Wednesday, September 11, 2002. London

Nixon Tyme downed his whisky, said goodbye to Eugene, and made his way out of The Jug. The unsettled autumn weather had turned mild and pleasant, and the walk back home could wait for a while. He made his way south, up the hill and across, towards Brockwell Park. It was late afternoon, and children were coming out of school. The rush hour was just beginning on another, ordinary day.

That's how it may have appeared if one had been dropped into the scene. Nixon wondered how many times he'd dropped into a scene on his travels, and thought everything looked like just another ordinary day. The truth was, there was no such thing, as just an ordinary anything. Today was the first anniversary of the attack on the twin towers of Manhattan. There had been some nervousness in the city, that something may be repeated today, but Nixon was sure it wouldn't happen. It was too obvious. Life didn't do that. The only certainty, was uncertainty, and humankind hated it.

It challenged the basic principle that set humanity apart from the rest of the animal kingdom. That of trying to create some sort of order out of the chaos. The terrorism had caught everyone out, but the only surprise to Nixon was that it was a surprise. How often in life could one predict anything with certainty? When he thought about it, he only had a vague idea of what he'd be doing in an hour. He had an idea where he'd be, but with no detail. He had no idea what people might do or say, and how that may affect him. His idea of the future was nothing more than a vague approximation. He'd believed this for a long time, and now he knew he'd been right all along. He found a bench in the park, and sat down. He thought about a cigarette, but got the letter out instead, and read again, what he'd already read twice since this morning. His manuscript had been accepted, and would be published in the spring. An appropriate time for a fresh start.

Tanner Francis had given him the idea. It was his parting shot, and he'd not seen him since. Nixon wondered about making contact. He liked Tanner, and imagined what he was up to now. He'd heard about the Bellevilles, of course. The follow up album never did get made, but the single did get released, and Sortir ce Soir, fulfilling Gil's prediction, became a hit in France. The timing was perfect. It was after the terrorist attacks, and there appeared to be a groundswell from a counter culture, which said 'I don't care anymore', chiming perfectly with the song's anti establishment message. Globalisation had got a bloody nose. Some even pointed the finger at the west for bringing it on. Nixon thought of the iconic image of George W Bush, sitting in a primary school, informed of the attack, with a look of vacant shock, in front of a panel stating 'Reading makes a country great'.

What was certain, was that the world had changed forever that Tuesday morning, but for Nixon and the others, their lives had irrevocably changed, nine days before.

By the time Tanner and Nixon got the boat back to shore, it was almost too late. Children on the beach scattered, as Nixon, with blood on his hands from Gil's wound, ran desperately around trying to get someone to call for assistance. Further down the beach, Isabella and Cecile had eventually noted the commotion, and to their horror, discovered the awful truth.

Inside the boat, some inches of sea water had turned red, and gave the impression that Gil was lying in a bath of his own blood. He was unconscious now, and Isabella's frantic attempts to revive him were hopeless. He'd lost consciousness at sea, some five minutes before. Nixon, having recounted the story of Lucia to Tanner, and then seeing Gil slipping away, started trying to gee him up by talking about his plans for the music. It appeared to work, and again, Gil rallied. Tanner joined in too, and started to talk about the single release.

“You know ? I've been thinking, we've got nothing to lose with this....and I'd forgotten that you and Ren had done that video as well.......”

“Do you mean it ? Promise me you'll make it happen, Tanner.......I know it will work......”

Gil squeezed Nixon's arm, and smiled. He was very pale.

“You see Nikki.......I did it.......I knew it would work in the end”

It was as if that positive thought, allowed him to relax, and finally, slip away. Gil never spoke again, and although, when the ambulance arrived, their actions suggested a chance still remained, by the time they'd reached the hospital, all hope had gone, and by 4.56pm, at the age of forty one, Gilles Benoit Riot was pronounced dead on arrival.

As with love, comparing levels of grief is complex, and humankind has innumerable ways of expressing it. On the beach, and then at the hospital, Isabella's reaction had become near hysterical, but, within twenty four hours, she'd calmed to the point of almost cold practicality. She'd been through this before, of course, and the only indication to Nixon's mind, was that during the short time he stayed on in France, he never saw her smile again. For Tanner and Cecile, their sorrow was focused into the support of Isabella. They stayed on at Les Moulins, and save for a few individual visits to Paris and London, tying up the affairs of their past lives, they never moved out. Les Moulins Blanc, had finally become a home again.

