‘Damian! Get off that bloody floor right now!’ A hand descends, grabbing the boy by the ear and removing him from Bright’s line of vision.
‘I see what you mean.’ Bright speaks into the empty space. ‘Good luck with that.’ His head is splitting with the stress of departures.
His third stop has to be a brief one. By now his foot — run on too far, trodden on too often — feels as if it will explode. The glass atrium of the shopping centre is shaped like a rocket. A clutch of escalators shoots out and up towards the four-storey-high roof, and Bright lies down as close as possible to their apex, on a humming concrete floor.
Lying here on his back he can see heads streaming up into the glaring brightness, and other heads descending: a never-ending crisscross pattern. ‘Curious!’ Already he’s noticed that people pass within a foot of each other but never look sideways, staring ahead into their own personal voids.
He opens his mouth and begins to scream. Even though he’s tired by now, his voice is still loud enough to be heard over the blaring music and the clatter of feet. ‘I’M VERY UNHAPPY!’
He’s also written this on the top of his white cap, in large black letters intended to be visible from above. This phrase proves to be not at all popular, perhaps because he’s in a place where people are determined to enjoy themselves. I’M VERY UNHAPPY attracts a lot of debris, and before long Bright is strewn all over with popcorn, plastic spoons and burger wrappers laden with grease. The smell makes his stomach heave, and the tapping of balled-up paper on his body begins to feel like hail.
When a stony-faced security guard comes sailing down one of the escalators, Bright gets up and brushes himself off. Business cards fall off him like leaves. He sees ‘Jefferson White, Life Coach’, ‘Phyllis Tuttle, Psychologist to the Famous and Infamous’, ‘Dr Vik, Contentment Channelling’, and ‘Lose Your Woes Personal Growth Centre’. Are these offers of help sincere? It’s hard to tell, blinking there in the middle of discarded food scraps. The only thing each card has in common is a stated hourly rate.
The security guard is right beside him, at least ten feet tall. ‘Do we have a problem?’ His hand hovers at his belt.
Bright speaks as politely as possible. ‘Only this.’ He points to the message on his cap.
A smile flickers over the guard’s face. It’s a point in his favour, though if he knew the whole truth he’d realise it’s no laughing matter. ‘Well, you can’t lie down in here. It’s against mall regulations. And someone reported shouting. Was that also you?’
‘I’m not lying down now,’ points out Bright. ‘And I’m not shouting. I’m leaving, in fact.’ He hobbles off without looking back, shedding gum wrappers in his wake. Outside he finds a bench, placed beside a spindly tree. The winds from all four corners of the world seem gathered at this one place, and Bright’s eyes water fiercely. But it’s important to get down his first impressions before they fade.
This is what he writes:
1) Truth is often perceived as melodrama.
2) Tragedy is acceptable only in connection to media/publicity.
3) The public usually remains calm if problems are neatly summarised for them.
4) Obvious need attracts instant derision.
5) Most offers of assistance are motivated by ego and/or financial gain.
It’s difficult to continue: the pages of his notebook are flapping in the wind. A paper-cut darts across his forefinger, leaving a thin thread of blood.
6) Security guards —
He sticks his bleeding finger in his mouth and finishes with his other hand:
are not always the bastards one expects them to be.
He’s exhausted, but he’s come out with no money and no phone, so there’s nothing for it but to walk home. He drags his foot behind him like a cicada trailing a crushed wing. Block after block, the sun falling fast behind the dark buildings. Trams rumble by in a long blur. Lights flicker in the dusk.
He’s not even aware of where he is, he just happens to look up, push his cap off his eyes, and there she is — the bunny girl. Still smiling, thigh permanently and provocatively tilted, the cleft between her breasts as dark as a valley. ‘Remember me?’ she whispers through rouged lips. ‘Why don’t you come back and revisit me?’
Her shoulder has acquired a slight tear, and her left foot is curling at the edges, but she has remained impressive. She towers to a terrible height, dwarfing lorries and cranes and even the surrounding buildings.
Bright is brought to a standstill. His knees give way and he clutches at the scaffolding beside him. I can’t escape. He stands with one arm wrapped around the cold metal and covers his face with his other hand. He’s paralysed. Paralysed from grief and fear — but he doesn’t have a placard prepared for this particular situation.
