“David,” she said, “do you know anything about this stuff?”
“I know enough. Bring the cell closer.”
“I don’t think it’s any use—”
“Caroline, will you help me! Please.”
She stared at him, realised how much his hands were shaking, making it impossible to clutch at anything, let alone delicate switches and wires. One other thing: he hadn’t noticed the mobile had switched itself off. He was too focussed… either that or deluded. She took a step back, assessed him again. It was as though he were caught in the throes of panic. “These fucking wires,” he was saying. “God damn these wires.”
The odd thing was he was tearing at his arms rather than the electrics in front of him.
She continued her retreat. For the moment he was beyond her reach. Turning, she stared at the figure again. It was becoming more defined, just as everything else was around her. A female figure, albeit still heavily in shadow.
Although no finger beckoned her onwards, Caroline felt compelled to draw closer. Perhaps it was the key to this; it might help her understand their situation. Such hope obliterated fear. If she understood, she could help David; bring him back from the abyss.
“I’ll be back, David,” she promised, but the darkness seemed to eat her words. “I’m not leaving you. I will never leave you.”
In all of this, that was the one thing she was certain of.
Walking forward, the same thing happened here as it had happened so often on the eleventh floor – the distance between them took more time than it should to traverse.
It’s an illusion.
Someone whispered those words into her ear. A voice she recognised. Quickly, she turned her head to the right expecting to see Althea, materialising out of nowhere, but there was just an empty space.
On the contrary, Sweet Caroline, this is the only reality that matters.
This time her head whipped to the left. That voice was Edward’s, smooth and arrogant. He wasn’t there either, but still the bickering continued, she caught in the middle of it.
Why does it have to be like this, Edward? Why do you persist in tormenting?
Because, dear Althea, it’s fun. It’s what I do. What I’m meant to do.
I wish you’d go.
I know, but I’m here to stay. It’s the rules remember?
There was a brief silence before Edward started again.
You’re growing tired, aren’t you, dear Althea? Weaker too.
I’ve told you before, Edward, don’t judge me by my appearance.
But you’re weak. That’s why you have Jenna. Why you lean on her.
Just as you lean on Tallula.
That’s right, I do… for now. At least she’s attractive to look at.
Jenna’s worth a thousand Tallula’s!
Ah, yes, she’s the strong, plain and silent type, isn’t she? Not like my mouthy little Tallula, but I can see that she’s tired too. She doesn’t want to be here, not anymore.
Althea seemed to falter. Jenna won’t go, not yet.
But when she does, oh Lord, Althea, when she does…
“Stop it!” hissed Caroline. “Back off, Edward, and leave us alone.”
Us? Once again Edward was mocking her. So you’ve chosen sides? What a pity. I almost had you, Caroline, didn’t I? You almost succumbed.
“Never!”
Poor David, I’d congratulate him if it weren’t such a hollow victory.
Edward, enough!
There you go again, Althea, spoiling my fun.
Turning back to the left, staring into the nothing that was there, Caroline snarled. “There is nothing wrong with me, Edward.”
Oh, but there is, there really is.
As his laughter echoed through the chambers of her mind, one hand came up to wipe at tears that were spilling onto her cheeks. “I hate you, Edward. I hate you so much.”
Don’t hate.
It was a warning from Althea, one that Edward overrode.
Hate me all you like, Caroline. Hate is good. Hate is exciting. Don’t you feel just a little bit excited when you hate?
“Get out of my head. Go!”
Only Edward answered.
Calm down, relax; I’ll wait for you upstairs. Meanwhile, have fun with Helen. I know I did, although I have to say, she’s a little more staid than Tallula. My Tallula, she’s not staid at all; she’s quite the adventurer. Ice-cold Tallula you call her, don’t you? Apt, that’s very apt. I swear that girl’s heart was frozen at birth. That happens sometimes you know. Sometimes I don’t have to persuade a person to surrender; they’re mine from the start. But she’ll tell you all about me, won’t you, Helen? Still hiding are you, down in the depths? You can’t hide forever though, no one can. We have to face the truth one day.
