by Iain Ryan
Sorry, exonerated murderer.
While I was a missing person, the university put me on unpaid leave and I segued from that to a disability package and then, a few years later, redundancy. It’s fine. My parents bought my apartment outright – I couldn’t stop them – so I have somewhere to live. And I have a new job. I have cash to live on. I’m keeping busy.
I teach private classes at the gym these days. If there’s one thing a famous murder trial is good for, it’s bolstering one’s reputation as a badass. When I got out of the clinic and started back with Muay Thai, a guy approached me during a sparring session and asked if I’d teach his little sister how to break people’s arms. He said it just like that.
A month later, I had five clients.
The month after, eleven.
All women. Girls, mostly. It’s all I do now.
So here I am in the gym. Tonight, I’ve got a one-on-one with Barbara. ‘Bangin’ Barb’, as the guys call her behind her back. An ex-model. Some kind of media consultant now. As far as I can tell, Barb has absolutely no reason to learn self-defence other than a sideways desire to punch people. I can come at that. She’ll be in Muay Thai proper – or Brazilian jujitsu – by March. I can tell.
‘Come on, Barb, you’re too slow. Way too slow,’ I shout.
The sweat pours off her.
I help her up. ‘Get that fucking arm round, OK?’
Barb nods.
I try it again.
Barb brings the arm round.
Her eyes are scolding.
Two hours later, I step out of the gym air conditioning into a humid Brisbane storm and see a police car parked in the car park. Despite the downpour, the car door opens and an umbrella pops open above. A uniformed cop steps out. It’s dark. She’s close before I see her face.
Detective Edwina. I haven’t seen her since the trial.
‘Fancy a ride home?’
‘This rain will pass. Might just wait it out.’
‘Come on. I’ve got something for you.’
I look through the downpour. I can see the black outline of a person in the passenger seat. ‘Who’s that?’
‘A friend. Come on. You’re not in any trouble. Just take the bloody lift.’
I run to the car. When I’m inside, the passenger in front hits the interior light. She shuffles around in her seat. It’s Kanika.
‘OK, what the fuck?’ I hear myself say, too flustered for much else.
‘Kanika and I are old mates now,’ says Edwina. ‘What’s it been? Two years?’
‘Hi, Erma. How are things?’ Kanika says.
‘I’m OK. Not real into this. Whatever this is.’
‘I tried calling,’ Kanika says.
‘I’ve been busy.’
‘Sure,’ she replies. ‘I understand.’
Kanika never visited me in the clinic.
Never stopped by the apartment after the clinic.
‘So, what’s up?’
‘Here,’ says Edwina. She throws a plastic bag my way. Inside the bag are four plastic vials. ‘That’s a present.’
‘Is it?’
‘That’s your DNA. I lifted those swabs from the rear car park of the Sam Hell nightclub a couple of years back. I was looking into the assault and disappearance of Roberto Agrioli. I believe you knew him. Reports were, you were snooping around the club. Anyway, that bag went missing during your trial and it really put a bit of a dint in the prosecutors’ case. Got me busted back down to constable, too. But the thing is, I found it the other day. Seems it was at the back of my crisper the whole time. Figured you might like it as a souvenir or something.’
I turn the bag in my hands. The vials roll around. ‘OK.’
‘And we’ve got something else we want to give you,’ says Kanika. She hands me a brown paper folder. Inside, there are photographs of a man. Young. Mid-twenties, brown hair, blue eyes, firm jaw.
‘That’s Simon Renner,’ says Edwina. ‘You don’t know Simon. But you might remember his buddy, Drew Besnick. You …’ She’s almost says, killed him.
‘I remember Drew.’
Edwina says, ‘So this Simon guy, he disappeared after what happened. Fled the country. Finished his property economics degree abroad. He’s a rich kid. In the investigation we turned up a bunch of possible suspects related to the Moder family. People like Simon who we know visited the estate, frequent associates, people who deposited money in various accounts.’
‘And people who had links to other girls from my research,’ says Kanika. ‘The uni stuff.’
‘That’s right,’ says Edwina. ‘We didn’t find everyone.’
‘And?’
‘That’s the thing. Mister Renner here is back in the country and he’s a licensed real estate agent these days. He just oversaw the sale of an interesting property up on Mount Tamborine.’
‘Let me guess. It’s got a basement.’
‘Correct,’ says Edwina.
‘Jesus. What are you going to do?’
‘They’re not going to do anything,’ says Kanika. ‘Nothing’s changed.’
‘Nope,’ adds Edwina. ‘No law against selling a house and not enough funding to look further into it.’
‘Why are you telling me this?’
They look at each other.
Edwina shrugs. ‘We’re thinking we might pay Simon a visit. Or we’re wondering, would you like to pay him a visit, with our help?’
I almost laugh.
This is insane.
‘You want me to …’
They both look at me.
I put my hand on the door and pull the latch.
‘I think I might walk.’
I’m half a block away from the gym when I calm down enough to stop running.
There’s one part of branching narrative that doesn’t work: the ending. There are things about it that don’t add up. In Fighting Fantasy novels there’s one conclusion and they almost all involve the promise of adoration and riches.
