Suicide Club, The

by Quigley, Sarah

  ‘I thought about it.’ He pauses. ‘But I didn’t want you to think I was crazy. I might have ended up — here.’

  Everyone laughs at this, and Lace squeezes his hand so hard it cracks, and Geoffrey takes a long slurp of his coffee before suggesting that a curse can be a blessing. ‘A truism, of course. But, as distressing as your episodes are, perhaps they’re also an intrinsic part of your inventions?’

  Gibby forces himself to think about the swaying, disorienting moments. The world tilting on a different axis, so he has a clear view of the gaps in its surface, and what might be needed to fill those gaps. He gives a small reluctant nod.

  ‘You’re an inventor?’ Mirabelle grows rosy with respect. ‘Like Einstein?’

  Savage rolls his eyes. ‘If you consider the theory of relativity an invention.’

  ‘You, too?’ Raven leans towards Gibby, in a kindred-spiritish way. ‘Sometimes I think up new things in dreams, especially if it’s a full moon.’

  Geoffrey ignores all this. He’s looking at Gibby with a satisfied expression, as if he’s been mushroom hunting and has stumbled over a large patch of chanterelles. ‘Excellent! Now, if we can work out how to get rid of your anticipatory fear, I do believe the episodes may become less severe.’ He slurps from an empty cup, looks momentarily disappointed, and goes to the hotplate for a refill.

  Bright slides across the room, carrying his chair with him. ‘Mind if I park here?’ He’s speaking to both of them, his green eyes flicking between Gibby and Lace. ‘I’m really sorry.’ He ducks his head. Is he apologising for his previously offhand attitude to Gibby, or the fact that Mud-Pie Luke had been electrocuted before Gibby’s eyes?

  But Geoffrey’s back, stepping into the circle with a fresh cup of stale coffee. ‘Before we finish, a quick visit to the Summary Tree.’

  ‘Summery?’ echo the Twins, looking at the window running with rain.

  ‘Tree?’ Bright looks less than enthused. ‘I thought you hated the great outdoors.’

  Again Geoffrey displays selective deafness. Opening a cupboard, he rolls out a tall cardboard cone mounted on a trolley. ‘Damn,’ he mutters, gathering up some trailing twigs. ‘We seem to have lost some branches in transit.’ Turning his back on the balding tree, he hands out messily torn scraps of paper. ‘I’d like you to write one word, or a few, to sum up how you’re feeling.’

  ‘How we’re feeling In General, or how we feel Right Now?’ asks Mirabelle, like a bright A student.

  ‘Don’t analyse!’ Geoffrey sweeps away her question with a grand wave of his arm and a small splash of coffee. ‘Just gut-summarise.’

  ‘Let’s get this over with.’ But clearly Bright is determined to make amends for something: he bends his head and scribbles with alacrity.

  Having already got pleasing results, Geoffrey seems keen to end today’s session. He darts about the room, gathering up the papery confidences, urging the group not to think too much. Soon the Summary Tree is hung about with paper-twists, fastened rather ineptly with wool pulled from Geoffrey’s pocket. ‘Feel free to read! It’s all anonymous! Part of the private cathartic process.’ He leaves the room with his stained jacket flying behind him.

  But how anonymous can it be with only eight people in the room, and each able to be matched to their handwriting? In the two minutes left before lunch, it’s ascertained that:

  Savage is hungry, the Twins are full of empathy (for each other, of course, but presumably today especially for Gibby). The Swede is ‘apprehensive-and-gloomy’, while Raven has written ‘Personally Inspired’.

  Only Lace has written nothing — or at least, has given Geoffrey nothing, cramming her paper and pen into her bag. But Bright hasn’t shied away from summing himself up in bold black capitals. ARROGANT. Although Gibby heartily agrees with this self-appraisal, he isn’t sure why today’s revelations have prompted this response.

  As for Gibby, his twist of paper has been tied at the top of the tree like a Christmas star. It simply reads: Relief.

  THE ASTRONAUT HOUR

  ADMIN, IT SEEMS, HAS been exhausted by the effort of coordinating Skype sessions, monitoring talk times, working out international time zones, and dealing with the aftermath of emotional conversations. She’s nowhere to be seen at breakfast, nor is she at morning break, hovering like a grey moth at Geoffrey’s shoulder, handing him paper clips and sustenance before he knows that he needs them.

  ‘At my suggestion,’ Geoffrey tells Bright, ‘she took the morning off.’ He has a knife in one hand and a thin slice of pumpernickel in the other. ‘Setting up shop in Germany has been far more arduous than we anticipated. The endless red tape! The unexpected inefficiency! One shouldn’t mention the war, of course. But one is tempted.’ He butters his bread so vigorously that dark crumbs shower over his desk.

  ‘Allow me.’ Deftly, Bright catches the fallout in cupped hands and tips it into a pot plant.

