The Immortal Bind

by Traci Harding

  They both laughed at Simon’s inability to speak English.

  ‘So long as we understand eachovfa — Oh fuck talking,’ Jon decided, waving off any further comment — it wouldn’t make sense anyway.

  ‘Mind if I crash?’ Simon struggled to balance on his own two feet as he pointed towards Jon’s guest bedroom.

  ‘Don’t even think about drivin—’ Jon was having trouble steering his body at present, let alone a car.

  ‘Right you are.’ Simon served him a thumbs-up and staggered towards the door.

  ‘And I want to say thank you—’ Jon struggled back up to sitting, and grabbed a bed post to steady himself. ‘For the party.’

  ‘Good lord . . . this is a night for the record books.’ Simon halted, turned about and leaned in the doorframe to hear him out.

  ‘I really appreciate your effort tonight.’ Jon did sincerely mean this as he’d actually enjoyed himself. ‘Tomorrow? I will probably forget everything I just said, soooo . . . I apologise in advance for my shitty mood.’ Jon dropped back onto the bed. He hit the bedcovers and it felt like he just kept falling.

  ‘Well, you’re welcome. I shall endeavour to get out early. Sleep well.’ Simon switched off the light and closed the door behind him as he departed for bed himself.

  The room was spinning and Jon began to breathe deeply in a vain attempt to control the nausea. ‘Oh damn.’ His need to expel the contents of his stomach snowballed, and he rolled off the bed to scamper for the en suite — not pausing to switch a light on.

  It had been a long time since Jon had found himself driving the porcelain bus, but having purged his stomach of its contents several times, he flushed. He rather bravely closed the lid in the hope that being rid of the stink of alcohol would help his gag reflex to subside. Equilibrium restored, Jon breathed easy and a sense of peace descended on his being. He crawled to the sink and kneeled up before it to wash his face and rinse his mouth. ‘Never . . . again.’ He grabbed the hand towel and, sitting back on the floor against the glass wall of his shower unit, he wiped his face and hands.

  Upon noting the presence of light in the bathroom, Jon tossed the towel aside. It was like moonlight, only it had a mauve hue. It wasn’t coming through the exterior window in the bathroom but from the door that led back into the bedroom. The light wasn’t a steady stream either, but moved about like a shaft of sunlight beaming through a watery surface.

  What the hell? Jon didn’t have any psychedelic lighting in the house and had no idea what could be causing the effect. If this is another one of Simon’s surprises . . . Jon really wasn’t in the mood for any more bombshells this evening.

  He gripped his vanity unit and hoisted himself up to standing, then staggered to the doorway where he was startled to a halt.

  The light was emanating from the jewel in his chair — which was not so shocking as the spectral figure that was settled upon the seat. He couldn’t make out the features of the ghost clearly; it was slumped in the chair, seemingly asleep.

  I’m hallucinating. He rubbed his eyes, but upon opening them was doubly shocked to find the episode was still unfolding. Panic began to rise in him, heating his cheeks as his heart beat faster. It’s got to be a hoax. He breathed easier, relieved to have found a logical explanation, and this made him braver.

  ‘Okay Simon, I’m amazed! You can shut it down now.’

  The slumped figure in the chair sat up and looked straight at him.

  ‘Shit.’ Jon’s courage fled and he ducked for cover by the bed, peeking over the top to observe the spectre’s movements.

  Clearly the apparition was female, and upon longer inspection, Jon found her very easy on the eye. Still, he was quite drunk and realised that his perception might be questionable. She was just sitting there, eyes wide open, watching him.

  ‘Hello?’ He ventured to stand up and confront the situation.

  ‘Can you hear me?’

  There came no response, but she did smile. Rather oddly she reminded him of someone, but he couldn’t think who — the moment was overwhelming.

  ‘Can I assist you in some way?’ Jon could feel his heart beating in his throat as the ghostly woman nodded. ‘What can I do?’

  She raised a hand to beckon him closer, and Jon was struck witless with fear.

  In that moment of hesitation, she looked away as if alarmed by something, and looking back to him, she held out her arms towards him and then began to fade, as did the glow from the jewel in his chair.