Caroline inhaled sharply as Edward left her too. She was herself again, no warring factions dominating her mind. But she wasn’t completely alone and she’d come further than she thought. She’d passed under the arch and was in the second room which was as vast as the first and furnished with what seemed to be several rows of beds – the kind you’d find in a hospital, a thin mattress on a cart of sorts, blankets on some of them, no doubt mouldering. She was tempted to turn and run. This was a room that was out of time, she realised, a room in between time. One she wished she’d never discovered, just as she wished she’d never heard of The Egress; that her parents had never spoken of it to her; that her mother was wrong about her having been conceived here. Oh God, she wished she didn’t belong. But her feet refused to carry her anywhere – only the figure moved, standing beside one of the beds. She came forward and closed the gap between them, the smell of decay becoming more pungent as she approached.
Caroline closed her eyes but only briefly. As much as she was loath to admit it, Edward was right about one thing: she had to face the truth – her truth, Helen’s truth, and that of everyone around her.
The girl who stood before her was no longer a mere figure, a shape, or a shadow, someone in the dark who was anonymous. Caroline recognised her straight away from the photo David had shown her. It was, as Edward had inferred, Helen; young and fresh, no evidence of decay at all, her strawberry-blonde hair abundant. She was just a young girl, out to have a little fun, last spotted in a Williamsfield bar in the company of a tall, blond man, who had left to spend the night at a local hotel, perhaps at his invitation, who’d reached it one way or another, and who was still there, hiding in the depths.
Helen raised her hand, an invitation for Caroline to take it.
Remember what Tallula said. There’s nowhere to hide. Not anymore.
Deep down she knew that was the truth, which is why she took Helen’s hand, inhaling deeply as their fingers entwined, as the cold sank into the marrow of her bones.
“There was no tick beside your name,” she whispered to the girl, “or mine.”
Helen grasped her hand harder.
This was it; this was when Caroline would learn what had happened back then and what was happening now. Was she strong enough to bear it?
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Lucky. That’s what she was. So lucky to have the parents she did, to live the life she was living, to be young, to be pretty, to be raised in California, to be free to travel the world… Okay, not the world, not just yet. Her father had insisted she explore her own country first. ‘It’s wonderful, Helen, so diverse. Spend a few months getting to know it. After that, come back, get a job, save up some more money, and then you can take off again, to Europe this time, or wherever it is you want to go. You know what I’ve always said.’
She did – travel was the best education a person could have. Although to be fair, she’d had a university education too, studying for a BA in Creative Writing at San Francisco State University, not quite gaining a first, but described as ‘having flashes of genius’, not by one tutor but by several over the years, and ‘a real boon to the writing world.’
“Make like Jack Kerouac,” her father had sa
id, both laughter and longing in his voice. “Write something to rival him one day.”
She’d laugh at that and roll her eyes. “Daddy, Kerouac was an icon.”
“What are you saying? That Helen Ansell can’t be? Why not? Give me one good reason why not?”
“Because—”
“There’s no reason why not,” he’d interrupted, taking her by the shoulders and staring into her eyes – the same shade as hers, cobalt almost, she was lucky to have inherited them too. “Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg, William Burroughs,” God, her daddy had a thing about Beat Generation writers. “They’re only human, not superhuman, and that’s what made their writing great – the human experience. Get out there, baby, and live life to the full, and then infuse your writing with it. You’ve got a great career ahead of you and we stand behind you all the way. Start a new literary movement even—”
“Daddy!”
“Okay, okay, just write, Helen, because that’s what you’re good at, what you love to do.”
She also loved to party, but the less her daddy knew about that the better.
