Can’t be doing with him right now. He takes money from his pocket. Counts it with one finger. Mouths a silent ‘fuck’ and walks on.