As the crowd cheers, the lizard king presents you with an ornate crystal box. Inside are 100 gold coins. You are insanely rich.
With the Choose Your Own Adventure books, there are multiple endings and some are coy and quick while others are more satisfying and meandering.
You finish the movie!
You have solved the mystery!
You explore the ship all the way home!
But none of this stuff takes any real stock of what really happened, which is that the protagonist got all their decisions made for them by a clear and present god, a god that – in the turn of a page – abandons them at the end of the story. If these books had proper endings, all of the characters would end up in clinics like I did, or in shanties in the mountains or wandering homeless. They would all be a wreck. Psychopathic. Insane. Delusional. At best, they might raise a cult of followers in your honour. You. The all-powerful thing that determined their decisions until you got bored. You. That monster watching death and destruction doled out as entertainment. What sort of god are you? The truth is, these characters would have been better off without you, don’t you think?
Archibald Moder had it right. Last year I reread a few of his gamebooks as part of my treatment. His endings are completely distinct from the rest. There is always a fade-out in his stuff, a transition. Sero the Barbarian devolves into drink and stops listening to ‘reason’. The Harner Princess finds another religion. The young boy of Sky Traders enters a type of hibernation, a self-induced coma where you can’t get at him or his thoughts. True to form, at the end of his books, Archibald takes his characters back from the reader. He forces you – the reader – to relinquish your control. He reclaims his characters and, no doubt, imprisons them somewhere deep and dark in his fucked-up psyche. I’m sure he died with all those made-up people still bouncing around inside him. All those ghosts behind his eyes, haunting him relentlessly, and all those men around him riding along, building their own archives of horror and damage until I came along and put ‘The End’ in place. I hate to
admit it but I know it’s true: I did all of those dudes a favour. I was the one who finally healed them.
The rain thrashes down outside as I peel off my wet clothes and dump them in a pile on the bathroom floor. The bath is full of steaming water. I have a candle lit.
I step into the tub and draw the shower curtain across, placing myself in the little chamber. I close my eyes.
We’re wondering if you’d like to pay him a visit.
That’s what they said, wasn’t it? I didn’t dream it, did I?
I get to wondering.
I can see parts of the story they’re proposing in my mind’s eye and not all of it makes me recoil in disgust. There’s something there.
I could do it.
I could make it painless.
I could save Kanika and Edwina from the shit I see in my nightmares.
But I could also refuse, as well. I could keep myself the same. I could keep on living like I live now. I could keep this as the ending.
This.
But there are always options, I suppose. Options I need to decide for myself, that I can work through, a future without your prying, beady eyes, a new set of conjoined narratives that—
I blow the candle out.
Acknowledgements
I’d like to thank Tara Wynne, Angela Meyer, Liz Robinson-Griffith, James Buckley, Ben Willis, Benny Agius, Tegan Morrison, Ciara Corrigan, Andrew Nette, Liam José, David Honeybone, Lee Earle, DP, Bret, DT and all at Echo Publishing and Bonnier Zaffre. Special thanks to Clare, Woody and Ginger for their support and encouragement. I listened to records by Daniel Bjarnason, Ben Frost and Lawrence English during the writing of this novel.
If you enjoyed The Spiral, keep reading for an exclusive short story from Iain Ryan …
CLOVER
It rained on the bus from the airport and on the train from the bus terminal, and then it rained on Clover as she walked from the train to the house. Christa’s assistant had been particular on the phone, specifying an exact time and route through the suburbs. The assistant made it clear that this visit was an imposition on Ms Ellis and that it needed to be done correctly, quickly, and on her terms, so Clover pushed through.
When she arrived, Clover spotted Christa in the window of her house. Christa stood there in a cream turtleneck, hunched slightly under the top of the window frame to see out.
Clover waved.
Christa backed away.
Clover expected the door to open but instead, an intercom box by the gate sounded. ‘Who is that?’
‘I’m Clover Mansfield. I’m here to interview you. I’m from the University of Nevada. I was told you were expecting me.’
There was a pause.
‘You need to hold down the red button when you talk,’ said the box.
Clover looked at the button. She held it down and repeated the introduction.
Another pause.
‘I’m coming down,’ Christa said.
The gate buzzed and Clover walked up the steps. There were herbs in pots by the door. Basil and mugwort in identical terracotta planters. Parsley sprang from a ceramic skull. At the sound of locks turning, Clover stood a little straighter.
‘Good morning,’ said Christa Ellis. Her gaze rested briefly on Clover then moved past her to the street. ‘I’m sorry. I forgot about this. Please, come in.’
Christa took Clover’s umbrella and coat and carried them to a rack. The front room of the house had a kitchenette and lounge area and two flat screen televisions mounted to a plain wall. Both screens played different programs with the sound turned down. The alternate flickering images were the only untidy parts of the room. Everything else sat in place: the coffee table square with the couches (magazines piled by width on top), and the couches equidistant from the wall and the small kitchen bench.
‘Would you like a drink?’ Christa asked.
‘I could use a coffee, if you have a pot on. You have a beautiful house.’
