September 20, 2019
HALFWAY ALONG OUR JOURNEY to life’s end I found myself astray in a dark wood. This fork in the path, these slender birches, that mossy boulder tilted upwards, like a troll’s head. Finding oneself astray in any wood is a feat in Iceland, where even scraggy copses are rare. Zo? never let me navigate in our pre-satnav era; she said it was safer to drive with the road atlas on her lap. My tourist map of ásbyrgi isn’t any help; the mile-wide, horseshoe-shaped, forested ravine sinks beneath the surrounding land to a hundred-meter rock face, where a river dawdles in pools … But where am I in it? The river’s vowels and the trees’ consonants speak a not-quite-foreign language.
Minutes pass unnoticed as I gaze, transfixed, at the comings and goings of ants on a twig. Richard Cheeseman’s sitting between a policeman and a consular official, somewhere over the Atlantic. I remember him griping at Cartagena that the festival hadn’t flown him business class, but after three years in the Penitenciaría Central, even the Group 4 van from Heathrow up to Yorkshire is going to feel like a trip in a Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow.
A blundering wind scatters yellowed leaves …
… and I find one, dear reader, between my tongue and the roof of my mouth. Look. A little birch leaf. Sodding extraordinary. The wind’s sharp fingers snatch away the evidence. Willows stand aside to reveal the towering rock slab in the center of ásbyrgi … Perfect for snagging the anchor of a cloud-sailed longboat, or for a mothership from Epsilon Eridani to dock alongside. A torch-through-a-sheet sun. Hal sensed my China book would be a pile of crap, and he’s right. One six-day trip to Shanghai and Beijing, and I think I can rival Nick Greek’s knowledge of the place—what in buggery’s name was I thinking? Let me write about an Icelandic road trip; a running man; backflashes galore; and slowly disclose what it is he’s running from. Bring him to ásbyrgi; mention how the ravine was formed by a slammed-down hoof of Odin’s horse. Mention how it’s the Parliament of the Hidden Folk. Have him stare at the rock faces until the rock’s faces stare back. Breathe deep the resinous tang of the spruces. Let him meet a ghost from his past. Hear the bird, luring me in, ever deeper ever tighter circles. Where are you? There. On the toadstool-frilled tree stump.
“It’s a wren,” said Mum, turning to go.
AT MY TENTH birthday party, pass-the-parcel descended into a battle royale of half nelsons and Chinese burns. My father buggered off, leaving Mum and Nina the housekeeper to conduct riot control until Mr. Chimes the Magician showed up. Mr. Chimes was an alcoholic thesp-on-the-skids, whose real name was Arthur Hoare, upon whom Dad had taken pity. His halitosis could have melted plastic. From his magic hat, at the count of three, he produced Hermes the Magic Hamster, but Hermes had been flattened seriously enough to produce death, blood, feces, and innards. My classmates shrieked with disgust and joy. Mr. Chimes laid the rodent’s mangled corpse in an ashtray and said: “ ‘For those whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow Die not, poor Death; nor yet canst thou kill me.’ Boys.” Mr. Chimes packed up his props. “John Donne lied, the bastard.” Kells Tufton then announced he’d swallowed one of my miniature lead figurines, so Mum had to drive him to hospital. Nina was left in charge, a less-than-ideal arrangement, as she spoke little English and had suffered from bouts of depression ever since the Argentine junta’s men had thrown her siblings from a helicopter over the South Atlantic. My classmates knew nothing and cared less about juntas and played the we’ll-repeat-what-you-say game until Nina locked herself in the third-floor flat where Dad normally wrote his screenplays. Now the blood-dimmed tide was truly loosed, and everywhere the ceremony of innocence was drowned—until a boy called Mervyn climbed a twelve-shelved bookcase and brought it down on himself. Nina dialed 999. The paramedic said Mervyn needed immediate attention, so Nina went off with the ambulance, leaving me to explain to our classmates’ parents that our Pembridge Place house was as bereft of adults as all but the last two pages of Lord of the Flies. Mum and Nina got home after eight P.M. Dad got home much later. Voices were raised. Doors were slammed. The following morning I was awoken by the snarl of Dad’s Jaguar XJS in the garage beneath my room. Off he went to Shepperton Studios—he was