Remainder. Part 15

"Fine," said Naz. "I'll contact the two re-enactors, and we'll get the..."

"No!" I said. "Not the same ones. We need other people to re-enact their roles."

"You're right," said Naz. "Completely right. I should have seen that. I'll get straight on to it."

An hour later he phoned me back: "I've found two people. And people to play the back-up people. You should have them re-enacted too."

"My G.o.d!" I said. "You're right! I'll need new re-enactors to re-enact standing around in the background. We can't have the same people doing that either."

"There's more," said Naz. "I've instructed our back-up people not to tell them why they're to go through the sequence that they'll re-enact. It makes it more complex, more interesting."

"Yes, you're right again," I said. "It does."

I realized as I hung up that Naz was changing. He'd always been dedicated to my projects, ever since that first day that I'd met him in the Blueprint Cafe-but back then his dedication had been purely professional. Now, though, his in-built genius for logistics was mixed with something else: a kind of measured zeal, a quiet pa.s.sion. He defended my work with a fierceness that was muted but unshakable. One afternoon, or morning, or evening perhaps, as I hovered round the edges of a trance, I heard him arguing with Doctor Trevellian.

"The re-enactments have to stop," Trevellian was saying, keeping his voice beneath his breath.

"Out of the question," Naz was answering in the same tone.

"But they're clearly exacerbating his condition!" Trevellian insisted, his voice rising.

"Still out of the question," I heard Naz say. His voice was still level, calm. "Besides, that's beyond your remit."

"Curing him's beyond my remit?" Trevellian's voice was a snarl now.

"Telling him what to do and what not to do is," Naz said, calm as ever. "He decides that. You, like me, have been hired to ensure he can continue to pursue his projects."

"If he's dead he won't be able to," Trevellian snarled again.

"Is there a danger of that?" Naz asked.

Trevellian said nothing, but after a few seconds I heard him snort and throw an instrument into his case.

"We shall expect you here," Naz said, "at the same time tomorrow."

Despite the state that I was in, I knew then that Naz was completely onside. More than onside: he was as involved in the whole game as I was-but for entirely different reasons. I understood this more fully two days later, during a lucid patch. Naz was sitting with me in my living room, going over the logistics for the re-enactment of the moment during the shooting re-enactment, the moment when I'd told the two men where to stand. He was fine-tuning the details-who needed to do what, when, the varying amounts of information different partic.i.p.ants needed to know, where the real back-up people should stand as their original places were taken by the back-up re-enactors and so on. He had these notes and lists and diagrams laid out in front of him across the coffee table-but for the last five minutes he hadn't been looking at these at all. He'd just been staring straight ahead, into s.p.a.ce. He looked vague, kind of drunk; for a moment I thought that he he was about to slip off into a trance. was about to slip off into a trance.

"Naz?" I asked him.

He didn't answer at first. His eyes had glazed over while the thing behind them processed. I'd seen them do that before, several times; only now the processing seemed to have stepped up a gear-several gears, gone into overdrive, become almost unbearably intense. It amazed me that his head didn't explode from the sheer fury of it all. I could almost hear hear the whirring: the whirring of his computations and of all his ancestry, of rows and rows of clerks and scribes and actuaries, their typewriters and ledgers and adding machines all converging inside his skull into giant systems hungry to execute ever larger commands. Eventually the whirring slowed down, the eyes became alive again, Naz turned his face to me and told me: the whirring: the whirring of his computations and of all his ancestry, of rows and rows of clerks and scribes and actuaries, their typewriters and ledgers and adding machines all converging inside his skull into giant systems hungry to execute ever larger commands. Eventually the whirring slowed down, the eyes became alive again, Naz turned his face to me and told me: "Thank you."

"Thank you?" I repeated. "For what?"

"For the..." he began, then paused. "Just for the..." He stopped again.

"For the what?" I asked.

"I've never managed so much information before," he eventually replied.

