Suicide Club, The

by Quigley, Sarah

  ‘You do?’ His toe has swelled and his foot is burning. ‘How do you know where I’m from?’ And then he sees it, a strange reflection in her eyes, so dark blue that in the bright sunlight they look almost black. Two silver figures, falling through the depths of her pupils. Two glass towers, leaning towards each other across the midnight divide.

  Lace turns around, the thread breaks. ‘Gibby! You’re back.’

  ‘They do have pyjamas.’ He sounds out of breath, as if he’s run the last bit, noticing the gap closing between Bright and Lace, the air tightening as if reeled in on a string. ‘I could see through the window. But they’re closed till three, and I’ve got my first session with Geoffrey then.’

  Bright is feeling oddly light-headed. He takes a deep breath. ‘Why don’t we swap times? You take my appointment with God — erm, I mean, Geoffrey — and I’ll take yours.’

  ‘Do you think we’re allowed to do that?’ Gibby sounds gruff, but at least he’s looking Bright in the eyes for the first time that day.

  ‘What can he do, if you’re there outside his door and I’m not?’ Bright can’t help glancing at Lace: swaying, beautiful, with leaves around her feet. ‘You look like a tree,’ he says in a rush. ‘Like Daphne. A laurel tree.’ Has he got it right? The myth where her hair turns to foliage, her arms change to branches, and her feet become roots, but the shine of her beauty is still visible to Apollo — oh, Christ, what has he said? He wishes his sunglasses would transform into a protective screen to hide the whole of him.

  ‘I know that story.’ Lace nods. ‘Ovid’s Metamorphoses, when the —’

  ‘I said that myself this morning!’ interrupts Gibby. ‘I said you were like a tree.’

  ‘Did you?’ she says peaceably. ‘I didn’t hear.’

  ‘Well, I was about to say it. My thoughts were interrupted.’

  ‘That’s a coincidence.’ Bright tries to sound sincere but fails.

  Gibby pulls his sleeves down over his hands. ‘So what time’s your appointment with Geoffrey?’

  ‘Actually,’ Bright bites his lip, hoping this won’t add insult to injury, ‘you should leave now. It’s in fifteen minutes.’

  Gibby glances across the square, as if reminding himself of the necessity of pyjamas. ‘All right. I’ll take it. Are you coming, Lace?’

  ‘Stay!’ Again, Bright can’t stop himself. He only just manages not to grab Lace’s twig-like arm.

  She looks at Gibby, the faintest flush staining her cheeks. ‘Will you be okay? It’s your first session…’

  Gibby sighs. ‘I’ll be fine. Just meet me afterwards.’ He looks at her in a brief, assessing way, like a technician checking an engine. Slightly reluctantly, he nods. ‘The fresh air will do you good.’

  And then he’s gone, surprisingly fast for a large person, in a blur of white shoes and a trail of indecipherable emotions.

  Bright removes his sunglasses and takes a deep breath. ‘He seems a bit protective over you. I hope I haven’t cut in on anything.’

  ‘No, it’s nothing like that.’ But Lace continues to stare after Gibby as if, at any minute, she might sprint off after him.

  Birds croak in the trees, the sharp sun bites the back of Bright’s neck. ‘Won’t you sit down?’ He sounds like a desperate host. ‘You’re making me nervous.’

  Finally she turns and looks at him, and the shifting world settles. When she sits down opposite him, the rough crooked table straightens itself, becomes perfectly level, perfectly balanced: perfect.

  He’s not surprised by this. Somehow he knew it would be this way. What does surprise him is how the world has transformed itself. Beyond the fringe of trees, low fields and snow-topped mountains have been rearranged into new and infinite patterns.

  ‘It was kind of you to swap with Gibby.’ Lace’s eyelashes are so long, they hide any hints of the past.

  Bright squints down at the table, picking at splinters. ‘Well, it meant I avoided the post-prandial dip. After-lunch sessions of any kind are usually naps for me, rather than appointments.’

  ‘Was that why you offered to swap?’

  ‘Yes. No. Of course not.’

  She leans on the table, branch arms, wood on wood. ‘Do you always contradict yourself?’

  ‘No. I mean, yes.’

  She laughs, as he intended her to. He could stay here forever, at a broken picnic table on the edge of an empty town square, opposite her. He could stay here until his face became as craggy as Beckett’s, his voice as slow and regular as the tides. He could stay here. He could stay still.