Nixon's grief was altogether more brutal. He'd lost his friend, but he also felt responsible. The guilt hit on many levels. Ensnaring Gil in his predicament, falling for his wife....and then, the knife.

Only he knew why that knife was aboard. A tiny, innocuous detail, lying in wait, how could he blame himself? But then, he thought about the record. Why had he written that song, T.I.M.O? Was it an homage to Lucia, or an elaborate game, to see how far he could get away with it....a criminal's calling card. Hitchcock's film, Rope, sprung to mind. Had his ego surfaced to give him away...and condemn Gil? He felt sick at the thought.

Nixon also felt guilty about his dealings with the police. He chose to say nothing about Lucia.

For four days after the incident, nobody could find Peter's body. Tanner and Nixon were taken out on a police launch, to try to pin point the exact area. Nixon worried whether Lucia may be discovered. Tanner remained silent, days passed, and the divers found nothing. The tension was unbearable, then finally, they found him. It was as if the ghost of Lucia had finally let him go.

It was a relief, as the large media interest in the incident, started to postulate whether a drowned murderer existed at all. Despite Isabella and Cecile's statements, rumours started to surface, that perhaps all wasn't as it seemed. Were Nixon and Tanner in some way guilty? It was as this time, that Tanner sensed his comeuppance. Had he finally lost his bet? In a private moment he faced Nixon.

“Now you've told me your secret, I realise I have a chance to tell you mine.....”

For twenty five years, Tanner had had to live with it, and like Nixon, he knew how vulnerable he'd feel towards anyone he told. Here was a rare opportunity to unburden himself. Nixon's secret was perfect insurance, and so, out came the remarkable tale of what really happened to Jean Noel Maret.

“It was after the show at The 100 Club. I gave him a lift back south of the river. We went up to his room. I wanted to talk about the band. I'd put a load of dosh into the band, and wanted to get some kind of assurance that he wasn't going to leave me high and dry, anyway, it didn't go well. Perhaps I was too impetuous, I don't know, but he wouldn't commit to anything....'eet will 'appen in eets own way'..... was all he would say......I got angry, I felt used, anyway I swear I didn't mean it. I pushed him, he fell, and hit his head......I hardly touched him.”

Amazingly, in the middle of the night, Tanner got him back to the car, and spirited the body away.

“I had some mates who were working on a building site near Islington. They used one of the cabins as an all night gambling club, so I knew how to get in, and, when it was empty. I also knew about the deep holes they were sinking for concrete foundations......I never thought I'd get away with it, but nobody connected me with the place, and after a couple of weeks, the police effectively gave up. If there was any family, nobody seemed to care, except maybe for Le Noir. Perhaps that's why he didn't get involved when we reformed it. If Marrat had done a runner, he felt betrayed, and didn't want to see him.......perhaps he hoped it was an imposter after all. Either way, I wasn't surprised when he said no......anyway, now you know. I've waited a long time to tell anybody......Never thought I'd get the chance.”

Nixon thanked him. Tanner had saved him. They'd saved each other, and in a final twist, Tanner had given Nixon a reason to go on. He felt he could never tell the whole truth to Isabella, certainly now Gil had gone. His situation with her, was now beyond complicated, but Tanner had the answer.

“Write it down, Nixon.......and bury your ghosts. You never know, she might read it, and one day, understand..........At the very least........you might understand yourself better.” 

Nixon wondered a lot about Tanner's story. He couldn't imagine him as a killer, and if his account was true, then he wasn't. It was a like for like with his own tale, but who would believe it? He needed to write it down, and see.

For the next year, he immersed himself in the task. Rarely going out, he weaved his strange memoir of death, desire and discovery. Initially, he felt self conscious, but gradually, his fictional characters took on a life of their own, and began to breathe unhindered, in their substituted settings. Nixon also started to realise, he had a rare opportunity to explore and express his own personal philosophy, and for once, sit back, and see how it all stacked up. His time in France had provided him with the first opportunity to reflect since his days on the road, and it surprised him how little he'd changed. The continuity made him feel better. It was a good thing. Everything made sense.

The universe sprang from a point, that was everywhere at once. In a global sense, it resembled something of a nautilus shell, reminiscent of golden ratio phi proportions, where the infinitesimally small linked back to the infinite, in a sort of cosmic, Escherian stairwell. The numbers never resolved, though, but oscillated around a mean trajectory, resonating forever through time. The music of the heavens really did exist. Everything vibrated, and if one could take the time to listen carefully enough, disregarding all the superfluous noise, it was still just possible, to feel the very soul of everything that had ever been.