His eyes were sparkling now. Yes, Naz was was a zealot-but his zealotry wasn't religious: it was bureaucratic. And he a zealot-but his zealotry wasn't religious: it was bureaucratic. And he was was drunk: infected, driven onwards, on towards a kind of ecstasy just by the possibilities of information management my projects were opening up for him, each one more complex, more extreme. My executor. drunk: infected, driven onwards, on towards a kind of ecstasy just by the possibilities of information management my projects were opening up for him, each one more complex, more extreme. My executor.

One day I came out of a trance to find myself lying on my sofa. At the same moment that I became aware of where I was I also understood that there was someone else in the room. I looked up and thought I saw Doctor Trevellian. Doctor Trevellian was a short man, as I mentioned earlier, with a moustache and a battered leather briefcase which was always by his side. This short man was standing in my living room, but this time there was no briefcase, and no moustache either. He was short, but he wasn't Doctor Trevellian, or anyone else I knew-although I thought I recognized him vaguely. He had a notebook in his hand, with the top page flipped open. He was looking at the notebook, then at me, then at the notebook again. He stood like that for some time; then, eventually, he spoke.

"So," he said. "This is the man who is re-staging the deaths of local gangsters who have met with violent ends."

I could place him now: he'd been at the re-enactment of the first shooting-the man I'd seen standing behind the waiting BMW when I'd first arrived. He looked semi-official: smartish but a little ragged round the edges. Off-smart. He had a graphite-coloured jacket on and grey streaks in his hair. He must have been forty-odd.

"Are you a policeman?" I asked him.

"No," he said. He glanced at his notebook again, then continued: "This is also the man who has had set up a building in which certain mundane and, on the surface, meaningless moments are repeated and prolonged until they a.s.sume an almost sacred aspect."

His voice had a slightly Scottish edge. It was quite dry. He spoke in the kind of tone a lawyer might use to address a jury, or a serious professor of history his students. I lay there, listening to him.

"He has, moreover, had the most trivial of incidents-a spillage that occurred during a visit to a tyre repair shop-played and replayed like a stuck record for the last three weeks, residual."

"I'd forgotten about that," I said.

"Forgotten about that, he says?" His tone rose slightly as he uttered this rhetorical question, then dipped again as he ploughed on. "No less than one hundred and twenty actors have been used. Five hundred and eleven props-tyres, signs, tins, tools, all in working condition-have been a.s.sembled and deployed. And that's just for the tyre shop scene. The number of people who have been employed in some capacity or other over the course of all five re-enactments must be closer to one thousand." He paused again and let the figure sink in, then continued: "All these actions, into which so much energy has been invested, so many man-hours, so much money-all, taken as a whole, confront us with the question: for what purpose?"

He paused and looked at me intently.

"Does he, perhaps," he started again suddenly, "consider himself to be some kind of artist?"

He was still looking intently at me, as though calling on me to give an answer.

"Who, me?" I said.

His eyes mockingly scoured the empty room, then came to rest on me again.

"No," I told him. "I was never any good at art. In school."

"In school, he wasn't any good at art," he repeated, then struck off on another tack: "In that case, could it rather be that he sees these acts as a kind of voodoo? Magic? As shamanic performances?"

"What's shamanic?" I asked.

Naz walked in just then. He seemed to know this man: he nodded at him, then started tapping at his mobile.

"Who is this?" I asked him.

"A borough councillor," Naz said. "He kept us posted on the shooting and found us our police mole. Don't worry: he's sound."

I wasn't worried. I felt quite at ease just lying there, pa.s.sive, being talked about. The piano music spilled up from downstairs.

"He's listening to Shostakovich," the short councillor said.

"It's Rachmaninov," Naz told him.

"Ah, Rachmaninov. And there's a smell, a kind of...is it cordite?"

"Yes!" I tried to shout to him, but my voice came out weak. "Yes: finally! It is is cordite! I knew it!" cordite! I knew it!"