  ‘What I wouldn’t give for a good scone.’ Most unusually, Geoffrey sounds peevish. ‘While we’re on the topic of home, was Phone Day a success?’

  ‘It certainly was for me. I got five Chekhov stories read without being interrupted.’

  Geoffrey slops tea from his saucer back into his cup. ‘I take it that means you didn’t contact your father? Or anyone else?’

  ‘There’s definitely a problem when it comes to my father, telephones and myself. But actually I can’t remember the last time I took any kind of phone call, or made one.’

  ‘Hmm!’ Geoffrey brightens at the prospect of dealing with specific rather than widespread avoidance. ‘We’re out of time now, but perhaps we can discuss the problem in our next session?’

  ‘It’s not that interesting. I just prefer to be available on my own terms.’

  ‘Aha!’ Geoffrey’s eyes gleam, but Bright backs away before he can hear exactly how interesting this might be to the Palace staff, whose files labelled ‘O’Connor’ have no doubt grown to bulging proportions.

  Admin is run to ground at last in the Old Building, in a tiny room next to Dr Mallory’s office. Far from being drained by Teutonic inefficiency, as implied by Geoffrey, she’s exclaiming over a catalogue, her grey head bobbing close to Dr Mallory’s blonde one. ‘Ninety seconds in the microwave at 800 watts, and bingo! Instantly warm feet!’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ Dr Mallory flicks the page over and back again. ‘Fleecy slippers aren’t exactly romantic.’

  ‘But icy feet on your honeymoon? Perish the thought!’ Admin giggles almost girlishly. ‘A certain passion killer.’

  It’s unbearable to hear more. Creeeeaak! Bright leans heavily on the half-open door.

  Dr Mallory jumps theatrically in her chair, her breasts executing a correspondingly magnificent double leap. ‘Brian — I mean, Bright! Lovely to see you. That is, you should have knocked.’ As always she’s unable to decide whether to treat him as an undeniably attractive near-contemporary, or like an irrepressible nephew.

  ‘I coughed pretty loudly. Several times. But you were engrossed in discussing a leather lounge chair with the same recline recommended by NASA to their astronauts.’

  ‘Oh, yes!’ Admin clasps her hands over her flat chest. ‘The perfect wedding present for any man with a bad back!’ Having sidelined not only her duties but also her discretion, she beams at Bright. ‘Have you heard? Dr Mallory is engaged!’

  Bright’s stab of purely male jealousy is followed by embarrassment (Dr Mallory is too old to rouse feelings of rivalry!) and then by relief (perhaps the slightly flirtatious awkward moments at the salad bar will cease). Is a kiss on the cheek appropriate? He dithers internally, curses himself, and finally decides on a brisk businesslike approach. ‘Congratulations,’ he says belatedly.

  Dr Mallory almost blushes. ‘Thank you, Brian — Bright.’ She seizes up a pen and clicks it into action as if she’s about to start work.

  ‘Her fiancé called her yesterday during our marathon Family Contact session.’ Admin is transformed by vicarious pleasure, her customary greyness t
inged with a silvery glow. ‘He proposed to her over the phone. Isn’t that ironic?’

  Now Dr Mallory does blush, while Bright frowns in a considering way. ‘I don’t think ironic is the correct word in this instance,’ he muses. ‘It’s more of a coincidence — and probably not even that, considering that most people are on the phone most of the time these days.’ This reminds him of his conversation with Geoffrey, which reminds him why he’s here. ‘I need to talk about money, not marriage,’ he adds almost sternly.

  ‘Is there a problem, dear?’ But Admin looks right through him as if he’s an ice sculpture backed by wedding doves and rose petals, while Dr Mallory is fluttering through Pro-Ideas, pausing at an automatic shoe shiner that boasts eight brushes and 1300 rotations per minute.

  ‘I’ve run out of cash. I don’t even have enough to buy gum.’ He spreads his empty hands. ‘I need to discuss it with you. I’ve already had to borrow from — from a friend.’

  ‘So you need to know where a bank is?’ At the reminder of life’s more mundane side, Admin’s shine starts to fade. ‘There are two money machines in the village, both of which accept international cards.’

  ‘I don’t have cards.’ Bright is beginning to feel impatient. ‘At least, they’re useless because I don’t have any money in my accounts. I’m here to discuss the thorny issue of pay.’

  ‘Pay?’ Admin looks puzzled, and reaches automatically into her cardigan to find her pen. ‘Don’t worry, dear, you don’t owe anything. Your father has taken care of all that.’

  ‘This has nothing to do with my father.’ Bright stares around angrily. For the first time he notices that the room is in fact an old supply cupboard; there are wooden shelves marked with bleach-bottle rings, and an alcove with hooks for brushes and brooms. It reminds him of something — but what? ‘Leave the Reverend out of this,’ he says in a dangerous voice. ‘Do I have to spell it out? I want to know when I’m getting paid for my assistance. You don’t think I’d travel to Bavaria and be surrounded by nut jobs day in day out without financial compensation, do you?’

