LEVEN
There was a view from her windows that she didnât recognise. Sheâd thought she still knew this city well. This was the centre, right by the TV studios, right at the end of Deansgate. Still, she didnât recognise the view. Where the sludgy old canals once lay parched and dilapidated, theyâd put flatblocks with balconies. There were restaurants under the railway arches. A Harry Ramsdenâs on the road to Eccles, by what appeared to be a casino. It would take some getting used to.
The suite theyâd given her wasnât all that bad. Flatteringly posh enough. Orchids were set out on the bedside table, along with her morningâs press cuttings, and a little note from the producer, Adrian. Slimy, but beautiful penmanship. Public schoolboy type, she knew. Call him, he said, when she arrived, safe and sound.
Now she was up here, though, all she wanted was a lie down. A calming nap. The Brunchtime show, the press attention, and the ride up here had worn her down. All her insides were jumping about. She had to get a grip. She could blow it all by being too nervous and too keen. Let Adrian the producer with the beautiful hand wait a little while. Let other people get on with their jobs now. Flissy had her agenting to do, more negotiations with the TV people. All Karla had todo was be ready, sit tight, and keep her gob shut for a bit. Everything would fall into her lap.
But first, an afternoon nap, and still the same dream. It had pursued her here to the North, to her grand new setting. The dream that had gone on for years.
That awful old man with the bald and freckled head. He was looming over her, lording it over her. Two long ears like rashers of bacon stuck to the sides of his head. An ugly man, radiating ill will and temper. Something magnetic about him, though. Something that made you look twice and that drew you in. He was so cultivated. He knew about opera and art and the Left Hand Path. So mannered, so polite. And he talked very quietly, so that you had to lean in to pick up what he was saying to you. And by then you were lost.
He was a Count. Thatâs what the make-up and costume girls had told her. A real Count, born. It wasnât a fake title. When he came to visit the cast and crew on location there were whispers, flurries of excitement.
North Wales in February. l968. They were camped in a slate quarry, as far away from the Sixties as anyone could be. Everything dreary and damp. Spirits low on the set of âGet Inside Me, Satan!â The Count was coming and somehow that cheered everyone and boosted morale. The regal presence of this bald, malign old gent.
The freckles on his head had been the colour of Brussels pate. In her light sleep in the afternoon, all these years later, Karla shivered at the sight of him again, running a cool finger over those freckles on the dome of his skull. He came back so clearly in her dreams. She had never forgotten a single detail of his compact, bristling figure. He was the author of thenovel, and heâd had a hand in the shooting script. A clawed, twisted hand. A great personal friend of the producer, the backers of the movie. A friend of so many influential people: well-connected, powerful. Of course Karla had needed to get to know him. She was the star of his show. She was meant to be breathing life into what everyone agreed was the Countâs greatest creation.
He was also a millionaire. Had been one even before all those worldwide bestsellers. The greatest, most successful Occult writer the world had ever known. Sitting in Karlaâs trailer in a Welsh slate quarry. Opening the brandy, talking with her as they sat in front of a hissing gas fire.
Not that he ever claimed to be an occultist himself. He explained this to her patiently, mildly, spreading his pointed fingers as he warmed his glass.
âOh, no. Never. In fact, my various novels and literary endeavours exist for the sole purpose of warning the foolish public of the
There was a view from her windows that she didnât recognise. Sheâd thought she still knew this city well. This was the centre, right by the TV studios, right at the end of Deansgate. Still, she didnât recognise the view. Where the sludgy old canals once lay parched and dilapidated, theyâd put flatblocks with balconies. There were restaurants under the railway arches. A Harry Ramsdenâs on the road to Eccles, by what appeared to be a casino. It would take some getting used to.
The suite theyâd given her wasnât all that bad. Flatteringly posh enough. Orchids were set out on the bedside table, along with her morningâs press cuttings, and a little note from the producer, Adrian. Slimy, but beautiful penmanship. Public schoolboy type, she knew. Call him, he said, when she arrived, safe and sound.
Now she was up here, though, all she wanted was a lie down. A calming nap. The Brunchtime show, the press attention, and the ride up here had worn her down. All her insides were jumping about. She had to get a grip. She could blow it all by being too nervous and too keen. Let Adrian the producer with the beautiful hand wait a little while. Let other people get on with their jobs now. Flissy had her agenting to do, more negotiations with the TV people. All Karla had todo was be ready, sit tight, and keep her gob shut for a bit. Everything would fall into her lap.
But first, an afternoon nap, and still the same dream. It had pursued her here to the North, to her grand new setting. The dream that had gone on for years.
That awful old man with the bald and freckled head. He was looming over her, lording it over her. Two long ears like rashers of bacon stuck to the sides of his head. An ugly man, radiating ill will and temper. Something magnetic about him, though. Something that made you look twice and that drew you in. He was so cultivated. He knew about opera and art and the Left Hand Path. So mannered, so polite. And he talked very quietly, so that you had to lean in to pick up what he was saying to you. And by then you were lost.
He was a Count. Thatâs what the make-up and costume girls had told her. A real Count, born. It wasnât a fake title. When he came to visit the cast and crew on location there were whispers, flurries of excitement.
North Wales in February. l968. They were camped in a slate quarry, as far away from the Sixties as anyone could be. Everything dreary and damp. Spirits low on the set of âGet Inside Me, Satan!â The Count was coming and somehow that cheered everyone and boosted morale. The regal presence of this bald, malign old gent.
The freckles on his head had been the colour of Brussels pate. In her light sleep in the afternoon, all these years later, Karla shivered at the sight of him again, running a cool finger over those freckles on the dome of his skull. He came back so clearly in her dreams. She had never forgotten a single detail of his compact, bristling figure. He was the author of thenovel, and heâd had a hand in the shooting script. A clawed, twisted hand. A great personal friend of the producer, the backers of the movie. A friend of so many influential people: well-connected, powerful. Of course Karla had needed to get to know him. She was the star of his show. She was meant to be breathing life into what everyone agreed was the Countâs greatest creation.
He was also a millionaire. Had been one even before all those worldwide bestsellers. The greatest, most successful Occult writer the world had ever known. Sitting in Karlaâs trailer in a Welsh slate quarry. Opening the brandy, talking with her as they sat in front of a hissing gas fire.
Not that he ever claimed to be an occultist himself. He explained this to her patiently, mildly, spreading his pointed fingers as he warmed his glass.
âOh, no. Never. In fact, my various novels and literary endeavours exist for the sole purpose of warning the foolish public of the
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