The Rich Man’s House

by Andrew McGahan

  The book had tripled Rita’s business. It had not sold all that many copies, perhaps, hidden away in the Alternative Philosophies section of Australian bookshops. But it made an impact where it needed to, with free-thinking and spiritual types who were troubled by ghostly things they could not explain. Through Rita’s website and blog the requests had begun to pour in. Help us, please.

  Indeed, Rita began to find herself something of a cult figure. In time, she was receiving requests even from overseas, in particular from the USA. She made two trips there, her flights paid by desperate clients, and on the second trip she also appeared at a string of small alternative festivals. Finally, a large American publishing house became aware of her, saw the possibilities, and signed her up.

  Now they were predicting big things. Huge things. In the post 9/11 world of 2004, they said, New Age thinking had never been more popular, and Spawn of Disparity was something truly original, something that would stand out from the crowd and sell by the bucketload. By the truckload.

  So they promised, anyway, and Rita was eager to believe them, even though she was quite sure that her American editors (unlike Anne) privately considered her ideas to be pure bunkum.

  That was fine. But Rita had become aware throughout the US negotiations that Anne wasn’t quite the believer she had once been either. The drugs had something to do with that. Oh, Anne was no teetotaller, and she knew that cocaine and LSD could help Rita, that they heightened her special senses for the lustrations. (Not that Rita had mentioned that in her book!) But even so, Anne was plainly beginning to wonder if it was just about the work.

  And okay, truth be told, there had been a lot of coke lately, and not just at the lustrations, but at parties too, with friends. Or, more truthfully, even when it was just the two of them at home alone.

  But what the fuck. It wasn’t causing any problems. They had the money; they could afford the drugs, and Rita’s constitution was famously tough; it could handle anything she threw at it. So Anne’s fears were groundless in that respect.

  But her disapproval had other facets. The most disturbing was that she seemed to suspect lately that Rita wasn’t always being entirely honest with her clients, that Rita’s descriptions of the presences she encountered, and of how she placated them, was a little … well, made up.

  A suggestion Rita angrily refuted, of course. Because it wasn’t true. Or it was hardly true. But okay, yes, maybe once or twice, even with the help of the drugs, she hadn’t been able to interact with the presences the way she normally could. But dammit, she was only human, wasn’t she allowed to have a bad day at work like anyone else? So if she covered for herself by telling a few fibs, so what?

  And okay, at other times, she could tell straightaway that there was no presence in a place to which she had been called, no matter what the clients insisted. In the old days she would simply have said so and gone home. But now that she was famous, now that her clients paid a fortune just to get her to visit their properties, what was she supposed to tell them as they waited eagerly, watching the ritual of their hired priestess? Should she announce they had wasted their money? Should she give it back?

  No, surely it was better to declare that it had all worked as promised, that the presence had been addressed and assuaged. After all, as there had been no presence in the first place, it was all benign enough, just an elaborate kind of Feng Shui …

  Ah, but although the clients might fall for these white lies, Anne did not. She knew Rita much too well. She said nothing aloud, but it was in her eyes, a growing disappointment and doubt. The faithful acolyte was starting to question if her prophet and priestess might in fact be an outright fraud.

  Then there was all the sex.

  Not their sex. Their sex was an increasingly rare event these days. No, the sex at the lustrations, with the clients, was the problem.

  It didn’t happen every time, of course, and god knew, it had never been about sex in the old days. But there had always been nudity, from those very first few times when Rita had experimented with what would become her lustration ritual. The nakedness undoubtedly helped, undoubtedly put in her closer contact with the surrounding landscape and the presences in it. But, well, why deny it? It had felt good too, in a sensual way. And later, with the drugs, it started to feel fucking great.

  Anne had been turned on by it too, Rita was sure. Originally. In those days it had been a private thing, just the two of them alone, the clients having been sent safely away. They would both end up naked, and in their shared elation after the communion with the presence, as often as not the ritual ended with some outright fucking.

