Suicide Club, The

by Quigley, Sarah

  Gibby winces. That phrase again! It’s the third or fourth time Geoffrey has used it.

  ‘In truth,’ repeats Geoffrey, ‘I have a thorough mistrust of fresh air.’ Balancing apple slices on his knee, he proceeds to take an orange off Dr Mallory’s fruit pyramid and examine it from all angles. ‘How beautiful. The intense colour. The dimpled exterior. The imagined aroma — tart, yet sweet.’ He draws back his arm and throws the fruit the full length of the garden. For a moment it soars against the blue sky like a tiny brilliant planet before disappearing into the undergrowth. ‘As I was saying,’ he says, turning back to his guests, ‘I like the first meeting to be en plein air. Having no ceiling above us encourages confidence, and confidences. The open sky makes us feel that we have no limitations — indeed, that we have limitless freedom to be anyone we choose.’ He stares intently around the group, focusing for the first time on individuals.

  Gibby is aware that his knees are trembling. Get a grip. This is Mrs Lux’s voice, scolding a figure skater who’s botched the triple axel because of nerves.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Lace flicks her soft hair out of her eyelashes. ‘You look a bit weird.’

  ‘Indigestion, I think.’ He gives a tiny unconvincing burp. ‘Too much stewed coffee.’

  Geoffrey’s gaze is moving over the crowds as steadily as a lighthouse beam. He’s smiling, pleasant, but somehow unnerving — and Gibby feels a blush growing, burgeoning deep in his chest. Any minute now and it’ll burst into his cheeks, setting fire to his ears, out-singeing the sun.

  Desperate times call for desperate measures, they say. Keep a close eye on Desperate Gibby and you’ll see him metamorphose into his father. Just as Geoffrey’s eyes come to rest on his face, Gibby affects the impassive countenance and straight back of a businessman. His knees are locked, his feet together at the heels, and the roaring blood has subsided — because businessmen don’t blush. It’s the first time his father has ever significantly helped him. The irony isn’t lost on him, that the help should come from hundreds of miles away, and that his father (probably totting up his business expenses at this moment) is completely unaware of the fact. Nonetheless, irony aside, it’s worked.

  Geoffrey’s eyes move on, Gibby raises his chin — and sees that Bright is staring at him. Ping! Gibby’s arm flies up and he gives the tip-of-the-hat salute that his father often does, even though Mr Lux and his colleagues have gone hatless for decades.

  Bright gives a visible start, then looks as if he might laugh. Smiling, he tips an invisible hat back at Gibby.

  It seems the ordeal is nearly over. Now Geoffrey’s wrapping up the outdoor session with some general pleasantries. ‘I’d like to say how delighted we are to be here.’ He smiles at Dr Mallory and Admin, at the old grey hotel and the blue Bavarian sky. ‘Although we’ve become used to sojourns in Russia, a particularly cold snap in St Petersburg has made Middle Europe seem more than ever desirable.’

  To his horror, Gibby finds himself raising his hand as if in a conference. ‘You say we. So where is Mrs Geoffrey?’

  Geoffrey gives a friendly laugh, Dr Mallory titters, and even Admin hides a smile behind her clipboard. ‘An easy mistake to make. My fault entirely. In spite of life’s uncertainties, I’m fairly certain that I’ve never had, and will never have, a wife.’

  ‘Right. I see.’ God, he’s still channelling his father! He’s a fact-certifying, determinedly enquiring, middle-of-the-road businessman.

  Geoffrey snaps his fingers. ‘Meet my companion, Pookie.’ A tiny dog springs out from behind his chair and leaps onto his knee. ‘Now that you’ve met my partner, perhaps some of you would like to come up and chat to us one-on-one?’

  A small frozen anticipatory moment — and then it’s happening. They’re all stepping up to meet Geoffrey: the Canadian whose nickname is ‘Savage’, talkative Dawn from Ohio, the mournful Swede. Even the Twins, with a reluctant backward glance at Bright, join the throng.

  ‘We might as well.’ Lace sounds offhand but, in the past few minutes, a glimmer has returned to her eyes and her face looks less frozen.

