TWENTY-FOUR

MARYLEBONE, LONDON. 23 JUNE 2011. 11.45 P.M.

Max wasn’t answering his phone, and hadn’t since they landed. It was nearly midnight and London was a myriad lights beyond the grimy windows of the cab as it trundled to Marylebone. The vehicle-judders lulled Kyle into another doze. He jerked himself awake. Tried to call Max again, and for the first time, he realized he’d become concerned for their patron. What if they’d got to Max. If Max couldn’t defend himself what would become of him? He didn’t fancy Gonal’s chances and Gabriel seemed to welcome the end. Poor bastard. UV simulator bulbs didn’t appear to be much of a solution. It was pathetic. ‘How? How is this even possible?’ he asked himself and stuffed his phone inside his pocket.

Immediately, it began to ring. He scrabbled at the pocket zipper. Tugged the phone out. Finger Mouse.

‘God’s sake Kyle, this is some twisted shit right here.’

‘You got it?’

‘Dan brought it round. Seems really depressed. You working him too hard? Or have you fallen out?’

‘I can’t explain right now, but, if anything . . .’ He stopped himself, and had a sudden idea that made him tingle all over. ‘Mate, I’m going to send you the rough cuts from all the rushes. I need you to start the edit without me. Nothing fancy. Just get it together. So it makes sense. Yeah?’

‘What’s the hurry?’

‘I can’t explain. But I need something put together that’s viewable.’

‘What duration?’

‘Don’t worry about it.’

‘Can do. Gonna cost you. This is my own time.’

‘Not a problem. And I appreciate it. Just invoice the hours to me. No, better not. Send them to Revelation Productions direct.’

The cab shuddered to a halt. As he pocketed a receipt for the journey, the desk porter from Max’s building appeared and opened the rear door for Kyle. ‘Mr Freeman?’

Bewildered, Kyle nodded.

The porter smiled. ‘Mr Solomon’s expecting you, sir.’

Iris led Kyle through Max’s apartment, which appeared determinedly brighter than he remembered it. ‘Where’s the slot machines?’ he asked Iris, who never responded.

The door to Max’s office was open, but the room was empty. Iris never broke her stride near it. They flitted past a vast kitchen, tiled in blue and white marble and festooned with stainless-steel pans. He glanced inside the bathroom; the interior as bright as an opticians. Only one other door in the hallway hadn’t been padlocked from the outside, and the locks and security fittings on the other doors were new. Max’s world of light appeared to have shrunk around him. Iris led Kyle into the master bedroom.

‘My dear Kyle,’ Max said, from where he was propped up amongst the vast pillows in a bed the size of Kyle’s studio flat. ‘Thank you, Iris.’ The woman turned and closed the bedroom door behind her.

Kyle glared. Max’s orange complexion had faded to a milky caramel. His face was stricken, as if from the regular receipt of terrible news. His scrawny throat, head and arms were the only parts of his body visible above the heavy bedlinen. Red silk pyjamas and a paisley smoking jacket added another layer of warmth to the shrunken founder of The Last Gathering.

A chair had been pulled up at the side of Max’s bed in preparation for a visitor. Him. Kyle looked at it, felt wrong-footed. Typical Max. He’d been in an incandescent rage since leaving Martha Lake’s house in Seattle, and imagined all kinds of revenge he should enact against the wheedling, manipulative old man. But now he was here, the display of incapacity disarmed him. Was it a ploy?

‘You’ll have to forgive me, Kyle. I’m afraid I’m not at my best right now.’

‘Who is?’

‘Quite.’

‘Tell it to Martha.’

Max’s eyes flashed with alarm. ‘You heard?’

‘Malcolm Gonal just told me.’

‘What on earth were you doing talking to that wretched man?’

Kyle slumped into the chair with a sigh. ‘You’re unbelievable, Max. Just keep it up. The bullshit.’

But Max’s confusion seemed genuine. ‘Pardon?’

Kyle mimicked Max’s tone. ‘Why on earth were you using that wretched man to make a film? This film!’

Max raised his little hands and winced as if the volume of Kyle’s voice hurt his ears. ‘It hardly matters now.’

‘It does to me. He’s scum. What was all that flannel about your admiration of my work when you hired me, eh? You didn’t give a fuck who made it if that arsehole was your first choice.’