  ‘No, wait!’ He was intrigued now, and did not want the experience to end.

  As the room fell into darkness, the spell of the moment departed, and Jon’s rational yet inebriated mind kicked in. ‘Simon!’ he seethed as he stormed out into the hallway, expecting to find his old friend somewhere close by, having a good chuckle about the gag. Jon was bemused to find the house dark and deathly quiet. All that could be heard was the sound of snoring coming from the guest bedroom, where Jon found Simon dead to the world.

  ‘Simon?’ He called, but the snoring only increased in volume. All his agent’s clothes were hung neatly on the closet doors, and Jon seriously couldn’t imagine him running around in his underwear playing pranks.

  A fresh creepy chill spread through him. If Simon wasn’t playing some elaborate practical joke, then what the hell just happened?

  As he wandered back to his room, he replayed the experience in his mind, and upon recalling the ghostly woman’s smile, he had an epiphany.

  Upstairs, Jon switched on the studio light to view the portrait of the unknown woman he’d been painting, and she was a dead ringer for the spectre he had just seen in his chair.

  ‘Who are you?’

  * * *

  A pounding sound woke Sara from her nap. ‘Aw.’ She was reluctant to emerge into wakefulness, as she’d been having a lovely dream. Not that she could remember much about it, she just felt happy — but perhaps that had something to do with her fabulous new chair?

  As the pounding was repeated, she realised someone was at the front door. ‘Clothes.’ She was still in her robe, and so found a pair of pants and a T-shirt to stick on.

  ‘Coming!’ She dressed and then galloped down the stairs to answer the door. As she was alone and wasn’t expecting anyone, she peeked through the peephole and was excited to spy her dear friend, Willie.

  Willie-Jay Perilli had been her greatest support and inspiration all through design school; they’d gravitated towards each other during their first class and had been staunch friends ever since. Much as Sara was an old soul stuck in a modern woman’s body, Willie was a fabulous woman trapped in a man’s body. He had ten years on Sara, having found his fashion calling later in life, but he now designed a range of unisex clothes that were hugely popular in the gay, lesbian and transgender fashion scene.

  ‘Willie!’ She swung the door open to find him sporting a yellow leather jacket and pencil skirt, with a form-fitting white singlet and black platform heels.

  His black Afro had been shaved into a fade so short you could see scalp — but Willie was wearing a baseball cap reversed over his designer buzz cut today. This made for a bizarre mix of style — but on Willie everything worked. With the excessive amount of diva makeup on his face, he appeared prettier than she did.

  ‘I’m so glad you’re here.’ Sara grabbed his hand and pulled him inside, closing the door. ‘I just had one of those dreams when you know you’ve been with someone you know really well, but then you wake up and realise you don’t know them at all.’

  ‘Ha! Happens to me all the time, and I wish I was dreaming!’ He waved off her comment with a laugh.

  ‘Willie, I’m serious.’ Sara suppressed her amusement. ‘It was so weird. It’s kind of hanging with me, like I’m supposed to remember . . . something?’

  ‘So was this someone male or female?’ He seemed suspiciously interested as he removed his nouveau shades that were no doubt a sample from his latest collection.

  ‘Male,’ Sara confessed, seeing where t
his line of questioning was headed, and she was shaking her head before he’d even asked the next question.

  ‘Marriage jitters?’ he posed.

  ‘No.’ Sara insisted it wasn’t romantic.

  ‘Too much champagne with Liz this morning?’ He pointed to the empty bottle and glasses on the kitchen bench.

  ‘Probably.’ Sara conceded this was most likely the case. ‘You’ve spoken to Liz today?’

  ‘I have!’ He was suddenly beaming with excitement. ‘And I just had to come around here and tell you in person . . . I’d love to be your bridesmaid.’

  Sara had to prevent her mouth from gaping open — she hadn’t discussed the idea with Robert yet and she was fairly sure that he was not going to be thrilled about it. Willie picked her up and twirled her about, squealing with excitement before putting her down to brainstorm.

  ‘Now I shall have to create a whole new outfit! Something to complement your dress, of course . . . which is taking form beautifully, even if I do say so myself.’

