Jake Arnott - The House of Rumour

‘What’s the Black Pilgrimage?’

He started to explain about Chorazin, a cursed ancient city near the Sea of Galilee, with a black temple built of basalt. I tried to follow as he talked of a journey to a place where, it was said, the Antichrist would be born. But by then he had passed me the reefer and I was on my way to getting as drunk and as high as he was.

‘Come with me,’ he mumbled as he pulled off what remained of his clothes.

I undressed and got into bed with him.

I got back to my flat on Sunday afternoon. I had been there for only half an hour when my buzzer went. It was Dexter.

‘How’s Mother?’ he asked breezily as I let him in. He had a briefcase with him.

‘What?’

‘Oh it doesn’t matter. I know where you’ve been.’

His tone was at once flat and cold.

‘Dexter, what’s all this about?’

‘I know you were with Jack Parsons.’

I felt a shiver in the pit of my stomach.

‘But how did you know?’

‘Maybe I have psychic powers, Mary-Lou. I certainly have access to hidden knowledge.’

Dexter’s mouth twisted into a parody of a smile.

‘Look,’ I struggled to appear calm, ‘this isn’t funny. If you’ve been snooping around me—’

‘Shh,’ he shushed me, a finger to his mouth.

He patted the couch.

‘Sit, Mary-Lou.’ His voice was all soft authority. ‘I need you to listen to me.’

He stared me down, his eyes hard and impassive.

‘You want occult wisdom?’ he went on, leaning over me and pulling something out of the briefcase. ‘Take a look at this.’

He handed me a loosely bound sheaf of papers. New pages for the script, that was my first thought. Then I looked at it. Bureau File was the heading on the title page, then Subject: Mary-Lou Gunderson; File No. 67-59674 . As I flicked through, strange details about my life leapt up at me: Reported to have attended CP meetings and study groups in 1940… Whilst residing at 1003 Orange Grove Avenue, Pasadena, California, she was a member of a religious cult believed to advocate sexual perversion… known associate of Nemesio (‘Nemo’) Carvajal, Cuban national, union organiser at Lockheed Corp., Burbank, California, and known communist agitator…

It was as though I was in an awful waking dream. Dexter patted me gently on the shoulder in a delicate gesture of possession.

‘You’re a lucky girl,’ he murmured. ‘Not everyone gets to see their FBI file.’

‘You work for the FBI?’

Dexter’s laugh was dark and soft.

‘God, no. My department is more, let’s say, strategic. But we have a reciprocal relationship with the Bureau.’

‘The film, that’s just some sort of front?’

‘Oh no. It’s an important project. And I really do want you to direct it, despite your duplicitous behaviour. And this,’ he tapped the file in my hands. ‘Well, some things could be added, some things could be taken away. It all depends on what you tell me.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘No. But you will. What did Larry say about you? That you wanted to know everything, yes, that was it.’

‘You talked to Larry about me?’

‘I talk to everybody about everybody. It’s my job. Now, I need some answers. About Jack Parsons.’

He went into a brisk interrogation routine. Demanding to know what had happened, what we had talked about. I found myself telling Dexter everything. I mentioned the Black Pilgrimage.

‘What’s the Black Pilgrimage?’

‘I don’t know. It’s something about a city, I can’t remember its name.’

‘Try to remember.’

‘It was somewhere in Galilee.’

‘Galilee?’

‘Yes, I think so.’

‘Are you sure he said Galilee?’

‘I don’t know. Yes.’

‘Did he mention Israel?’

‘Israel?’

‘Yes, Israel. Specifically the newly founded State of Israel, keen to develop its own rocket programme.’

‘No.’

‘I want you to ask him about Israel, Mary-Lou.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean, the next time you see him. Soon, I hope.’

‘And if I don’t?’

‘Oh, I think you will. Besides anything else, you’re intrigued. The file, please.’

I handed it back to him.

‘Don’t worry,’ he told me. ‘Do this right and I’ll explain everything.’

I went back to work on Monday but Dexter was nowhere to be seen. I tried working on the script but I couldn’t think. I called the motel. Jack had checked out. I phoned some of the Lodge members that I still had numbers for but no one seemed to know where he was. In the end I thought of Astrid. She had a fortune-telling stall on Sunset and Vine so I went there.

‘You’re looking for Jack, aren’t you?’ she said.

‘Well, you’d hardly need second sight to know that, Astrid.’

‘He’s in trouble, isn’t he?’

‘He’s been in trouble all his life.’

‘I know, dear.’ She closed her eyes. ‘I’m getting some sort of a fix on him. I see the sea. Don’t worry, I’ll find him for you.’

Astrid phoned me two days later to say that the rumour was that he was renting a place in Redondo Beach on the Esplanade, a strange Moorish-style villa with arches and crenellations all rendered in concrete. I found it but it was empty. I left a note and went down to the shore. There he was, staring out at the sea. I called out through the crash and hiss of surf. He smiled as he saw me. We walked along the beach together.

I wasn’t sure what I was going to do. I thought that I could warn him, even save him in some way. I had this mad dream that we would run off to Israel together and live on a kibbutz. But first I had to know what he intended to do.

‘You’re planning to go away, aren’t you?’ I asked.

‘Maybe.’

‘To that place in Galilee?’

He laughed.

‘Well,’ I went on, ‘you could visit there, couldn’t you?’

He stopped. He turned and frowned at me.

‘What do you mean?’ he demanded.

‘If you went to Israel.’

‘Who says I’m going to Israel?’

‘I worked it out. I’m a clever girl, you see. The Black Pilgrimage was a clue, wasn’t it?’

He looked around anxiously.

‘No one’s supposed to know. Not even Candy. You see, I’ve been approached by the Israelis and they want a detailed breakdown of equipment costs for a rocket programme. So I’ve borrowed the proposal document I put together for Hughes Aircraft.’

‘What do you mean Candy’s not supposed to know?’

‘The thing is, I’ve taken that and some details about rocket fuels and propellants. It’s all my work, but it kind of belongs to the company.’

‘Jack, why does it matter if Candy knows or not?’

‘What? Well, it could get me into trouble over my security clearance.’

‘But Candy’s not even here, is she? Is she?’

‘Well—’

‘She’s coming back. That’s it, isn’t it?’

‘I don’t know yet.’

‘But that’s what you want, isn’t it?’

‘Mary-Lou, wait—’

But I had already turned and walked away.

It was a small gallery on Wilshire Boulevard. A private viewing, the opening of a new exhibition, a sophisticated crowd. Dexter floating gently through space, one hand holding a wineglass, the other stroking his chin thoughtfully. I walked over and stood next to him.

‘What do you think?’ he said.

Large unframed canvases with abstract blocks of shimmering oil, jagged sprays of colour.

‘I saw Jack.’

‘Good, good,’ he muttered absently, gesturing at the artwork. ‘But what do you think of this? You wouldn’t say this was un-American, would you?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘It’s democratic, that’s what I’d say. And the good thing about abstract art is that it’s empty. It’s politically silent, you know? Though there are some people who actually believe that there are hidden messages in stuff like this, even maps of our secret defence complexes. That’s wonderfully mad, isn’t it?’