editing Ganymede 5 at the time. I was eating Shredded Wheat over my comic 2000 AD when I heard Mum lugging a suitcase down the stairs. She told me she still loved me and Phoebe, but that our father had broken too many promises, so she was taking a break. She said, “This one might be permanent.” As my Shredded Wheat turned to mush, she spoke of how her swinging sixties had been a blur of morning sickness, washing nappies, wringing snot from Dad’s handkerchiefs, and doing unpaid donkey work for Hershey Pictures; how she had turned a blind eye to Dad’s “entanglements” with actresses, makeup girls, and secretaries; and how, when she was pregnant with Phoebe, Dad had promised to write and shoot a film just for her. Her role would be complex, subtle, and showcase her talent as an actress. Dad and his co-writer had completed the script, Domenico and the Queen of Spain, a few weeks before. Mum was to play Princess Maria Barbara, who became the titular queen. Now, this much we all knew. What I didn’t know was that the day before, while anarchy reigned at Pembridge Place, the head of Transcontinental Pictures had phoned Dad and put Raquel Welch on the line. Miss Welch had read the script, she said, considered it a work of genius, and would play Maria Barbara. Had Dad explained that his wife, who had sacrificed her own acting career for the family, was to play the role? No. He had said, “Raquel, it’s all yours.” The doorbell rang and it was Mum’s brother, my uncle Bob, come to pick her up. Mum said I’d learn betrayals came in various shapes and sizes, but to betray someone’s dream is the unforgivable one. A bird hopped onto the foaming lilac outside. Its throat quivered; notes rose and fell out. As long as it kept singing and I kept staring, I told myself, I wouldn’t start crying.
“It’s a wren,” said Mum, turning to go.
THE SUN’S SUNK behind the high lip of ásbyrgi, so the greens are stewing to grays and browns. Leaves and twigs are losing threedimensionality. When I remember my mother, am I remembering her, or just memories of her? The latter, I suspect. The glass of dusk is filling by the minute, and I don’t really know where I left my Mitsubishi. I feel like Wells’s time traveler separated from his time machine. Should I be getting alarmed? What’s the worst that could happen to me? Well, I may never find my way out, and die of exposure. Ewan Rice will write my obituary for The Guardian. Or would he? At the housewarming/meet-Carmen party I threw last autumn Ewan almost went out of his way to emphasize his alpha literary male status: dinner with Stephen Spielberg on his last trip to L.A.; fifty thousand dollars for a lecture at Columbia; an invitation to judge the Pulitzer—“I’ll see if I can fit it in, I’m so damn busy.” So maybe not. My sister Phoebe’ll miss me, even if the hatchets we’ve buried in the past are not buried very deep. Carmen would be distraught, I think. She might blame herself. Holly, bless her, would organize the logistics from this end. They’d both steal the show at my funeral. Hyena Hal will know about my death before I do, but will he miss me? As a client, I’m now a conspicuous underperformer. Zo?? Zo? won’t notice until the alimony account runs dry, and the girls would sob their hearts out. Ana?s might, anyway.
This is ridiculous! It’s a medium-sized wood, not a vast forest. There were some camper vans right by the car park. Why not just yell, “Help!” Because I’m a guy, I’m Crispin Hershey, the Wild Child of British Letters. I just can’t. There’s a mossy boulder that looks like the head of a troll, thrusting up through a thin ceiling of earth …
? ? ?
… by some trick of this northern light, a narrow segment of my 360-degree woodland view—it includes the mossy boulder and the X made by two leaning trunks behind—wavers and shimmers, like a sheet blown in a breeze, a breeze that isn’t even there …
No: Look! A hand appears in the air, and pulls the sheet aside, a hand whose owner now steps out of the slitted air. Like a conjuring trick—a really, really astonishing one. A blond young man, dressed in jacket and jeans, has materialized here, in the middle of this wood. Midtwenties and with model-good looks. I watch, astonished: Am I … actually seeing a ghost? A twig cracks under his desert boot. No ghost and no materializing, you idiot; my “ghost” is just a tourist, like me. From the camper vans, like as not. Probably he just took a dump. Blame the twilight; blame another day spent in my own company. I tell him, “Good evening.”
