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Darkhouse A bit of fun! .mp3 (20 MB)
Alex Barclay
HarperCollinsPublishers, 2005

How Our Universe Shall Explode

Everything You Never Expected

Webmaster Note: Darkhouse is a novel of two threads: one in the present day, one exploring a main character's background and development. In that spirit of jumping to the past, Critical Mick strives to capture key elements of Alex Barclay's novel in his most unruly offering to date....

It knocked her to the cobbles. Her lungs seized up and her hands groped back for the wound. The sign above the door, The Duke, burned into her eyes. She winced against the explosion of pain that was so intense it stole her scream.

Nicki laughed. "I told you not to wear those trendy Alex Barclay stilettos, Ursula! And now, what, they've chucked you on your arse?"

"Ambulance," Ursula gasped.

This evening's louts took up Nicki's cackle.

"Ambulance, me own arse," her friend whispered. A close confidence, a reassuring arm pulling her up. Flashbulbs strobed.

"What was that, Nicki? Nicola, what shot me?"

"What it was was an old slapper named Ursula Lamasse tripping over her feet and giving a hell of a laugh to these socialites and paparazzi. Now get your tits up and smile on. We've only got to stagger as far as Temple Bar. You'll be grand."

Ursula re-examined her hands. No red. No flesh torn, no blood. Her heart heaved. She still felt the terrible piercing. She had been knocked near to death by the touch of the worst hate in the universe. That had been real. Ursula trembled, sure that her traitor heart was jetting blood straight out her back.

Stupid Nicki acted that these chills were the staggering pair of them shaking with laughter. "Ursula, would you ever get a grip!" came the whisper when her friend buried her face in Ursula's hair. "That producer we're supposed to impress will be at this Dacha Rizzoli kip's grand opening. Besides, don't you forget I need the €750 apiece for putting in an appearance."

As Nicki complained that it used to be three thousand euro, Ursula scanned all around. Blessed Be, why'd I drink so much gin? What the blazes is happening? I was sure I'd been savaged. Struck dead right here beside these off-Grafton boutiques. Right here on-

"Ursula! For the love of-!" Lightning flashed as Ursula's head cracked off the curb. From six thousand miles away came Nicki's pleading. "What's gotten into you? What's the matter?"

"Duke Street," Ursula cradled her head against the ringing that overpowered her ears.

2

Two Weeks Later

Fear again, back with a vengeance. Fear's got me as tightly as I've got this overhead strap. Stop after short stop northward, the feeling didn't let go and neither did Ursula. Like a fieldmouse frozen by a predator's shadow, Ursula sat rigid at this mysterious resurge of the piercing terror that had hit her the moment she saw the sign of The Duke.

The entire journey Ursula pictured herself vividly on the cliff walk at Howth. She could see that wide-open drop between her pink Reeboks and black water far more clearly than she could visualize that producer waiting for her in a city centre café. He's not even from RTE, Ursula noted. The DART shot straight and murderous fast.

But at the precipice now... she was not so sure. Maybe it was the lighthouse. It looked so white and friendly. The breaking waves looked right. But where was that dread that had rattled her far? A summer squall was coming and Ursula didn't care to note that this location would be ideal for a photo shoot. She snapped rigid the collapsible rose scooter, a promotional gift with the Irish Sinner logo swirled in maroon script under her feet, and brooded down the long road toward Howth Village.

I know that street so well, why'd the mere sight of its sign trouble me that night? Ursula puzzled as she slid toward town like a ghost. That night she had felt a shock the size of the end of the universe. And the outside the nightclub, Nicki offered a little something to calm me down, and, wham! Blindsided again. I ate the head off her at the mention of drugs.

Ursula remembered how as a child she had picked the plastic duck containing the prize. Gran had always said she was a little bit touched. Was she at last developing The Sight? Even the spatter of rain and her lack of umbrella precognition didn't put her off, now. Maybe powers only work for important things. Maybe these terrors signal something truly dire. When you feel these fears you weren't expecting, it's a message? Yes! Write that down!

Skidding neatly to a rest she snapped open her handbag. That saggy Frenchman had given one to each model as the shoot wrapped. Total drama queen but he made a good big bag.

Nothing waited except her Gran's hearing aid. No paper. No pen. And, Blessed Be, she had well and truly shot her budget. Not a cent or a sausage.

Ursula huffed. Away flew the stray strand of wheat blonde that had been annoying her.

Gotta jot this before I forget it. I'm on to something.

3

Ursula dropped onto her little nose the Dunnes Store sunglasses that she knew were no disguise and slipped into the pharmacy-cum-newsagent. Within two minutes at the paperback rack the counter lads were whispering mad away behind hands. A minute after that she was smiling, laughing, straightening askew shirt collars. Generally making the teens miss the thriller she dropped into her bag. Nor did they notice she pocketed the biro with which she signed the autographs.