Naz's phone beeped. He read from its screen: "Of or pertaining to a priest-doctor of the Ural-Altaic peoples of Siberia. From the Tungusian saman. saman."

"Cordite! Didn't I say, right from the beginning..." I began, but then slipped off into a trance again.

I saw this councillor again, the next afternoon, or perhaps the one after that. I was feeling a lot stronger and had ventured out of my building to take some air beside the sports track. I was leaning by the knitted green wire fence watching a football team train. They were practising shooting: their coach placed ball after ball on the green asphalt surface among all the intersecting lines and circles and they ran up, one after the other, and kicked the b.a.l.l.s into the goal, or tried to. Some of the b.a.l.l.s missed, ricocheted back off the fence and got in the next shooter's way. The coach was shouting at his players to encourage them: "Project!" he told them. "Will it in the goal. Take your time. Slow each second down."

This was good advice. You could see the ones who got the b.a.l.l.s in breaking their movements into segments, really concentrating on each one. It wasn't that they took more time than the ones who missed-rather that they made the same amount of time expand. That's what all good sportsmen do: fill time up with s.p.a.ce. That's what sprinters are doing when they run a hundred metres in less than ten seconds: they're expanding every second, every half-second, as though the moment were a cylinder around them and they were pushing its edges outwards so it takes in more track, more for them to run down before they reach the second's edge. A boxer who can duck, feint, twist and lunge before his opponent even sees him move, or a batsman who can calmly read, decode and play the swing and bounce of the hurtling ball: they're filling time up with s.p.a.ce too. So are men who can catch bullets: it's easy enough if you just give yourself enough room to manoeuvre in. Watching these football players shoot now, I felt a huge wave of sadness for the three men who'd been killed, and an even greater one at not having managed, in my re-enactments, to fill the instant of their death with so much s.p.a.ce that it retrieved them, kinked them back to life. Impossible, I know, but I still felt responsible, and sad.

The coach had introduced a new rule: if a player missed, he had to run around the track that hemmed the football pitch in. Three or four of them were jogging round it sluggishly, beneath the broken loudspeakers.

"In his coma," a voice beside me said, "he had to give a commentary."

It was the short councillor again. He was standing by the fence beside me with his fingers poking through the diamond-shaped green holes. He must have been standing there for some time without me noticing him.

"Yes," I said. "It's true." I didn't remember telling him that bit, about the sports dreams in my coma as I lay unconscious in the weeks after the accident. "There was a format," I said, "and I had to fill it, or I'd die."

"And ever since that time he's felt unreal. Inauthentic."

"Yes," I replied. I didn't remember telling him that bit either, but I must have done and then forgotten that I'd told him as I slipped into my trance.

"So when, recently, has he felt most real?" the short councillor asked. "When has he felt least inauthentic?"

It was a very good question. I'd been so busy, so driven over the last few months, moving from project to project, from the building re-enactments to the tyre shop ones and then on to the shootings, that I hadn't paused to take stock of them all, to compare and contrast them, to ponder the question: Which one has worked best? Which one has worked best? They'd all had the same goal, their only goal: to allow me to be fluent, natural, to merge with actions and with objects until there was nothing separating us-and nothing separating me from the experience that I was having: no understanding, no learning first and emulating second-hand, no self-reflection, nothing: no detour. I'd gone to these extraordinary lengths in order to be real. And yet I'd never stopped and asked myself if it had worked. Naz had kind of asked me after the first building re-enactment-and the question had struck me as odd. The realness I was after wasn't something you could just "do" once and then have "got": it was a state, a mode-one that I needed to return to again and again and again. Opioids, Trevellian had said: endogenous opioids. A drug addict doesn't stop to ask himself: They'd all had the same goal, their only goal: to allow me to be fluent, natural, to merge with actions and with objects until there was nothing separating us-and nothing separating me from the experience that I was having: no understanding, no learning first and emulating second-hand, no self-reflection, nothing: no detour. I'd gone to these extraordinary lengths in order to be real. And yet I'd never stopped and asked myself if it had worked. Naz had kind of asked me after the first building re-enactment-and the question had struck me as odd. The realness I was after wasn't something you could just "do" once and then have "got": it was a state, a mode-one that I needed to return to again and again and again. Opioids, Trevellian had said: endogenous opioids. A drug addict doesn't stop to ask himself: Did it work? Did it work? He just wants more-bigger doses, more often: more. He just wants more-bigger doses, more often: more.