  Which was fine enough. But then the clients started joining in. At first, they were merely present as observers. Then certain clients wanted to take a more active part, joining in the nudity as well—and at the prices they were paying, how could Rita refuse? And that was fine too, but in this last year, especially since cocaine had taken over from LSD as Rita’s stimulant of choice … well, it didn’t bear thinking about too closely.

  It had happened only three times in all, each time with a different couple, but some of the memories were a little sordid, in all honesty. Again, Anne had seemed a willing enough participant on the first occasion. She was not naturally into group, let alone bi, sexual encounters, but the coke had helped, god knew, and she had always been willing to please Rita, so she’d gone along. But the second time it happened, in Rita’s hazy replayed memories, Anne had been less an active participant … and on the third, she was entirely uninvolved.

  The upshot of all this was that six months ago Anne had declared that she was taking back her old in-house editing job, which meant she would be less free to travel with Rita. There was a row about that, but it ended with renewed declarations of love, and a night of just the two of them in bed, like the old days, and the promise that they would make the upcoming US book tour into a fun, shared holiday.

  At the time it had felt like a good solution, a break that would get them entirely back on track. Later, as Rita—without Anne now to hold her back on her working trips away—spiralled deeper into the alcohol–coke rotation (and okay, it really had been out of control a little, even Rita herself could tell that), and as Anne withdrew into her editing, the book tour had come to feel like it would be a last-ditch attempt to save the whole relationship. And now, drinking fast in the Qantas Lounge with take-off delayed another two hours, according to the last announcement, it felt like a disaster only waiting to unfold.

  Even so, Rita could never have imagined that it would unfold with such speed, and such spectacular awfulness, as it did on the plane.

  ▲

  By the time boarding was finally called, there was a decided sway to Rita’s step as they made their way down the tunnel, but if the flight attendants noticed anything they made no comment—they even served her a pre-flight glass of wine.

  The plane was a 747, with the business class section in the hump—the layout old-fashioned by 2004 standards, three aisles of two recliners apiece. Rita and Anne were seated in the right-hand aisle, but they could have sat anywhere really. After all the delays, which had seen several groups of passengers assigned to other flights, the section (indeed the whole plane) was more than half empty.

  They taxied to the runway. This was usually a stressful moment for Rita, a time to steel herself against what might be to come in the upper airs. Knowing this, Anne would normally nestle an arm under Rita’s for reassurance, just before the plane began its acceleration down the tarmac. She did not do so today, however; even that simple gesture was beyond them. But in any case, Rita was drunk enough not to care. Airborne, she ordered another drink as soon as the seatbelt light went off.

  And then kept them coming. As Anne had the window seat—Rita avoided windows, she had no desire to look out from on high—Rita could order without having to reach over her to do it. Indeed, Rita might have been flying alone, with a stranger sitting beside her, for all that they interacted. Anne had her headphones on and sp
ent most of the time buried in the pages of a book. Rita drank and flicked through the channels on her entertainment screen.

  And so several hours passed. Eventually, Rita found herself becoming drowsy. In another reality she might have gone to sleep, and still been asleep when the incident later occurred, in which case everything might have turned out differently—the flight, the US book tour, her career, her relationship with Anne, everything. But she didn’t fall asleep. Instead, she got up and swayed her way to the toilet. And it was while she was in the bathroom, seated on the bowl, that she discovered the cocaine.

  Her hands had been moving about distractedly and encountered a small bulge in the top pocket of the suede waistcoat she was wearing. Nonplussed, she dug it out and was appalled to behold a small plastic bag of white powder. Then—holy mother of god—she remembered why it was there.

  It was from the going-away party. She had worn this same waistcoat. Late in the night, the supply of coke that she had laid on for the guests had run low, so she had sent out for more. When it arrived, the delivery boy had given her a little bag gratis, a gift from the dealer, he said, for a loyal customer. Something with an extra kick.