‘Martha lost her life yesterday and that is all you can think of? Kyle, I am surprised at you.’

‘No. No, don’t you dare, don’t start that. Twisting things. That’s not what I meant.’

‘Then whatever did you mean? If I upset you by asking him to direct first, then I apologize. This project was assembled quickly. There was little time to make proper assessments. And he has a reputation for being tenacious.’

‘Tenacious! It would have been fiction. You wouldn’t have been able to show a minute of it.’

‘I realize that now. It was an error of judgement.’

‘Why couldn’t you tell me who you’d hired? Eh? I’ll tell you why. Because this is a dead end. The film was never meant to be seen, was it? By anyone but you. This was never a real production. It’s an investigation. Like Gabriel realized too late, before he ran through a bloody bear-trap. We’re bait. We’re all here to draw fire. Gun fodder.’

A tremor passed across Max’s closed eyelids and his thin mouth sagged. But Kyle wouldn’t be silenced by this show of frailty. Or was it an insinuation of his bad manners? ‘I could have been gutted in an American motel room. By God knows what. No one knows but you, Max. You’ve deliberately been selective in the information imparted. And as a result Gabriel has lost a leg, and Gonal and me could be torn apart tonight. Did they kill Susan too? Is that how she died? Did those old friends come calling?’

‘Don’t. Please.’

‘Because I nearly had a stroke backed up by heart failure in Seattle, mate.’ Kyle stopped. Tears glistened around Max’s eyes, which he turned to the curtains as if Kyle were no longer in the room. Kyle lowered his voice. ‘Max. What are they? What is going on? Tell me now before it gets any worse. Max?’

Eventually, Max returned his gaze to Kyle. Shaky with emotion, but no louder than a whisper, his voice slipped out. ‘As unlikely as it seems, Martha and Bridgette were the lucky ones. Susan too.’ Max swallowed, raised his chin as if in defiance. ‘But so many others . . . were taken. To another place.’

Max didn’t seem to be faking his grief, or what appeared to be an emotional collapse before Kyle’s eyes. But his apparent sincerity brought Kyle no relief. Another place. The cryptic comment had the effect of drying all of the saliva from his mouth. The pressure in the room intensified; he felt like he was clutching an anchor that sped towards an ocean floor. Bits of his own dreams smouldered awake. Were joined by new impressions of the things Gonal and Gabriel had suggested, and by what Martha had shown him. ‘What?’ was all he managed to say in a voice as weak as Max’s.

Max wiped at his eyes with a handkerchief produced like a magician’s prop from inside the bedclothes. ‘I am sorry. Truly.’ Max eyed the decanter on the bedside table. ‘Will you?’

Kyle stood up to make the drinks. ‘No messing now, Max. Out with it. I’m not going anywhere until I know.’

Max sniffed and adjusted his position, composed himself. ‘Of course. But there have been good reasons as to why I was unable to tell you certain things. For one, you wouldn’t have believed me. Poor Susan White never did. I tried to explain it to her.’ His voice dropped. ‘And you are right to assume what befell her. At the end.’ Max visibly shuddered. ‘I saw her ceiling. Above her bed. Dear God.’

‘Christ, Max.’

Max held the handkerchief across his eyes, as if to wipe the image away. ‘The very sight of such a visitor killed her. Her poor daughter thought it was a stain from a leak. Can you imagine what she would have thought of me, had I tried to explain why her mother died of fright? What anyone would have thought? They would have considered me insane. This is not something any authority, not even the Church, could address. You’ve seen enough to know that.’

‘You put us all in danger, you knew—’

‘Kyle! I never. This has been as much of an education for me as it has been for you.’

‘That’s a load of cock.’

‘Believe what you want.’ Max now sounded as tired as Kyle felt. He took his glass of brandy and gulped at it. Gasped. ‘I may have uncovered certain facts ahead of you, that I kept to myself, because of their evident improbability. I never thought we would get to this point. That she . . . that she could even manage this.’

‘Who? Manage what?’

‘We are being destroyed because we committed the greatest crime against her: we deserted her. This is vengeance. Her revenge.’

‘You talking about Sister Katherine, Max? She’s dead. She’s been dead since 1975.’

