Sick & Beautiful

Jim Queen

Description

Deluded, neurotic, self-medicated, David photographs crime scenes and car crashes across London, struggling to become the writer he always imagined.It isn't until he meets Rachel, an actor with dark obsessions and a secretive past, that every dream seems possible. But as David attempts to publish Rachel's story to launch his own career, those dreams rapidly spiral into nightmares.Tormented by a grinning spectre in a bowler hat, haunted by sentient rain clouds and his neighbour's talking cat, David must confront the memories unravelling his fraying reality.Even if it gets weird. Even if it's terrifying.The debut novel by Jim Queen is a collision of psychological horror and dark satire that boldly explores our world of excess, ambition and isolation.

Sujets

• Magic realism
• Thriller

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 14 juin 2022
• Nombre de lectures: 1
• EAN13: 9781803139791
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

Copyright © 2022 Jim Queen

The moral right of the author has been asserted.


Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.


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ISBN 978 1803139 791

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.


Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd



To the people I love. For inspiring my
dreams and enduring my nightmares.














Contents
Part One Premonitions
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four

Part Two Purpose
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One

Part Three Paradise
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four


Part One
Premonitions


Chapter One
My relationship with Rachel Garland was born through an act of intentional violence.
It started in Knightsbridge, in the Paxton’s Head, when the landlord passed the phone across the crowded bar. It was my editor, Eleanor Wither. Minutes earlier, she received a report that a man had fallen from the eleventh-floor balcony of the Mandarin Oriental, Carriage Drive’s most extravagant hotel.
“Be quick, David. The victim might be famous.”
I smiled. The Mandarin was only a two-minute dash from the boozer. The timing of this event, my proximity to it, felt like fate. It felt like I was supposed to be here, to be there. Jesus. It felt cinematic .
“I’m on my way,” I said.
“You know your role, David. Good luck. And Happy New Year.”
She hung up the phone.
By the time I sunk my gin and tonic and jogged to the death scene, ambulances and police cars congested the hotel’s cobblestone forecourt. Hypnotised by their flashing ruby-blue lights, seduced by the promise of violence, intoxicated tourists and office workers battled to the front of the crowd swelling outside the lobby. Eleven storeys above, revellers in tuxedos rutted for a premium view on the balcony, poised precariously over the balustrades, pinching the stems of their cocktail glasses.
I felt a familiar excitement pervade the oxygen. Bored by London’s dismal landmarks and turned out of the pubs after last orders, this audience converged under the cloud to leer at the human who tumbled out of the sky. It wasn’t a death we would elect for ourselves, a death that was private and painlessly dignified. This was entertainment , reality TV, hardcore pornography. This was the closest thing anybody could find to the giddy thrill of a public execution.
According to one spectator, the victim sailed through the air like an Olympic diver before he torpedoed through the glass veranda and collided with the marble steps of the exorbitant lobby.
“Thank God it wasn’t me,” concluded the spectator, shaking his head sadly.
“Thank God,” I agreed.
I looked around me. The grimace of every onlooker was hung with an irrefutable question: How could the human body – moulded by divine hands, refined by millennia of evolution – be as fragile as a cheap plastic toy? It was poignant. It was frightening. The scene reminded us that we would all fall victim to the same inescapable prophecy. But what could drive somebody so (presumably) wealthy to end it this way? I needed to know the answers.
I elbowed confidently to the anterior of the crowd to take a closer look at the body. There was almost nothing perceptibly human left. A shapeless suit and two carefully polished shoes, crumpled in a pool of blood and broken glass, like the dregs of a toppled over Bloody Mary. I glowered at this alien autopsy, these ruptured components, unable to comprehend how they ever slotted together.
