Have you ever been to London?

If so, which one?

Was it tourist London, with its over-priced cafes and tacky souvenirs – models of red buses and phone boxes, cuddly bears dressed in union jacks and uniforms parodying the Beefeaters that stand duty at the Tower? Or perhaps it was the London of Shopping – Knightsbridge, Chelsea, Regent Street and Oxford Street, proud department stores, designer boutiques and restaurants bearing the badge of the latest celebrity chefs, or maybe Financial London with its futures, stocks and shares, its bankers and city financiers frequenting their various bars of oyster, wine and tapas. It might conceivably have been the London of Government – the Houses of Parliament and Whitehall, pin-stripe suits and gentlemen’s clubs, or that of Pageantry – the Royal Family, Buckingham Palace, St. Paul’s Cathedral, the changing of the guard and trooping of the colour. Perhaps you were even lucky enough to stumble on a remnant of Old London, the city that survived the plague, the great fire of 1666 and the blitz of WWII – the London of jellied eels, pie and mash, cockney humour and barrow-boy brashness. It is becoming harder to find these days, but it’s still there if you know how to look.

You see, there are many cities called London, all co-existing at the same geographic location. Between them they contain people of every race, religion and culture, some of whom call London home, whilst others are just passing through.

On occasion amidst all this rich diversity, in certain places where the different Londons meet and overlap, the strangest things can slip in, unnoticed…

 

 

I like Jamie on the whole. Just as well, really, since he is married to my sister. Sure, I know there is no rule that says you have to like your in-laws, but it certainly helps.

When he phoned and suggested we should go out for a drink, I knew that something was up. As I say, I like him well enough, but we’re hardly bosom-buddies – different circles, different friends. No, he wanted to talk about something. I didn’t ask what, assuming it was something to do with him and Sue. Of course, at that point I had no idea about Dawn Jenkins’ suicide.

Predictably, the real reason he wanted to see me was the very last thing we spoke about. There were the formalities to be observed first. So we each listened politely as the other talked about what was going on at work, though I am sure he had as little interest in mine as I did in his, then gave proper mention to the weather (a hell of a lot of rain for this time of the year), before falling back to the safety of a common interest: football; dissecting the latest rumours and transfer speculation with relish.

Only after a lot of hot air had been expelled and much alcohol absorbed did we turn our attention to the real meat of the conversation.

“Chris, I’m worried.”

Ah, this was it. I dragged back that part of my mind which had wandered to the far side of the bar, where a pretty young blonde with a tight top, long legs and a short skirt sat laughing with friends. My full attention was again focused on Jamie and whatever he was intending to reveal. “What about?”

“Me, mostly... and Susan.” My sister.

“Are the two of you having problems?”

“No. Well, sort of.... God, this is difficult.”

It always is. “Take your time,” I encouraged.

“You met Dawn, didn’t you? Dawn Jenkins, my P.A.”

I remembered Dawn. A tall, slender woman in her fifties; thin-lipped, grey haired and immaculate, projecting an air of confidence and competence. Jamie always spoke of her in glowing terms – the type of secretary everyone wanted and so few were ever able to find.

I nodded, “How is she?”

“Not so good. She committed suicide last month.”

“My God, I’m sorry.”

“You can’t imagine a more balanced and dependable person, solid as a rock. She’d been with the company for years, even longer than I have.”

“You never can tell what’s going on inside someone’s head…”

“Until a couple of months ago, that is,” he continued, as if I hadn’t spoken. “She suddenly started to become, I don’t know, reticent, sullen even. Not like her at all. Then I came into the office one morning to find her crying. Dawn Jenkins, crying? It was unthinkable. I tried to find out what was wrong and she just cried harder and retreated to the ladies. Came out after a while and apologised, got on with her work. Wouldn’t talk about it, wouldn’t take the day off, just put her head down and carried on.

“Huge mood swings after that – it felt as if I was treading on egg shells all the time. Then she went off sick. Anne, one of my colleagues, well, a friend really, called round to see her. Depression. A week later Dawn was dead; an overdose.”

All this was said with Jamie simply staring at an empty chair opposite. I sat silent, letting it simply pour out of him.