It’s a busy street, at the end of a working day, so there are plenty of people passing. Either they don’t notice him, or they avoid noticing him. Bright, sheltering behind his hand, hears them approaching and then hurrying past him. No one stops, no one asks him important questions such as why, after the age of six, he never saw his mother again, or why his father despises him.
A long, long time later, he forces himself to move. He shuffles forwards, not daring to look up, joints cracking like an old man’s. And at last his own building is in front of him. Standing ankle-deep in decaying leaves, he takes long deep breaths. There’s someone at the fourth-floor window: Mrs Robinson’s pale face, a smudge in the dusk. She stares down at him without acknowledging him, then steps away and pulls the curtain across. It’s official: Bright is a leper, contaminated with loneliness. No one will ever come close to him again.
WHERE ANGELS FEAR
GIBBY HAS POSITIONED HIMSELF beside the bike stands, where he can keep a sharp eye on the door. The sunlight is so sharp it cuts him in two: one half of him in light, the other in the shadows. Shivering, hopping from foot to foot, he catapults himself from day into evening and back again.
By the time two policemen approach him, he’s lost all track of time. What’s he doing here? Their faces are those of stern but just headmasters; they’ve already decided that a) he’s up to no good, b) he means no harm.
‘I’m interfering.’ Gibby tends to blurt out what’s on his mind, particularly when his fingers are numb and his balls feel as if they’ve shrunk to the size of peas. ‘I’m interfering in someone else’s life.’
It’s true, and the fact he’s never before done this has preoccupied him all the way to the hospital. ‘I feel ill,’ he adds. True again: responsibility for others always makes him nauseous.
‘Ill? Then you’re in the right place.’ The shorter cop almost smiles.
‘And also in the wrong place.’ The taller one points to the sign above them, reading it aloud as if Gibby is blind as well as an idiot: ‘No Loitering.’
‘Loitering.’ Gibby gives a nervous laugh. ‘Loitering with intent, yes yes, that’s what I’m doing.’ He digs his keys into his palm to shut himself up. Always putting your foot in your mouth! says his incredulous father, hearing Gibby joke about explosives to airport security officers, or about drugs to stone-faced dog-handlers.
The policemen exchange an arrow-sharp glance. Ping! Their eyes send out the same message at the same time. ‘Which ward do you belong in, sir?’ Clearly the Good Cop is used to stepping up to the plate. He pushes his baton behind his chubby buttocks and takes off his hat, as if revealing his bald spot will make him less intimidating.
Alarmed, Gibby steps back into the bike stand with a crash. ‘No no, I’m just waiting for someone!’ He extricates his foot from a mess of spokes. ‘Waiting for, for —’ But as he reaches for the name he suffers some kind of localised blackout.
‘For Godot?’ suggests the Good Cop.
‘You know Beckett?’ Gibby feels weak with relief. The concrete hospital, with its lines of windows, leans back slightly and the sky expands again.
But now both men are once again exchanging a significant glance. It seems that Gibby has mis
heard; perhaps the Good Cop had said ‘God’ rather than ‘Godot’, trying to discover if Gibby knows the hospital chaplain. It’s obvious that neither of the policemen, standing with their legs in double pyramids, has ever brushed against the Theatre of the Absurd.
‘It’s too cold for you to be outside.’ The Good Cop is doing all the talking, while the Bad Cop reaches for his — gun?
Gibby feels a shriek rising in his throat. Just in time, he sees a walkie-talkie gadget in the Bad Cop’s hand, and he turns his panic into a cough. ‘I don’t think you understand!’ he says. ‘I don’t belong here.’ He catches sight of his reflection in the Good Cop’s mirror glasses. Oh Christ. He shouldn’t pull his hood so low over his ears, even when it’s freezing; he looks like a misfit, possibly even a criminal.
‘Roger. Exit Point A.’ The Bad Cop is crackling and muttering away in Delta Alpha Charlie speak, allowing the Good Cop to continue with his calming routine. ‘Shall we go?’ he asks, reaching out a surprisingly smooth white hand.
Gibby starts. This is Beckett. It’s Estragon’s phrase — or is it Vladimir’s? Already, as if in a dream, he knows what will emerge from the Bad Cop’s mouth:
Yes, let’s go.
