INERTIA, AND OUT OF IT
KNOCK, KNOCK! LACE IS sitting on her bed, listening to Gibby trying to help her. The door isn’t locked (this is strongly discouraged at The Palace) so theoretically he could walk straight in. But, just as The Palace discourages keys, so it encourages — relies upon — the old-fashioned virtues of respect and discretion. And Gibby, as we know, favours old-fashioned codes of conduct.
She sits cross-legged on the sagging mattress, separated from Gibby by nothing more than an expanse of scratched floor and an openable door. But she knows that unless she actually invites him in he’ll go to lunch without her.
‘Please come!’ His voice sounds unfamiliar, pushing through the wood panelling. ‘Otherwise I’ll have to eat my sandwiches with Savage and hear tales of his glory days in the boxing ring. Like being back on my mother’s sofa, without the option of changing channels.’
She picks at the small tufts on her bedspread, piles them into a brown bonfire heap.
Knock, knock. ‘Do you want me to bring you something? Biscuits, crisps — anything laden with saturated fats and artificial colouring?’
She opens her mouth but the air in the room seems so dense and impenetrable that she feels defeated and closes it without speaking.
‘You haven’t been to lunch for days.’ Now Gibby’s voice comes channelled through the keyhole. Reproach, anxiety, loneliness: all three rush across the room, competing for Lace’s attention. She covers her ears — but this seems wrong, as if she’s trying to shut out Gibby. She tries her hands over her eyes, but this doesn’t help either. Her face is burning. She’s longing for fresh air, for a wind straight from the valleys with their icy, veined hearts that no one sees.
‘Lace, are you trying to avoid me?’
Actually, she’s longing for the sight of Gibby’s sweet pale face — but she can’t see how to make it all the way to the door, over what has become a vast stretch of choppy grey water. Could she swim —? But already her lungs are struggling, even as she sits motionless on the bed. It’s been this way for a couple of days. In group sessions or in meetings with Geoffrey, watching BBC or CNN in the games room, walking to the bathroom. She’s able to breathe just enough to keep herself alive.
‘Inertia.’ This is what she’d blurted out to Geoffrey that morning. ‘Inertia’ — as her tongue became heavier and her muscles atrophied. ‘I see,’ nodded Geoffrey — only he couldn’t have, not really. He moved so easily in his chair, tossing a small beanbag in the air; even his lined pleasant face was constantly mobile.
Knock, knock, knock! Time for Gibby’s last shot, flung low and hard under the door with desperation and bravado. ‘Bright’s going to lunch today. He said to tell you.’ His words, propelled by dislike and hope, reach the foot of Lace’s bed.
Her eyes sting. Now she knows how greatly he wants to help her. Invoking the name of the one you mistrust, to save the one you love — this is an old spell, rusty-brown like the hills, risky as a scorpion’s tail.
Knock, knock.
Who’s there?
Con.
Con who?
Concerned Friend, trying to rescue Lace.
But it’s no joke. Any minute now Gibby will depart, dragging his feet, lines of anxiety between his eyes — and Lace will be left alone, to drown.
She scatters a handful of bedspread tufts over the edge to test the waters. Some sink immediately, others float for a second and are then swallowed up by the grey-blue floor. A few remain wedged under her fingernails, hurting in a hot swollen way.
Desperate, she tries one last time. ‘Don’t leave me!’ Or does she actually say, ‘I’ll be fine?’ Prayer or promise, she doesn’t want Gibby to go away with nothing — but it’s such an effort to be heard over the wind and waves that her throat feels as if it’s bleeding inside.
Perhaps Gibby hears, perhaps not. The door creaks briefly, as if he’s leaning on it, and then he simply says, ‘I’ll come back later.’
THE WAY TO MOBILISE reluctant troops is to strategise. Map out a route, follow this up with a no-nonsense attitude, and provide incentives, even rewards. Lace the General lies on her back and makes plans for the near future. When the sun has slid through the trees and appears in the third windowpane, she will move: swing her legs over the edge of the bed, holding tightly to the edge of the mattress. After this she’ll count to twenty, at which point she will stand up and march on, regardless of the unstable state of the floor or the distance to the door.
