London Noir - [Anthology] Read online

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  London Noir

  Edited By Maxim Jakubowski

  Scanned & Proofed By MadMaxAU

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  CONTENTS

  INTRODUCTION

  CONTRIBUTORS

  CHRISTOPHER FOWLER

  PERFECT CASTING

  MARK TIMLIN

  CHRISTMAS (BABY PLEASE COME HOME)

  LIZA CODY

  RECONSTRUCTION

  DEREK RAYMOND

  BRAND NEW DEAD

  CHAZ BRENCHLEY

  SCOUTING FOR BOYS

  DENISE DANKS

  RIGHT ARM MAN

  MAXIM JAKUBOWSKI

  71-73 CHARING CROSS ROAD

  IAN RANKIN

  A DEEP HOLE

  JESSICA PALMER

  FULL MOON RISING

  JULIAN RATHBONE

  OF MICE, MEN AND TWO WOMEN

  MOLLY BROWN

  ANGEL’S DAY

  JOHN HARVEY

  NOW’S THE TIME

  MICHAEL Z. LEWIN

  CORMORANTS

  LIZ HOLLIDAY

  AND SHE LAUGHED

  ANDREW KLAVAN

  THE LOOK ON HER FACE

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  INTRODUCTION

  L

  ike so many of the great cities of the world, London is many things to different people.

  For those from abroad and tourists, it conveys images of tarnished royal splendours, faded imperial monuments, the tawdry glamour of Soho and Piccadilly Circus. For the more historically-minded amongst them, visions are conjured of Victorian fog and dread and square-shaped East End gangsters, while for others London is just a gentle panorama of terraced houses with tiled roofs and front gardens in suburbia.

  For those who live there, London is alternately a quiet, often boring sprawl of a megalopolis with its myriad villages, parks and greenery, or in the grey light of day, a sordid capital where misery and poverty are inescapable.

  While for lovers, London can be a graveyard of sweet memories.

  For me, London, a city where I was born but did not return to until my mid-twenties, has a thousand varied faces: Hyde Park and the Serpentine, St Paul’s and the City on which I had to do a book during my publishing years, Camden Town and its increasingly bizarre markets, the hills of Hampstead, the genteel bohemia of Notting Hill and Islington, tennis at Wimbledon, the colour of the Thames near Richmond Bridge, football stadia in Tottenham and Highbury and cricket pitches at the Oval and Lord’s, the unending ascent of the Finchley Road where I had my first London flat, the late Scala cinema near King’s Cross, the West Indian accents in Brixton, pretty women in Clapham and Blackheath, Orthodox Jewish kids ambling down the Golders Green Road with their anachronistic locks, cavernous Victoria Station’s gateways to the South, and so much more.

  But then, for you the reader of this anthology, London will mean many other things, all different.

  And you there, yes, you the wondrous tall lady standing quietly at the back with her mass of tangled hair, London might well be another set of images and memories altogether. Hotel rooms near Heathrow or West End basements maybe?

  I suppose that’s the way of fascinating cities, to grip, charm and inspire us.

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  Somehow, most noir writing automatically brings America and its legendary dark side to mind: the rainy mean streets of night-time California in the pages of Raymond Chandler or James Ellroy’s hell-pit of Los Angeles, mafia hoods in New York’s Little Italy, countless road movies or gangster flicks full of fury and despair. But London also enjoys its share of gloom, doom and heart-break. Here, people live, suffer and love in their own idiosyncratic ways too. Think of such eminent London writers as Gerald Kersh, Patrick Hamilton, a certain Dickens and, today, Michael Moorcock, Peter Ackroyd, Iain Sinclair, Derek Raymond.

  Well, Whitechapel did spawn Jack the Ripper Esquire after all!

  So I thought I would ask several friends and writers each to pen a new story about the darkness they saw at the heart of our contradictory city. The responses, collected here, are both varied and fascinating, and provide us with a patchwork portrait of a London we never knew, a dark London, a London Noir.