“I can’t help feeling responsible.”

Which was only natural, under the circumstances. Something like that happening to someone you have been close to, a person you worked with every day, it would be enough to affect anyone. “I’m sure there was nothing you could’ve done,” I said.

“Then Anne started to act the same way.”

“This is your friend at work, right?”

He nodded. “Mood swings, tears... and she won’t talk about it to me or anyone. I mean, first Dawn, then Anne, it’s almost as if depression has become infectious.”

“Don’t be daft. Coincidence; something in her private life has probably gone to pot and unsettled her…”

“And now Susan.”

“Susan?” That startled me out of meaningless-platitude mode.

“Yes. Tears, tantrums over the most trivial things, bouts of depression… She’s stopped talking to me and she’s not eating. We go through whole evenings without her saying a word, just staring at the TV.”

Not my sister. She was the last person in the world to suffer from anything like depression. “Has she been to see a doctor?”

He shook his head, “Refuses to, she won’t even discuss the subject.” He rubbed his eyes, as if to wipe away sleep, or tears. “Dawn and Anne were bad enough, but Susan… Chris, these are the three women I spend most of my time with, the three women in the world I’m closest to since my mother passed away. What’s going on?”

He was right, of course. One was a tragedy, two might be a dreadful run of bad luck, but three was pushing coincidence way too far.

“If depression is infectious, I guess I must be the carrier.”

“Only women….”

“Pardon?”

“You said it yourself: the three women you’re closest to. Have any of the men at work shown symptoms of anything like this?”

He thought for a second and shook his head, “No, not that I know of.”

“Neighbours, friends?”

“No.”

There was something here, just out of reach. I turned it all over in my mind, furiously sifting through what he had said, and knew that there was a gap, a missing piece.

“What else?” I asked.

“How do you mean?”

“There’s something you’re not telling me.”

“God, isn’t this enough?”

“Not quite. There’s more, isn’t there.”

He glared at me, and I saw in his eyes the shadow of desperation, like a small boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar and knowing there was no escape. For a moment he contemplated lying, I could see that in his eyes as well, but then his shoulders slumped and I watched the defiance drain away. A deep breath and, “You mustn’t tell anyone about this, Chris, not even Susan – especially not Susan.”

“Okay, I won’t. You have my word.”

“I don’t see how this has anything to do with it.”

“Even so…”

He shuddered. Then he told me. “It was when Dawn took her holiday. I brought in a temp to cover – Natalia, from the Ukraine originally. She was really something – late twenties, a bit feisty but good at her job, and gorgeous. I mean, all the lads in the office were talking about her and most of them tried it on – bees to a honey pot. Friday night we all went out for a drink, someone’s birthday I think. Anyway, I had one too many and…”

“You ended up sleeping with her,” I concluded for him, not particularly wanting to hear the full sordid details of how they ended up in bed together, not having the stomach for it.

He nodded, clearly dreading my reaction. “Please, don’t tell Susan.”

For long seconds I simply stared, battening down the urge to either throttle or punch him, which would have achieved little of value for anyone but me. At length I said simply, “I won’t,” and meant it. I had no intention of being the bearer of such tidings, of possibly wrecking their marriage and my sister’s happiness. All of which seemed moot under the circumstances.

“I swear it was just the once,” Jamie continued, “Don’t know what got into me and I haven’t been able to forgive myself since. Natalia wanted more, but I told her that I was married and that I loved my wife.”

“How did she react?”

“Stormed out. I had to cope for a whole week without a secretary.”

Poor him. “You don’t think Susan’s found out about your…” betrayal, adultery, infidelity, “indiscretion?”

“No,”

Nor did I, not really – just clutching at straws. “And this ‘Natalia’ was at the office long enough to know about your friendship with Anne?”

“Well yes, I suppose so, but what does that have to do with anything?”

A woman spurned. This had the potential to be nasty, very nasty.

It was Saturday night, nothing I could do just then, but there was no time to lose. I thought furiously, putting together a strategy on-the-hoof. “Could you leave work early on Monday?”

“If I had to, if it would help, yes.”

“Good. Meet me at Covent Garden tube station.”