‘Remember you’re hungry,’ she tells her body. It’s groaning for fuel — but the last time she was in the dining hall, a few days ago, the simple act of chewing had exhausted her.
Her eyes close. She still has some time, uses it to conserve strength. What’s she thinking about? We can’t be sure; her face is impassive and her eyelids are still, wrapped like bandages over her eyes. But her reprieve is short. The sun is arriving, chivvying its way through the leaves. It’s time to stir.
Once she’s out on the landing, she feels a little stronger. It’s not so hard, this walking, this moving forward one step at a time. Running her fingers along the parched wooden banister, she descends steadily. Soon, no doubt, she’ll meet someone who will say something to her, and she’ll manage to answer. No problem! She’s Lace McDonald, someone who has been through rougher patches before.
Viewed from the first-floor landing, the foyer is a mess of people. Admin is circling the outskirts and herding in stragglers. ‘Haven’t any of you heard of straight lines?’ she says tartly.
Dr Mallory is beside the reception desk, speaking intensely into the phone. She’s obviously trying to help but is more of a hindrance, as every time she bends down to look at the computer, her cleavage mesmerises any nearby male into immobility. ‘Yes,’ she says repeatedly. ‘Yes, I have that number, I’ve already told you that. Yes!’
Although Lace treads as quietly as possible down the last flight of stairs, having spotted a clear route to the door (sticking to the wall, squeezing behind the large vase of plastic lilies), Admin’s ears are tuned to their highest frequency. ‘Aha!’ She whips over in one skilled intercepting move. ‘There you are, Grace!’
What was it Lace used to say, back in the times when she was quicker on the draw, less preoccupied with slow limbs and brain, more herself? ‘My name is Lace!’ She remembers it too late. Already Admin is talking, motioning for her to join the non-linear line. ‘Geoffrey thinks it’s a good idea if everyone makes one phone call home. Dr Mallory is setting up a Skype connection. Wouldn’t you like to talk to your family, Grace?’
It’s imperative not to linger, not to atrophy at the foot of the staircase like a decorative urn or a tall floral arrangement. ‘No, thank you.’ With an effort, she steps past Admin. ‘There’s no one I want to call.’
‘But Geoffrey recommends… and Dr Mallory is connecting… why not say a quick hello to England?’
For a second she considers it. The link to familiarity, to light-dark streets, tower blocks, flickering living rooms — but it’s never a good idea to become diverted when you’re on a mission. ‘No,’ she repeats flatly. ‘No.’ She ploughs on, away from her past, ignoring Admin’s exhortations to strengthen family ties.
‘A little insensitive!’ Behind her, Dr Mallory’s hissed reproof cuts across the foyer. ‘Her family are dead!’
‘I’m perfectly aware of Grace’s background.’ Admin’s indignation carries equally clearly. ‘She has an uncle. An odd man, but a blood relative nonetheless. Have you ever known me to forget or confuse the details of a case?’
‘Of course not.’ Hastily, Dr Mallory backs down. ‘Your memory for fine print is phenomenal. My mistake. Savage, please! Get back in front of the desk. There’s no need to stand so close to me.’
The noise fades and Lace pushes on with her journey: through the heavy back door, into the weak warmth of an autumn afternoon, onto the grass. For a second, she closes her eyes as she walks. The air, the sun, the wind: couldn’t these be enough? I’ll ask Gibby t
o call Chummie. That’ll make Gibby happy. It’s something he can do to help. And Chummie won’t be expecting a call but he’ll ask a few well-meaning clumsy questions, and —
‘I missed you at lunch.’
She opens her eyes. He’s there in front of her. So real, so alert and alive and unusual, and so himself that the clouds begin racing overhead and every blade of grass shines. ‘I couldn’t make it to lunch,’ she stammers. ‘I was so tired. But now I’m starving.’
‘Then come to the snack bar,’ says Bright. ‘I’m craving chocolate but I’ve run out of money, so I have to find Admin first.’ Although his smile is rueful it has a secret radiance to it, like sun-dazzle behind cloud. ‘Do you know where she is?’