  Often a very bleak view, I am aware, but then urban nightmares must always have a silver lining, and lancing a boil can have beneficial effects in the long run.

  London, this is your other life.

  Maxim Jakubowski

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  CONTRIBUTORS

  CHRISTOPHER FOWLER is one of the leading British contemporary horror writers. He runs a film promotional company in London’s Soho. Amongst his novels are Roofworld, Red Bride, Darkest Day and Rune (currently being developed for the screen by Basic Instinct’s Paul Verhoeven with a script by Paul Mayersberg of Merry Christmas, Mr Lawrence).

  After a long career in the rock music business, working for The Who and T. Rex, MARK TIMLIN turned to a literary life of crime. He is the creator of South London sleuth Nick Sharman, the protagonist of nine novels and being scripted for television. The latest is Ashes By Now.

  LIZA CODY is the foremost British exponent of the female private eye genre, with her Anna Lee adventures and, recently, a new heroine, the doughty wrestler Eva Wylie in Bucket Nut and Monkey Wrench. She has won the John Creasey, the Anthony and the Silver Dagger awards and lives in Somerset.

  After a decade overseas, DEREK RAYMOND (better known as Robin Cook to Soho pub regulars) is now back in London where he currently resides in darkest Willesden. His Factory series represents British noir at its best and is soon to make it to the small and large screens. His last novel was Dead Man Upright.

  CHAZ BRENCHLEY has written a series of dark novels on the borderlines of crime and horror. They include Mall Time, The Samaritan and The Refuge. In a bid for literary respectability, his publishers will be releasing his next novels as by C.S. Brenchley. He was born in Oxford, lives in Newcastle and is writer in residence in Sunderland.

  DENISE DANKS’ novel Frame Grabber featured her heroine Georgina Powers in a case featuring virtual reality, erotic asphyxiation and corporate larceny. A computer journalist by trade, Denise has now written four Georgina Powers novels. She lives in East London with her husband and daughter, and is the winner of the 1994 Raymond Chandler Fulbright Fellowship.

  MAXIM JAKUBOWSKI owns London’s Murder One mystery bookshop. Previously a publisher, he was the editor of the Black Box Thrillers and Blue Murder imprints. He has written or edited over thirty-five books and, in 1992, won the Anthony award for One Hundred Great Detectives.

  A Scotsman presently living in France with wife and son, IAN RANKIN is the creator of Inspector Rebus, an unconventional Scottish sleuth whose latest appearance was in The Black Book. He was the winner of the 1992 Raymond Chandler Fulbright Fellowship in crime and detective fiction.

  JESSICA PALMER is an American writer who lives in Harrow, outside London. Her first two novels are in the horror field, Dark Lullaby and Cradle Song. She is currently writing a series of fantasy books for young adults. She was once called Sam, but that was in Texas.

  Possibly the only thriller writer ever to have been nominated twice for the Booker Prize, JULIAN RATHBONE is related to that most revered of Sherlock Holmes impersonators, Basil Rathbone. His international thrillers have been translated into several languages; the latest was Sand Blind.

  MOLLY BROWN is another American expatriate living outside London. Her short stories have been regularly appearing in some of the leading anthologies and magazines in both the crime and science fiction field, where she won the Best Short Story of the Year BSFA award in 1992. Previously a stand-up comic, she is writing her first crime novel.

  After
an early career in teaching and western writing, JOHN HARVEY made a much noticed entry into the crime field, with his dour Nottingham policeman Charlie Resnick. The object of a well-received television series, Resnick’s last appearance was in Wasted Years. His appearance in this volume is his first short story.

  MICHAEL Z. LEWIN (the Z stands for Zinn) is an American crime writer who lives in Somerset. He is known for his soft-boiled Albert Samson and Leroy Powder mysteries, and his many radio plays. He also co-edits (with Liza Cody) the annual Crime Writers’ Association anthology First Culprit. His new novel is Underdog.