  ‘Do you want me to read to you?’

  But she says she hasn’t slept much, and she’d rather just sit while Bright reads to himself. Is this an excuse? Being read to is one of the most intimate of activities: who knows where it might lead. But at least she’s there, on the other side of the table, and if he wanted to he could reach out and touch her hand.

  He wants to know everything about her. Instead, he opens the book and starts at page one again. It echoes the questions he’s longing to ask — where, who, when — like markers leading somewhere completely new. He knows the sentences by heart, so he’s free to listen very carefully to what’s around him: the soft wind, the turning of pages, the sound of her breathing.

  THE 3 P.M. SWAP MEET

  ‘SO, WHERE SHOULD WE start?’ asks Geoffrey cordially, as if he’s about to whip out the scissors and give Bright a new haircut.

  ‘I don’t know, you tell me.’ Bright shifts in his chair. ‘You ask the questions, I answer. Isn’t that the deal?’

  ‘It can be,’ agrees Geoffrey, ‘though it doesn’t have to be. I don’t like to impose any pattern on conversation. I find it’s more beneficial to let things unfold. Naturally. Gradually.’

  ‘I don’t have time for natural or gradual.’ Bright feels hot and irritable. The sun is slanting straight across his face and he gets up and tugs ineffectually on the cord of the blinds.

  ‘I see. You feel as if time is short, is that it? As if your days are numbered?’ Geoffrey’s face is in shadow. He’s nothing but a brown shapeless pullover, with a sliding accent that makes Bright feel nauseous.

  ‘I’m not talking existentially. I’d just like to get on with it. I originally thought I was here for two weeks, now I find it’s four. That’s a lot of time to take out of one’s life.’

  ‘You could consider this a part of life,’ suggests Geoffrey. ‘Or is it simply that right now you feel like the living dead?’

  ‘This is wasted time,’ asserts Bright, twirling the blind cord in the air. ‘I’m a busy man.’

  ‘So it seems. You were seen leaving the building today as if you were aiming for an Olympic sprint record. Did you have an urgent appointment?’

  ‘You were spying on me?’ Answering a question with a question is one of Bright’s specialities; occasionally he practises it by writing dialogue and punctuating every line with a question mark.

  ‘We simply keep a close eye on what’s going on. It keeps things — how should I put it…’

  ‘Russian?’

  ‘Watertight,’ concludes Geoffrey smoothly. ‘The next time you make a speedy departure from The Palace, whether you’re running for sheer joy or to intercept somebody, please respect the rules and sign the register. Or we’ll have to curtail certain freedoms.’

  Bright’s head has begun to hurt. The strain of reading Beckett while surreptitiously watching Lace, the intense bursts of sprinting, the fear that he’s re-fractured his toe, the streaky sunlight — all these combine to make him less than usually capable of combat. He sinks into his chair and shuffles it closer to the desk. ‘Are there burst blood vessels in my eyes?’ he asks in a weak voice. ‘Have my eyes become bloodshot?’

  Geoffrey leans forward. ‘Slightly. Is that what happens when you feel guilty?’

  ‘Why the hell should I feel guilty? It’s my father who ought to be suffering from guilt.’

  ‘Ah, yes. We’ll come to that. But any more recent reasons for an uneas
y conscience?’ The pleasant voice swoops between St Petersburg and St Andrews, settles somewhere between.

  ‘You’re not suggesting I should feel guilty because I swapped appointment times with Gibby, are you?’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Of course not. I did him a favour. He’s buying pyjamas right now because of me.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ It’s difficult to tell if this is an agreement or another question.

  Bright’s toe gives a red-hot stab of pain. ‘Truthfully, I don’t think that kid should even be here. He just came to be with Lace. If I’d known you permitted support crews, I’d have brought…’ But no names come to mind. The sun has blanked out his past and, if he ever had any friends who might have accompanied him on this strange ordeal, he can’t remember them.

  ‘You have something against Gibby Lux?’ enquires Geoffrey. ‘I thought you ate dinner together last night.’

  ‘Not the whole dinner. He left before dessert.’ Bright wrenches off his shoe and eases his sock away from his toe. ‘I don’t have a problem with him, exactly. Once you get past his old-man ways he’s okay. But he doesn’t belong here. He’s too normal.’

