Lodge: Man falling, man falling. Can you hear me? Can you hear me? This is Geoff Lodge at Ops. Respond with your name if you can.
Red does not seem to have been aware until this moment that his com was still on and his mike open, but now he responds wildly.
Red: It’s me, it’s Red! It’s Red. Help, I fucking fell. I fucking fell!
A brief silence follows. In interviews since, Lodge has made the admission that he had not expected the falling man to actually answer, and having made contact against all likelihood, he now had little idea of what to say or do.
Finally—
Lodge: Red, I hear you. I hear you. Are you hurt?
Red: No! But I’m fucking dead, man, I’m fucking dead!
Lodge: I … Jesus. (Garbled interruption in background.) Okay, okay. Red, listen, can you clear the shoreline? Can you make it to the water? If you can, we can get a boat out to you.
Red: I don’t know! Maybe. What fucking difference does it make? I’m gonna hit too hard. Water won’t save me!
Lodge: Spreadeagle yourself. Get a glide going. If you can make it to the water there’s a chance, if you hit right, if there’s some chop to break the surface tension. It’s windy out there, it might work.
Red: Fuck. Fuck. Okay, okay. I can try. Maybe. I think I’ve got a glide going already. I can hold this. I don’t think I’ll hit the mountain.
At this point, now two minutes thirty into the fall, and at about eleven thousand metres, Red was fully in the grip of the updraft from the jet stream. Perhaps he could feel himself being pushed out and away from the mountainside, hence his optimism.
In fact, Red’s glide average ratio, from his fall to the place of impact, would end up at roughly point seven to one—that is, for every seven metres that he travelled horizontally, he fell ten metres vertically. In years since, with wing suit flying having become a popular pastime for thrill seekers, jumpers have been able to achieve much greater glide average ratios, easily two to one or even three to one and more. But for an unintended fall, and in a non-aerodynamic suit, Red’s ratio was impressive.
There follows garbled and crossed lines on the com for the next minute, as Lodge engages in hurried conversations with watchers on Observatory Mount and with safety crews on the ships in Bligh Cove, in regard to a rescue boat. Red interjects with further expletives and terrified denials as the ground and the ocean loom closer.
Then, at three and a half minutes, the Artemis, the expedition accommodation vessel, cuts in.
Artemis: Artemis here. Geoff, we’ve got Frieda coming in, we got the news to her and she’s on her way. Can I put her on?
Lodge: Red, do you hear that?
Red: Frieda? Oh fuck, oh fuck.
The Frieda in question was Red’s wife, who also worked for the Richman expedition as accommodation coordinator on the Artemis. She lived permanently on the ship, though the couple’s two children only visited the Wheel during school holidays, and hence were spared the ordeal of witnessing their father’s death.
When the crisis began, a messenger had been sent to find Frieda and bring her back to the Artemis radio room. She comes online at three minutes and fifty-five seconds into the fall. Red was then at five thousand metres and had just over a minute to impact. On the tape there is a muddle of voices, then a woman’s voice cuts through.
Frieda: Honey? Matt?
Red: Frieda? Oh Christ honey, I’m so sorry, I fell, I didn’t mean to, I—
Frieda: It’s all right, it’s all right, you’re gonna survive this.
Red: Oh god, I dunno, I’m gonna hit so hard. Frieda, you and the kids, I’m so sorry, I don’t wanna leave you—
Frieda: Then don’t. Do what they say. Glide as much as you can, and when you hit the water—
(Garbled interruption.)
Lodge: That’s right, Red, when you hit the water, try to go feet first. You’ll break your legs but that’ll absorb some of the shock.
(Garbled interruption)
Observation Post: I can see him now, naked eye. Christ, he’s gonna hit way off shore, a mile at least. Get that boat out there.