  LIZ HOLLIDAY’s story in this volume is her first crime sale. Previously involved in the science fiction field where her stories have appeared in various anthologies and magazines, she lives in London and is working on her first novel.

  ANDREW KLAVAN is the author of three international bestsellers Don’t Say a Word, The Animal Hour and Corruption. An American presently settled in London, he previously wrote a series of thrillers as Keith Peterson, and the screenplay for Michael Caine’s A Shock to the System.

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  CHRISTOPHER FOWLER

  PERFECT CASTING

  I

  t was the season of sulphur. The autumn air already held a sharp smell of fireworks. Just beyond the edge of Regent’s Park, the keepers were raking a bonfire. Peter Tipping noticed spirals of sparks above a sore amber glow of dead leaves just before he turned into the north end of Baker Street. Night had fallen before five. For the next few months darkness would achromatize the days. London was a private city in winter. People remained hidden inside, leaving the buildings to come alive in damp air.

  The curving cream stone of the apartment block drew close, and then he was standing below the entrance. Reluctantly withdrawing his hand from the warmth of his overcoat pocket, he pressed the brass stud and bent close to the intercom, waiting for the familiar sound of Jonathan’s voice.

  ‘You’re late, Peter.’ A hurt tone filtered through. The buzzer sounded, and he stepped up into a marble hall. Beyond that, rich crimson carpet and a trellis lift. Chalfont Court was not at home to the twentieth century. There was still a porter’s lodge beside the main entrance, still a mahogany box affixed to the wall for the placement of calling cards. The building lodged liverish retired colonels, ancient widows with tiny hyperactive dogs, a couple of discreet escort agencies and a few old show business types.

  Jonathan belonged to the last group. His apartment on the fifth floor had been his combined office and home for the past thirty years, during which time business and leisure had lived in easy symbiosis. It would have been impossible to imagine any other arrangement, as the elderly theatrical agent was attuned to receiving lengthy telephone calls near the midnight hour. At this time he would calm his nervous charges, soothe their fears of thespian inadequacy, listen to their analytical appraisals of the night’s performance, always reassuring, calming and cajoling. He wouldn’t be doing that for Peter tonight. Peter had let him down again.

  ‘So, you finally made it.’ Jonathan pursed his lips and stepped back in the doorway, allowing him to enter, a balloon-shaped figure balancing on tiny feet. The passage was lined with posters for shows misbegotten and forgotten, the disco Ibsen, the reggae Strindberg, a musical version of Bleak House called ‘Jarndyce!’ starring Noelle Gordon, fading signatures from faded stars. Jonathan’s fat right fist contained a tumbler filled with gin and irregular chunks of ice, and there were telephones trilling in the distance. Peter was always comforted by the changeless disarray of the flat. This was a place where actors were cushioned and cosseted, heard out and then fed with alcohol. Jonathan puffed past, rings glittering in the dim hall, ready to make Peter a drink even though - ‘Even though I’m terribly, terribly angry with you.’ He entered the kitchen, chipped off an ice-chunk and dropped it into a tumbler, pausing to push his spectacles back up the bridge of his nose. Jonathan was constantly in a sweat. It leaked from beneath the auburn wig that fooled no one, and trickled beneath his bulging eyes so that his clients were misdirected into believing that news of their backstage woes had moved him to tears. ‘One should always be grateful of an audition, Peter, bitterly grateful, and you do yourself no favours by acting otherwise.’

  Peter had thought the job beneath him anyway, but he hadn’t had a decent audition in nearly three months. Playing a jolly dad in a commercial for frozen lasagne wouldn’t have been the zenith of his performing career, but it would at least have brought in steady residuals.

  ‘The director was a complete arsehole, John.’ He accepted the drink and followed the agent through to his desk. There was parkland below the windows of the semicircular lounge, but even during the day it was barely visible through winter mist and traffic fumes. ‘I was kept waiting for over an hour, and then asked questions about my motivation by some adspeaking agency slimeball,’ Peter complained. ‘I answered him back a little sharply, nothing more, and they told me I wasn’t needed any longer.’