So off she’d gone, leaving the west coast, heading to the mythical Deep South, the home of other writers she admired, including Harper Lee, William Faulkner, Tennessee Williams and her personal favourite, Truman Capote. The man who could write works as diverse as In Cold Blood and Breakfast at Tiffany’s was nothing less than a hero to her. New Orleans had spawned or attracted a lot of those writers and, boy; she could see why – what a place it was, full of culture, variety, and atmosphere. Wow, the atmosphere! Especially in bars and clubs where, to be honest, she’d spent most of her time, drinking, smoking, dancing to live music and meeting some great people. The Southern accent made her swoon every time. Not just that, the way Southern men took their time with you, especially in bed, as if they had all the time in the world. To be fair, it was laid back where she came from but Southern men were less – how could she phrase it? – self-obsessed. She’d swear home-grown men were more concerned with their looks than the girls were, at least the men she’d kept company with. In New Orleans, in the Carolinas, in Nashville, Memphis and Georgia, they’d been a different breed entirely, the heat of their long hot summers running through their veins, lending a sultriness to proceedings that she’d thrived on. The Dirty South, indeed.
She hadn’t travelled alone at first; Kate had been with her, a fellow Creative Writing student who had happened to be a bit of a wildcard. She wasn’t as passionate about literature as Helen was, she just happened to be good at English, had studied it because she could, because it meant she could put off having to find a proper career for a while longer – she could focus on the fun aspect of life instead. As she said, a wildcard, someone who was unpredictable, who grasped life with both hands, was greedy for it. Daddy hadn’t really approved of Kate, but acknowledged the irony after everything he’d said. Certainly Helen hadn’t predicted Kate falling in love with a Latin waiter in Dallas of all places, and not only that, but staying on there too, leaving Helen to continue alone. Her daddy would have a fit if he knew, her mom too; she’d insist Helen return, but no way. She had another three months ahead of her and she was going to max it to the full.
Having left the Deep South – reluctantly – she’d gone to Washington DC (of course), and New York. The latter she wasn’t as fond of as she’d thought she’d be. After New Orleans, it seemed a little soulless, lonely. Even without Kate, she’d never felt alone further south, whereas in New York she was one of the anonymous millions, all milling about in an endless ebb and flow. She’d left sooner than she’d intended, to make her way upstate, and then dropped a little south. Pennsylvania was a state she fell in love with straightaway. How green it was! And the Amish people fascinated her, driving their ponies and traps on the roads, alongside the regular traffic. The people were back to being friendly too. ‘Real apple pie people’ she’d heard them described as, as welcoming as their counterparts a thousand miles away.
How she’d landed in Williamsfield was another matter. She hadn’t been intending to stay there, she’d wanted to push on to Pittsburgh, another four hours’ drive away but bad weather had stopped her – the biggest storm she’d ever seen, rain lashing down from the heavens above, thunder and lightning; dramatic, beautiful but so dangerous to drive in. And so she’d pulled in, found a bar, ordered a Coca-Cola, decided to wait it out.
A couple of hours later, she was sick of Cola. In fact, if she never saw another glass of the brown fizzy stuff again it’d be too soon. She was going to have to bite the bullet, order a glass of wine – a Californian Shiraz, of course, a drink she’d developed a taste for at her parents’ dinner table that would comfort her with thoughts of home while feeling temporarily, helplessly, stranded. Thankfully, what the bar lacked in people it more than made up for in drinks. There was just her and a disgruntled bartender with acne and glasses who, frankly, looked as bored as she was.
She was ruminating on where to stay in Williamsfield – the storm showed no sign of letting up – when another man entered the bar, not windswept and wet through as she had been, even though it had been such a short dash from the car. His hair was blond, perfectly styled, and his clothes – a razor sharp suit, shirt and boots – were immaculate.
Well, well, well, she thought, things are suddenly looking a whole lot brighter.
He noticed her immediately. How could he not? She wasn’t modest but between her and the bartender, she reckoned she’d win every time. Unless the newcomer was gay of course, which he obviously wasn’t from the way his face lit up when they locked eyes.
Nonetheless, he played it cool, ordered a drink from the bar – Maker’s Mark and ice – clinking the amber contents round and round in the tumbler before draining it at a pace that was tortuous. Then, and only then, did he turn to look at her more fully.