Then the threatening windows of the hospital will be thrown open and words will thunder out. ‘They Do Not Move!’ And then, no doubt, the building will topple forward and crush him, before he can achieve what he came here to do. His eyes fill with tears. As he brushes his arm over his face, snippets of Lace’s hair float off his sweatshirt and are incinerated by the harsh late-afternoon sun.
‘Gibby, is that you?’ A small skinny man with bad skin is walking briskly towards him. It’s that man. Whose name Gibby can’t remember. The one he’s here to see. Lace’s uncle.
‘Chummie!’ Gibby remembers, stumbles forward, almost falls over. He forgot to put on socks and his toes have gone numb. ‘Shit.’ For the first time ever, he grabs Chummie for support. ‘My feet have stopped working.’
Chummie looks neither pleased nor displeased to see him. There he stands, puny-chested in his hospital uniform, regarding an unexpected tableau — Gibby close to tears, the policemen mired in confusion — with the blank curiosity of a cow. ‘Are these friends of yours?’ he says eventually.
‘Friends?’ Gibby’s head jerks involuntarily. ‘I think they’re hospital security. Or —’ he lowers his voice, ‘undercover agents, masquerading as psychiatric nurses?’ In his defence, it’s been a stressful two days, and the sound of Lace’s bewilderment and desolation is still ringing in his ears.
Although Chummie is slight of body, he displays stout common sense. This is his work place, so it’s his duty to sort things out. Pulling on his puffer jacket, he manoeuvres the misplaced actors off the stage. Frowning Policemen, that way! Lace’s Shivering Friend, this way. ‘I’ll take care of him. Back to your patrol car, men.’ It isn’t a joke, but it pulls Gibby out of his panic and almost makes him laugh.
It’s a long march around the mammoth hospital to a side entrance, but once Gibby’s seated at a plastic-topped table, surrounded by warm stale air, his mouth thaws. He sips orange juice out of a Tetra Pak (thinks briefly of the Swedish billionaire, then thinks of Lace) and forces himself to look into Chummie’s pale blue eyes and listen to what he’s saying.
‘Yes, I saw her hair this morning. Or rather the lack of it.’ Chummie slices into his pie and runny dark meat gushes over the plate. ‘It’s a pity. Thin girls look better with long hair. Strange thing is, I seem to remember her doing it once before. It was a mess then, too.’
‘I’m not talking about looks. It has nothing to do with looks.’ Gibby feels as if he might cry from exhaustion. He has a strong fellow feeling for Atlas, staggering onwards, shoulders burning with the effort of keeping the world aloft.
‘You think she’s not happy?’ Although Chummie isn’t unreceptive to Gibby’s suggestion, he’s not quick on the uptake. ‘She hasn’t been out as much, though that might not be such a bad thing. She’s pretty popular with the men. Maybe too popular.’
Gibby watches him open a sachet and squeeze a blob of red sauce onto the brown pie-mess. ‘I’m not talking about popularity, or beauty.’ He speaks so loudly that other people turn and stare. ‘Lace is beautiful with or without hair. And the reason she sleeps around is because she’s scared to get close to anyone.’
‘Eh?’ Chummie looks startled. ‘But she’s got me. She’s got Bill and Jean — though, granted, they’re in Australia.’ Seemingly as an afterthought, he adds, ‘She’s got you.’
Gibby drives his spoon viciously into the sugar bowl. Christ! For a man who’s reasonably good at Scrabble, Chummie’s proving remarkably obtuse. ‘Haven’t you noticed that she’s hardly sleeping? She hasn’t slept properly for weeks.’
At last Chummie looks anxious. He pushes away his messy plate and leans forward in a man-to-man way. ‘I assumed she sleeps during the day. Doesn’t she?’
Now’s the time to trot out the facts prepared for this moment: the moment in which Gibby deliberately interferes — perhaps even intrudes — in Lace’s disintegrating life. Lack of sleep can be fatal, you know. He gets ready to say this, as well as things like: brains use twenty per cent of our waking energy and need periodic rest. Babies require sixteen hours of sleep per day, and adults at least half of this. Rats, when deprived of sleep, die within two weeks. He opens his mouth — but suddenly all facts seem pointless bar one.
‘We need to save her,’ he tells Chummie.