It’s an ordinary question but right then, in that in-no-way-extraordinary moment, Lace discovers that she’s holding Bright’s hand. Or he’s holding hers. Whichever, they’ve ended up physically connected, standing on the rough grass with an unseen plane droning above them.
‘I wouldn’t advise approaching Admin at the moment.’ Her voice is slow, silty with wonderment. ‘Unless you have a particular desire to phone home.’
‘I’d rather eat glass than phone home. As for desires —’ His hand is still clasped around Lace’s, his pulse beating visibly, steadily, in his wrist.
‘Chocolate? I’m happy to buy you some.’
‘Oh, yes, chocolate.’ He smiles, more directly this time but also gently. ‘I’d forgotten that I wanted that.’
At the snack bar, she drops coins into the cardboard box and selects foil-wrapped food from the basket. Bright watches gravely. ‘A good choice. Never underestimate the instantly uplifting effect of sugar.’
Back outside, he heads towards the large oak tree at the end of the garden. ‘I hid a blanket behind here. Along with Chekhov.’ He wraps the blanket around her shoulders, pulling it up to her ears, smoothing it down over her back. ‘You need this more than me. You look a bit cold.’
But she isn’t cold any more, nor is she suffering from the feverish heat that keeps her awake at night, scorching her spine and drenching her hair. ‘I feel okay now.’ She extracts one arm from the blanket and reaches for the snack-bar biscuits. Thin, papery, they’re undemanding food, disintegrating easily on the tongue without any need for chewing.
There they sit, she and Bright, side by side on the slightly damp grass, shielded from the buildings by a thorny circle of witch hazel. They don’t say much. Bright reads in his usual concentrated way — face absorbed, eyebrows twitching — but after a couple of pages his hand strays off the book and clasps Lace’s ankle. Lightly but firmly anchoring her, stopping her from floating up towards the uncertain sky. They stay that way while the sun slides westwards, windows are closed and the dew gathers.
Lace leans back against the rough tree trunk and lets out her breath. What a relief to exist only in the moment! Her mind stops thinking about exit strategies and how to get through the next hour, and what might be wrong with her. Held in place by Bright, she breathes and rests.
IMAGINE THIS
IMAGINE THIS. YOU’RE SWINGING with both hands from a power line. Not long ago, in fact, cities were crisscrossed with such lines. You couldn’t admire a sunset without peering through dark loops of cable.
Above you the sky was so solidly blue that infinite space seemed impossible. On that day the sky was like a lid on the world — and it wasn’t very high, either. If your hands hadn’t been gripping so tightly to the power line, you could have reached up and grazed it with the tips of your fingers.
Below — much further below than the sky was above — lay a field of grass. Short muddy grass that, at this distance, appeared more grey than green. Bald patches of dirt reminded you of when you’d pulled a handful of hair from your classmate’s scalp, and watched his jeers turn to tears. For a while you’d kept his hair, dead brown matter, in a chocolate box with certain other trophies. It was the only thing you’d ever done that kept you awake at night from guilt.
‘GO, FREAKS!’
This is what you hear, dimly, behind the deafening thud of your heart and the ominous crackling from inside your fists.
‘GET CLOSER TO EACH OTHER, FREAKS! FIGHT!’
Glancing down and to one side, you see rows of staring faces. Freckled cheeks, glinting braces, gapped teeth, jug ears. And — too late! — you recognise them as nothing but your classmates. Monstrous, and monstrously stupid kids, but not ringmasters or masterminders in any way. At this point you realise you’re in enormous danger.
Until now you’ve avoided looking along the wire, that scorching shining power line from which you’re hanging like a carcass in a butcher’s shop. Because just over six feet away is your best friend, and he’s not looking good. His face is deathly white, huge patches of sweat have blossomed in his cotton armpits, and his eyes — kind and brown in better circumstances — are unrecognisable. They’re animal eyes, lamb to the slaughter.
‘I can’t hold on!’ That’s what you hear, and you’ll continue to hear it for the rest of your life.
