The Memory Artists - Jeffrey Moore [125]
Norval took the first express train north, to Nottingham, then a taxi to Queen’s Hospital. Yes, a receptionist informed him, Teresa spent the night here, but went home this morning … He flew out the door to hail another cab. At the train station, a tree down at Newstead kept him waiting for another murderous hour. After standing the entire way, chain-smoking between carriages, he jumped off the moving train at Hucknall, and ran with bursting lungs through fields of decaying vegetation and stagnant pools of water, to Mrs. Pettybone’s B & B.
Teresa was not there. Norval raced up and down steps, opened up doors and closets of rooms that hadn’t been used in years, madly, rampageously, even climbing up to the attics. “Teresa!” he shouted repeatedly. “Terry!” The three of them—Mrs. Pettybone, Gally and Norval— scoured her bedroom for a sign, a farewell message, a suicide note. Nothing. She had vanished and clearly did not want to be found.54
Chapter 19
Norval & Company
Liszt’s Symphonic Poem No. 2 was starting as Noel placed a fake log on the fire. Lounging in Mr. Burun’s La-Z-Boy, his right cheek and sandwashed Nepalese silk shirt uncharacteristically smudged with black, Norval observed his new environment while cracking nuts and inhaling Armagnac.
“Fish rule in effect,” said Norval.
“Fish rule?”
“An old Danish proverb: ‘Fish, like guests, begin to stink after three days.’ On second thought, I’ll get a hotel.” In his head Norval began to rewind the evening, scarcely able to believe he was sitting where he was. He had taken a taxi home from the bar less than an hour before, seen something there that sobered him up at once, took another cab to Noel’s. Where for the first time in his life he was admitted—by Mrs. Burun.
“You can stay here,” said Noel, “as long as you want—especially after what you’ve just been through.”
Norval paused to listen to the cellos and double bass evoke the spirit of Byron’s Tasso. “Got any cigarettes? Where’s JJ and Sam, by the way? Upstairs shagging? Oh, hello Mrs. Burun.”
Mrs. Burun had returned from the bathroom. “Call me Stella,” she said, while reaching for a cigarette case on the mantel. “Noel, I think this gentleman will be a bad influence on you.”
“Everyone needs a bad influence from time to time, wouldn’t you agree, Stella?”
“That’s how I fell in love with my husband.”
Norval laughed. “Shall I pour you one of these?”
“Yes, why not? Would you like one of these?” She opened up the silver and cloisonné enamel box, a birthday gift to her husband.
“You’re too kind. Say when.”
“Mom, I’m not sure if …” Noel paused, distracted by a coppery head that popped through the doorway then withdrew behind a wall, like a tortoise into its shell. “Salut, Jean-Jacques.”
JJ gradually materialised, squinting in the direction of Norval. He was wearing shiny pyjamas of interstellar blue, covered with planets and stars and smiling moons. A cell phone protruded from his pocket. “Nor? Is that you?” He rubbed his eyes, like a bad actor seeing a miracle. “A-yo, dude! What brings you here at one in the morning?”
Norval reached over for a toss cushion on the sofa, examined its running wave border. “It’s two in the morning.”
“Norval’s place was torched,” said Noel. “He’s going to be staying here for a while. For three days.”
“Not another arson! Jesus Cockadoodle Christ! This is getting scary. This time we’ve got to report it, I’m sorry.” JJ pulled out his cell and punched in zero. “Hello, operator? Get me the number