“Good evening, Mr. Hershey.” His English sounds more expensively schooled British than sibilant Icelandic.
I’m gratified, I admit. “My. Odd place to be recognized.”
He takes a few paces until we’re at arm’s length. He looks pleased. “I’m an admirer. My name’s Hugo Lamb.” Then he smiles with charisma and warmth, as if I’m a trusted friend he’s known for years. For my part, I feel an unwanted craving for his approval.
“Nice, uh, to meet you then, Hugo. Look, this is all a bit embarrassing, but I’ve gone and mislaid the car park …”
He nods and his face turns thoughtful again. “ásbyrgi plays these tricks on everybody, Mr. Hershey.”
“Could you point me in the right direction, then?”
“I could. I will. But, first, I have a few questions.”
I take a step back. “You mean … about my books?”
“No, about Holly Sykes. You’ve become close, we see.”
With dismay I realize this Hugo’s one of Holly’s weirdos. Then with anger, as I realize, no, he’s a tabloid “reporter”; she’s had some bother with the telephoto lens gang at her new house in Rye. “I’d love to give you the lowdown on me ’n’ Hol,” I sneer at Handsome Pants, “but here’s the thing, sunshine: It’s none of your fucking business.”
Hugo Lamb is utterly unriled. “Ah, but you’re wrong. Holly Sykes’s business is very much our concern.”
I start walking off, backwards, watchfully. “Whatever. Goodbye.”
“You’ll need my assistance to get out of ásbyrgi,” says the youth.
“Your assistance will fit neatly up your small intestine. Holly’s a private person, and so am I, and I’ll find my own way ba—”
Hugo Lamb has made a peculiar gesture with his hand, and my body is lifted ten feet into the air and squeezed in an invisible giant’s fist: My ribs crunch; the nerves in my spine crackle and the agony is indescribable; begging for mercy or screaming is impossible, and so is enduring this torture for a second longer, but seconds pass, I think they’re seconds, they could be days, until I’m thrown, not dropped, onto the forest floor.
My face is pressed into leaf mold. I’m grunting, quivering, and whimpering even as the agony fades. I look up. Hugo Lamb’s face is that of a boy dismembering a daddy longlegs; mild interest and gleeful malevolence. A Taser might explain the incapacitating pain, but what about the ten-feet-off-the-ground bit? Something atavistic snuffs my curiosity now, however; I need to get away from him. I’ve pissed myself but I don’t even care. My feet don’t work, and a far-off voice might be roaring at me, “You’ll never walk alone again,” but I won’t listen, I can’t, I daren’t. I crawl backwards, then pull myself upright, against a big tree stump. Hugo Lamb makes another gesture and my legs fold under me. There’s no pain this time. Worse, almost, there’s nothing. From my waist down, all sensation has gone. I touch my thigh. My fingers register my thigh but my thigh registers nothing. Hugo Lamb walks over—I cower—and perches on the tree stump. “Legs do come in handy,” he says. “Do you want yours back?”
My voice is shaky as heck: “What are you?”
“Dangerous, as you see. You’ll recognize these two cuties.” He removes a little square from his pocket and shows me the passport photo of me, Ana?s, and Juno that I lost a few days ago. “Answer my questions honestly, and they’ll have as decent a chance of a long and happy life as any child at Outremont Lycée.”
This good-looking youth is the stuff of a bad acid trip. Obviously he stole the photo, but when and how, I cannot guess. I nod.
“Let’s begin. Who is most precious to Holly Sykes?”
“Her daughter,” I say hoarsely. “Aoife. That’s no secret.”
“Good. Are you and Holly lovers?”
“No. No. We’re just friends. Really.”
“With a woman? Is that typical for you, Mr. Hershey?”