  ‘And you do belong? Meaning you’re not normal?’ With a creaking of vinyl, Geoffrey leans forward and reaches for a notepad.

  Here we go, thinks Bright. But Geoffrey simply rips off the top page and folds it in half, then in fours and then eighths.

  ‘He won’t be any good to you, that’s all.’ Bright shrugs. ‘He hasn’t been through what the rest of us have. I can tell. No near-death experiences there!’

  ‘So you can tell just by looking at people how close they’ve been to the Light?’ Geoffrey’s tone remains polite, but the question verges on sarcasm. He presses the wad of paper between thumb and forefinger. ‘You know with absolute certainty that everyone else here, with the exception of Mr Lux, has walked the life-and-death line. May I ask why you’ve taken off your sock?’

  ‘Non-sequitur,’ says Bright accusingly. ‘I broke my toe.’

  ‘Ah, yes. The jump. Perhaps we should start with that? Or would you rather wait for a group session?’

  Silence falls. The Twins are out in the garden, close to the window, talking to each other in high chirping voices. Bright hears his name — then sees the ledge, the ghoulish watchers and the void. He presses his hands hard against his eyelids.

  ‘It’s up to you.’ Geoffrey’s voice is neutral. ‘But the earlier you open up, the easier it will become.’

  When Bright opens his eyes, he finds the blinds have been lowered and the room is dim. He rubs his stinging eyes and peers angrily at Geoffrey. ‘Why don’t you just take control? What’s your background, anyway?’

  ‘It’s all there in the introductory pack,’ says Geoffrey mildly. ‘I thought you were a reader?’

  ‘I read books, not propaganda. I threw the fucking introductory pack in the bin.’ Bright picks his sock up off the floor in a decisive manner. ‘Look, I only came here to please my father. And to get away from him. And to earn my keep, of course. Can’t you ever answer a straight question?’

  Geoffrey raises his eyebrows. ‘To earn your keep? I’m not sure I follow.’

  ‘The sessions,’ says Bright obsessively. ‘I want to know when they begin. This introductory crap has been dragging on too long. I want to start the —’ He can’t bring himself to say the word experiment. ‘The game. The sooner we start, the sooner I can tell if it’s worth staying.’

  For the first time, Geoffrey looks amused. ‘How do you know that we haven’t already started?’

  Bright’s stomach lurches. ‘I was told — that is, I expected —’

  ‘I really don’t know what you were told. Or what you expect.’ He tosses the folded paper from hand to hand in a maddeningly calm way.

  ‘My expectations —’ Bright sits up in his chair and pulls his sock back on — ‘and my information are one and the same thing. I’m not here under some delusional notion of helping you. I’ll use you in just the same way as you use me.’

  Geoffrey unfolds the paper to reveal a perfect dart. He aims it at Bright’s head, then turns and fires it at the blind instead. The small papery impact makes no sound but it causes the slatted blinds to snap shut, plunging the room into near-darkness. ‘I have no doubt you will use this experience.’ His voice emerges from the shadows, sounding sharper than before. ‘Writers take whatever they can. But we have a bargain. Don’t forget that. Now, I think we’ve done enough talking for today.’

  Bright stands up abruptly. ‘It’s been a treat.’

  Geoffrey inclines his head. ‘À bientôt.’

  Bright’s stomach gives a loud rumble. Glancing down, he sees sweat stains on the front of his shirt, a roadmap of embarrassment and distress. ‘I’ll go then.’ There’s a red-hot burning in his bowels and he strides to the door, but as he opens it he feels he has to say something more. He clenches his fists and forces himself to speak. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve been —’

  Geoffrey holds up a long thin hand. ‘Don’t apologise. It will only weaken our contract. Check the list on your way out. First group session tomorrow.’ The phone on his desk starts ringing and he says, ‘Excuse me’, and turns away.

  Only after Bright has closed the door behind him and is standing in front of the notice board does he finally realise what he’s in for.

