‘Boredom?’ Gibby is suffering from the usual faintness that follows one of his storms, as well as sympathy, anxiety, and the searing need to confess. ‘Boredom?’ He eases his damp shirt away from his back, pulls his sleeves down over his hands. ‘No, not boredom. Quite the opposite.’
THE PRINCESS OF TEARS
THERE WAS ONCE A princess who was very beautiful. (Excuse the predictable opening of this tale; this is the way it was always told.) The princess had long eyelashes and a voice like honey. Everyone wanted to be her friend, and her life was generally golden, except for one terrible thing.
Q: What was that thing?
She was allergic to sunlight. When it was cloudy, she was able to venture out, though usually she wore dark glasses to do so. But as soon as the clouds parted and there was even a hint of dazzle, she began to hurt all over. Aching bones, smarting skin, and her head felt as if it would crack like an egg. Tailors had to make special ‘sunny-day’ dresses for her, with sleeves that stretched all the way to her fingertips, and hems that reached the ground, and ruffled necklines rising like waves to her ears.
Q: Did she hate it?
Yes, and this was in the days before anyone knew about skin cancer so, in spite of her beauty, people pointed at her on sunny days, and sometimes sniggered. She could cope with this because she was strong and clever, and already she knew that being considered normal wasn’t particularly desirable. But, as she grew, so did the problem. By the time she was a young woman, at the first peek of the sun, her eyes began to water, pouring out salty tears that formed small ponds around her.
Q: What did the king and queen —? (But usually, around this point in the story, Lace’s father would be called to the phone — an actors’ strike, a problem with funding — leaving the princess stranded for several minutes and Lace lying anxiously in bed, waiting until the story was resumed.)
Where were we? Oh, the princess and her tear ponds. Well, it’s difficult living with a person who causes the carpets to become soggy every time the sun comes out, however beautiful that person is. Summers, of course, were especially damp and problematic in the palace. So as soon as the princess was old enough to look after herself —
Q: How old might that be?
Oh, when she could make toast and answer the phone, about that old, then she was sent away to her own small mansion, where she could live with the curtains pulled and minimise the use of electric light. By now, you see, almost pretty much any kind of light brought tears to her eyes. Soon she was living in almost total darkness, and at first she got bruises all over her, because she was always bumping into the furniture. And she got small cuts on her fingers, from not being able to see when she peeled potatoes.
Q: Didn’t she have servants?
Only one old man who was blind, and he couldn’t cook. But he did bring her fresh vegetables every second day. Turnips, mushrooms, leeks: things that also liked darkness. The sad thing was that the princess could never fully appreciate what she was eating, because she couldn’t see the colours. Then, one day, the old man brought in a bunch of the sweetest-smelling carrots you’d ever seen.
(‘Not the carrot story again!’ Lace’s mother entered the bedroom. She’d never shared her husband’s love of repetition, and art-house movies telling the same story from two different points of view made her restless, looking around for an ‘Exit’ sign.)
Yes, CARROTS! (Lace’s father would stress the word as a protest at being interrupted.) The princess sliced up one of the CARROTS, narrowly avoiding cutting her fingers. Groping in the dim light for the salt, she found the sugar — which only made the carrots sweeter and more magical to the taste. Soon she’d eaten the whole bunch, standing there in her dark kitchen, and when she glanced out the window she noticed that the night was glowing.
Q: Was there a moon?
Aha, that was the amazing thing. There was no moon, nor were there stars, because the mansion had been built at the bottom of a deep narrow valley to protect the princess’s eyes from the pesky light of Alpha Centauri A, Alpha Centauri B, Sirius and the rest. The blackness of the night had its own luminescence. It was negative radiance. Because of what she’d learnt to live with, the princess could see it at last.
Q: And after that?
She ate carrots every day, to sharpen her vision and make her understanding of the world subtler. Most people see in terms of black and white, but the princess could see the infinite depths between. And (this was an added bonus) she never bumped into furniture or cut herself again.
Q: And was she happy-ever-after?