Sunday was torture. I wanted desperately to go and visit Sue but at the same time shied away from seeing her like that. Besides which, Jamie had urged me not to go round, saying that it would only lead to a scene. So instead I spent the day reading up on things and surfing the net, researching a few things. It only confirmed what I knew already.

How did I feel about Jamie? Intellectually, I knew that this was one of those rare occasions when the straying husband really was not to blame, at least not in the usual sense, assuming my suspicions were accurate. But this was my sister’s husband we were talking about and he should have been stronger, no matter what the mitigation. At that particular point in time I was furious with him, perhaps even hated him, and was only willing to help for Sue’s sake. Jamie could go hang.

Monday morning arrived and I headed into London, stepping off the tube at Leicester Square. From there it was just a few minute’s walk to Soho, Berwick Street to be precise. I needed to talk to Claire.

Berwick Street pierces the heart of London’s West End. It runs from theatreland at its bottom end up into Soho, with its rash of strip clubs and ‘adult’ shops. Here it parallels Wardour Street, where the offices of media companies and the music biz hold sway, before emerging into Oxford Street, that golden Mecca for shoppers.

Towards its top end, a host of CD and record stores now flourish, speciality shops offering urban, dance, or rock. Just below this, a timeless bit of Old London still persists: Berwick Street market, with its mounds of fresh vegetables and succulent fruit, terraces of luxury chocolate from Switzerland and Belgium at knock-down prices, mouth-watering displays of finest fresh fish glistening moistly in the sun and swathes of cloth from Turkey, India and beyond. People will deliberately divert via Berwick Street when walking from one area of the West End to another, just to sample the market’s atmosphere and to be tempted by its wares.

Claire’s shop is tucked away behind the stalls, just before the market peters out. As I entered she was serving a middle-aged lady who was fussing over the selection of rings.

“Chris!” she called out on seeing me, before dancing a couple of steps down the counter and leaning across to plant a kiss on my cheek. “Where have you been?”

“About,” I assured her.

She wore a purple top, laced at the shoulders, and her auburn hair hung loose in a cascade of waves. A miniature representation of a flying-V guitar fashioned in silver hung from one ear. She looked about 19 or 20 and probably was, but acted with the self-confidence of someone twice her years. Quite how she came to own a shop in Berwick Street at such an age I have no idea, nor would I ever dream of asking.

“Sorry, a friend,” Claire explained with a broad smile as she returned to the lady and the jewellery. The customer seemed unperturbed and soon narrowed her choice down to two rings. “That one’s lovely,” Claire assured her as she tried it on for the third time. “What do you think, Chris?”

I had to agree that it was, but then jewellery was one of Claire’s passions and it all tended to be lovely. There was not a hint of yellow or gold anywhere in the shop. Every piece was in delicately wrought silver, because “silver is the metal of moonlight and magic,” as she had once explained.

The lady ended up buying both rings.

Claire hates labels. If pushed, I would describe her as a new-age hippie-punk, but never within her hearing. Apart from jewellery, her major passion is music and she plays rock guitar in a group called ‘Quiet Catastrophe’. I once heard someone ask her to describe their music, “Somewhere between the Slits and Soft Machine,” she replied. This prompted the questioner to wonder how anyone her age had ever even heard of Soft Machine.

Good question; life is full of mysteries.

“So, how’ve you been?” she wanted to know, now that we had the shop to ourselves for a brief moment.

“Can’t complain.”

“Are you in town on business or pleasure?”

“Meeting a friend for a drink this evening – a man with a few problems.”

“A lot of them about,” she said. “Are we talking problems in a general sense, or something more specific?”

“Pretty specific, I’d say. Women around him keep falling ill; dying even.”

“Yeah,” she gave a wry smile, “I can see how that would be a downer. Where are you meeting him?”

“ Covent Garden. I thought I’d take him to the Dragoon.”

She nodded, “ Covent Garden’s as good a place as any right now.” Which was my own feeling as well, but nice to have it confirmed. “And the Dragoon’s always lively.”

Two Japanese tourists entered. I stood back, enabling them to squeeze past – it was a narrow shop and Claire had taken advantage of every available space to cram in all sorts of esoteric oddities. She called them ‘stock’.