Frieda: (crying) Oh god. Matt, hang on. Don’t leave me, don’t—
Red: It’s coming, it’s coming, oh Jesus. Frieda goodbye I’m sorry I love you I love you oh shit oh—
Red’s com cuts off at this point, though he is still some ten seconds short of impact. Observers later reported that he seemed to shift in his falling stance, presumably to orientate himself feet first to the water. He lost control of the manoeuvre however, and instead slipped into a rapid head-over-heels spin. The G-forces of such a tumble would have been horrendous, and may have damaged his com relay.
The last portion of the tape continues.
Frieda: Matt? (A scream.) Matt? Matt?
Silence.
Observation Post: He’s hit.
Lodge: Confirm?
Observation Post: He’s down. I’ve got the spot marked and the boat is on the way.
Unidentified male voice, off mike: Christ, you see how hard he hit? Spinning like that, no fucking way he survives, no—
The feed cuts off abruptly.
But those final words were all too prophetic. Cartwheeling at over two hundred kilometres an hour, Red hit the water head first and vanished in a soul-crunching splash. The watchers on the Mount did not see him resurface. The rescue boat reached the spot within two more minutes, and divers were in the water within a minute more, but to no avail. Red was gone, and his body would never be recovered.
It was assumed, at the following inquest, that his HTF suit had most likely fractured upon impact, then filled with water. Even if Red had not been killed instantly, he would have been helpless against so much dead weight dragging him down. The ocean in that area is two thousand metres deep, and the seabed is riven with narrow canyons and swept by strong currents, so a full recovery effort was never launched.
Three weeks later, Walter Richman stood within the Hand of God on the summit, and the Wheel was finally conquered.
4
DEATH AND ART
At one p.m. Rita left her apartment to attend her lunch appointment in the Conservatory.
Other than the brief exchange with Eugene, and then the encounter with the woman in the Cavern Pool, she had spoken to no one all morning. And once again, as she came to the well and began to climb the Helix Staircase—the lift was available, but the great staircase was still too fascinating to ignore—Rita encountered not a soul, her only companion the confident silence of her father’s design.
But hiding behind that silence, she knew now, lay the Observatory’s tunnels, thrumming with machine noise. And those tunnels were everywhere. On her way back from the pool she had searched for other entry points that might betray them, and behold, they were legion. Some were discreet and camouflaged: doors set flush into wood-panelled walls, or masquerading as full-length mirrors. Others were concealed behind false angles in decorative alcoves. But now that Rita knew what to look for, they all were visible to her discerning eye.
She tried a few of the doors and found none were locked. Invariably they opened to plain concrete corridors that ran off into gloom, but the only indication as to where those corridors led were cryptic markings on the backs of the doors. The tunnel nearest her own apartment, for instance, opening from a small nook in the main hallway, was marked UH-GWA. The best she could guess from this was that the GWA might refer to Guest Wing A. But otherwise, who knew?
In any case—she thought, as she circled about on the stairs—there was something about all these tunnels that set her teeth on edge. It was not that she was blind to the need for service passageways in a house so large. But the intent here seemed so naked: that the grand spaces should not be ruined by the appearance of anything so mundane as staff, that the peace and quiet of the guests must not be offended or disturbed, that the employees, as reminders of menial things, should be banished from sight to scurry in a dark underworld of noise and steam. Something in Rita—perhaps it
was only a relic of the long-dying Australian sense of egalitarianism—revolted a little at the notion.
Which was ironic, for when she finally reached the Atrium, the first people that she encountered in fact were staff.
Of a kind, anyway. The house manager, Bradley, was leading a group of four men across the landing towards the Dining Hall. The four were all dressed alike in work gear of overalls, boots and safety helmets, and toting plastic crates stuffed with wires and cables.
‘Good afternoon, Ms Gausse,’ declared the house manager, apology in his tone. ‘Don’t mind us, please, these men have an urgent task on an eastern balcony, and this was the quickest way.’
‘Something wrong?’ she enquired, as the men trooped past, barely sparing her a glance.
‘Oh no,’ the manager reassured. ‘These are just fireworks specialists for tonight’s show. A few last-minute details to be attended to.’