  He was so inspired, Sara couldn’t help but be swept up by the sentiment.

  ‘I am so honoured that you have entrusted me with this commission . . . and now this!’ He did a twirl and a little happy dance. ‘I’m going to make sure you hit that aisle feeling like a goddess!’ He struck a dramatic pose, and Sara applauded.

  ‘I shall be Perilli fierce!’

  ‘Yes, you shall.’ He clicked his fingers a few times, waving his hand back and forth, as if casting a fashion spell. ‘Now get dressed.

  I’m taking you to lunch. I need champagne.’

  ‘I don’t know if I should.’ Sara thought she’d probably had enough alcohol for one day.

  ‘I didn’t say you were getting any.’ Willie donned a frosty attitude, and then winked and cracked a smile. ‘But you’re so damn skinny, you look like you could use a good feed. So let’s go, girl. Chop, chop!’ He clapped his hands to usher her upstairs and get a move on.

  * * *

  The repercussions of a hangover had not had as much of a toll on Simon’s appearance as they had on Jon’s — not only was Jon suffering from mild alcohol poisoning, he hadn’t slept a wink either.

  When he explained the cause of his insomnia to Simon over coffee in the kitchen, his agent’s eyes had glazed over.

  ‘Well don’t just sit there, say something?’ Jon implored.

  Simon’s blank expression turned to one of bemusement as he rose from the breakfast bar. ‘I think you’ve been working under a lot of pressure and the stress is getting to you.’

  ‘What stress?’ Jon barked. ‘Before last night I didn’t know the meaning of the word, that’s what I pay you for. And don’t tell me it was just the booze, Simon, I know what I saw.’

  ‘Yes, you saw the ghost of the woman in your painting, sitting in the chair I gave you for your birthday . . . sounds like a dream to me.’

  ‘But I’ve been wide awake all night!’ Jon reasoned.

  ‘How can you be sure? You were rolling drunk last I saw you. Not even with my social stamina could I have stayed awake after that party, so I doubt very much you could have.’ Simon shrugged apologetically and grabbed his coffee cup to rinse in the sink.

  There was no point looking for some vindication about the episode, no one was going to be able to give him any, especially not Simon, so Jon let the matter slide.

  ‘So how are the exhibition pieces coming along?’ Simon grabbed the opportunity to depart from the topic, as he placed his cup in the rack to dry.

  ‘Fine . . .’ Jon’s thoughts were still lost in the night before. ‘They’ll be ready in plenty of time.’

  ‘Excellent!’ Simon came around the breakfast bar where Jon was standing to serve him an encouraging slap on the shoulder. ‘Hey, forget it! If all goes to plan we’ll have a lot to celebrate in a couple of weeks.’

  Jon forced a smile to reassure his agent.

  ‘Speak soon.’ Simon grabbed his briefcase and keys and headed for the front door.

  * * *

  Sleep was not a consideration after Simon left; Jon was now overtired and wide awake. The previous night’s episode played over and over in his head as he worked on the unfinished portrait, holding the ghostly woman’s image in his mind as he strove to re-create her. There had been no colour to the spectre, but her features had been well defined.

  Perhaps she once owned the chair? Or died in it? This seemed a little far-fetched, as the piece, although rather grandiose and medieval in appearance, was so immaculate that it was either brand new, or had been entirely refurbished. I’d love to know where Simon found it. Maybe I could find out if it has a history?

  Before Simon awoke, Jon had searched through hundreds of throne-like chairs, only to discover there was nothing quite like the one now in his possession. It was the large jewel in the centre of the headrest that set it apart. A little research uncovered the fact that lilac diamonds did exist and owed their colour to the presence of high levels of hydrogen. These jewels, in their purest form, were among the rarest diamonds in the world and were extremely difficult to come by, not to mention expensive. Hence it seemed logical to conclude that the jewel in his chair was only a costume stone cut from glass — but then such pieces did not usually emit light. Even fluorescent and thermoluminescent stones needed warmth, sunlight or ultraviolet to glow. And this stone had not just been glowing — it had beamed streams of light!

  With the urge to have a closer look at the jewel, Jon put down the paintbrush, and wiped his hand of wet paint splatter.

