Waiting for Mr Right

Andrew Taylor

Ilive in a city of the dead surrounded by a city of the living. The great cemetery of Kensal Vale is a privately owned metropolis of grass and stone, of trees and rusting iron. At night, the security men scour away the drug addicts and the drunks; they expel the lost, the lonely and the lovers; and at last they leave us with the dark dead in our urban Eden.

Eden? Oh yes — because the dead are truly innocent. They no longer know the meaning of sin. They never lose their illusions.

Other forms of life remain overnight cats, for example, a fox or two, grey squirrels, even a badger and a host of lesser mammals, as well as some of our feathered friends. At regular intervals, the security men patrol the paths and shine their torches in dark places, keeping the cemetery safe for its rightful inhabitants. Finally, one should not forget to include Dave and the woman Tracy, perhaps in a special subhuman category of their own somewhere between life and death.

In a place like this, there is little to do in the long summer evenings once one’s basic animal appetites have been satisfied. Fortunately I am not without inner resources. In my own small way I am a seeker after truth. Perhaps it was my diet, with its high protein content, which helped give me such an appetite for learning. In my youth, I taught myself to read. Not for me the sunlit semi-detached pleasures of Janet and John. My primers were the fruity orotundities of funereal inscriptions, blurred and sooty from decades of pollution. Once I had mastered my letters, though, I did not find it hard to find more varied reading material.

We live, I am glad to say, in a throwaway society.

It is quite extraordinary what people discard in this place, either by accident or design. The young prefer to roam through the older parts of the cemetery, the elderly are drawn to the newer. Wherever they go, whatever their age, visitors leave their possessions behind. Litter bins have provided me with a range of periodicals from The Spectator to Marxism Today. The solarpowered palm-top personal organiser on which I am typing this modest memoir was abandoned among the debris of an adulterous picnic on top of Amelia Osbaston (died 1863).

I have also been fortunate enough to stumble upon a number of works of literature, including Jane Eyre and Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus. Charlotte Brontë is, without doubt, my favourite author. How could she peer so penetratingly into the hidden chambers of the heart? Jane Eyre and I might be twin souls. On one occasion, after an unexpected shower, I came across a damp but handsomely illustrated copy of Grave Conditions, a scholarly survey of Victorian funerary practices. This enabled me to identify the Bateson’s Belfry of Kensal Vale.

Perhaps the term is as unfamiliar to you as it was to me. Bateson’s Belfry was a Victorian invention designed to profit from the widespread human fear of being interred alive. In essentials it consisted of a simple bell-pull, conveniently situated in the coffin at the right hand of the corpse, which would enable one, should one find oneself alive and six foot under, to summon help by ringing a bell mounted above the grave.

Usually, and for obvious reasons, Bateson’s Belfries were designed as temporary structures. But there were circumstances in which a longer-lasting variant was appropriate. Thanks to Grave Conditions, I learnt to look with fresh eyes at what I had previously assumed was a purely decorative feature of the family mausoleum of the Makepeace family.

The mausoleum (illustrated in full colour on page 98 of Grave Conditions) is situated in a relatively remote corner where the dead lie beneath a coarsely woven shroud of long grass, thistles and clumps of bramble. On ground level stands a rather vulgar monument consisting of four weeping angels round the base of a miniature campanile, at the top of which hangs the bell. A flight of steps descends to a stout, padlocked door leading below the monument into the chamber itself, which measures perhaps eight feet square. Two banks of four shelves face each other across the narrow gangway. Only three of the shelves are occupied with the remains of the Reverend Simon Makepeace, the first incumbent of St George’s, Kensal Vale, his wife Charlotte, and their son Albert Victor.

Having studied Grave Conditions, I was not surprised to find that a fine brass chain passes from the top of the bell through a pipe which penetrates the roof of the chamber. It emerges at the end of the gangway opposite the door, within easy reach of the upper ends of the coffins. I imagine that Mr Makepeace stipulated that the lids should not be screwed down.

During the day, especially around lunchtime and in the early evening, the cemetery can become almost crowded. But the gates are locked half an hour before sunset. The security men do their sweep and then they leave the place in the charge of Dave and Tracy, who live in a cottage by the gates in the majestic shadow of the cemetery chimney. Dave is very deaf, owing to a passion for the music of Aerosmith, Black Sabbath and Led Zeppelin. Tracy is a fine, big-boned woman with dyed blond hair, sturdy legs and a taste for very short skirts. One sometimes heard her trenchantly expressed opinions about his sexual inadequacy and his low income. The couple rarely had visitors and never indulged in nocturnal rambles through the cemetery. Often Tracy would go off by herself for days at a time. I sometimes surprised myself by entertaining a certain sisterly regard for her.

So, given their habits and the secluded nature of a cemetery at night, you will understand my surprise when I saw Tracy arm in arm with a tall, well-built man, guiding him through the gravestones by the light of a small torch. At the time I was sitting on a table monument and eating a light snack of Parma ham and wholemeal bread. I was interested enough to discard my sandwich and follow the couple. Tracy led the man to the Makepeace vault. Her companion was carrying a briefcase. They went down the steps, and I heard a rattle as she unlocked the padlock.

