‘What’s he like?’ Norah asked, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

‘Oh, he’s just wonderful,’ Bernadette replied sarcastically. ‘Absolutely wonderful.’

‘Great,’ said Norah. The two women exchanged a knowing smile. Somewhere in the hotel, a piano was being tuned.

Then the door opened.

There was something almost surreal about seeing the actor in person. Norah often got to meet famous people, but the strange familiarity she felt when first confronted with them in person never failed to unnerve her. Film stars always seemed less real to her than other people; it was as if she had to see them in the flesh to understand that they existed—that they walked around and ate and drank and had showers and scratched their heads. Most of the stars she met were slightly shorter than she’d expected. Alarmingly, they were also better looking. So she was forearmed when her interviewee switched on his roguish smile.

‘Michael,’ said Bernadette, ‘may I introduce you to Norah Richter?’

Norah felt strangely light when she headed out of the Imperial half an hour or so later. The piano had gone quiet, but a whiff of pipe tobacco hung in the air, sickly sweet. She quickened her pace, impatient to get to her desk and type up the interview—it had been a good one, maybe even really good. She’d know as soon as—

Norah stopped. She’d almost trodden on something lying on the floor. A playing card—no, a tarot card.

She picked it up and turned it over. Death stared out at her from empty eye sockets.

The Mystery of Fascination

When I was little, I was fascinated by freak shows. They had, of course, long since died a death by then, but my grandmother sometimes talked of them, and I would listen, rapt, as she told me about bearded ladies and giants and dwarves and two-headed girls. One of my earliest memories is of sitting with my grandmother as she told me stories—plenty of fairytales, of course, but more macabre things, too. For a time I collected old photos of freak shows. Later I fell in love with Freaks, an American horror movie from the thirties, which is (except, perhaps, for Vertigo) still my favourite film today.

But it is, even now, a mystery to me what I found so intriguing. I was repelled by the freaks, but at the same time, I was fascinated. There’s no explanation—that kind of thing isn’t meant to be explained. We can’t choose who we are. We can’t choose what we are repelled or attracted by.

Circus freaks were my first obsession. After that came natural disasters, Medieval witch burnings, the occult, Aleister Crowley and, eventually, serial killers. I see beauty in horror and horror in beauty; it is a gift. It probably explains why I am drawn to her: something in her appeals to me and yet at the same time I find her strangely unappealing.

But it is not my job to interpret my obsessions. My job is to pursue them. I begin by finding out all there is to know. Luckily she has made this easy for me.