It seemed an opportune moment to leave. We hugged across the counter and I headed for the door. “Sometime, when you’re not rescuing troubled souls...” she called after me.

“Yeah, it would be good to see you, too. When’s your next gig?”

“A week on Wednesday, at Ronnie’s.”

“I’ll be there.”

“Let me get those down for you,” I heard her saying as I exited into the bustle of London.

It was nearly lunchtime. I followed the market’s course down to where it broke as the street narrowed into an alley of revue bars, opaque-windowed shop fronts and cramped cafés. Across Brewer Street and it emerged as a proper road again, reborn as Rupert Street. Straight over Shaftsbury Avenue with its impatient growl of courier bikes and thunder of black cabs held back by a wall of red lights. When the lights changed they would all desperately race the few yards to the next set, only to be stopped short again.

Then I headed left into China Town.

Kim runs a small noodle bar, just off of Gerard Street.

“Hi Charlie, you hungry?” she asked as I came in.

“Always,” I assured her.

Kim has never asked me my name, anymore than I have hers. I am simply Charlie, whilst she is Kim. It works for us.

“Good. Then you eat,” she ushered me to a table at the back, near to the kitchen. No menu was offered. Within minutes a steaming plate of noodles appeared in front of me, laced with strips of chicken, tiger prawns and vegetables and fragrant with the aromas of ginger, garlic and soy. “Busy, busy, busy,” Kim told me, before hurrying off to serve another customer.

Somewhere, about half way through the mound of noodles, a lull must have occurred, because Kim reappeared. “You have trouble?” she asked.

“No, I’m okay. Meeting a friend a bit later, at Covent Garden.”

“He have trouble.” She made it a statement rather than a question.

“Perhaps,” I conceded.

Then she was gone, to deal with some catastrophe in the kitchen, which she was told about in franticly delivered machine-gun Cantonese, far too quick for me to follow.

When it came time to leave, she refused to let me pay. Again. “Come on Kim, if you keep doing this I’m going to have to find somewhere else to eat.” It was an old argument. I helped her out of a tight spot a year or so back and she had refused to take my money ever since.

“No!” she insisted. “You eat here life-time, no pay.”

Despite my threat, I would be back and we both knew it. I hated taking liberties, but the food here was just so damned good.

I spent the next couple of hours meandering towards Covent Garden, which takes some doing, since it’s only about ten minutes brisk walk, but I was in no hurry. I window-shopped, bought a couple of gel-pens, browsed my way down Neal Street with its trendy boutiques and eateries, and called in on a few old friends, passing the time of day and spreading the word.

By late afternoon I was relaxing in the courtyard of a wine bar at the heart of Covent Garden’s basement level, listening to a talented string quartet and sipping chilled bucks fizz from a pewter goblet. Pure indulgence, but what the heck?

The day had gone well. I’d reached everyone I was hoping to and the word was out. Now all that remained was to wait and see who answered.

Covent Garden, redeveloped in the 1970s, has become a very special place. Street artists and performers, new-age arcades and upmarket shops combine with cafés and pubs to provide a vibrant melting pot, a magnet for tourists and Londoners alike, where different cultures and different Londons seamlessly meet and merge.

This was a good day for things to happen. I could feel it.

Jamie arrived a little early, but even so the flow of people around the station reduced all movement to a sort of constipated shuffle. We edged free of the bottle-neck and I led the way to the Dragoon, a traditional London pub on the corner of Bow Street.

It was already pretty busy. Jamie tapped me on the shoulder, “There’s a table free, over there.”

Of course there was, but how could I explain that to him? “You go and grab it,” I suggested, “I’ll get the drinks in.”

I made my way to the bar, squeezing in beside a tall, stick-thin woman wearing a moss green hoodie and a Burberry headband, which held back lank, dark hair. Her features suggested Zulu origin, although she was too pale to be pure-blood. She had a gaunt, haunted expression. An addict, probably heroin, although I felt no inclination to delve. There was no need to ask what she was seeking tonight.

“Yes, mate?” the barman had reached me already. Tall, with dark hair and a small goatee beard that might have made him look a little like Satan, but instead suggested Pan. He wore a black T-shirt embroidered with the brewery’s logo at the breast.