‘Christ,’ I heard the man say in a hoarse whisper. ‘You can’t leave me here. They’re coffins, aren’t they?’ ‘There’s nothing here could harm a fly,’ Tracy told him. ‘Not now. Anyway, beggars can’t be choosers, so you might as well get used to it.’ ‘You’re a hard woman.’ For an instant she shone the torch on him as they stood at the foot of the steps. He was broad as well as tall, with a stern, dark face. I noticed in particular his big eyebrows jutting out above his eyes like a pair of shelves. I am not a sentimental creature, but I must confess a jolt went through me when I saw those eyebrows.

‘Stay here, Jack,’ Tracy said. ‘I’ll get your stuff.’ ‘What about Dave?’ ‘He wouldn’t hear if you dropped a bomb on him. Anyway, he’s drunk a bottle of vodka since teatime.’ She left Jack with the torch. I slipped under the lowest shelf on the right-hand side and watched him. When he thought he was alone, he squatted down and opened the briefcase. I was interested to see that it contained an automatic pistol and piles and piles of banknotes. He rummaged underneath the money, took out a mobile telephone and shut the case.

He stared at the telephone but did not use it. He lit a cigarette and paced up and down the gangway of the vault. Despite his agitation, he was a fine figure of a man.

My hearing is good, and I heard Tracy’s returning footsteps before he did. She dropped a backpack on to the floor of the vault. It contained a sleeping bag, several cans of Tennents Super Lager, a plastic bucket, some crisps and a packet of Marlboro cigarettes. Jack watched as she unrolled the sleeping bag on one of the lowest shelves and arranged the other items on the shelf above.

‘Listen,’ he said when she had finished. ‘Get some passport photos done and go and see Frank.’ He snapped open the case, took out a wad of notes and slapped it down on the shelf. ‘That’ll cover it.’ He took out another wad and added it to the first. ‘Buy a motor. Nothing flashy, maybe two or three years old. There’s a place in Walthamstow — Frank’ll give you the name.’ Tracy stared down at the open briefcase. ‘And where do we go then, Jack? Shangri bloody la?’ ‘What about Shangri bloody Amsterdam for starters? We take the ferry from Harwich, then move on from there.’ ‘I got nothing to wear. I need some clothes.’ He scowled. Nevertheless he gave her another bundle of notes. ‘Don’t go crazy.’ ‘I love it when you’re masterful.’ Tracy dropped the money into the backpack. ‘Careful with the torch. You can see a glow round the edge of the door. And I’m going to have to lock you in.’ ‘What are you talking about?’ ‘The security guys check the door at least twice a night. We had a bit of trouble with kids earlier in the summer.’ ‘You can’t just leave me here,’ Jack said. ‘You got a better idea?’ ‘I can’t even text you. There’s no signal. So what do I do if I need you?’ ‘Think pure thoughts and wait.’ ‘For Christ’s sake, Trace. If it’s an emergency.’ ‘Ring the bell.’ She leant over and touched the handle that hung between the shelves. ‘You pull that, and the bell rings up top.’ ‘Sure?’ ‘We had this weirdo from the local history society the other month who tried it. Built to last, he said. But for God’s sake, Jack, don’t use it because if anyone hears it but me, you’re totally screwed.’ Tracy put her hand on his shoulder and kissed his cheek. ‘See you tomorrow night, darling. Got to get my beauty sleep.’ She slipped out of the vault and locked the door. Jack swore softly. His torch beam criss-crossed the vault and raked to and fro along the dusty shelves. Finally he reached floor level and for an instant the beam dazzled me. He let out a screech. I dived into the crack between two blocks of masonry. A moment later, as I emerged into the cool night air, I heard the frantic clanging of the bell.

Tracy came pounding through the graves. She ran down the steps and unlocked the door.

‘Jesus, Jack, what the hell are you up to?’ He clung to her, nuzzling her hair. He muttered something I couldn’t hear.

‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ she snapped, drawing away from him. ‘I bet it’s a damn sight more scared than you are. Give me the torch.’ A moment later, she went on, ‘There you are — it’s buggered off.’ ‘Can’t you do something? Can’t you put poison down?’ ‘It won’t be back,’ she said as though soothing a child. ‘Anyway, they seem to like poison. I’m sure there’s more of them than there used to be.’ ‘I can’t stay here.’ ‘Then where the hell else are you going to go? It’s not for long.’ ‘How am I supposed to sleep? They’ll crawl all over me.’ ‘Jesus,’ said Tracy. ‘And I thought women were the weaker sex. It won’t be back.’ ‘How do you know?’ ‘You probably scared it rigid. Tell you what I’ll do: you can have some of Dave’s pills. A few of those and you’ll be out like a light.’ Off she went again, and returned with a handful of capsules, which Jack washed down with a can of lager. He insisted she stay with him, holding his hand, while he went to sleep. Yet despite this display of weakness, or perhaps even because of it, there was something very appealing about him. I came back to the vault and listened to them billing and cooing. Such a lovely deep voice he had, like grumbling thunder. It made something deep within me vibrate like a tuning fork. Gradually his words grew thicker and slower. At last the voice fell silent.