  ‘In a minute.’ Standing like a post, Gibby watches her go, hover, hang back, and finally move to the front. She smiles at Geoffrey, says something. Geoffrey smiles back. As they shake hands, the sun bursts over the roof and floods the shabby garden. At last the chilly trees exhale and people lift their faces to the warmth. And Lace is caught in the middle of it all, a shining needle trembling on a compass. She is breathtaking and breath-catching, almost scarily so, and Geoffrey holds her hand for a second longer, as if their palms have been melded by the sudden heat.

  Gibby’s eyes are hurting as if they’ve been scorched. He blinks several times and when his vision clears he finds that, once again, he’s looking directly across the grass to where Bright stands. But Bright’s no longer looking his way. Instead, his vivid green eyes are fixed on the beautiful, luminous figure of Gibby’s best friend. Even as the crowds disperse and mill about the table, refilling cups and reloading plates, he continues to stand completely still, while his eyes follow Lace as if they will never look anywhere else again.

  THE SQUARE, THE TRIANGLE, AND PARALLEL LINES

  BRIGHT HAS FINALLY MANAGED to detach from the Twins, somewhere between the snack bar and the games room. ‘I don’t eat snacks,’ he informed them. ‘I never play games.’ Their smooth faces registered identical consternation. ‘Yours is an ascetic existence,’ commented Mirabelle, while Rosalind murmured the hope that, over the next month, they might introduce him to the pleasures of crisps and snooker.

  ‘I’m not staying for a month.’ Even though Bright has had this line slung around his thin body since his meeting with Dr Mallory, ready for a quick and frequent draw, he now disbelieves it. For in the past two hours everything has changed, with the dazzling arrival of the sun and a quickening in his heart.

  ‘You’re not?’ Mirabelle — slightly plumper, slightly more confident — looks dismayed and then determined. ‘In that case every second of your company counts!’ She sways on the sand-grey linoleum, caught between tides, pulled in one way by her sister’s needs and in the other by Bright’s attractions. But the facts are unchangeable:

  Duration of Devotion to Bright: approximately fourteen hours.

  Duration of Loyalty to Rosalind: a lifetime.

  This, of course, is the eternal dilemma of the twin, and Mirabelle smoothes her sleek brown bob resignedly. Rosalind’s blood sugar levels are low, and her spirits even lower. The snack bar and the games room it must be. ‘We’ll come and find you later,’ she assures Bright, trailing her hand against his forearm.

  ‘Later,’ echoes Rosalind, her eyes slightly unfocused. Is it because she was born second to Mirabelle, or will she become stronger and more definite after a few biscuits?

  ‘Later!’ nods Bright. The possibilities of the word stretch like springy elastic. Later could mean anything: later today, later in the week, late in the piece, late in life —

  He bounds back to his room, free. ‘Not that they’re not pretty, but they’re so constant,’ he explains to Eduardo or to Lewis — though neither happens to be here. He’s alone with his books, a suitcase of them, and as he unpacks them he starts feeling calm.

  Some people would say he’s brought too many. Eduardo (who prefers gossip magazines) would say so. Lewis (for whom reading is a useful way of killing time) would say so. But Bright knows the truth: when it comes to books, there’s no such thing as too many. He doesn’t care for large crowds of people, and doesn’t believe the saying ‘One can never have too many friends’. ‘Multiple friendships dilute each other,’ he tells the room. ‘Too many friends and you end up with nothing but acquaintances.’

  Books, on the other hand — well, there’s no rivalry between books. They remain a hundred per cent committed, no matter how long one has been away or how many other books have been read in the interim. ‘There’s always room for more of you.’ He smoothes bent covers and presses creased pages closer together.
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  Dostoyevsky, Hemingway, Kafka, Beckett, Chekhov, Carver. Nothing new: he’s chosen his travelling companions with the utmost care. You never know when you’ll find yourself wide awake, sitting on the edge of a bed at 4 a.m., wishing you had an old-time friend with you.

  What about his intended change of ordering system — perhaps chronological, to mark the beginning of a new phase? He shuffles and croons over his treasures, stacks and restacks — and all the while his ears are on red alert.

  Just as he’s allowing himself a quick dip into Beckett, he hears it: her voice, seemingly right outside his door. ‘Let’s meet in the entrance hall in five minutes?’ As he hears her, he remembers how she’d stood so quietly in the garden, with the triumphant call of the sun falling around her. Although she’s not speaking to him, her voice fills him with recognition and a feeling of great hope.