Over weak coffee, he admits he has no specific plan. ‘I only know that she needs to get away. A change of scene can work wonders.’ He sounds determined, positive, like a camp leader — a role he’s never wanted, and doesn’t know if he can manage. The odd thing is, his unfamiliar guise comes across as convincing.
‘A change of scene? Right!’ Chummie pulls out a phone that looks large and powerful enough to act as a defibrillator.
Gibby shuffles his chair back from the table and waits for the barked order: ‘CLEAR!’ The fluorescent lights hum expectantly, a gloved cafeteria worker removes trays from the surrounding area — but instead of kick-starting a heart, Chummie simply scrolls through his phone. ‘Alec? No, too sleazy. Andrew? Jealous wife. Anthony: between flats. Brian: may be in Iceland.’
Gibby’s eyes are burning from two days without sleep. Is this how Lace feels all of the time? As if there’s a sandstorm caught behind her eyelids? He can’t stand it. ‘Crummy! — I’m sorry, I mean Chummie! I really don’t think the answer lies in your contacts list.’
Chummie looks up, finger poised in mid-scroll. ‘You’re probably right. I’m afraid most of my friends can’t be trusted around women, even if it’s only Lace.’
‘Even if?’ Gibby can scarcely believe his ears. How can Chummie see Lace every day and not recognise the dangerous burden of her beauty? He speaks slowly and deliberately. ‘I think you mean “especially Lace”.’
But Chummie is looking confused. His acne scars are disappearing in the spreading wash of a blush. ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand. I really can’t help.’ He’s bowing out before a plan has even been concocted. Gibby has been neither clear nor commanding: his troops are deserting.
‘For Christ’s sake, man!’ Reaching all the way back to war movies watched in childhood, Gibby adopts the lingo of the British major. ‘The girl is your responsibility. You can’t give up now.’ This may not be enough to appeal to Chummie’s sense of duty; is there any other ammunition? ‘The scrapbook!’ He bursts out with it. ‘Lace burnt the scrapbook.’
Chummie’s flush grows even more intense, his face a blazing crimson sun above a blue polyester sea. ‘She burnt the scrapbook?’
Gibby nods. ‘Incinerated. Nothing but ash.’
Chummie looks suspicious. ‘How do you even know about the scrapbook?’
‘I’m her best friend. Do you think she wouldn’t show me pictures of her parents and sister?’
‘Oh, Jesus Christ. Lace loved that book. How the hell can we help h
er?’ Interestingly, as Chummie amps up the profanity he becomes more worthy of respect.
‘As I said, a change of scene.’ Gibby speaks emphatically. ‘But not a long weekend with one of your dull friends in a provincial cul-de-sac.’
‘A beach resort?’ Chummie peers over the sugar-strewn table. ‘Do you think some sea air would help? Thailand? Phuket?’
Gibby raises his hand as if he’s stopping traffic. ‘Not a resort.’
Chummie rushes on. ‘You could go along for company. I’m not much good at holidays, never know how to relax. Besides, I’d have to stay indoors all the time because I burn easily.’
It’s too late. It’s happening again. Gibby’s ears are stretching and the skin on his scalp is prickling all over. As he looks past Chummie, he sees the cafeteria wall crumbling. It collapses quickly in a heap of rubble, allowing — or forcing — him to step on through, picking over dust and under swinging cables, emerging into an unfamiliar evening. Rooks are sawing loudly in the trees, and the long dying grass cracks its knuckles and spreads fingers into foreign soil. Far away, in hidden mountain valleys, comes the cracking and groaning of ice.
He must speak loudly to be heard over the tumbling din. Somewhere, back in the room, Chummie might still be listening. ‘Lace needs a rest.’ His throat hurts with the effort of projecting the truth. ‘A long rest, perhaps a month, perhaps more, somewhere like an old-fashioned sanatorium in the countryside. She needs people to care for her. She’s been needing a rest ever since her family died.’
And now a deafening terrifying roar — is it an avalanche? He bows his head and waits for the suffocating whiteout end. After a while, daring to look up, he sees grimy tables and a vacuum cleaner nosing its way between them. Chummie is still sitting opposite him, still listening.
‘Well, can you find somewhere like that on your phone?’ Gibby looks around for a glass of water.
Suicide Club, The Page 11