There was a click and a flare of flame as Tracy lit a cigarette. Time passed. Jack began to snore. Edging out of my crack into the lesser shelter of the space beneath the lowest shelf, I had an extensive though low-level view of the vault. I saw Tracy’s legs and feet, wearing jeans and trainers. The cigarette fell to the floor. She ground it out beneath her heel.

I saw the briefcase, and Tracy’s hand with its blood-red nails. Her fingers made a claw and hooked themselves through the handle of the case. The trainers moved across the vault. The torch went out. The door opened and softly closed. The padlock grated in its hasp.

After a while, I scaled the rough stone wall to the shelf where Jack lay. I jumped lightly on to his chest and settled down where I could feel the beating of his heart. I stared at his face. Through my breast surged a torrent of emotions I had never known before.

Was this, I wondered, what humans felt? Was this love?

So it began, this strange relationship, and so it continued. I do not intend to chart its every twist and turn. There are secrets locked within my bosom which I shall never share with another soul.

Late in the afternoon of the day after Jack’s arrival, I happened to glance through an Evening Standard I had found in a litter bin. Jack’s face loomed up at me from one of the inside pages. The police, it seemed, were anxious to interview him in connection with a murder at the weekend in Peckham. The dead man was said to have been a prominent member of a south London gang.

On the second day, the police arrived. They interviewed Dave in the lodge cottage. They did not search the cemetery. Halfway through the morning, Jack finished his lager, his crisps and his cigarettes, in that order. Early in the evening, the bucket overflowed. He tried to ration his use of the torch, but inevitably the battery died. Then he was alone with me in the darkness.

Is it not strange that a grown man should be so scared of the dark? ‘If only I could see,’ he would mutter, ‘Christ, if only I could see.’ I have no idea why he thought the faculty of sight would have improved his plight, but then I have found little evidence to suggest that humans are rational animals.

Just before dawn on the third day, it occurred to Jack — bless him, he was not a fast thinker — that Tracy might not be coming back, and that he would be able to escape from this prison and move into one of Her Majesty’s if he rang the bell in Bateson’s Belfry.

Alas for him, I had anticipated just such an eventuality.

The bell wire was sound for most of its length, I believe, but at the upper end it met a metal flange attached to the spindle from which the bell depended. Where the wire had been inserted, bent and twisted into a hole in the flange, rust and metal fatigue had already caused many of its constituent strands to snap apart. All one needed to deal with the remaining strands was a certain physical agility and a set of sharp teeth. When Jack gave the bell wire a sharp tug, the wire fell on top of him. This was one of the occasions when he wept and hammered the oak and iron of the door.

Later, after he had sunk into an exhausted slumber, I licked the salty tears from his cheeks, my tongue rasping deliciously on the abrasive masculinity of his stubble. It was one of those small but intimate services which are peculiarly satisfying to the females of so many species.

The days passed, and so did the nights, and they passed agreeably enough for me. When he was awake, Jack was increasingly distraught, and was still terrified of me. Are we always scared of those who love us? When he was asleep, though, and defenceless, he became mine. I spent as much time as possible with him — if possible on top of him or curled into some crevice of his person. Can one ever be close enough to the man one loves?

Oh, that oft-imagined bliss of perfect union! One soul, one flesh!

Sometimes he screamed, and banged on the door, and yelled, and wept; but no one except myself heard him. On one occasion, Dave was only 20 yards away from the vault when Jack began to wail, but of course Dave was too deaf to hear.

There remained a possibility that a passer-by might hear his cries, even in this remote and overgrown quarter of the cemetery. Here, however, the British climate played its part. Rain fell with unlovely determination for most of three days. As a result, Kensal Vale attracted far fewer visitors than usual.

Among those who braved the weather was a brace of middle-aged ladies from Market Harborough searching without success for an ancestor. They left me the remains of a very acceptable chicken mayonnaise salad and — even more to the point — they discarded their newspaper. For hard news and sound principles one cannot do much better than the Daily Telegraph.

My eye fell on a short but intriguing item to the effect that Jack and an unnamed lady friend were believed to be in Rio de Janeiro. Knowing Tracy as I did — a special sort of knowledge unites two females with a man in common — I had little doubt that this was a false trail designed to throw the authorities off the scent.

I come now to the final act in my story, a resolution both melancholy and edifying. All passion spent, blind in his own darkness, my poor Jack sank slowly into a coma. I grieved and rejoiced in equal measure. I sat on his chest and felt the beat of his heart growing slower and feebler. My night vision is good, and I gazed for long hours at his manly features.

A lover is like a beloved city. I explored Jack’s public squares and great thoroughfares. I strolled through tree-lined suburbs and splendid municipal parks. I wandered through twisting side streets and lost myself in the sweet-smelling labyrinth of his bazaar.

In his final hours, as he drifted inexorably towards another city, to the dark heart of this metropolis of the dead, Jack rested his hands on my warm fur. Then, to my inexpressible joy, he stroked me.

Soon afterwards, the life left him altogether — or very nearly so. And then?

Reader, I ate him.