‘Thank you. How do you take it?’
‘Black.’
Outside, the rain came harder, a wash of it colliding with the front windows, making the room feel bright and warm in the gloom.
‘How long has it been raining?’ said Clover.
‘I don’t know,’ said Christa.
For the interview, they sat in her upstairs studio. Christa said the room had once been a formal dining area, but now an entire wall acted as a floor-to-ceiling screen. Two more television screens were mounted above an adjacent fireplace. Christa’s computer connected to all three. ‘The audio comes later in the process. I do that in there,’ she said, pointing to an open doorway.
‘Can I take photos?’
‘I’d prefer to do it,’ Christa said. She put her hand out for the camera then walked around the room with it. Christa checked each photo on the screen before taking another. To finish, she took a photo of Clover in her seat. She checked that photo too. ‘Don’t smile this time, just sit there.’
The camera chimed.
‘You’re very beautiful, you know. I guess you know. I didn’t expect it. Most academics are …’
‘Thank you.’
‘Do you have a boyfriend?’
‘No,’ said Clover.
‘Me neither. You can’t imagine the people I meet doing this for a living,’ said Christa. ‘Do you like women?’
‘No. Do you?’
‘Not really.’
Images of gore and decomposition flashed across the wall. Christa spoke to them in a calm clear voice. ‘I’m looking for how it makes me feel. The feeling is more interesting to me than how it looks. That’s why I hate the term visual artist.’ They were all films about empty rooms. In each one, something dead would appear.
A dead deer.
Dead dogs.
Corpses.
Each faded in, like a ghost. Christa said these pieces were about trying to capture attention and unsettle people quickly. It was old work. She disapproved of it now. ‘The recent stuff is more honest to me, if that’s a measure of anything.’
This later work was brutalist and dull. It drew on crime scene photography and photojournalism. Clover had read that Christa’s father worked in a lab for the Boston police department. She asked after him.
‘He was more influential on me as a person.’
The middle years of her catalogue proved the most interesting to Clover. She kept these questions to last and let herself feel a small glow of achievement when Christa became more animated discussing them. The Ellis middle period was maximal and grotesque. Filled with throbbing gothic reds and purples. Big fixed images of bruises, genitals and tongues. It seemed to search for beauty — formal beauty, like a still life — in the trash bag of human biology. And years later, Christa could still provide long, clear descriptions of it. ‘It’s transitional work and there’s always a lot to talk about with transitional work,’ she said. ‘There’s always a story. It’s the easy stuff, in that way. The statement, the theme, it’s right there. That’s the only part of it that is easy, of course, but I’ll take that trade-off any day of the week.’
After they finished, they went down to a kitchen at the back of the house and Christa made another pot of coffee. As the pot gurgled, they stood side by side and watched two silent televisions as they played some distance away on a blank wall. A news anchor beside a neon cartoon.
‘I’m not sure if you saw it,’ said Clover. ‘But in the New York Times, Nicholas Faszo described your work as an “artistry of fear”. Did you see that?’
‘Do you think he’s right?’
‘I think he’s close but, no. He’s not exactly right. Nothing is ever exactly right, I guess.’
Christa put a teaspoon in one of the mugs, the steel clanging against porcelain in the quiet. ‘I think he’s right about me but wrong about everyone else. All art is about fear, isn’t it? Life doesn’t spare any of us. It’s just a pedestrian thing to say about art.’
They looked again at the images on the televisions.
A
crane demolishing a house and brightly coloured animals trailing animated stars and shapes.
Christa said, ‘I think I work with panic, more than fear, anyhow.’
‘I think you do too.’
‘There’s nothing like panic. It’s a pure emotion.’
Clover planned to spend the night at a friend’s apartment in the city, but as she left Christa’s house the rain came down even harder, sweeping under her umbrella and across her glasses. It was so bad she retreated to the stoop of a pet store down the street. As she huddled there, her phone sounded. It was a blocked number.
‘Hello?’
It was Christa, she could tell.
‘Hello?’ she said again.
‘I think you should come back.’
‘Okay,’ she shouted as the wind came up, pushing rain out of a nearby tree onto the stoop.
At the house, she showered and put on a set of clothes Christa produced. Her assistant was a similar size, apparently. She also had a spare room and bed. Christa showed her the master bedroom before they turned in, and they stood together by the french doors and looked out at the city lights and the thunderstorm.
Christa said, ‘I was standing here and I could tell it was only going to get worse.’
She was right. The weather raged all night. Clover stayed up. She didn’t know what she was doing in the house, so she sat in her bed and worked on her laptop and when she did eventually sleep, it was only unknowingly and with her head resting against the headboard.
The next morning there was no mention of her leaving. They spent the day at Christa’s worktable, silently working side by side. On an adjacent screen, two decaying corpses lay in vivid green grass. They were both fully clothed — ‘Executed,’ said Christa, ‘quickly’ — and filmed from the torso up. Christa moved the mouse over their faces, greying out skin and deforming them further. The images became translucent and overlapped. She pitched them together over a clinical white background until eventually they disappeared into a bright void.
