it.’
‘You believe her?’
Dan shrugged. ‘Why wouldn’t you? That shit was going down all through the sixties. False messiahs, con-artist gurus, shaking their followers down for all of their money. While the great leaders cruised round in Limos with the Beatles, Rolexes on their wrists. She was a piece of work, that Sister Katherine. I mean, the adepts were like Big Issue sellers in Hammer Horror robes, and she was stepping out to Annabel’s.’
Kyle smiled. Lay down on the bare floorboards with a sigh and formed a star shape with his limbs to stretch his spine after holding the boom all day. ‘What about the presences?
That’s what Max wanted me to concentrate on.’
‘Horseshit.’
Kyle laughed. ‘Still steaming?’
‘Oh yeah. Ripe.’
‘I liked it. It was weird. Real weird.’
‘Still horseshit. I bet they were smoking canons the size of Cuban cigars. Eating Quaaludes like Smarties back in the day, maaan.’
62
LAST DAYS
Not here. That came later . Irvine Levine claimed the cult never discovered drugs until California, after the second diaspora, when they changed their name to The Temple of the Last Days. But Levine had no time in his book for the mystical angle either, the presences ; only the criminal activity interested him, in which Sister Katherine and her devout would come to wallow.
Dan shut the monitor off. ‘So what now, chief?’
‘Pub. Food.’
‘Fucking A.’
‘There’s a place called The Prince of Wales two streets down. Googled it.’
‘I’m there, dude. Then back here to finish up?’
Kyle frowned, turned his head to Dan. ‘You sure? We have this place for another day.’
‘Do as much as we can today. I got that christening tomorrow. Might take all day. And a few days’ work for Reel Store next week so I gotta get my head down tomorrow night.
Few other things to catch up on too before we go to France.’
‘I got the ferry tickets.’
Dan nodded. ‘This Brother Gabriel all set?’
‘Yep. Doesn’t have email. Or a mobile.’
‘This is my surprised face. The presences tell him everything he needs to know.’
‘But I called his landline and told him we’d pick him up on Thursday.’
‘Did you tell him I don’t want any presences in the van?’
Kyle laughed. ‘Forgot to mention it.’
Walking back to the red house on Clarendon Road, the sun was gone and the city was coming alive with Saturday-night 63
ADAM NEVILL
excitement. Well-groomed human traffic headed to dinner parties and restaurants in Notting Hill and Holland Park and transformed the slow grey afternoon into flashes of short skirts, explosions of feminine laughter, the powerful hum of performance cars and the throaty trundle of Hackney cabs.
‘Poshos,’ Dan said.
‘Ponces,’ Kyle said.
‘Not much sign of an economic downturn around here.’
‘The Big Society stopped at Shepherds Bush, mate.’
Clarendon Road deepened in shadow at the foot of Notting Hill. As they put distance between themselves and the pub, the noise became urban-ambient, far off: sirens, raised voices, an incongruous burst of Bollywood music as the hush and elegance of Clarendon Road’s expensive facades and ancient trees deflected the noise elsewhere.
Dan burped. ‘How much do you reckon these places go for?’
‘Saw one listed for five million in the estate agents by the Tube station.’
‘Must have sold a lot of Gospels to pay the rent.’
‘She thought big.’
The building was in darkness. Kyle fumbled with the keys.
‘Third pint was a mistake.’
Dan started to laugh. ‘My footage is going to make you seasick.’
Giggling, they stumbled into the building, their movements uncoordinated by drink and the absence of light. The lack of curtains allowed some pale street light into the front of the building, but it didn’t penetrate far.
Kyle reached for the reception hall light-switch. It clicked.
No light. ‘Shit.’
64
LAST DAYS
‘Kidding me?’
Kyle shook his head. His feet boomed
‘You believe her?’
Dan shrugged. ‘Why wouldn’t you? That shit was going down all through the sixties. False messiahs, con-artist gurus, shaking their followers down for all of their money. While the great leaders cruised round in Limos with the Beatles, Rolexes on their wrists. She was a piece of work, that Sister Katherine. I mean, the adepts were like Big Issue sellers in Hammer Horror robes, and she was stepping out to Annabel’s.’
Kyle smiled. Lay down on the bare floorboards with a sigh and formed a star shape with his limbs to stretch his spine after holding the boom all day. ‘What about the presences?
That’s what Max wanted me to concentrate on.’
‘Horseshit.’
Kyle laughed. ‘Still steaming?’
‘Oh yeah. Ripe.’
‘I liked it. It was weird. Real weird.’
‘Still horseshit. I bet they were smoking canons the size of Cuban cigars. Eating Quaaludes like Smarties back in the day, maaan.’
62
LAST DAYS
Not here. That came later . Irvine Levine claimed the cult never discovered drugs until California, after the second diaspora, when they changed their name to The Temple of the Last Days. But Levine had no time in his book for the mystical angle either, the presences ; only the criminal activity interested him, in which Sister Katherine and her devout would come to wallow.
Dan shut the monitor off. ‘So what now, chief?’
‘Pub. Food.’
‘Fucking A.’
‘There’s a place called The Prince of Wales two streets down. Googled it.’
‘I’m there, dude. Then back here to finish up?’
Kyle frowned, turned his head to Dan. ‘You sure? We have this place for another day.’
‘Do as much as we can today. I got that christening tomorrow. Might take all day. And a few days’ work for Reel Store next week so I gotta get my head down tomorrow night.
Few other things to catch up on too before we go to France.’
‘I got the ferry tickets.’
Dan nodded. ‘This Brother Gabriel all set?’
‘Yep. Doesn’t have email. Or a mobile.’
‘This is my surprised face. The presences tell him everything he needs to know.’
‘But I called his landline and told him we’d pick him up on Thursday.’
‘Did you tell him I don’t want any presences in the van?’
Kyle laughed. ‘Forgot to mention it.’
Walking back to the red house on Clarendon Road, the sun was gone and the city was coming alive with Saturday-night 63
ADAM NEVILL
excitement. Well-groomed human traffic headed to dinner parties and restaurants in Notting Hill and Holland Park and transformed the slow grey afternoon into flashes of short skirts, explosions of feminine laughter, the powerful hum of performance cars and the throaty trundle of Hackney cabs.
‘Poshos,’ Dan said.
‘Ponces,’ Kyle said.
‘Not much sign of an economic downturn around here.’
‘The Big Society stopped at Shepherds Bush, mate.’
Clarendon Road deepened in shadow at the foot of Notting Hill. As they put distance between themselves and the pub, the noise became urban-ambient, far off: sirens, raised voices, an incongruous burst of Bollywood music as the hush and elegance of Clarendon Road’s expensive facades and ancient trees deflected the noise elsewhere.
Dan burped. ‘How much do you reckon these places go for?’
‘Saw one listed for five million in the estate agents by the Tube station.’
‘Must have sold a lot of Gospels to pay the rent.’
‘She thought big.’
The building was in darkness. Kyle fumbled with the keys.
‘Third pint was a mistake.’
Dan started to laugh. ‘My footage is going to make you seasick.’
Giggling, they stumbled into the building, their movements uncoordinated by drink and the absence of light. The lack of curtains allowed some pale street light into the front of the building, but it didn’t penetrate far.
Kyle reached for the reception hall light-switch. It clicked.
No light. ‘Shit.’
64
LAST DAYS
‘Kidding me?’
Kyle shook his head. His feet boomed
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