And yet it was a good question, coming as it did: here, in front of this caged-in sports pitch, from the short councillor. Venturing outside after days of trances I felt lucid, fresh, refreshed. The clang of footb.a.l.l.s. .h.i.tting the caged goal was sharp; his question sharpened my whole mind, turned me into a sportsman, made me slow time down, expand it, push its edges out and move around inside it. I thought back over the last months, and beyond: right back to Paris, to the feeling that I'd had with Catherine of getting away with something. I thought back over the serenity, the floating sensation that I'd felt when walking past my liver lady as she put the bin bag out; over my elation when the blue goop had seemed to have dematerialized and become sky; the intense and overwhelming tingling that had fulgurated when I'd opened myself up and become pa.s.sive lying on the tarmac by the phone box and had stayed with me for days; I let my thoughts run right up to that same morning. And yet to the simple question When had I felt least unreal? When had I felt least unreal? the answer was not any of these times. the answer was not any of these times.

It was, it slowly dawned on me, another time: a moment that had come about not through an orchestrated re-enactment, but by chance-without back-up people, two-way radios, architects, police moles and forensic reports, without piano loops and licences and demarcated zones. I'd been alone: alone and yet surrounded by people. They'd been streaming past me, on the concourse outside Victoria Station. Commuters. I'd been going to see Matthew Younger: I'd come out of the tube just as rush hour was beginning, and commuters-men and women dressed in suits-had hurried past me. I'd stood still, facing the other way, feeling them hurrying, streaming. I'd turned the palms of my hands outwards, felt the tingling begin-and been struck by the thought that my posture was like the posture of a beggar, holding his hands out, asking pa.s.sers-by for change. The tingling had grown; after a while I'd decided that I would would ask them for change. I'd started murmuring: ask them for change. I'd started murmuring: "Spare change...spare change...spare change..."

I'd stood like this, gazing vaguely in front of me and murmuring spare change, spare change, for several minutes. n.o.body had given me any; I didn't need or want their change: I'd just received eight and half million pounds. But being in that particular s.p.a.ce, right then, in that particular relation to the others, to the world, had made me so serene, so intense that I'd felt almost real. I remembered, standing next to the short councillor now, having felt exactly that way: almost real. I turned to him and said: for several minutes. n.o.body had given me any; I didn't need or want their change: I'd just received eight and half million pounds. But being in that particular s.p.a.ce, right then, in that particular relation to the others, to the world, had made me so serene, so intense that I'd felt almost real. I remembered, standing next to the short councillor now, having felt exactly that way: almost real. I turned to him and said: "It was when I was outside Victoria Station, looking for my stockbroker's office, asking pa.s.sers-by for change."

The short councillor smiled-the type of smile that implied he'd known what my answer would be before I'd even given it.

"Demanding money of which he most certainly had no need," he said. "That's what's made him feel most real."

"Demanding money, yes," I told him, "but also the sense of..."

"Of what?" he asked.

"Of being on the other side of something. A veil, a screen, the law-I don't know..."

My voice petered out. The short councillor looked at me for a while, then said: "Demanding money, having pa.s.sed onto the other side, he says. The question follows: What will he do next?"

What would I do next? Another good question. It should be something like the scene outside Victoria that day. Perhaps I could just re-enact exactly that: hire the concourse and get my staff to be streaming commuters while I stood with my hands out facing them, asking them for change. I pictured it, but it didn't really catch my imagination. Re-enacting it wouldn't be enough: there'd be something missing, something fundamental.