  Gibby Lux

  Mirabelle Lapherty

  Rosalind Lapherty

  Grace McDonald

  Brian O’Connor

  Erik Svensson…

  The list blurs and runs into a black mess. Blood thunders in his ears. Why did he think he could do this? In less than twenty-four hours he’ll be facing them all. Questions, assumptions, projections — and, oh Jesus! — he’ll be brought back to the ledge, to the clenching of fists, the fingernails cutting into palms, the untied shoelace, the shaking, the soaring terrifying liquefying leap —

  The roaring in his stomach worsens. He hobbles fast down the corridor, swearing, sweating, sick to his stomach — sick with dread.

  CAUGHT BETWEEN

  ‘I’VE BEEN THINKING ABOUT it for hours,’ says Gibby, marching ahead with squeaky-linoleum steps, ‘and the more I think, the less I can remember. Forty-five minutes with the man himself, and all I can recall him saying is —’

  ‘It’s a pleasure to be working with you?’ finishes Lace.

  ‘He said that to you, too?’ Gibby peers tentatively around the door. He’s already warned Lace that he won’t play snooker if other people are watching; the only time he tried it he was ten, towering uncomfortably over a mini table in the kids’ corner of a pub.

  Lace strides past him. ‘The coast is clear!’ She looks around: a predictable jukebox, a predictable jigsaw table, a predictable stack of board games. All the furniture is brown, and there’s a musty odour in the air. She can smell wasted time, frayed nerves and boredom.

  ‘It’s like valium for the eyes.’ Gibby nudges a drab beanbag with his toe.

  ‘We need fresh air!’ Lace pulls up a blind, opens the window and sees Bright’s back, less than ten feet away. He’s hovering on the grass like a brightly coloured parakeet, flanked by two small determined hummingbirds. ‘Rosalind!’ she hears. ‘Don’t block the light! Bright’s trying to read.’

  Zipp! Quickly, she lets the blind fall again and watches him through the slats. It’s like getting a diluted version: a slanted cheekbone, a stripe of pea-green velvet shoulder, a sliver of wrist. Not enough. She weaves at the window, gathering fragments of Bright, trying to get the whole of him.

  ‘So what do you think?’ Gibby’s voice is faint, an indistinct soundtrack to a different film. When she turns, he’s sitting enquiringly in an over-stuffed vinyl chair, his feet propped on the edge of a 1970s leather-topped coffee table.

  ‘It’s hard to say.’ Lace scrolls guiltily back through the last minutes and finds she’s recorded nothing, though clearly Gibby’s been talking for some time.

  ‘When I saw him outside — well, he se
emed so in control. Didn’t you think so?’

  ‘Yes, I know what you mean.’ Lace feels her way slowly forward. Are they talking about Bright?

  ‘So if I had talked too much this afternoon, surely he would have told me straight out. It seems odd that I can’t remember a single thing he said, which seems to suggest that I was the one doing all the talking.’

  Geoffrey! Lace falls into the conversation, hits the ground running. ‘I don’t think it’s possible to talk too much, considering why we’ve come here. In fact he’d probably object if you clammed up and didn’t talk at all.’

  Gibby looks slightly reassured. ‘Perhaps he’s just a quiet person by nature. Did he talk much to you?’

  ‘He was pleasant.’ Lace tries to think, but she can feel her body being pulled as if by a magnetic force back towards the window. ‘But not chatty. He was like a polite, friendly black hole.’

  ‘Yes, combined with a human computer. Taking in data from outer space and processing it.’

  ‘He’s supposed to be one of the best black-hole human computers in the world,’ says Lace — but she’s distracted by a breeze from the window, lifting her hair and caressing the back of her neck. Taking a last look at Bright’s absorbed back, she reaches behind the blind and pulls the window closed. ‘That’s that,’ she says to herself. But she knows it’s nothing of the kind. You can’t just put a pane of glass between yourself and someone else and ignore away the connection. Just as she’s wiping the dust off her hands —

  ‘The Falling Boy,’ says Gibby, as if reading her mind.

  Lace jumps. ‘What about him?’

  ‘I can’t go on pretending I don’t know who he is. This afternoon was so awkward.’

  ‘At least you knew why,’ points out Lace. ‘He was completely at a loss. He thinks you hate him.’

  ‘Well, I don’t exactly know if I like him.’ Gibby begins examining the pool cues, inspecting each tip with a judicious twist of the mouth. ‘For instance, I don’t much like his outrageous clothes.’

  Lace looks down at her silver lurex cape and her dove-grey velvet flares. ‘Since when did conventional dressing affect your choice of friends?’