The Planner(86)

There were no paintings here. Instead there was a sculpture, or maybe it was what was known as an installation – a little irregular grouping of rods and circles arranged in the centre of the room. They were so slight and delicate, that he wondered for a moment if they were plants. They reminded him of the projector images he had seen in the nightclub – geometric lines and abstract shapes, which quivered together in little clumps. He walked up closer. They were devoid of colour or texture or meaning, and because of that could be trusted.

The sculpture was rotating. But unlike everything else in the world that was made of metal and moved, it wasn’t going to hurt anyone. Instead, it did nothing more than gently sway back and forth in wide, irregular arcs. If anything, it seemed to want to befriend him. He couldn’t detect any electric motors, although these days such things were invisible and made no noise. More likely, he guessed it was simply made of aluminium or some alloy so light that it took no more than an air conditioner and passing bodies to be animated.

From time to time, James peered into the room behind him, but each time it was hopeless. He had lost his sense of perspective, and the scene was two-dimensional, congested and essentially unnavigable. He could still understand the pictures on the walls, but everything else, everything human, was a mystery. Why had everyone come here? Was anyone apart from Jacob actually going to buy anything? How did all these people earn any money? Maybe it wasn’t just the cocktails: maybe the whole thing, maybe all of London, was being paid for by Felix, as part of some gigantic, real-life advertisement.

It didn’t help that his hearing had been damaged. Not that he heard less now – in fact, the opposite seemed to have happened. He could now hear everything – the chink of cocktail glasses across the room, whispered curses in the corners, the twang of insincerity in Felicity’s voice, the clicking of Alice’s shoes, and echoes from where the old printing presses used to be. He badly needed to sober up, or else have another drink – to do something about all the drugs and confusion that were leaking through his body.

It was difficult to tell how long he had been standing there. He hadn’t been checking his watch, and his body was incapable of monitoring the time. He was sure that the arms of the sculpture had undertaken a full rotation at least a dozen or so times, but there was no way of knowing how fast they were moving. All he knew was that it was much better to be here than anywhere else.

But now, from the room behind him, he was aware of other noises – noises that anyone might hear. Noises that had probably been going on for a while, and which he could no longer ignore. They were wild and frightening, and it was clear that something terrible was happening. He didn’t want to go back. It was calm in here, and he sensed that once he looked round, once he went back into the room, things would never be calm again.

There were footsteps and he turned round to see Felix. He had been expecting that.

‘James, I think your guest may need some assistance.’

He walked back into the room. No one was waiting for him, but there they all were. There was Alice who, after all these years, was still able to cause him great harm, and her boyfriend, whom James wouldn’t be able to compete with for another twenty years. There was Felicity, who was laughing unpleasantly. There was Jacob, the art collector, who was in a corner poisoning a young woman. There was Derek, the artist, who had seemed so cheerful an hour ago, but now looked as if he was weeping.

Most disturbing of all, though, in the centre of all this, there was Harriet. In some ways, he had to concede, she was looking better than he’d ever seen her. She looked like an Amazonian warrior – more ferocious, alive and dangerous than anyone else in the room. Her hair was long and her mouth more powerful than ever. But the problem, the insurmountable difficulty, was that she had just destroyed at least two works of art, and was attempting, with great violence, to dismantle another one. It was essentially a terrorist situation.

Given all this, it was surprising how well behaved everyone else was being. They were watching in respectful silence, while a woman who seemed to have a position of authority stood in the centre of the room. James wasn’t sure if she was the gallery owner, or just taller and more handsome than anyone else. But in any case everyone, except for Harriet, seemed to be doing what she told them.

Two policemen arrived. It was, he had forgotten, East London – there were police everywhere, to deal with all the people who didn’t go to art galleries. One was a stout Anglo-Saxon, with short fair hair and big ears who looked a bit like his flatmate Matt, and the other was a slender young South Asian, with long eyelashes. Taking their command from the tall woman, they methodically began to apprehend Harriet – one of them wrenched the canvas from her and the other one took her firmly by the wrists.