Max didn’t appear to regard his observation worthy of a response. He spoke as if to himself. ‘And when you have committed a vast and inhuman crime, what do you do with the evidence? You destroy it. It’s what tyrants do. What they have always done.’

‘You’ve lost me, Max.’

Max looked at Kyle in the way the wise and the weary gaze upon the young and the foolish. ‘This matter need no longer concern you.’

‘What’re you saying?’

‘Hear what I am about to say. Please. Do me this last favour, Kyle. I can only hope that you and Dan will be . . . all right. I thought it was only those of us connected to her through the Temple who could perish in such an unsavoury manner. But by enlisting your help, it seems that you are also being hunted. I should have known better.’

‘I think you did.’

Max looked at his fidgeting hands upon the bedspread. ‘Perhaps . . . perhaps my motivation for seeking the truth, and for my own self-preservation, was greater than my concern for others. I’ll admit it if it makes you feel better.’

Kyle wanted to bring the nearest cushioned stool down upon Max’s head at this show of self-pity. He took a deep breath followed by all of the brandy inside his glass. It nearly came back out on the end of a burp. ‘Now we’re talking, Max. You’re almost telling the truth. Please, can you keep this up for a bit, so I can work out what the fuck is going to happen to me when I get back to my crappy flat and fall into a coma tonight. The coma of exhaustion that your production has put me into. A condition that will prevent me from defending myself against something that has the ability to pass through a fucking wall! This is my life we are talking about!’

Max closed his weary eyes. When they flickered open, a trimmed eyebrow arched. ‘Tomorrow, I will transfer the complete payment to you. Kindly take care of Dan with it. See this as an early compensation for what you have been involved in. And may I remind you that if you are able to edit the material thus far shot, it is still the property of Revelation Productions, so in no way are you entitled to screen it, to anyone. Anyone. Until a time when I deem it fit for distribution.’

‘You’re in no position to be making demands.’ The prospect of financial ruin had tainted the last two years of his life. And it seemed typical, if not fitting, that a sudden windfall should only arrive at the end of his days. The irony only made him feel worse, if it was possible. And it was.

‘No, but my barrister will, if necessary. He has instructions for the life of the film after my . . . after my future is decided. And it will be. Soon.’ Max barely got the last word out, and what blood still passed beneath his taut skin retreated to a deeper place inside his small body. ‘God willing, you will have your film. One day. And this story—’

‘Film? Max, I might not even see tomorrow morning. This is no longer about the bloody film. And by the looks of how many of your rooms are out of action, I’d say it might not be long until a few old friends end up in bed with you, mate.’

Max’s fingers tightened into fists. ‘Please . . . don’t say that.’

‘You’re like the worst kind of politician. You still haven’t told me what is going on. We’re wasting time here, Max!’

‘I was coming to that.’ Max took a breath. ‘Tomorrow you fly to Antwerp. And you—’

‘Whoa. Just whoa, yeah. Stop. Antwerp? What’s Holland got to do with this?’

‘Belgium.’

‘Fucking Belgium then. I’m not going anywhere. Have you heard a word I just said?’

‘In Antwerp there is a gallery. Owned by a private family—’

‘Max!’

‘Kyle! Will you bloody shut up!’

Kyle did, in stupefaction.

Max gathered himself. ‘Thank you. Now, the gallery. In this gallery is a triptych of paintings. Created by a master. A Flemish master. Niclaes Verhulst. I doubt you’ve come across him. But he was the son of a wealthy merchant. And he was a survivor. A survivor of something so terrible, it can only be adequately understood and comprehended by whoever looks upon his work. It’s far too improbable to describe in any other way.’

‘Pictures—’

Max raised his voice. ‘Within his extraordinary work is the story you seek. The work has not been reproduced since the 1920s, when some photographs were taken of it, and published in miniature in a book now long out of print. No other trace of the triptych exists. The work is all but forgotten. Those even aware of its existence still believe it was destroyed during the Second World War. Ownership of it has often seemed to . . . instigate bad luck. But I can arrange a private viewing.’ Kyle tried to interrupt but Max raised his hand and the volume of his voice again. ‘The family are rather eccentric, as is their collection, but we have become personal friends over the course of my research into The Temple of the Last Days. And I have found the family more than willing to believe what it is that we are all experiencing. In fact, it’s one of the main reasons they have kept the works discrete.’ Max looked away from Kyle and slumped into some unhappy recollection. ‘In case the same mistakes were made again. In other times. As they have been. And more than once since the paintings were completed.’