  * * *

  Raindrops trickling down the long glass panes of the window created shadows across the walls in his bedroom, adding an eerie ambience to Jon’s face-off with the chair he meant to inspect.

  It took him a moment to shake his trepidation. You’re a grown man and it’s just a piece of furniture. He encouraged himself forward to look more closely at the mauve jewel.

  As beautiful as the stone was, Jon shivered as he gazed into it and, transfixed, he felt his lack of sleep hit him like a tidal wave. His eyes wavered closed as he collapsed into the chair and drifted into a fitful slumber.

  * * *

  In the wake of her long lunch with Willie, Sara had come home and set straight to work. She’d stopped briefly to have a small bite to eat for dinner, and had then powered on in her design studio until 11 p.m.

  ‘I’m starting to go cross-eyed.’ She removed her magnifying glasses and gave her eyes a rub. There were pins stuck all through her work vest for easy access, and her measuring tape sat around her neck. ‘Time to call it a day.’ She removed both items and placed them on her workbench.

  It was just as she rose to head upstairs that her phone chimed to let her know she had a text message.

  It was Robert. ‘Still up?’

  Sara called him right back. ‘Hey you. How was your flight?’

  ‘First class. What have you been up to? I called earlier but no answer?’

  ‘Oh, I got drunk with Liz after you left and promptly fell asleep for a few hours. I forgot to charge my phone, so I left it plugged in when Willie took me out to lunch; you must have called while I was out.’

  ‘You should really be more vigilant about checking your messages,’ he lectured. ‘You’re running a business, after all. What if I was a client?’

  ‘You’re absolutely right. But I’ve been hard at work since I got back, I just forgot to check.’

  ‘Maybe it’s about time you got yourself a receptionist? I could send around one of the girls from my office to give you a hand?’

  ‘That’s really sweet of you, but what I really need is peace and quiet to finish up this collection. But I’ll certainly think about hiring someone after that.’

  ‘I just worry that left all by yourself you might relapse into—’

  ‘I’m absolutely fine, Robert.’ She felt herself stiffen at the suggestion, only fearful of the premise now that he’d mentioned it. ‘My work is a joy at present.’

  ‘Well, I’m only a p
hone call away.’

  ‘I know, and I’m so grateful.’ She yawned. ‘Sorry, I’m just exhausted.’

  ‘I shall let you get some sleep . . . just tell me again before you go.’

  ‘I love you.’

  ‘Uh-hum.’

  ‘Forever and always. In this life and next!’ she emphasised, so that he might be appeased.

  ‘Ah . . . I never grow tired of hearing that.’ He ended the call.

  ‘Sometimes, I wonder which one of us is more insecure?’ Sara placed the phone aside — she’d never known Robert to be so needy of her affection. Perhaps he was just missing her?

  Once upstairs, Sara switched off the lights down below and spotted a strange lilac glow filtering through the partially opened doorway of her room. ‘What is that?’

  Sara cautiously pushed open the door to see the jewel in her new chair glowing and a ghostly apparition occupying the seat. She gasped and froze in fear as the sleeping figure awoke and looked to her.

  ‘It’s you . . . from my dream.’ She gasped again.

  She had been sleeping in the chair when she’d dreamed of him. Could a piece of furniture be haunted?

  ‘Or enchanted?’ The notion made her smile, although it sounded more like the premise for a children’s fairy tale.

  The ghostly gent held out a hand towards her and beckoned her closer. His smile was captivating.

  Was this an invitation? And if so, an invitation to what?

  Logic suggested that she should be fearful and cautious, and yet she felt compelled to respond to his appeal. Slowly she closed the gap between them and ventured to reach out her hand to touch his — but her fingers passed right through him and he began to fade from her view.

  ‘No. Don’t go.’

  The chair was left unoccupied and yet light was still streaming from the jewel in the headrest.

  The impression Sara got was that she was supposed to take a seat, but did she have the guts to do it? What person in their right mind would, when this piece of furniture clearly had some kind of strange psychic anomaly attached?

  Should she call Willie to ask his advice? He’d studied all manner of psychic phenomenon from a very young age; perhaps he could offer some insight. But what if the episode ended?