table. He turned to his laptop and googled the name of the pub Rachel Phillips had mentioned. Opened another window on his screen and pasted the postcode into Google Maps. Looked for the nearest Tube station. Chancery Lane.
Maybe he could black-cab it and charge it to Max, who’d be pleased with this lead. Maybe he could try to persuade Rachel to let him record her testimony anonymously, then get an actress to do her narration in a voice-over if it was good enough. Rachel Phillips QC was abrupt and time-precious, but as a barrister she didn’t fit the profile of a kook who was willing to jump to woo-woo conclusions about odd sounds and smells in a rented flat. Didn’t barristers have to be accurate?
He was suddenly tempted to call Dan again and tell him the news about the interview; this unexpected confirmation of what they had actually experienced inside the building. He swept his phone off the table, but remembered Dan would be working and put the phone back down. Kyle slumped into the sofa. Looked at the shroud of the chestnut tree beyond his living-room windows, through which the dying sun came in, filtered as if through diamonds.
This was really turning into something. He could feel it.
That tingling, precious moment when the usual slog of the research, the hunt for interviews, the endless phone calls to set up a shoot, the standing around between takes, the fretting, the let-downs, the revisions and compromises, just seemed to elevate into a coming together; a serendipity, when one lead opened into another and he was transported, dizzy with excitement, by a project coming to life and taking a 94
LAST DAYS
unique shape as it told its own story; a narrative he never expected to take form in the script. The best stories told themselves and turned the original premise into fossils; he knew that from experience with Blood Frenzy and Coven . They burned out because they were just waiting to be told if you found the right people and asked the right questions.
‘Yowser!’ he said to the cat that sat on the arm of the sofa.
It blinked and turned on to its back.
Still no word from Max; he’d left a garbled message on Max’s mobile phone that morning. Two more in the early afternoon when he’d been too antsy to sit still after watching the footage on the final flash drive. Hadn’t Max asked him to call right away, straight after the interview with Susan White?
He opened his email, and began typing:
Hey Max,
Sorry for the excess of enthusiasm, but we had
an extraordinary experience Saturday night at
Clarendon Road. My head is still reeling. Anyway, will tell you more in detail when we next speak.
Panic over: we retrieved the cameras early this
morning, with some trepidation, I might add, so
Dan could meet his next engagement. Place was a
different proposition in daylight. No evidence of anyone having been in there besides us at all. Just like it was when we were there with Susan White:
empty, bare, ordinary, totally innocuous. Electric lights were still out though, and we didn’t have the bottle/time to check the stain in the basement, but 95
ADAM NEVILL
you need to tell the landlord about it. It stinks down there. And if it’s a stain, then the Vatican should know about it! Anyway, I’ve done some sleuthing
after last night’s fright, and now have an unexpected lead that I’ll be pursuing tomorrow.
Speak soon,
Kyle
96
SIX
lincoln’s inn fields, london.
13 june 2011, 1 p.m.
Rachel peered at Kyle as he retrieved his screeching phone from the side pocket of his leather jacket. ‘Do you need to get that?’
Kyle shook his head. ‘Nah. It can wait.’ It was the third call from Max since he’d sat down with Rachel Phillips on a bench in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. One look through the window of the pub and she’d quickly eschewed her own choice of eatery. ‘Don’t worry,’ she’d said. ‘It’s not that I don’t want to be seen with you. But I don’t want anyone overhearing our
Maybe he could black-cab it and charge it to Max, who’d be pleased with this lead. Maybe he could try to persuade Rachel to let him record her testimony anonymously, then get an actress to do her narration in a voice-over if it was good enough. Rachel Phillips QC was abrupt and time-precious, but as a barrister she didn’t fit the profile of a kook who was willing to jump to woo-woo conclusions about odd sounds and smells in a rented flat. Didn’t barristers have to be accurate?
He was suddenly tempted to call Dan again and tell him the news about the interview; this unexpected confirmation of what they had actually experienced inside the building. He swept his phone off the table, but remembered Dan would be working and put the phone back down. Kyle slumped into the sofa. Looked at the shroud of the chestnut tree beyond his living-room windows, through which the dying sun came in, filtered as if through diamonds.
This was really turning into something. He could feel it.
That tingling, precious moment when the usual slog of the research, the hunt for interviews, the endless phone calls to set up a shoot, the standing around between takes, the fretting, the let-downs, the revisions and compromises, just seemed to elevate into a coming together; a serendipity, when one lead opened into another and he was transported, dizzy with excitement, by a project coming to life and taking a 94
LAST DAYS
unique shape as it told its own story; a narrative he never expected to take form in the script. The best stories told themselves and turned the original premise into fossils; he knew that from experience with Blood Frenzy and Coven . They burned out because they were just waiting to be told if you found the right people and asked the right questions.
‘Yowser!’ he said to the cat that sat on the arm of the sofa.
It blinked and turned on to its back.
Still no word from Max; he’d left a garbled message on Max’s mobile phone that morning. Two more in the early afternoon when he’d been too antsy to sit still after watching the footage on the final flash drive. Hadn’t Max asked him to call right away, straight after the interview with Susan White?
He opened his email, and began typing:
Hey Max,
Sorry for the excess of enthusiasm, but we had
an extraordinary experience Saturday night at
Clarendon Road. My head is still reeling. Anyway, will tell you more in detail when we next speak.
Panic over: we retrieved the cameras early this
morning, with some trepidation, I might add, so
Dan could meet his next engagement. Place was a
different proposition in daylight. No evidence of anyone having been in there besides us at all. Just like it was when we were there with Susan White:
empty, bare, ordinary, totally innocuous. Electric lights were still out though, and we didn’t have the bottle/time to check the stain in the basement, but 95
ADAM NEVILL
you need to tell the landlord about it. It stinks down there. And if it’s a stain, then the Vatican should know about it! Anyway, I’ve done some sleuthing
after last night’s fright, and now have an unexpected lead that I’ll be pursuing tomorrow.
Speak soon,
Kyle
96
SIX
lincoln’s inn fields, london.
13 june 2011, 1 p.m.
Rachel peered at Kyle as he retrieved his screeching phone from the side pocket of his leather jacket. ‘Do you need to get that?’
Kyle shook his head. ‘Nah. It can wait.’ It was the third call from Max since he’d sat down with Rachel Phillips on a bench in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. One look through the window of the pub and she’d quickly eschewed her own choice of eatery. ‘Don’t worry,’ she’d said. ‘It’s not that I don’t want to be seen with you. But I don’t want anyone overhearing our
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