Blind Angel of Wrath (The Blind Sleuth Mysteries 2)

4 The Island

So the address that Martin McCullough had dictated was on Uxbridge Road. Daisy had to take the Tube to Shepherd's Bush Market Station, and in the middle of the Saturday crowd that streamed out on their way to the market grounds, she started asking around for directions to the address that she had written down in Braille. There were always some good souls to be found everywhere, who would manage to tear themselves away from their own pursuits long enough to help a blind lady, even at the exit of a bustling Tube station.

In fact, Daisy asked to be directed a few doors further down the road from where she needed to be, because she wanted to size up the place beforehand. After thanking the last person who had guided her, she turned back and ambled along the busy pavement, crowded with summertime strollers, and she listened intently. She recognized the hippie commune at once. There were kids hanging around left and right of the front door. The door itself was propped open, you could hear youthful voices coming from inside. After a first walk-by, Daisy came back, veered sideways right in front of the open door and walked in. After a few steps into a corridor she could hear that there was another open door on her left, the voices still coming from within, so she veered again.

Tap-tapping spectacularly with her white cane, her face and dark glasses held high, Daisy walked straight into the front parlour of the house and stopped smack in the middle of it. Everyone in the large room fell silent at once. Only the sitar music kept on playing in the background, probably Ravi Shankar on the turntable. The place reeked of pot, patchouli oil and joss sticks; unwashed youthful bodies.

"Excuse me," Daisy called out, "is this a Lions' tea shop?"

A few of the youngsters sniggered, then one of them, a boy, said, "No, Granny, this is definitely not a Lions' tea shop."

"What is this place called, then?"

Silence. Daisy just stood there, apparently undisturbed. At length another male voice said, "As a matter of fact, if you really want to know, we call this place The Island. It's a hippie commune..."

"Really? Interesting! Would that be as in Island, the last novel published by Aldous Huxley?"

"Yeah! Yeah! You know about Huxley, then?"

"Of course! I've been a great fan of Huxley since I was sixteen..."

Another silence, filled with awe, this time. The same—rather posh—male voice said, "That must have been a long time ago?"

"Oh yes! But you know, Aldous Huxley goes back a long time too. He published his first novel in 1921, just before I was even born!"

"Wow! So how old is he now?"

"Well, I don't know: he's dead! He passed away a couple of years ago..."

"Wow!"

The young man softly took Daisy's arm, led her to the side of the room, by the open windows, and invited her to sit down. "If you don't mind sitting on a mattress on the floor?"

"Oh no, that's all right. Just like at a picnic!"

The noises from the street were coming in through the windows, there was traffic and there were throngs of chatty pedestrians. Ravi Shankar was still twanging in the background. The nice young man was very anxious to hear the blind lady out about Huxley. Daisy was amused by the trouble he was taking to hide his polished accent.

"So how old would Huxley have been when he died?"

"I don't know exactly... but wait, I seem to remember he was almost seventy. Yes, he died in sixty-three..."

"Jesus! That's old!"

"Yes, but he was something of a hippie all his life. He must have been around sixty when he published The Doors of Perception..."