  He darts to the door, stands with his ear pressed hard against the wood. Her footsteps are soft but audible, and he listens until they’ve faded into silence. Then it’s shoes on, jacket on, sunglasses on! — and he grabs up the nearest book. Leaping down the staircase, arrowing his body, one two three steps at a time. Crack! His toe reminds him, warningly, that it’s only just mended. ‘I know,’ mutters Bright, ‘but keep it together, will you?’

  There’s no one in the hallway, only dark shadows of pillars, then he’s into blazing sunshine and hurdling the gate. The pavement is uneven; he lands crookedly and straightens up fast.

  He weaves in and out of the trees, twigs whipping his red hair into flames. Lurches over rough grass — keep out of sight! Casualness is imperative! He knows only too well the resistance of the sought after, the hunted.

  He pounds past scattered houses and lawns, fountains, geese, gnomes, waterwheels — ‘Suburbia!’ — oh god, he’s committed himself to remain here, in the weird old hotel on the outskirts of hell. But at least his desire to stay in Bavaria has become stronger than his desire to leave.

  ‘I had no choice,’ he explains breathlessly. ‘You’d understand, if you met her.’

  ‘You haven’t even talked to her yet!’ Eduardo’s accent is stronger at a distance, his vowels elongated over many hundreds of miles. And Lewis, behind the steering wheel somewhere in the north of England, speaks dryly. ‘What will you do if her name turns out to be a cute diminutive?’

  ‘Shut up,’ says Bright to both of them — and then, to his burning toe and the doctor who told him to engage in reasonable activities only, he apologises. Finally he’s limping fast around the corner, and in front of him is a small town square. A shining gold onion-dome, a fierce blue sky. A statue, a fountain, a row of shops.

  He sinks down at a wooden table under a tree and opens his book. Readiness is all. His chest is heaving, his top lip salty; sweat falls from his forehead and adds to the mayhem on the page.

  Two lines on, and a surreptitious glance sideways: already, they’re approaching. There’s Gibby (can that really be his name?). His cuffs are too long: they cover half his hands, so he looks like a soldier in someone else’s uniform. His shoes are bright white. She’s walking beside him, casual but close, as if they’re already firm friends after only a few days at The Palace.

  Bright folds down the corner of the page. ‘Hello!’ he calls, attack being more nonchalant than defence. He shields his eyes and waves, like a sailor hailing a known vessel.

  He’s definitely not imagining it: the look of panic on Gibby’s face, closely followed by irritation. But the girl is neutral. Even close up, her face remains pale and unreadable. ‘Hello!’ She answers for both of them. As first words go, it’s not startlingly original. But Bright knows this moment will stay with him forever. Three heads, surrounded by dry-golden leaves. A two-syllable word. The lone thump of his already committed heart.

  ‘Making the most of the sun?’ She squints at his book.

  ‘Yes, it’s quiet here. Good for reading.’ He gets up, steps back and lurches. ‘Argh, shit.’

  ‘You all right?’ Gibby fixes his eyes on Bright’s feet. ‘I see you’ve changed your shoes.’

  ‘Horses for courses,’ agrees Bright, trying to ignore his throbbing foot. ‘I wear running shoes when I run.’

  ‘So you’re out for a jog?’ says Gibby, slightly challengingly. ‘Not a read?’

  ‘I —’ Bright, master of sarcasm, king of the comeback, is lost for words.

  The girl holds out her hand in a matter-of-fact way. ‘I’m Lace. You already know Gibby, I hear. From dinner last night.’

  Bright grasps her hand, though he can hardly see for the mist in his eyes. It’s rare for solitaries to be saved; now it seems to be becoming the story of his life. ‘I’m Bright.’

  ‘I know.’ Her palm is cool against his hot slippery one. ‘Gibby told me.’

  He has no choice but to sit down, felled by pain or something else altogether. Lace and Gibby remain standing, as if they’re about to leave. Already the triangle is unbalanced, the pyramid is crumbling. They’re a couple, he is the apex, everything is wrong.

  From a polite distance, Lace surveys the book cover. ‘The Unnamable. That’s a nice edition. Is it from the seventies?’

  Bright nods, staring down at Beckett’s two-tone face, the dark red pupils, the orange polo neck: he looks as if he’s burning in hell. ‘I don’t notice the cover,’ he mumbles, ‘because I’ve read it so often.’

  ‘You’re reading Beckett?’ Gibby gives a snort of laughter.