Kyle shook his head. ‘Max. There isn’t time for me to go gallivanting off to Belgium to look at a painting. I mean, Max. Our lives . . . our lives are in serious danger. Now. Tonight.’

‘Then our work together has concluded. And you may go.’

Kyle dropped into his chair and pressed his face into his hands. It was no good. Coming here and expecting Max to tell him the truth had been fruitless. More lies. More riddles. Another journey. Until what? Until he was found dead with his mouth and eyes wide open. Or not found at all. He shivered. ‘And if I walk away from this right now, I’ll be OK? And Dan? We’ll be fine?’

Max pursed his lips, pulled his shoulders into his body, raised his palms in resignation as if to imply, what can I do? ‘I hope . . . I’m not so sure.’

Kyle grinned, but not pleasantly. ‘Blackmail.’

‘I’d prefer to see it as negotiation.’

He stood up quickly. Max flinched. Kyle’s body shook with rage. He also wanted to sob with frustration. ‘You got me into this. And you think I’m still going to work for you? You’re the same. As her. Katherine. You’re cut from the same cloth.’

Max grimaced. ‘Don’t you say that. Ever!’

‘What’s the difference? You use people. Like that’s all we’re good for, your own self-interest.’

Max’s eyes narrowed. His smile was more of a grimace. ‘My dear Kyle. What you have been given is an opportunity to witness miracles. And to make the most astonishing documentary. I’ve given you your life’s purpose. All great ventures carry risk, do they not? You saw what still walks in the house in Clarendon Road. You could have abandoned this project before you set one foot in Normandy. Most would have done, and who can blame them? But you didn’t. You even went to America after all you saw in that bitch’s fermette. I’m impressed with you, Kyle. And I bet poor Dan took some persuading to stay along for the ride.’

‘You fucker.’

‘And maybe even the horrors of the Last Days were preferable to another night shift in the warehouse, Kyle.’

‘How did you know—’

‘I answered your prayers, Kyle. Insolvency’s wretched, I hear. You’d be shooting weddings for the rest of your life and making short films for a fiver. And all I have done is given you a chance to be someone, Kyle. To be more than some straight-to-YouTube loser. You were over the edge, Kyle, and I gave you a hand.’

‘I’m going.’ Kyle turned on his heel and headed for the door.

‘Kyle!’

Kyle reached for the door handle.

‘I know what you’re thinking, Kyle. I have the money and enough of a film already, so I should run and just keep running until all of this is far behind me. But there are places, Kyle, where money has no value. The Kingdom of Fools as depicted by Verhulst. So, either you leave this to me and hope I succeed in my desire to defeat her. Or you run. But if I don’t succeed, Kyle, you might just be waiting around like the rest of us have been, to die one night in the dark.’

Kyle turned the handle.

‘Please! I need you.’

Kyle paused.

‘See the triptych. See it! And you will know. Know it all. I promise.’

Kyle turned the handle and opened the door, stepped through it.

‘Kyle! Wait! Please. Please. The story. You must tell this story. You were made for this, boy. It’s in your blood.’

And then he found himself unwilling to walk any further from the bedroom. And for not doing so, he hated himself. Like a film on fast forward he thought of Susan White, Gabriel, Conway, Sweeney, Emilio, Martha Lake; footage shot in three countries; the terrible nature of the mystery as it unravelled, entwined, involved him. And he knew he would always wonder what really happened in Arizona. Would always sleep lightly. Would flinch at every watermark on plaster and every footfall in an upstairs room. Would be drawn in mind and spirit, if not in body, back to those places, to see, to marvel, to fathom. He could not bear to know; he could not bear to not know. How many times in a filmmaker’s lifetime did such an opportunity present itself? This was his chance to be who he was, and for everyone who ever doubted him or derided his work to really see what he was all about. A life’s work. Perhaps the end of a life too. He took a deep breath. ‘And if, and I mean if, I go and see this painting. If I even live that long. Then I will know everything. Everything that you know?’

‘You have my word. On your return tomorrow, and you must return, Kyle, you must. You will know what only I have come to understand and to accept as Sister Katherine’s true legacy. The Blood Friends.’

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