‘Ah. Any hints about tonight then?’
Bradley smiled. Rita still did not know if it was his first name or last. ‘I’m afraid not, ma’am. Other than to say that the weather is looking like it will be clear this evening, which is a relief.’
‘Oh. Well, I have a lunch …’
‘So I understand. In the Conservatory. The others are already there, I think. But excuse me, I must escort these men to where they need to be.’ And with a nod he moved after the other four.
▲
Lunch was an á la carte affair, the five of them—Rita, Clara, Kushal, Madelaine and Eugene—lounging on cane chairs set around a circular table laid in white. Chat was polite as drink and food orders were taken, the topics consisting of the weather—clearing now—and the magnificence of the views which beckoned on every hand through the Observatory’s glass walls: the sky and the sea and, of course, the Wheel.
But as they settled in, the major-domo enquired as to how Rita had spent her morning, and that led to Rita reporting on her visit to the Cavern Pool and her rescue of the cleaning woman.
Kushal responded with indignation. ‘I cannot believe that she could be lost in the way you say. The service passages are complex, yes, but they are no maze. They are marked with perfectly clear directions.’
‘Then why do the staff keep going missing in them?’ Eugene enquired with amusement. ‘Happens all the time.’
‘Because they are inattentive. They cannot read a simple sign. They must be walking in their sleep to go so astray.’
Rita then moved on to the tale the cleaning woman had told her, of the dead man in the steam room. It was a topic she might have avoided had Richman been present, out of fear of embarrassing her host, and also she did not want to get the cleaning woman into any trouble, but surely it was okay to discuss with these others. It wasn’t their house.
Even so, she could see the uncomfortable glances being shared about the table as she spoke. ‘So is it true?’ she concluded, asking the question of all of them. ‘Did a man really die in the steam room?’
Clara sighed reluctantly. ‘Well, yes, there was an unfortunate event down there several weeks ago. One of the pool maintenance workers was found dead in the steam room. It was very sad.’
‘How did he die? Was it an accident?’
The major-domo shook her head. ‘There was no malfunction of the steam room, if that’s what you mean. When the body was found, everything was functioning exactly as it should, temperatures within normal ranges. Nor was he trapped in any way. The door is not even capable of being locked. But for some reason he stayed in there for a considerable length of time, and well, that’s obviously dangerous. It was very upsetting. And though, as I say, there was no malfunction, Mr Richman had the room completely stripped back and refurbished in any case, so you mustn’t think there’s any risk now.’
Kushal was shaking his head again, annoyed. ‘There was no need to replace anything. The steam room was fine. The man was obviously suicidal. He sat in there deliberately until it killed him!’
‘How long are we talking about?’ Rita asked.
Kushal shrugged. ‘He was missing for over a day before someone noticed his clothes piled outside the door.’
‘Twenty-four hours in a steam room,’ mused Eugene.
Madelaine sipped a soda water, expressionless. ‘He was a horrible sight when they found him, I’m told. They say his skin had cooked through and was peeling off in large pieces. And the smell!’
‘I heard he wasn’t quite dead even then,’ added Eugene. ‘He only died when they lifted him, and he fell apart.’
‘For pity’s sake,’ reproved Kushal. ‘That’s nonsense and you know it is. He was dead of heat stroke, that’s all. And that’s bad enough.’
Rita said, ‘His clothes were outside? He was naked in there?’
Clara gave her a curious stare. ‘Is that so strange? It’s a steam room, after all.’
‘I was just wondering,’ Rita replied. ‘Wasn’t the man they found dead in the Lightning Room naked too?’
This drew another round of stiff glances about the table. ‘You know about the Lightning Room?’ Clara enquired.
Rita was careful to not even glance at Madelaine, her informant. ‘I remember it being in the news a while ago.’
‘Ah. But you didn’t mention it last night, when we were up there.’
‘It hardly seemed the right time. I didn’t want to be rude.’
‘No,’ Clara conceded.