“I guess not, but it’s how it is with Holly.”
“Has Holly ever mentioned Esther Little?”
I swallow and shake my head. “No.”
“Think very carefully: Esther Little.”
I think, or try to. “I don’t know the name. I swear.” I can hear how petrified I sound.
“What has Holly told you about her cognitive gifts?”
“Only what’s in her book. In The Radio People.”
“Yes, a real page-turner. Have you witnessed her channeling a voice?” Hugo Lamb notices my hesitation. “Don’t make me count down from five, like some hokey interrogator in a third-rate movie, before I fry you. Your fans know how you detest cliché.”
The hollow deepens as the trees lean over. “Two years ago, on Rottnest Island, near Perth, Holly fainted, and a weird voice came out of her mouth. I thought it was epilepsy, but she said how the prisoners had suffered, and then … she spoke in Aborigine … and—that’s all. She hit her head. Then she was back.”
Hugo Lamb tap-tap-taps the photo. Some part of me still able to analyze notices that although his face is young something about his eyes and intentness is much older. “What about the Dusk Chapel?”
“The what chapel?”
“Or the Anchorites? Or the Blind Cathar? Or Black Wine?”
“I never heard of any of those things. I swear.”
Tap-tap-tap goes Hugo Lamb’s finger on the photo of me and the girls. “What does Horology mean to you?”
This feels like some demonic pub quiz: “Horology? The study of the measurement of time. Or old clocks.”
He leans over me; I feel like a microbe on a slide. “Tell me what you know about Marinus.”
Wretched as a snitch and hopeful this will save my daughters, I tell my eerie interrogator that Marinus was a child psychiatrist at Gravesend Hospital. “He’s mentioned in Holly’s book as well.”
“Has she met Marinus during the time you’ve known her?”
I shake my head. “He’ll be ancient now. If he’s still alive.”
Is a woman laughing on the outer edge of my hearing?
“What is,” Hugo Lamb watches me carefully, “the Star of Riga?”
“The capital of Estonia. No. Latvia. Or Lithuania. I’m not sure. One of the Baltic states, anyway. I’m sorry.”
Hugo Lamb considers me. “We’re finished.”
“I—I told you the truth. Completely. Don’t hurt my kids.”
He swings off the mossy boulder and walks away, telling me, “If their daddy’s an honest man, Juno and Ana?s have nothing to fear.”
“You—you’re—you’re letting me go?” I touch my legs. They’re still dead. “Hey! My legs! Please!”
“Knew I’d forgotten something.” Hugo Lamb turns around. “By the by, Mr. Hershey, the critics’ treatment of Echo Must Die was egregious. But, hey, you shafted Richard Cheeseman royally in return, didn’t you?” Lamb’s smile is puckered and conspiratorial. “He’ll never guess, unless someone plants the idea in his head. Sorry about your trousers; the car park is left at the last fork. That much you’ll remember. Everything else I’ll redact. Ready?” His eyes fixing mine, Hugo Lamb twists the air into threads between his forefingers and thumbs, then pulls tight …
… a mossy boulder, big as a troll’s head, on its side and brooding over an ancient wrong. I’m sitting on the ground with no memory of tripping, though I must have done; I’m aching all over. How the sodding hell did I get down here? A mini-stroke? Magicked by the elves of ásbyrgi? I must have … what? Sat down for a breather, then nodded off. A breeze passes, the trees shiver, and a yellow leaf loop-the-loops, landing by a fluke of air currents on my palm. Look at that. For the second time today, I think of Mr. Chimes the conjuror. Not far away, a woman’s laughing. The campsite’s near. I get up—and notice a big cold stain down my thigh. Oh. Okay. The Wild Child of British Letters has suffered a somnambulant urethral mishap. Lucky there’s no Piccadilly Review diarist around. I’m only fifty-three—surely still a bit young for incontinence pads? It’s all chilly and clammy, like it happened a couple of minutes ago. Thank God I’m so close to the parking area, clean boxers, and trousers. Back to the fork, then turn left. Let us hurry, dear reader. It’ll be night before you know it.