"We'll order in a rake of your diet books, Miss Lamasse. I'll have a word with boss himself on it!" the assistant manager promised.

"Call me Ursula," she squeezed his young hand, certain she knew what he'd be doing with it as soon as he got home.

Out on the pavement a sense of disgust surged. Ursula shivered as she hid behind her Roberto Cavallis with shiny satin rose gold frame and grey lenses. She was well used to the effect her body had on men. If it made their day, hell, might as well take advantage. Ursula knew it wouldn't last much longer. Leggy strides couldn't leave behind the creeping unease that followed her clear down to the quay. She had stolen. She felt like a criminal.

Criminal. Yes! Yes, it was coming to her. She scattered pigeons from a bench and snapped open her dramaqueen bag. Out came Gran's hearing aid. She plugged it well and truly in with the prayer, Speak to me, I'm ready. Biro- check. Book, lots of spare blank pages at the back. Ursula glanced at the title- Every Dead Thing- and shuddered again.

Quickly she jotted what she had felt so far:

As French passersby raved about Mexican food, she scratched that Lighthouse line out. Howth's fishing village had been a herring. That's what they called those, right? Those things that lure you to a place but for a different reason?

Ursula wrote on the final blank pages. She underlined in bold strokes. Important things.

What else?

The knob twisted up to 10 but no whisper crashed from beyond the Celestial Divide. Listen as hard as she might, Howth's waves came breaking in against the hulls of boats.

I'm so close, Ursula assured herself. I can feel it coming soon.

4

How to put this casually? Ursula frowned involuntarily and the makeup artist gave out grief. Ursula swallowed a huff of displeasure. This new agent had insisted like this walk-on was the most important thing in the world. Specs up on his cro-magma forehead, the poser had scolded that she wasn't taking her preparation seriously. One line, she could rattle that off all day. What was he on about? Anytime you turn on the telly there was always some big head rattling off lines. Anyone could do it. Leave telly dreams to Nicki. Telly was always rubbish. There's only one reason I agreed to do this gig and I'll save my acting skills up to make that question look casual. I'm on to something truer. I'll show them all what's truly important. "Would you ever please hold still, Miss Lamasse?"

Darkhouse by Alex Barclay. On a crime shelf, right next to Mark Billingham. Critical Mick's review of Mark Billingham's Scaredy Cat

I can't hold still.

Ursula blew the stray lock out of her eyes and held still.

5

The American voices felt right the same way that the surging anger had felt right. Yankee doodle voices all around. "Imagine all these people coming way over her just to shoot a little telly," she said as naturally as possible. "You'd think they have streets of their own in Boston or Baltimore."

The pleasant round man smiled back at her. "Miss Lamasse, my day is made indeed." He returned her handshake with real warmth. "Fair enough to say we're blessed with the Yanks. Welcome to them all! Jaysus, what they're paying me for an easy evening's consultation on police procedure-! Film a few more episodes of Hudson Hawk in Dublin and I'll hand in me badge." This last, so unexpected and conspiratorial that Ursula laughed aloud.

"I can't believe they're making it into a series. The film was dreadful."

He winked. How easily this detective had pulled her into a secret confidence. Ursula reappraised. If he's that good with criminals, it was no bleeding wonder this guard was a celebrity.

"Listen- maybe you know." She cleared her throat. Words this dark! How to make light of them? "A killer is coming. His shadow, I feel it flashing over me! This criminal, he shoots women. He hates drugs. So full of hate and rage, he'd drown the constellations in the black night sky with red heart's blood! He cuts a cross into them. And after every murder, I think he celebrates in The Duke, on Duke Street? The Dart, or The Cupid, maybe- is there a serial killer called that? What would stop such a man?"

The famous Garda kept listening attentively long moments after her revelation had petered out. "You're sure now, that's all in today's script?"

"I'm not talking about an episode of Harris Hawk."

What a kind smile. Right when her hair frizzed with sweat for the need a policeman's grim authority. "Hudson Hawk, Ursula. Harris is me."

"I know. Detective Superintendent Harris. You're on the front of all the tabloids that I'm on the back of. I came on this set on the chance of meeting you, not for some walk-on part of a show no one will see."

"Oh right." There was that authority, the set of masculine lips. "This Cupid is a project of your own then. A film script you'd like me to consult on?"

Such a short, stuttering minute was over swift as youth. The fat detective folded his arms over his sun-damaged cut-price Louis Copeland and couldn't listen that this was no DVD.

Her acting debut was no more convincing. After the fifth time she'd cried her desperate warning, "Harris Hawk, behind you!" the ferret of a director told just to scream like a pantomime blonde, "Look behind you!"

For a taxi ride as long as middle age and death, Ursula wept and didn't know why.