‘So, with my father that makes it three people that have died up here in the Observatory. Is that weird?’
‘Well, you must remember,’ said Kushal, ‘this whole island has been one massive construction zone for the last four years, an engineering project as big as any in the world. With so many people around, deaths—either accidental or natural—are inevitable.’
A sudden flash of intuition came to Rita. ‘Have there been more than three deaths? Since construction began?’
The builder’s eyes met hers briefly before skewing away. ‘Yes, more than three. But I’d rather not discuss the actual number. It would be misleading to a layperson. Let’s just say it was within the expected norms for a project of this size. Construction is a dangerous business. Though be assured, all safety codes were followed.’
Madelaine sipped again from her glass. ‘Maybe sometimes a site is just unlucky.’
‘Unlucky?’ Rita echoed.
Kushal said, ‘There’s no such thing as bad luck in construction, just bad planning. But sometimes the workers get a silly notion in their heads about this site or that being jinxed. It doesn’t even have anything to do with the accident rate. I’ve worked on projects where we had injuries every other day, and no one was bothered by it, but then I’ve worked on projects where there’s hardly been a finger scratched, and yet everyone was certain that the site was bad luck, cursed by some local god or other. I’m talking about India here, mostly, but I’ve seen the same thing all over the world in different forms, East and West.’
‘Local gods,’ noted Madelaine, with a cool glance to Rita. ‘Our guest would know all about those, wouldn’t you, Ms Gausse?’
Rita said, ‘It’s not a phrase I ever used, even back in the old days.’
The designer nodded a concession. But Rita could not help being aware of the unease that remained around the table.
She said to them all, ‘I’m not bothered that people have died here, if that’s what you’re worried about. I don’t believe in ghosts or curses any more than I believe in local gods.’
Clara said, ‘It’s not that we think you’re bothered. It’s just that Mr Richman specifically asked us to not discuss this matter with you—or to talk about your book—until later.’
‘Why later?’
‘He intends, I think, to bring the matter up himself when he decides the time is right. For now, he does not want your exploration of the Observatory to be distracted by irrelevancies, no matter how tragic. So, would you mind if we let the subject be, for now?’
Rita thought a moment. ‘One last question. When my fath
er was found, he was fully dressed, wasn’t he?’
The major-domo’s expression remained deadpan. ‘Of course.’
▲
Lunch was done by three p.m. They would not be required for anything further, the major-domo informed them, until seven p.m., when Richman expected to see them all on the Terrace.
The others dispersed. Eugene had IT problems to fix. Kushal was off to make a call home to India. Madelaine planned, she said, to meditate. Clara had been summoned to attend her master. Rita, at a loose end and sleepy after the meal, which had included several glasses of wine on her part, decided that a return to her apartment and a nap were in order.
But after descending to the Atrium, she turned aside on impulse and passed through the arch into the Entrance Hall. She had not revisited the great chamber and all its artworks since her arrival. She would spend a moment now taking a better look.
Once more she experienced the sensation of stepping into a secular cathedral. But she noted another aspect now: a curious quality to the light. There was a lambent, almost underwater feel to the Hall. Outside, the weather was clear now, the winter sun bright, so the Hall should have been filled with harsh sunbeams and hard shadows. But instead everything was softened, the shadows stripped of any real contrast.
It was the windows, she realised, and the transparent panels in the ceiling. They looked like common glass at a glance, but they couldn’t be, for all of them showed the sky differently. Through the windows facing east, the daylight was a pale green; overhead it was deepening aqua; and through the western windows the sky was an indigo field on which the sun shone a vermillion disk.
Of course. This must be Madelaine’s photoelectric ‘smart’ glass in action, muting, filtering and diffusing the hard daylight into something softer. Well, it was certainly effective. When combined with the colour of the walls and pillars, carved of the Mount’s blue-red basalt, the glass transformed what might have been a hall filled with dreary afternoon glare into a magical underwater world that was both enticingly dim and yet aching with clarity.
The Rich Man’s House Page 20