Happy? Perhaps she was happier: certainly more so than when she’d lived in the sunshine, surrounded by uncomprehending people. As for happy ever after… well, life was generally good, after she ate the magic carrots —
It was here that the story broke down, for Lace’s father was a man with a strong respect for real-life truth. And so, in spite of the unvaryingly conventional opening, he could never bring himself to slap on a perfectly conventional ending. Had he had some premonition?
This is what Lace wonders, all grown-up now, lying awake in her room. Midnight. Midnight in a deep Bavarian silent night, but even here, even now, it’s not dark. There’s very little true darkness left in the world: this is what she’s read recently. Just one per cent of Europe experiences real nocturnal darkness. The sky is polluted by light, the glow of the cities is visible from space. No wonder she can’t sleep!
The windows, that ought to be black on black, are murky taupe. The sky outside is dim grey. She’s tried a sleeping mask but it suffocates her, pinching her ears and flattening her eyeballs. So she’s simply lying there, staring at the shadows of branches on the ceiling, waiting for Gibby to bring her dinner from the plastic-coated dining hall.
‘Hurry up, Lux,’ she says. A twist of doubt squeezes her lungs and she gasps like a fish on land. Gibby is late. Gibby is Lux, and lux is light. We have electrified our world, and the night is sucked dry of darkness by the fierce heat of our cities.
She sits up in bed, panicking. ‘Gibby? Have you brought the magic carrots?’ Swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, she sees that her feet are radiant. Shining white, ridged with silver, thin, skeletal. When she stands up she feels terrible pain. ‘Shit!’ She raises first one foot and then the other. Her soles are covered in black patches.
Hobbling, holding onto the chair for support, she knocks something off the desk. Plates fly, smashing against the skirting boards. A glass rolls into a corner to mingle with the dustballs. (Admin will have to be called; the cleaners haven’t done their job.)
‘I’m so hungry,’ says Lace out loud. But when she crouches and stares at the smeared shards of plates it would seem that she’s already eaten. She sees remnants of sauce and crumbs of cheese. So why does her body feel so weightless? Were she to leap from the window, the air would catch her, because she weighs less than a bumblebee, less than a pea. But she can’t jump, of course, because someone has nailed the windows shut before she arrived.
Rooks are hunched in the trees outside. They weigh down the branches like heavy dark fruit: no heads, no necks, just torso stumps. Goosebumps rise on her arms and, when she turns back to the room, an ominous glow is seeping under the door. It creeps across the floor, searching for her. She backs away against the wall.
The stain on the floor is purplish-red, the colour of blood trapped under fingernails, or swollen tongues. ‘I’m waiting for Gibby to bring my dinner.’ Her voice barely carries past her lips. And now the keyhole is fiery orange, and light is blazing through the cracks in the door, illuminating the door handle.
In a rush she crosses the room, feeling as if glass is slicing into her feet. ‘Gibby?’ She puts her hand on the door handle and cries out. The brass scorches her palm like a branding iron, and she reels backwards.
Suddenly the door bursts open and a figure flies in. It’s Gibby. His hair is blazing, his face is charred, his mouth is open in a black scream, and blood is pouring from his eyes. ‘Get away! S
ave yourself!’ But even as he shouts it, his burning hands are reaching out for Lace.
She runs to the window, trampling over china, and wrenches at the nails around the frame until her own nails are slippery with blood. The glass is red-hot under her hands. ‘Let me out! Please let me out!’ When she raises her desperate eyes, staring through her tangled sweaty hair, she sees that the world outside is blazing, too. The trees are on fire, dead rooks spin against the trunks like Catherine wheels, and the entire sky is lurid orange.
There’s a pounding noise coming from behind her — the echo of her own fists? But when she glances back, no one is there. There’s no sign of Gibby, or anyone else. The bedroom is dim, the floor empty. A tray sits neatly on her bedside table, holding an untouched bread roll, a bowl of soup, a glass of juice and an apple. And someone out in the corridor is knocking repeatedly on her door.
‘Is everything all right in there?’ It’s a woman’s voice, anxious, concerned. ‘Are you okay? Do you need help?’
The windowpane has gone cold under Lace’s hands. She shelters under the windowsill, staying quiet until whoever is at the door has gone away. Sitting cross-legged in the moonlight, she examines the soles of her feet. They’re as smooth as ever, blemish-free.