Out of professional reflex I photographed the scene, performing my small role with rehearsed detachment. Two detectives searched the pockets of the cadaver. A cigarette case. A leather wallet, gorged with money. A pellucid baggy of white powder, illuminated by a knife of torchlight. Car keys. And so on. Every item salivated with gore. In the background, a policeman ushered guests down the lobby steps, past the human spillage. Some bowed their heads like mourners passing the open coffin of a distant relative. Others looked grateful, almost gleeful , it wasn’t their own remains decimated on full public display. I examined the trauma in their perplexed expressions, searching for witnesses.
That’s when a woman wearing a floral dress and sunglasses floated down the steps and knelt beside the body. Her hand hovered over the mutilated shape, contemplating touch, contemplating contact. What’s she waiting for? I wondered. Was she afraid of its viscid textures? Or was she afraid that a shattered arm might reanimate, clutch her wrist and drag her into the claret, into the ground? I photographed this extraordinary moment before she retracted her hand, stood and vanished into the crowd. I decided to follow her. She turned right, pacing towards Hyde Park Corner, and then disappeared through the doors of the Lanesborough Hotel. But get this: she was barefoot, without a raincoat or umbrella, inviting the bite of the cloud’s acidic verve. What a character , I thought. These enigmatic details – they intrigued me. She intrigued me. I smiled. I couldn’t wait to interview her.
Minutes later, I found her at the deserted restaurant bar, stirring crushed ice and mint leaves inside a sweating highball. She was soaked, audibly dripping rainwater from her barstool. I sat next to her and ordered a gin fizz, subconsciously adapting to my bombastic surroundings. The bartender nodded silently, unconcerned with my half-cut condition (it was New Year’s Eve in London, after all). I gripped the edge of the counter, patiently waiting for the universe to stop pirouetting. I needed to focus. I needed to raise the questions that mattered. Where were you when the accident occurred? Who was the victim? How did he fall? Was he under the duress of drugs or alcohol? And where are your shoes? The interview, the trajectory of our discourse, was clear in my mind. It felt intrinsic.
But I didn’t open with any of the above. I didn’t get the chance.
“You look quite unwell,” she said. “Have a sip of your drink.”
Obediently, I sipped.
She lowered her sunglasses to analyse me: face, suit, shoes, soul.
“You’re not police,” she said confidently. “And you’re not a PI. Their appearance is always more purposeful, more authoritative . Let me guess. You’re a journalist, aren’t you? Yes. I can see it now. It’s unmistakeable.”
“Photojournalist,” I said, holding out my hand. “My friends call me David.”
She stared at the hand until I tucked it back inside my overcoat pocket.
“I report for The Daily Sun ,” I continued. “Crime scenes. Traffic accidents. Men falling from the sky like raindrops.” I paused. “I’m curious. How did you know that I’m a journalist? Is it really that unmistakeable ?”
“Bad posture. Unshaven. Unable to maintain eye contact. Look at you, with your creased suit and camera. You’re practically a caricature.” She smiled, revealing an abyss of crooked teeth. “Don’t take it personally. I know what your kind looks like, David. I’ve studied your habits.”
I smiled too, determined to conceal my discomfort at her accuracy, but I suddenly felt detached. Detached from my role. Everything was off-kilter. I was adrift in an unscripted daydream. I wasn’t in control of the dialogue, the motion. She was both interviewer and interviewee, so what was I? What was my purpose in this scene? Was I even really here? I traced my fingers over my damp forehead, the concaved cheeks, my parted lips, to confirm that I existed inside this moment.
“I know why you’re here, so let me make this easy for you,” she said. “I’m going to tell you what happened on the eleventh floor of the Mandarin Oriental. I’m going to tell you what I saw, how the action transpired.” That grin again. “I hope you’re ready, David. You might not believe a word of it.”
I took out my biro and notepad. She lit another cigarette.
“The victim was a movie producer named Rupert Wreath,” she said. “The studio execs rented the hotel penthouse for NYE. Rupert was intoxicated, but he didn’t fall off the balcony. Someone pushed him.”
“This is good,” I assured her. In fact, it was fantastic . Murder? What a twist. “Wh