Seventy-Seven Clocks(4)

His cheerful attitude made her smile. The English crept into smart hotels as if entering cathedrals. They queried their bills in whispers, slinking to their rooms like criminals. Handsome young black men didn’t stay at the Savoy. It was a time when England was still running The Black And White Minstrel Show on prime-time TV. Liberation remained on album covers and onstage at Hair.

‘You’d better check the validity of his reservation,’ Nicholas told her. ‘I mean, this is the Savoy. The other guests don’t want to see . . .’ he searched for the right phrase ‘. . . people like him . . . hanging around our lobby.’

‘I don’t see how you can judge someone so quickly.’

‘He’s probably in that awful rock musical,’ Nicholas sniffed. ‘Swaggering about in bright clothes just shows a lack of breeding.’

‘Funny, I always thought that about the gold-covered white women one sees in Knightsbridge,’ she replied. Before the weekend, Nicholas had kept his prejudices hidden. ‘I’m running late. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

She was returning from the staff room in her Afghan coat when she noticed the sleeping man again. He’d been sprawled in a corner of the lobby with a Daily Telegraph over his face for quite a while now. As she passed Nicholas, she pointed at the recumbent figure. ‘You’d better wake him up.’

‘You’re nearer. You do it.’

‘I already told you, I’m late.’

Sighing, she crossed to the chair and gently removed the newspaper from their guest. The unveiled face was florid and middle-aged. A flap of grey hair leaned back from the man’s head like a raised gull’s wing. She recognized the sleeper as a guest who had checked into the hotel on Friday. She tapped him gently on the shoulder. Overhead, the lights in the central chandelier flickered, momentarily dimming the room.

‘Mr Jacob, time to wake up . . .’

Jacob’s lips rattled out a furious blast of air and he sat sharply upright.

‘What the devil—?’ His eyes bulged, his throat distending as he lurched forward in his seat. For a moment Jerry thought she had startled the guest in the middle of a dream. Now she saw that he was choking. Before she could take any action, he jack-knifed forward, spluttering and spraying a fine crimson mist from between his teeth.

She saw Nicholas reaching for a telephone as she tried to hold the agitated guest down in his seat.

‘Nicholas, come and give me a hand, he’s having some kind of seizure!’

The body beneath her was bucking in the grip of violent convulsions. Jacob’s left foot shot out and cracked her painfully on the shin. Together they fell to the floor, landing hard on their knees just as Nicholas arrived at their side.

‘What’s wrong with him?’ he asked, gingerly attempting to grab an arm.

‘How should I know? He could be an epileptic. Did you get through?’

‘The house doctor’s line is busy.’

Jacob’s eyes had rolled up in their sockets so that only the whites showed. A glittering knot of blood hung from his chin. Jerry wasn’t sure of the procedure in such a situation. With her knees planted on his twisting shoulders, she grabbed his tie and wadded it into his mouth to prevent him from biting his tongue. She felt inside his jacket and pulled out a wallet, flicking it open.

‘What are you doing?’ yelled Nicholas.

‘I’m looking for a card that says he has a medical condition.’

Jacob’s limbs suddenly dropped and he became heavy, sliding flat on to the floor, taking Jerry down with him. There followed a moment of absolute stillness, as if the man’s spirit was wrenching free from his body. With a final bark he emptied the contents of his stomach, flooding the intricately patterned carpet.

Jerry looked from the fleshy corpse in her embrace to the benign gold cherubs in the ceiling above. She had felt the man die. As the realization hit her, a wind began to rush in her ears and the room distanced itself, telescoping away as the world fled to darkness.





3 / Vandalism

London hides its secrets well.

Beneath the damp grey veil of a winter’s afternoon, the city’s interior life unwound as brightly as ever, and the rituals interred within the heavy stone buildings remained as immutable as the bricks themselves. London still bore the stamps of an empire fallen from grace— its trampled grandeur, its obduracy—and, sometimes, its violence.

Having survived another day of rummaging through handbags without discovering a single gun, knife, or IRA bomb, the security guards at the entrance to the National Gallery were about to console themselves with a strong cup of tea.

George Stokes checked his silver pocket watch, a memento of thirty years’ loyal service, then turned to his colleague. ‘Twenty to six,’ he said. ‘In another ten minutes you can nip up and ring the bell. There won’t be anyone else coming in now.’