  ‘What’s funny?’ Bright begins to feel dangerous.

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ says Gibby, as people do when they’re clinging to a private joke. ‘Lace made a reference this morning — we both like — oh, it’s nothing.’

  Bright’s life has been full of awkward pauses, beginning with the moment when his father had announced, over lamb chops and mint sauce, that he and Bright’s mother were going to Africa to care for other people’s children; later, that she’d decided to stay on there; and, later still, that she’d contracted dengue fever and died. This pause, however, feels like one of the longest ever. He turns the book over and over in his hands, opens it and stares at the last page. Sees words about not being able to go on: words that he knows, but suddenly can no longer read.

  When he glances up, he sees Gibby’s hands, twisting desperately at the cuffs of the too-big beige shirt. His own desperation and Gibby’s seem equal and insurmountable; he’s about to dive back into the blurring words when Lace speaks. ‘Do you want to come shopping with us?’

  ‘Oh yes, I could!’ But instantly he catches Gibby making a face at Lace. ‘Or not…’ He trails off. If there’s one thing solitaries are good at, it’s knowing when other people want to be alone.

  Gibby sighs heavily. ‘Well, what did you sign out for? Running, reading or shopping?’

  ‘I didn’t know signing out had to be occupation-specific. I just squiggled my name.’

  ‘You didn’t sign out at all, did you?’ Gibby looks almost triumphant. ‘Lace and I were the very first people to sign the register. And you left before us.’

  ‘All right, I didn’t sign out. Who the hell are you, the signature monitor?’ Bright tilts his head back to stop his sunglasses slipping off his nose.

  Gibby’s ears turn red. ‘It’s not me that makes the rules. It’s a safety issue.’

  Bright looks around the square. ‘I don’t see much danger here. Unless it’s death by boredom. Or the slow atrophy of one’s social skills.’

  CLANG. The clock tower sounds a cracked and lonely bell. Lace shakes back her hair. ‘I think that’s the end of shopping for today,’ she ventures. ‘I seem to remember Admin saying everything around here closes for the afternoon. Something called Ruhestunden.’

  ‘Oh, shit. That’s great.’ Gibby looks more normal. That is, he looks annoyed about village timetables rather than being unaccountably annoyed with Bright.

  ‘What do you need?’ asks Bright. ‘Maybe I can lend it to you.’

  Lace looks tactfully into the distance, Gibby looks conflicted a
nd finally comes out with it. ‘Pyjamas.’

  ‘Pyjamas?’ Bright’s intrigued. ‘I didn’t know anyone under sixty still wore pyjamas!’

  ‘Well, how many twenty-year-olds wear triangular handkerchiefs in blazer pockets?’ counters Gibby. ‘Or Fair Isle socks?’

  ‘Touché!’ In spite of Gibby’s inexplicable hostility, Bright starts to like him. ‘That looks like an underwear shop over there. Maybe we can persuade them —?’

  ‘Thanks, but I’ll go by myself.’ Gibby sets off across the square with his long military cuffs swinging.

  ‘He’s not normally like this,’ says Lace, slightly apologetically.

  The blend of maternal attitude and sylph-like beauty is unexpected: Bright blinks behind his sunglasses. ‘It’s my fault. I must have annoyed him at dinner. I seem to offend people without even trying.’

  ‘No, it’s nothing to do with last night.’ She sounds certain. ‘It’s something that happened — well, before we arrived here. He’s going to tell you about it himself. At least, I think so.’

  ‘You came here together?’ Bright stares across the square at Gibby, round-shouldered, serious, peering through the shop window — and then at Lace, shining gold hair, impossibly beautiful — and infinitely possible. ‘You’re together-together?’ He clutches The Unnamable to his chest.

  ‘Oh, no! Not in that way. We’ve been friends for years.’

  He feels limp with relief. ‘So where are you from?’

  ‘The north.’ She’s bending, scooping up leaves. ‘One of those ugly new cities — shopping malls, pedestrian walkways, ring roads — one of too many.’

  ‘Sounds like my home town.’ He’s breathless: too many questions, and any minute Gibby will be back, fencing off Lace with his spiky attitude. ‘Are you, were you born, did you —’

  It’s hopeless. Gibby is striding back across the square.

  Lace drops the leaves in a whispering shower. ‘Actually —’ she looks directly at Bright — ‘we come from the same place as you.’