“Two pints of Special,” I nodded towards one of the three hand-pumps.

“You look like a beer drinker,” said a slightly slurred voice beside me.

I wondered what gave it away. The paunch perhaps?

The speaker wore designer blue shirt with button-down collar, open at the neck. A redundant tie had been pulled down to hang limply at near chest-level. His glazed expression suggested that the bar stool had been his home for most of the afternoon.

“I enjoy the odd pint,” I admitted.

“What do you reckon is London’s best bitter, then?”

A seeker. The question about beer was merely an excuse, an opening gambit. He wanted something, needed something, and sensed at a subconscious level that I was a likely source of answers. Unfortunately for him, I had other concerns.

“Whatever they happen to serve at whichever pub I’m in at the time,” I replied.

He stared at me, as if trying to decide whether I was taking the piss or not, then grunted and turned back to the half-drained glass before him, apparently deciding to look elsewhere. I paid for the drinks and took them across to where Jamie waited.

“What exactly are we doing here?” he asked after a while. “I mean, it can’t be just for the beer, good though it is. We don’t need to come all the way into the centre of town just to share a pint or two, so…”

“Looking for a solution,” I replied, evasively.

“I presume we’re here to meet someone,” he persisted.

“Hopefully,” I agreed.

“So are you going to tell me who?”

“Jamie, just be patient.” Now seemed as good a time as any to brief him. “Listen. Follow my lead here, okay. Whatever happens, however strange it may seem, don’t question anything. It’s important that you go with the flow, all right?”

“Yes, Oh Man of Mystery.” He laughed.

I did not. “I’m serious Jamie.”

“Okay, understood.”

I think he would have asked more, but just then we both became aware that someone had approached the table. “Excuse me.”

This was quick, by anyone’s standards. She was petite, with bold Eastern European features, too irregular to be considered pretty, but there was something about her… The eyes, I decided; deep, piercing almonds.

“Is this seat taken?” she asked in heavily-accented English. “May I sit here?”

She was dressed in maroon top and slacks, so dark they were almost burgundy, over which had been pulled a powder-blue cardigan, fastened by a single large button. It made no effort to either match or contrast with the maroon. The body beneath was slender and apparently shapeless, almost boyish. Her face was framed by a neat bob of dark brown, near-black, hair.

Jamie’s eyes flickered back and forth between the girl and me, seeking a lead, which was a good start. I smiled and indicated the vacant chair, “Please, be our guest.”

Her smile in return was dazzling, making me wonder how I had ever considered her plain.

“Thank you.” She sat, placing a miniature plastic carrier bag on the table beside her, presumably containing a recent purchase. “It is busy, this pub.”

“Good beer and a good location for a pub,” I supplied.

“I think so, too. Many people, yes?” She laughed, lighting up her face once more.

“Have you been in England long?”

“No, I arrive now, today.”

Jamie drained his glass, clearly uncomfortable. “My round, I think.”

I finished mine and passed him the empty glass, “Perhaps the lady would care for a drink?”

He raised an eyebrow, which he turned into an enquiring look in the girl’s direction, though not with any great warmth.

“Yes, thank you. Could I try some of your English beer, please?”

Jamie nodded and made his way towards the bar.

“He is not happy, I think, your friend.”

“Sorry,” I said quickly, knowing how touchy they could be sometimes and not wanting her to take offence. “Jamie’s having a rough time of it at the moment. He’s married and has indulged in an unfortunate, isolated infidelity.”

“Foolish, very foolish.”

“I know. So does he. The other party involved wanted more and he refused, angering her greatly. He’s suffered from a guilty conscience ever since.”

“A guilty conscience, this is all he suffers from?”

“No, not quite. All his female acquaintances are falling ill.”

“What sort of ill?”

“An illness of the soul: depression. One has even killed herself.” She said nothing, waiting for me to say more. “Now it has started to affect his wife, my sister.”

“I see. This is not good, not good at all.”

A sentiment I was hardly about to argue with.