‘Drop!’ This is what you say, and later, in nightmares, you’ll find yourself saying it over and over again. ‘We have to drop!’ Even in the midst of terror, with the blade of the sky hanging over you, you remember what you’ve been told by your father, an electrical engineer who’s just opened his own lighting company. Yes, you’re cleverer than you look — and far, far cleverer than anyone has yet realised. Your shoulders are burning, piss is running down your legs, but even so you know about voltage, conductors, and the way electrical currents look for the shortest route to earth.
‘We can’t drop. We’ll break our necks.’ Luke is crying, his tears falling into nowhere. ‘The tree!’
He’s right, there is a tree, dangerously close to the power line. One long high branch extends sideways, looking like an outstretched arm, looking like a lifeline.
‘Don’t touch the tree!’ You shout it so loudly that it feels as if your eyeballs will rupture. But Luke is edging away from you, jerking his way hand over hand along the power line.
‘FRE-EE-EAKS!’ The kids below are screaming now, running in circles in animal panic. They may not know what’s going to happen, but they know they’ve gone too far.
‘Don’t touch the tree!’ You scream it again.
Luke reaches out
— and at that moment your sweaty hands lose their grip and you’re falling. You don’t hear Luke’s echoing scream, or the kids crying and caterwauling. The fall is the slowest, quietest time of your life. In fact after that you’ll never know true silence again. After the fall the world reveals itself to you in all its chaos, endlessly clamouring for your eyes and your ears: not something you’ve asked for, or could ever want.
THUD.
You hit the ground hard. So hard. Breath shoots from your lungs, while your friend crashes down like a felled tree not far away. You notice that there are leaves clutched in his blackened hands. His arms are charred as if he’s been laid on a grill. Dried mud spills like loose change from his pockets.
Fortunately, you can’t see his face.
What happens then? (No one has heard this story in such detail before; you’re struggling to describe the strangeness of the experience.)
Well, then you lay on the ground, listening to someone groan. It didn’t sound like a noise you’d ever make, but it probably came from you. Face down on the grass, taking what felt like your very last breath, you inhaled — heat. That’s what it felt like: breathing in heat. When you rolled onto your back, the sun had scorched the sky like toast. You could smell it burning, and an intense blackness showed through the blue.
Your palms were gouged across with deep scarlet grooves, your ears rang for two and a half weeks. Your best friend had fallen beside you, dead. For a long time you were unable to walk straight. Once you’d swayed your way back into everyday life, you were a changed person. You could hear the cries of the inarticulate, see the inanimate world writhing and crawling along its incredibly complex
evolutionary path.
To sum up, you’d become incredible. You’d lost your best friend, but you’d gained the essence of the Incredible Gibby Lux.
AFTER THE STORY IS told, there’s a long collective intake of breath — and then applause all around.
Geoffrey says ‘Bravo!’ and then ‘Bravely done!’ He raises his polystyrene coffee cup in Gibby’s direction.
Where to look? Gibby fixes his eyes on his trainers. There’s a small dark smudge on the outside panel of his left shoe that wasn’t there when he started speaking, presumably caused by being so tightly twined around the leg of his chair. No one else says anything until he looks up, and this is like the opening of starter gates. Queries, comments, sympathy, horror, all rushing on through.
Mirabelle says, ‘So, was it because you couldn’t walk straight for a while that people started calling you Giddy?’
Savage says, ‘I would have beaten the crap out of those kids.’
Raven says, ‘I hear things too! Like, I can’t stop hearing the Windows Start-Up sound in my head, even though it doesn’t exist any more.’
Lace bites her lip and says, ‘Oh Gibby, you’ve never told me the last part. The noise, the chaos. So that’s what happens when you look —?’
Bright says, ‘Holy shit.’
(And Geoffrey adds, to Bright alone, ‘Yes, exactly.’ Bright, shamefaced: ‘I guess I was wrong.’ Geoffrey, pleasantly: ‘Admitting error is the first step to being right.’ Gibby, looking at them both: ‘Wrong about what?’)
‘Gibby, I wish I’d known,’ says Lace quietly. ‘Couldn’t you have told me?’
Suicide Club, The Page 25
