“Sixty-five pee, dear,” said the woman, picking up the silver object, staring at it. “Funny old thing, isn’t it? Came in this morning.” It had writing carved along the side in blocky old Chinese characters and an elegant arching handle. “Some kind of oil can, I suppose.”
“No, it’s not an oil can,” said Mrs. Whitaker, who knew exactly what it was. “It’s a lamp.”
There was a small metal finger ring, unornamented, tied to the handle of the lamp with brown twine.
“Actually,” said Mrs. Whitaker, “on second thoughts, I think I’ll just have the book.”
She paid her five pence for the novel, and put the lamp back where she had found it, in the back of the shop. After all, Mrs. Whitaker reflected, as she walked home, it wasn’t as if she had anywhere to put it.
Murder Mysteries
1992
The Fourth Angel says:
Of this order I am made one,
From Mankind to guard this place
That through their Guilt they have foregone
For they have forfeited His Grace;
Therefore all this must they shun
Or else my Sword they shall embrace
And myself will be their Foe
To flame them in the Face.
—CHESTER MYSTERY CYCLE,
The Creation and Adam and Eve, 1461
THIS IS TRUE.
Ten years ago, give or take a year, I found myself on an enforced stopover in Los Angeles, a long way from home. It was December, and the California weather was warm and pleasant.
England, however, was in the grip of fogs and snowstorms, and no planes were landing there. Each day I’d phone the airport, and each day I’d be told to wait another day.
This had gone on for almost a week.
I was barely out of my teens. Looking around today at the parts of my life left over from those days, I feel uncomfortable, as if I’ve received a gift, unasked, from another person: a house, a wife, children, a vocation. Nothing to do with me, I could say, innocently. If it’s true that every seven years each cell in your body dies and is replaced, then I have truly inherited my life from a dead man; and the misdeeds of those times have been forgiven, and are buried with his bones.
I was in Los Angeles. Yes.
On the sixth day I received a message from an old sort-of-girlfriend from Seattle: she was in L.A., too, and she had heard I was around on the friends-of-friends network. Would I come over?
I left a message on her machine. Sure.
That evening: a small, blonde woman approached me as I came out of the place I was staying. It was already dark.
She stared at me, as if she were trying to match me to a description, and then, hesitantly, she said my name.
“That’s me. Are you Tink’s friend?”
“Yeah. Car’s out back. C’mon. She’s really looking forward to seeing you.”
The woman’s car was one of the huge old boatlike jobs you only ever seem to see in California. It smelled of cracked and flaking leather upholstery. We drove out from wherever we were to wherever we were going.
Los Angeles was at that time a complete mystery to me; and I cannot say I understand it much better now. I understand London, and New York, and Paris: you can walk around them, get a sense of what’s where in just a morning of wandering, maybe catch the subway. But Los Angeles is about cars. Back then I didn’t drive at all; even today I will not drive in America. Memories of L.A. for me are linked by rides in other people’s cars, with no sense there of the shape of the city, of the relationships between the people and the place. The regularity of the roads, the repetition of structure and form, mean that when I try to remember it as an entity, all I have is the boundless profusion of tiny lights I saw from the hill of Griffith Park one night, on my first trip to the city. It was one of the most beautiful things I had ever seen, from that distance.
“See that building?” said my blonde driver, Tink’s friend. It was a redbrick Art Deco house, charming and quite ugly.
“Yes.”
“Built in the 1930s,” she said, with respect and pride.
I said something polite, trying to comprehend a city inside which fifty years could be considered a long time.
“Tink’s real excited. When she heard you were in town. She was so excited.”
“I’m looking forward to seeing her again.”
Tink’s real name was Tinkerbell Richmond. No lie.
She was staying with friends in a small apartment clump, somewhere an hour’s drive from downtown L.A.
What you need to know about Tink: she was ten years older than me, in her early thirties; she had glossy black hair and red, puzzled lips, and very white skin, like Snow White in the fairy stories; the first time I met her I thought she was the most beautiful woman in the world.
Tink had been married for a while at some point in her life and had a five-year-old daughter called Susan. I had never met Susan—when Tink had been in England, Susan had been staying on in Seattle, with her father.
People named Tinkerbell name their daughters Susan.
Memory is the great deceiver. Perhaps there are some individuals whose memories act like tape recordings, daily records of their lives complete in every detail, but I am not one of them. My memory is a patchwork of occurrences, of discontinuous events roughly sewn together: The parts I remember, I remember precisely, whilst other sections seem to have vanished completely.
I do not remember arriving at Tink’s house, nor where her flatmate went.
What I remember next is sitting in Tink’s lounge with the lights low, the two of us next to each other, on her sofa.
We made small talk. It had been perhaps a year since we had seen one another. But a twenty-one-year-old boy has little to say to a thirty-two-year-old woman, and soon, having nothing in common, I pulled her to me.
She snuggled close with a kind of sigh, and presented her lips to