Travelling on her own had taught her to be less shy, besides, her drink was empty; it was the perfect time to head to the bar again. She rose from the booth she’d been sitting in and closed the gap between them. About to open her mouth, he spoke first.
“Another glass of Shiraz?”
She gasped. “How did you know?”
He smiled again, showing perfectly straight teeth. “Relax, I’m not a mind reader. I checked with the man here.”
“Oh.” She burst out laughing. That was smooth of him, very smooth. Handing her the glass of wine, their fingers brushed, the electricity between them causing her to jolt.
“Shall we… erm… find a seat?” he suggested, not waiting for an answer but leading the way to the farthest, darkest corner of the bar, wanting their privacy as much as she did.
She loved his confidence, the way he walked, no… not walked, he strode across the bar – like he owned it – and she followed like a lost lamb, desperate for him to bestow on her more of his smiles. How old was he, she’d wondered? Older than her, that was for sure. In his late thirties, early forties. It was difficult to tell. There was something ageless about him, and certainly no lines or wrinkles marred such perfect skin. It was his confidence that really suggested maturity but whatever; she had no problem with older guys. On the contrary, she’d developed a taste for them recently.
Carl, his name was. A strong name, she liked it.
“And you are?”
“Helen.”
“Not from these parts are you?”
“I’m from California.”
“Travelling?”
She’d nodded.
“On your own?”
“Up until recently, yes. My friend, Kate, well… she met someone, back in Dallas. She stayed on there.”
He’d flashed her that smile. “That’s the trouble, isn’t it, meeting someone you like. It can interrupt plans.”
“It’s okay, I don’t mind. It’s fun being on my own, a real experience.”
“How long have you got?”
“Tonight? Erm…” She’d shrugged. “All night.”
A small burst of laugher. “I meant before y
ou head home to California, but believe me,” – he’d moved closer, snaked one arm around her shoulders – “I’m glad you’re in no rush.”
She’d blushed, both euphoric at his touch and a little nervous. “Hard to rush anywhere in this weather,” she’d said, just as another bolt of lightning illuminated the night sky.
Carl had glanced over at the window but only briefly. In the main, he never took his eyes from her, devouring her almost, with intent. “The weather sure does suck in these parts,” he stated, looking nothing less than delighted about it. “Where are you staying?”
“I don’t know, I haven’t decided yet. Know any good hotels?”
“A few.”
“Where do you live?” She couldn’t believe she’d asked, been so bold. It was obvious what she was inferring. Strangely he recoiled.
“Can’t go to my place, I’m afraid. It’s… difficult.”
Her heart sank. He was married then, despite no wedding ring on his finger. “It’s okay, don’t worry, I under—”
“My sister’s staying with me at the moment,” he grimaced, “her two kids as well. Bad divorce.” He leaned closer, a smell on his breath as heady as the weed she sometimes liked to smoke, “You see I’m a free agent too, and as soon as there’s a break in the weather, whaddya say we split, get out of here, find somewhere to shack up?”
“I say we go for it,” she said breathlessly, her head swimming, not just because of the wine but because she was finding him intoxicating too.
Leaning closer, his lips brushing hers, causing tingles to race through her again, he murmured, “Good, because I know a place where I think we’re gonna be very happy.”
* * *
How long had she been at The Egress?
She had no clue. She remembered leaving the bar and running to her car with Carl, handing him the keys because he wanted to drive. A good idea she’d thought at the time, he seemed less tipsy than her, more able to handle his drink. As soon as they were in the car, he’d lit a cigarette, not the ordinary ones, the special ones, and she’d giggled, taken it from his long, elegant fingers, and dragged deeply on it. His smile when she’d giggled again was indulgent. He leaned over, kissed her much harder this time, his hands riding higher up her thighs as the thunder crashed overhead, making her long for him, for the journey to the hotel to be a quick one in case she ripped off his clothes and hers right there and then, on a rain-soaked empty street in the middle of Williamsfield, Pennsylvania.
The Eleventh Floor Page 23