  Jonathan waved the explanation aside. ‘I know, I had them on the phone for half an hour warning me never to send you there again. You’re going to be blacklisted by the agency, Peter, the third largest advertising agency in London.’ He pushed back-issues of The Stage from a leather sofa and sat, daintily crossing his legs at the ankle. ‘What have I always said is your biggest stumbling block?’

  ‘Arrogance,’ Peter admitted, knowing he was about to receive the usual lecture.

  ‘You’ve been with me for nearly a year now, and you’ve hardly worked. You come back with the same story after every audition. You’ve had three - it is three, isn’t it? - agents before me. You can’t go on blaming your representation. It’s a matter of learning to handle authority.’

  He felt the need to explain himself. ‘I couldn’t see that there was much authority coming from -’

  ‘Authority is anyone who employs you, Peter, and you simply can’t afford to alienate them. At least you could wait until you’ve got the job and you’ve established a working relationship. Christ, even Larry managed to do that.’

  ‘But you’re sending me along for rubbishy little parts directed by ignorant children.’ He could feel the gin and the heat of the apartment forcing colour into his face. ‘Half of these brats are barely out of film school.’

  ‘You want me to change the system for you? I can’t help it if the industry is getting younger around you. That’s all there is, you either take it or leave it.’

  ‘Perhaps if I had some new shots done . . .’ He had been considering an image change for some time. A new haircut, sharper clothes.

  ‘Photographs aren’t going to make any difference, Peter. Let’s be honest, you don’t look like a classic leading male. You nose is too long, your eyes are too small and your weight fluctuates. You’d make a good villain, but you’re never going to get juve leads. You won’t take serious theatrical roles -

  ‘I can’t remember long speeches,’ he admitted. ‘Lots of actors get by without classical theatre.’

  ‘You’re not prepared to do panto, so what does that leave? There’s no British film industry any more and the network franchises are carving each other up, so you should face the fact that if there’s an audition - any audition - you have to go for it.’ He wiped the sweat from the edge of his wig. ‘That’s if you want to work. You’re too old to have tantrums, and there’s always someone else willing to take the part. As Coward used to sing: “There’s another generation knock-knock-knocking at the door.’”

  Even though he realized that Jonathan was trying to help him, he wanted to punch the smug little man squatting opposite with his empty tumbler balanced on his paunch. He knew the agent meant to shock him into better behaviour but he wasn’t prepared to waste his career behaving like a sheep, being pushed about by some snotty MTV kid turned commercials director. Hadn’t Hitchcock said that actors were cattle? Had nothing changed since then? It was fine for the pretty teenagers flitting in and out of the office on casting c
alls, busy enjoying their fifteen minutes of fame, happy to do what they were told, but he was an adult with opinions of his own. He looked across at Jonathan, who was waving his hands as if acting out part of some wailing chorus. ‘Oh, I don’t know what more I can say to you, Peter. I’ve always had a lot of working people on my books, some of them very successful -’

  ‘If you’re referring to the little queen you placed in the Channel 4 presenter’s job . . .’

  ‘That’s uncharitable and you know it. He got the part because he was young and he looked right. I mean people like Marc Ford.’

  Peter knew all about Marc Ford. Among actors, it was a famous success story. The young player hadn’t worked for almost a year. He was down to his last penny, and his wife was pregnant. He’d been offered a small speaking role as a Nazi storm-trooper in a low-budget German film being shot in London. As there was hardly any money left to pay the actors, the producer had offered him points at two and half per cent, and he had accepted. Three weeks’ work, standing in a tank of freezing filthy water, then he’d forgotten about all it. The damned thing had won the Oscar for Best Foreign Film, and subsequently played to packed houses throughout the world. Marc had retired, a millionaire. Marc had been advised to take the part by his agent, Jonathan.