I had to tread carefully here, not wanting to crack the eggshells scattered beneath my feet. I couldn’t afford to blow this, not with Susan’s health, sanity, and possibly even her life in the balance. So far so good. After all, my newfound friend had heard the unadorned facts and was still here.

At which point Jamie returned with the drinks, and the conversation took a lighter turn. After a little more of both time and beer had been consumed, Jamie started to relax and fully join in. The three of us ended up having an enjoyable evening.

The girl told us she was from Romania. She had been brought up on a farm and described her childhood in great detail. It all sounded very rustic, like something from another age, and was completely fascinating – a total contrast to anything either Jamie or I had ever experienced.

The evening wore on. The girl was the first to leave. Hugs and kisses all around, like old friends, with the hope that we would meet again sometime. The pub door was swinging shut behind her when Jamie started, “Hey, she left her bag.” He grabbed the miniature carrier which still sat on the table where the girl had put it and went to stand, to follow her.

I placed a restraining hand on his arm, “Stay there.”

“But….”

“Stay there,” I reiterated.

He stared at me, trying to understand.

“See what’s in the bag,” I told him calmly.

“What? I can’t do that, it’s not mine.”

“Open it.” Our eyes locked. “Open it,” I repeated, my voice quiet but insistent. His gaze dropped to the bag and he reached inside, to hesitantly draw forth a hinged box. It resembled a jewellery box. His eyes flicked up to me again, questioning.

“Go on,” I urged. “It’s intended for you.”

He lifted the lid, to reveal a crystal cube.

There is a store in Covent Garden that sells cubes like this. You go in and part with a tidy sum, only to walk out a short while later, clutching just such a crystal cube in which a 3-D image of your own face now resides.

This cube contained just such an image — the perfect representation of a face. Jamie’s face.

“My God, how…?”

“Don’t ask,” I advised. “It’s a gift. Don’t question it, just accept it.” I took advantage of the fact he was still gaping and continued, “Take it home with you and put it on display in the bedroom.” Having seen the crystal, I now knew what was required.

“How do I explain it to Susan?”

“That’s easy. You bought it as a present for her. Why else would a man have his own image set into a piece of crystal?”

“Okay, but what if she doesn’t want it in the bedroom?”

“Insist.” It had to be in a room where Susan would spend long periods of time.

“Easy for you to say. You know Susan…”

“Jamie, insist. And another thing: if you see any change in the crystal, anything at all, let me know immediately.”

#

Wednesday evening, two days later; I was relaxing at home when there came a knock at the door. It was Jamie. Ashen faced, he said nothing, just held out a plastic bag. I took him into the lounge and we emptied it onto the coffee table. Out fell the crystal.

The image it showed was still Jamie’s face but it was now deformed, twisted almost beyond recognition – a visage that seemed to be snarling, or perhaps screaming. It looked evil, demonic.

“What are you going to do with it?” he asked.

“Melt it.”

“How?”

“In my chimnea.”

“Pardon?”

“A sort of Mexican barbeque, but does it really matter what it is?”

“No. But will a barbecue be hot enough to melt something like this?”

“Mine will.”

That was more or less the end of the matter, at least as far as Jamie was concerned. Nothing could be done to bring back poor Dawn Jenkins, but both Sue and Anne, Jamie’s work colleague, recovered quickly and were able to put their depression behind them.

As for ‘Natalia’, I asked about her in all the right places but with little result, apart from one or two rumours that something of her darkness had been in the area for a while but had since moved on.

Jamie and I have never spoken about any of this since. I can guess what has gone through his mind, though. Of course there is no such thing as a Succubus. Whatever happened, it had nothing to do with curses or spells, with possession or obsession. After all, such things have no place in the real world, do they?

Who am I to argue?

From my point of view, I know that this is not quite the end of things. There is no such thing as a free lunch. Even Kim’s noodles are her way of paying me back for services rendered.

At some time in the future someone will call on me seeking a favour. They might look like a girl from Eastern Europe, they might not. I’ll know them when I see them. The eyes will give it away – deep, beautiful almonds. Whatever it is they want, I’m sure I will be able to help, or at least, know where to find someone who can.

As I said, there are many places called London. Almost anything can be found in them somewhere, providing you know how to look.