6

Ursula jerked her peepers wide. The breath exploded out. Not a glimmer of life in the tiny red bulb. She lowered her lashes until sight was as black as that answering machine's electric depths.

There were crystals in the machine's electronics. She'd worn a crystal around her neck because a little voice kept niggling her all week, "Waterford, Waterford...." Ursula visualized an energy link between the two crystals. Dark. Dark. Dark, she felt it. She concentrated until her scalp crawled and taut skin ached. "Light!" Ursula commanded, throwing her eyes open and arms out.

Light?

No. The message indicator was dead as Jim Morrison.

Shit, I was sure I had it that time, Ursula despaired. She kissed her crystal. What were you trying to tell me, then, whispering from your jewellery box prison?

7

Ursula laid the facts out for herself as she opened the second bag of the afternoon. Buffalo Hunky Dory's are just buffalo-flavoured, not actual buffalo. They're grand for vegetarians.

She puffed a stray strand of annoyance away and plopped down in front of the phone. Doesn't look like I'm a model for much longer anyway. Stupid agent was right. Not even a call from that disability group for their upcoming gala, and they had called every year since she'd taken Gran's hearing aid as her trademark.

It really just sucked to be prematurely retired against your will.

Ursula felt a fraud for pushing notes for her sequel diet book around the page as her thighs ballooned. She startled at the phone's bell, pulling her hand back just in time.

Don't appear too desperate.

Blazes! Bank account tapped out, terrified, isolated, tracking a killer and the guards don't believe you. You're desperate.

"Hel-lo?"

"Ursula! I'm glad I finally caught you in. My name is-"

That shite of a producer. She opened another packet of Buffalo as quietly as she could and waited for this spa to stop running on about how her agent thought she'd be ideal as a presenter in the media.

"Look I'm sorry but I just can't see myself spending week after week helping sad biddies pick the dress that best hides their backside-"

"Oh no! It's more than that, Miss Lamasse and very little of it is topless. The media group I represent has important features programs, home make-overs, reality TV challenges- I can already see you on the island, Ursula!- news programs, 'Horse Swap'-"

"Wait!" What'd he say? "News programs? Crime reporting, public awareness?"

"Both radio and television, Ursula. There's a broad range. We reach two million Irish people every day."

"Listen- you may not know it but a force beyond human knowing put that phone in your hand today. Fate had you call me."

"Fate?"

She told him everything and she told it well. Though miles divided she reached across. She gripped him personally. From the terror of murder by The Duke to the revelation just that morning that the victim would hear Dingo Fandango's "White Rose on Your Grave" minutes before the sweep of death's starry scythe. Ursula sketched what she knew of the victims' character. She gripped him, and brought him along. Gradually the tension built like Indian drumming, quickening closer, then pounding toward the conclusion. The producer exclaimed and encouraged. She raced through paperback pages, weaving a story of her own from the notes scrawled in blank spaces. She shook with voice hushed to a whisper as the killer at last closed.

"And then-?!"

"And then you give me a job. I get the forwarning out to Ireland's women."

On the spot he offered her an unexpected job. Ursula's breath caught. Tears burst wet on famous cheeks. She cleared her throat and in a clear, smooth voice accepted.

8

At least I can let my body go.

The station manager's gi-normous larangytis bobbing up and down in his hairy throat as he droned on. She knew several of the radio personalities from clubs, parties and events. They were grand. Most of them. Their big heads bobbed along to the talk about revenues and Ursula dialled Gran's hearing aid wishfully down to nil.

At least I've become the instant hit of Dublin's evening phone-in shows, she consoled. Ursula Lamasse, Radio Psychic.

Maybe I'm getting a message out in some mysterious way, she thought. Maybe something I say without knowing it. Mournfully she thumbed through the lists she had added to Every Dead Thing. Maybe I am helping spread a warning. Does anyone really know how unruly, cosmic forces work?

There'd be nothing of the supernatural in this killer, these poor slaughtered women, the desperate pursuit and bid to save them. She'd come close- Ursula felt that in her water- but it their tale wasn't hers to join no matter how she wished. The killer would swoop down like a Hudson Hawk. Suspicions would deepen into dark shadows and women who thought themselves safe as houses would pay vengeance's price. Another hero would come flying over the horizon. It was as if it all was staring up at her from these loopy pages but her cornflower blue peepers would just never see it.

Almost show time. Ursula uncapped her well-chewed stolen biro and doodled one last desperate time.

Does anyone really know how our universe shall explode?

And again, as the sound man was calling her away- in capitals:

Does Anyone Really Know How Our Universe Shall Explode?

Alex Barclay, gets a secret message here.

Read Critical Mick's interview with Alex Barclay!

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This Page Was Last Updated On 28 March, 2006.