EPILOGUE
‘Jesus. Jesus f*ckin’ Christ,’ Archie said, looking up at the walls. ‘I just never get used to it.’
Beside him, Quin didn’t speak. Just blinked a couple of times as if staring into the glare of the sun.
‘What ya think it is?’ Archie asked, his hands on his hips, standing at the foot of the unmade bed in the abandoned room.
Quin didn’t or couldn’t answer. It had been four weeks since rent had been paid on the room, and about as long since anyone could remember seeing Seth leaving or entering the building, or using the kitchen. And they had told the police as much when they came looking for him.
He should have taken more of an interest in Seth, but hadn’t wanted to pry. Everyone had their reasons for living at the Green Man. Reasons that were their own. There was never much choice involved in residency here. And Seth had always been a good tenant. Paid up on time and never bothered a soul. So he didn’t mind him falling behind on the rent for a while. But four weeks was taking the piss, and he didn’t want the Old Bill looking round the pub again either.
There had been no one in the room when Archie let the police in a month back, or at any other time since whenever he had tried to raise a response or peered inside the room from around the door. People had done it before; lived here, sometimes even for years, and then vanished without a word. The cellar was full of stuff left behind by previous tenants. There were no records kept at the Green Man or questions asked. That was the beauty of the place. You could take time out here. As long as you paid your seventy quid every week and didn’t bother anyone, then no one was going to be your keeper.
But now he came to think of it, hadn’t Seth said something about being a painter? Once, a long time ago. Maybe. He couldn’t remember. But he’d definitely been painting something up here. On the walls, and even the ceiling.
‘What should I do wi’ his stuff? Archie said, and pointed at the jumble of clothes in one corner, and at the dried-out paints, the stiff brushes, the mess of sketches strewn across the spattered dust sheets, the white saucer piled high with gnarled cigarette butts, and the rucksack beside the fridge. ‘Quin?’
‘What?’
‘I said, what should I do wi’ it?’
Quin broke his stare from the reddish colours on the chimney breast. It was like looking at an autopsy. ‘Put it in the cellar. In case he comes back to fetch it.’
Archie nodded, then looked at the wall across from the door. ‘Poor bastard was twisted. Don’t think we’re gonna be seeing him agin.’
Quin looked at the side of Archie’s face, wanting him either to elaborate or to exchange a look of mutual understanding. But then he wasn’t really sure what he wanted. Not at all sure of what was on these walls, or in his own mind as he looked at them. The pictures made him feel uncomfortable and unwell at the same time, like he was suddenly worried sick about something. And yet, he wasn’t entirely sure what he was actually looking at.
Archie shook his head. ‘What is that, a face or summat? Maybe a dog. Looks like it’s got teeth in it.’
He was talking now to ease the shock that had accompanied their turning on of the lights and opening of the thin curtains. They should have been angry at the way these walls had been defaced, or full of mirth at the preposterousness of what Seth had done. Even full of admiration at the skill involved in the way he’d got these things up there to hit you so hard when you looked at them. Took your breath away they did. But Quin couldn’t feel much now beside a deep discomfort he had no words for, and a desire to shut his eyes tight. He didn’t want to see any more. ‘Leave the dust sheets where they are and get this covered up today. You’ll have to use two coats of the white emulsion left over from the kitchen.’
‘It’ll take a roller.’
‘I don’t f*ckin’ care what it takes, just get rid of it. I want this place let by Friday. Kenny’s cousin has left his missus and is looking for a place. He can have it.’
Archie nodded, still staring at the walls. Quin left the room.
‘Christ,’ Archie said to himself, and shook his head one final time before removing his glasses. He’d paint the room without his specs on. At least then he wouldn’t have to see too closely the things that climbed these walls and crawled across the ceiling. But even when they’d been covered over, he wondered if he’d ever forget them.
APARTMENT 16
Adam L. G. Nevill was born in Birmingham, England, in 1969 and grew up in England and New Zealand. He is also the author of Banquet for the Damned, an original novel of supernatural horror inspired by M. R. James and the great tradition of the British weird tale.
In his working life he has endured a variety of occupations, including from 2000 to 2004 both nightwatchman and day porter in the exclusive apartment buildings of west London.
He still lives in the capital and can be contacted through www.adamlgnevill.com
For Ramsey Campbell,
Peter Crowther and John Jarrold
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
The following books provided much inspiration for the interior design of Apartment 16 and the life of Felix Hessen: Wyndham Lewis, by Richard Humphries; The Bone Beneath the Pulp: Drawings by Wyndham Lewis, edited by Jacky Klein; Francis Bacon and the Loss of Self, by Ernst van Alphen; Francis Bacon: Taking Reality by Surprise, by Christophe Domino; Interviews with Francis Bacon, by David Sylvester; Grosz, by Ivo Kranzfelder; Diana Mosley, by Anne de Courcy; The Occult Roots of Nazism, by Nicholas Goodrick-Clarke.
Special thanks to Julie Crisp for the faith, careful readings and notes, and to my agent John Jarrold for getting me a shot at the next level. Much gratitude and affection also goes out to Ramsey Campbell, and to Peter Crowther at PS Publishing, who first brought me into print.
For my readers, Anne Parry, James Marriott and Clive Nevill, I have again incurred a debt by exploiting your precious time and critical skills. I thank you.
Finally, a very special thanks to the grand old apartment buildings of Knightsbridge, Mayfair and Marylebone that funded my ‘old school’ writing residency from 2000 to 2004. I thought I’d never ever escape.
I would like my pictures to look as if a human being had passed between them, like a snail, leaving a trail of the human presence and memory of the past events as the snail leaves its slime.
Francis Bacon, 1909–1992