Somewhere in the building a clock strikes two. It’s cold and getting colder, but still Lace sits on the floor, staring into a half-lit space in her past.
TAKING UP POSITIONS
TUESDAY MORNING. SUN, RACING clouds, an 8 a.m. bite to the air. In spite of the chill, tables have been set out in the scrubby space between the buildings. As for the food, it could have been sitting there all night. Flabby pastries, damp cheese, apples that have gone soft: a still life in a state of rapid decay.
Dubiously, Gibby turns the tap of the coffee urn and is relieved to see steam rising from his cup. ‘I hope we’re not having breakfast out here too often,’ he mutters to Lace, looking at the sordid back wall of the old hotel, its rubbish bins and fire escapes. ‘It’s like a set for West Side Story.’
In fact, the atmosphere does feel like that of a film set. Extras straggle onto the grass, blinking in the sun, looking nervous. Admin is marching about on her sturdy black feet, moving a lone plastic chair infinitesimally to the right and then back again.
‘Waiting for Godot,’ says Lace. ‘He’s never going to come.’ She clutches a coffee cup in her thin pale fingers, and her voice also sounds oddly thin.
A white-coated figure emerges from the New Building. Is it — can it be —? But the blonde hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and a blue skirt swishes like a peacock’s tail under the medical coat.
‘Dr Mallory!’ Admin waves like someone who’s been saving a seat at a concert. ‘Over here!’
Gibby watches them huddling over a clipboard. ‘Isn’t it odd that they’ve worked together for years and they still address each other by their last names?’
‘Perhaps it’s because they’re in Germany,’ suggests Lace. ‘They might behave differently in a warm climate.’ The skin under her eyes is stretched; it looks as if it might tear like tissue paper. With her coat collar turned up, almost covering her cheeks, she stands on the frosted grass like a tree: tall, grey, still.
But again the sliding doors are opening with a swoosh, and a thin figure sweeps out of the New Building, followed by two diminutive handmaidens. The onlookers step back, scattering pastry crumbs and murmuring to each other. A purple sweater, a sky-blue shirt, corduroy trousers in a bold shade of mustard: he enters the arena looking straight ahead.
‘That can’t be Geoffrey, can it?’ Lace raises her chin from her coat. ‘He’s so young.’
Gibby ducks his head, trying to merge into the shadows thrown by the roof. ‘No, that’s him, the boy I had dinner with last night. That’s the Jumper.’
And so it is — Bright, steering a straight line through the crowds with the Twins scurrying behind. ‘Hello, Giddy.’ They nod as they pass by, their small brown shoes trotting in Bright’s more colourful wake. But when they see Lace standing there in her pale grey state of stillness, they hesitate. ‘Oh, hello, hello!’ They veer towards her, mesmerised by the fall of her fringe over her hollow luminous eyes. But Bright has the compulsion of movement (he’s making a beeline for the green plastic throne) and his red hair, flowing from under a tweed cap, is equally eye-catching. ‘See you afterwards,’ they promise Lace, rushing to catch up with the new object of their devotion.
‘You can’t avoid him forever,’ points out Lace. ‘For instance, this evening, there’ll be dinner again.’ She sounds more like herself now. At least, her voice is less bleached, making Gibby feel a little better — but as soon as he looks at Bright, sitting cross-legged in the green chair, he feels worse again. For some reason Bright’s stick-like ankles rouse pity in him, while his sphinx-like stare rouses an unexpected anger.
‘Fair Isle socks. A bit pretentious, don’t you think.’ He feels gloomily satisfied as he sees Admin descend, waving her clipboard, flushing Bright off the chair.
‘I’m so sorry.’ Bright backs graciously away. ‘I didn’t realised it was reserved.’ He darts back towards the chair, dusting off its green plastic seat with his cravat, flourishing, bowing. The Twins flutter, everyone else titters, even Lace is smiling for the first time this morning — and the sight makes Gibby feel more annoyed.
‘Show-off,’ he says, almost loudly enough for Bright to hear.