I closed my eyes and straight away an image came to me: of a gun, then of several guns-a whole parade of them, laid out like in Dr Jauhari's diagrams, with their sleek finishes, curved handles and thick hammers. The image widened: I was with my staff, all in formation just like in my dream, an aeroplane-shaped phalanx. We were on a demarcated surface, an interior concourse divided into areas, cut up by screens which we were penetrating, getting to the other side of. We were standing in a phalanx and demanding money, standing on the other side of something, holding guns-and the whole scene was intense, beautiful and real.

On the asphalt pitch a football hitting a caged goal slammed me back into the present. I turned to the short councillor and said: "What I'd like to re-enact next is a bank heist."

14.

ONE WEEK LATER Naz and I found ourselves stepping back into the Blueprint Cafe. We were there to meet a man named Edward Samuels. In his heyday Samuels had been one of the UK's most prolific and audacious armed robbers. Besides holding up countless banks, he'd also stolen artworks, clothes, tobacco, televisions: whole shipments of all these. He'd always stolen in bulk. He'd hijacked lorries and raided warehouses. He'd been so adept at making large things disappear that he'd earned himself the name, among the underworld, of Elephant Thief-a moniker which, apparently, those who knew him well were permitted to abbreviate to Elephant.

Samuels's criminal career hadn't gone completely without hitch. He'd been imprisoned twice-the second time for an eleven-year stretch, of which he'd served seven. While in prison he'd started studying. He'd done some O levels, and then some A levels, then a degree in Criminal Psychology. He'd written an autobiography, Elephant, Elephant, which he'd managed to get published shortly after leaving prison. That's how Naz had hooked up with him and set up our meeting: he'd read his book, then contacted his agent. which he'd managed to get published shortly after leaving prison. That's how Naz had hooked up with him and set up our meeting: he'd read his book, then contacted his agent.

Naz told me all this stuff about Samuels while we took a taxi to the restaurant. As he did I pictured him. I pictured him as tall and quite athletic. I was more or less right. I picked Samuels out as soon as we walked in. He was burly and fiftyish, with straight white hair. He had high cheekbones and was sort of handsome. He'd brought a copy of his book with him-or so it seemed: a book which I a.s.sumed was his was lying on the table just in front of him, but when I sat down and glanced at it, it turned out to be called The Psychopathology of Crime. The Psychopathology of Crime.

"Still studying?" I asked him.

"Halfway through my MA," Samuels said. His voice was husky and working cla.s.s, but had a middle-cla.s.s kind of a.s.surance to it. "I got the bug. In prison you go mad if you don't put your mind to something. The weights are okay for your murderers and psychos, but if you've got half a brain you want to use your time to educate yourself."

"Why criminal psychology?" I asked.

"There were psychologists in prison, studying us," Samuels said, picking at a breadstick. "So I asked one of them to lend me some books. At first he lent me ones geared to the patient: how to manage anger, how to cope with this and that. Within a week I'd asked him to show me the ones he read. Books for psychologists."

"Like textbooks?" I asked.

"Exactly," he said. "Reading these was like suddenly being given the key to my own past. Understanding it. If you don't want to repeat things, you have to understand them."

I thought hard about what Samuels had just said, then told him: "But I do want to repeat things."

"So Nazrul's informed me," Samuels answered. "He says..."

"And I don't want to understand them. That's the..."

My voice trailed off. The waiter turned up. Naz and I ordered fish soup, kedgeree and sparkling water; Samuels ordered venison sausages and red wine.

"Did you serve us here before?" I asked the waiter.

He stepped back and looked at me.

"Possibly, sir," he said. "I'll remember you next time."

When he'd gone I told Naz: "Get his details when we leave. I might use him for something in the future."

"Absolutely," Naz said. He knew exactly what I meant.

I turned to Samuels again.

"So," I said. "Naz has filled you in on what we want?"

"He has indeed," said Samuels. "You want to pay me an enormous amount of money for advice on how to re-stage a bank heist."