  Rita had promptly stashed it away in her pocket, saving it for herself and Anne to try later, when everyone else had left. But she and Anne had argued after the party and gone to separate beds, and Rita had forgotten all about the little bag.

  Now she gazed at it in awe and gave a shaky laugh. Christ, she had been about to land in LA with coke in her pocket! What a nightmare that could have been! Detention, arrest, deportation, who knew? Thank heavens for this bit of luck then, thank god she had found it. All she had to do was flush it down the toilet and the bullet was dodged.

  Except, well, why flush it?

  There was still eleven or twelve hours left to the flight, and she was already bored to death, especially with Anne not talking to her. It would do no harm if she held on to it for the next few hours, as long as it was all gone—all used—before they landed.

  Once considered, the notion was irresistible. Much later, looking back, Rita would realise just how drunk she must have been to think it was a good idea, given what cocaine would do to her special senses. But at the time all she had felt was a sense of righteousness, an almost angry defiance, as she studied the little bag, as if this was the perfect way to show Anne that she could and would do whatever she liked to enjoy herself. She wouldn’t even tell Anne, she would just ride out the rest of this dreary flight in the bright hazy mist of a coke high.

  So without further hesitation, she finished her ablutions, drew out three lines on the counter of the bathroom, and had her first snort.

  Walking back to her seat she felt fantastic, the lethargy of five minutes earlier burned away, the sway gone from her step. Anne didn’t even look up as she resumed her seat, and Rita didn’t give a fuck. She ordered up another drink, chatted brightly with the attendant a moment, then got back to cruising the TV and movie channels, the coke buzzing in her head all the while like some secret sex toy.

  So passed another several hours, the time now sweeping by at a grand pace. Rita didn’t even feel mad at Anne anymore; she had benevolently risen above it. Once, when Anne herself rose and went to the toilet, then returned, still frostily refusing to meet Rita’s eye, Rita even smiled at her as she edged by to her seat. This bought a surprised glance, but also, Rita was sure, a softening of the tight hunch of Anne’s shoulders, the beginning of rapprochement.

  Oh yes, everything would be fine once they were in LA and the flight and all the bother was finished with, once it was just the two of them and a big hotel bed. And with that pleasant thought, Rita rose for a trip to the bathroom and another three lines of the coke.

  Back in her seat again, it finally occurred to her, through the euphoria, that her special senses should be more alert now. So, was there anything to be detected out there in the high atmosphere, mid-flight? With a devil-may-care inner shrug she cast her awareness outwards deliberately, searching for any hint of a presence anywhere near the plane.

  And found … nothing at all.

  Well, she had been drinking, still was drinking indeed, so maybe even the coke wasn’t enough to rouse her sixth sense today. And yet her awareness didn’t feel dulled, it felt as sharp and lively as the rest of her: there was just nothing out there.

  She searched for the next half hour or so, intrigued. The plane flew on as smoothly as if it was on rails; she didn’t think she’d ever been on a flight so smooth. Which made her wonder—had she been wrong, all these years, to be so afraid of flying? Had she needed to dose herself with alcohol all these times? Had those few early bad experiences given her the wrong idea, were the upper airs in fact mostly deserted of presences, deserted of danger?

  An hour later—Anne was asleep by then, but her head had briefly rested on Rita’s shoulder, and yes, surely everything was going to be just fine between them—Rita rose and visited the bathroom for the last of the coke. Afterwards she stuffed the little bag, now empty, in the disposal.

  Then, as she was walking, no, gliding really, down the aisle back to her seat, the cabin dim and silent, nearly everyone else asleep, her head trilling with pleasure, the demon struck.

  Suddenly she wasn’t gliding, suddenly she was flying; she was airborne, her legs flailing for purchase. At the same time came a deafening, wrenching metallic thud, the whole aircraft seeming to contort and slam, though she was weirdly unaffected by it, suspended in midair. Then with another wrench the floor leapt up and rammed into her unready legs, and she was spreadeagled painfully on the carpet. Her head hammered into the armrest of an adjacent seat, hard enough to set her ears ringing.