And on that apt line, the real star of the show — the King of The Palace — arrives at last. Long brown hair, a frayed collar, lines around his eyes, deep creases on his raincoat, and words tumbling from his mouth as he lopes through the crowds. ‘Welcome, welcome!’ he’s saying, although he’s the last to have arrived here by several days. ‘We meet at last!’
He bestows his raincoat on the hovering Dr Mallory, and accepts the chair pulled out by Admin. ‘Thank you both!’ For a thin stooping man, he sits down rather heavily so that the plastic legs sink crookedly into the ground. ‘Some of you may be nervous about the weeks ahead, but I assure you that we’re all friends here. No need for melodrama or formalities. Call me Geoffrey, and I’ll call you by your first names, just as soon as I’ve learnt them.’
‘Geoffrey!’ mutters Gibby, staring at the tilting director who, even as the back legs of the chair sink lower, is gracefully fielding a barrage of questions. ‘I’d have greater confidence in him if I could call him Doctor.’ The swell of voices makes Gibby feel queasy, and he puts down his half-eaten pastry. Sticky apricot filling rises in his throat. What the hell was he thinking, coming here? He’s survived until now without the likes of Geoffrey, hasn’t he?
But the others are being drawn in like iron filings, irresistibly attracted to the laconic figure, his air of experience, and his willingness to answer questions. For instance:
Is it compulsory to attend group sessions?
‘Compulsory?’ Geoffrey shakes his head. He isn’t fond of that word; in truth, he abhors it. He hopes his guests will be willing to participate fully in all activities.
Gibby is left at the back of the crowd, shifting from one foot to the other. Group sessions? Sweat stands out on his forehead.
Is it permissible to leave the premises?
Of course! Geoffrey wants to assure all his guests — and he stresses the definition guests — that the only thing they’re required to do is write down their intentions and their whereabouts in the logbook at the front desk.
‘But where can we go around here?’ Gibby asks Lace in a low angry voice. ‘A tractor convention? A barn dance?’
It seems that nothing fazes Geoffrey. He discusses bathroom room etiquette (showers are single-sex, flip-flops recommended to ward off fungal infection) with as much ease as emotional and nervous instabilities. Occasionally he pauses, before saying, ‘Let’s take this up later in a session, shall we?’ He’s a coach talking his team through the next season, a captain charting out rough seas for an inexperienced crew; soon he’s put almost everyone at ease. Dr Mallory stands at
his right shoulder, bearing a platter of fruit; Admin hovers at his left with an almost proprietorial air.
‘I have only one hard-and-fast rule.’ Geoffrey pulls a fruit knife from his pocket and begins peeling an apple in one curling strip. ‘No drugs or alcohol. These muddy the mind, cloud the emotions and endanger the recovery process.’
‘Indeed.’ Dr Mallory purses her full red lips.
‘Strictly verboten,’ emphasises Admin.
‘Can we at least take an aspirin?’ asks Bright slightly challengingly, standing off to one side with his own two-member support group behind him. A curious counterpoint has formed on the rough grass: two assured masters, four devoted handmaidens, and a rabble milling between. The Twins giggle at Bright’s request, and the rabble follows suit, though not, perhaps, understanding why — while Geoffrey answers calmly that of course the responsible use of aspirin is acceptable.
I hate him. Gibby is shocked at himself. The thought has come from nowhere. He glances at Bright, standing there with his cap tipped against the sun, and then at Geoffrey, casually slicing up his apple. Which of the two does he hate? And why? He knows only that he doesn’t want to be glorified or thanked, not praised for saving a life, nor encouraged to open up in front of strangers. Is it too late to leave? He feels a fierce longing for the familiar brown-carpeted stairs, the landing with its plastic ferns, and his bedroom door standing ajar, offering a tantalising glimpse of his notebooks, his filing cabinets, his neatly ordered sanctuary —
But when he looks sideways at Lace, at her pale attentive face, her fingers twisted in a knot, her long legs crossed like a wading bird’s, he knows there’s no choice. He has to stay.
Geoffrey is speaking again, flicking apple seeds away in perfect arcs. ‘It’s chilly today! Never fear. You won’t be expected to put on your thermals for breakfast again. In truth —’
Suicide Club, The Page 21