  She rolled away, dazed, but understanding at last what was happening.

  Turbulence!

  All about her people were starting awake. Some, thrown from their seats, looked bewildered and pained, others were still strapped safely in their chairs but were nevertheless digging themselves out from beneath displaced blankets and pillows.

  Rita staggered upright, and made two steps towards her own row where Anne’s head was craning up in puzzlement, searching for her presumably. Then, again, with another wrench, she found herself aloft. This time her head whacked agonisingly against the ceiling. She caught a glimpse of other bodies in midair, and of luggage lockers springing open and bags floating out weightlessly. Then she and everything else was hurled to the floor once more with a crash.

  In the shocked silence that followed, the seatbelt chime sounded with a faint ding, and the cabin lights flicked back on, bright.

  ‘Rita! Come on!’

  It was Anne, just two rows away now, leaning out and extending a hand. Rita floundered forwards in a half crawl and allowed herself to be dragged into her seat. She strapped herself in just as the plane leapt violently again, luggage flying and glass smashing in the galley. Held fast by the belt, Rita felt her stomach lift and fall in a rollercoaster motion, then she was staring at the blood on her hands and clothes, wondering where it had come from.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ announced the calm voice of the captain over the PA, ‘our apologies about those bumps, we’ve obviously hit a bit of rough air. But there’s no need to—Damn!’

  The plane was heaving wildly again, this time not only shifting up and down, but also rolling sharply to the left, so that Rita felt for a moment she was dangling sideways from her seat, with the left side of the cabin a pit below her. Finally things righted themselves, and the jet flew on.

  Rita put a hand to her head, found a huge lump there, wet. When she lowered her hand there was fresh blood bright on her fingers. Jesus, she’d split her fucking scalp open. This was ridiculous; it wasn’t a bit of rough air; this was dangerous.

  The plane bucked savagely again, not once, but repeatedly, slam, slam, slam, as if deliberate blows were raining upon it. And it came to her then, finally, overwhelming her shock: there was something outside the plane, something that was attacking it.

  Of cours
e! How had she not recognised it sooner, how had she been so blind? She had been through this before, after all. There was a presence out there, huge and strong and violent. It must be bad weather. Their flight path must have brought them within the clutches of a thunderstorm.

  Anne was pulling Rita’s head towards her, inspecting the wound. ‘Christ, you’re gonna need stitches there, I think.’

  ‘The window,’ Rita demanded. She could feel the hostility from the thing outside like sunburn on her skin. ‘I wanna see what’s out there!’

  Anne’s window shade had been shut, all the cabin’s window shades had been shut, to help people sleep. She pulled it up now. Rita stared across her to the glass, frowning in disbelief. She had been expecting to see the boiling folds of a thunderhead out there, for what else could have given birth to a presence so powerful?

  But there was no storm. There was only the horizon, dull orange with an approaching dawn, and a clear sky. How could that be? Or was the upheaval on the other side of the plane? But when Rita stared across to the left side of the cabin, she saw that passengers there had likewise thrown their shades up, and the sky was clear that side too.

  ‘But that’s crazy,’ Rita breathed to herself. The presence was so palpable; its enmity towards the plane so ferocious; it was there somewhere.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Anne was asking.

  The plane shook again, sinking then leaping up, and rolling right then back to the left, the two women thrown ragdoll about their seats as frightened cries rose and more glasses crashed.

  ‘There’s one of them here,’ Rita hissed when she could speak, not needing to say the word presence, not to Anne. ‘I don’t understand how, though. There’s no weather out there. But I can feel it.’

  Anne was staring at her in confusion. ‘How can you feel it? You’ve been drinking for hours. That’s the whole point of drinking, isn’t it?’