  In a flash, Dr Mallory abandons the catalogue and reaches for her white coat. ‘You seem to be confused, Brian,’ she says in a crisp voice. ‘No one at The Palace owes you any money.’

  ‘My name is Bright! Don’t call me fucking Brian! Only he calls me Brian.’

  ‘Of course. Sorry.’ She stands, buttoning up her coat. ‘But I reiterate the point. We don’t pay our clients. Wherever did you get that idea?’

  Suddenly the walls are cracking open, exhaling a whiff of their past. Dust, rags, cleaning fluids, old linoleum — and Bright is home again. The need to be safely back in his own one-time supply cupboard hits him so hard that he sags against the door frame. Why the hell did he ever leave his private space, with a door he could lock, and his hundreds of books, and the jigsaw and —

  Jesus, she’s there. Rising in front of him, monstrous, patchy, accusing. ‘The Statue of Liberty!’ Her resentment is so huge it completely obscures Admin’s anxiety and Dr Mallory’s professional neutrality. Her right arm is still incomplete. The torch won’t shine. ‘There’ll be no light till I finish! I have to go home!’ He clutches at the door handle and the door flies towards him, smacking him in the face so he reels back clutching his forehead.

  Dr Mallory is beside him. ‘Breathe deeply, Bright. Take a long deep breath.’

  ‘The Undone Task. I left without finishing.’ There’s a buzzing in his head and blood on his face.

  ‘Is he talking about his book?’ Admin hovers in the background, a dim cloud of grey particles. ‘He must be talking about his book.’

  ‘Not a book. I didn’t finish the Task.’ He tries to focus on Dr Mallory, but she’s so close that her head separates into unconnected parts: chin, upper lip, pixellated eyes, jutting ears. ‘I walked out on something — again! And now it’s followed me here. Don’t you see? I try to escape, I can’t escape.’ He gestures wildly at the Statue of Liberty, at the gaping holes in her greenish flesh.

  ‘Don’t flail.’ Dr Mallory holds his arms firmly by his sides. Words drop out of her pink mouth, falling in jigsaw pieces to the floor. ‘You’re. Doing. Fine. Fear. Of. Finishing. Normal. For. Perfectionists.’

  Bright is pinioned in her embrace — something he’s fantasised about some times, but now finds strangely calming. ‘Normal? You really think I’m normal?’

  Her shoulder is solid, and her words drop one by one like stones into the New York Harbor. ‘Crises of Confidence,’ intones her soothing voice. ‘Expected Part of Therapy.’

  His head jerks up. ‘Therapy?’ The Manhattan skyline he’s put together, the painstaking work of six days and six hundred pieces, splinters apart. He sees the giant bronze head, its crown of spikes, its blind eyeballs — and the truth.

  ‘I’m not a client, am I.’ His voice is as cold as metal. ‘I’m a patient.’

  He senses rather than hears Dr Mallory’s intake of breath. ‘We prefer not to use that term,’ she says levelly. ‘It’s somewhat outmoded, and doesn’t sit well with Palace philosophy.’

  ‘A patient! A patient!’ He wrenches free of her embrace and staggers against the desk. Paperclips fly like helicopters, a mug smashes against a lamp and cold coffee rains onto the mud-brown floor. ‘I’m in a fucking clinic. I’m in a psychiatric institution.’ His shoulders are shaking, his eyes streaming. ‘You got the last laugh! You got the last fucking laugh, you bastard!’

  Admin is speaking urgently to someone on her mobile — ‘Yes, Bright O’Connor. Come at once!’ — while Dr Mallory approaches him with her hand outstretched. ‘Quiet now,’ she urges. ‘Let’s sit down and discuss this.’

  But he can’t sit down until he winds down. Stumbling in circles, swearing, laughing — until suddenly he trips over and skids on his knees. ‘Shit.’ He speaks conversationally to the floor. ‘Bleeding from the head and the lower limbs, without even leaving the cupboard. Who’d believe that life can be so dangerous?’

  He allows Dr Mallory to haul him up and seat him by the desk. ‘A very open sort of clinic,’ she’s assuring him. But he’s too tired to listen so instead he sits and peruses the catalogue (‘More like a rest facility,’ soothes Dr Mallory, while he studies a six-foot-high garden thermometer with an LED display that can be read in the dark).

  Soon the door opens and Geoffrey is in the room, a small bottle in his hand and a frown between his eyes. ‘What’s the problem, Bright? Did your father send you here under false pretexts?’ He sits on the desk, right on top of Garden Accessories.

  ‘Oi, I was readin’ that,’ says Bright in a cockney accent.

  ‘Answer the question.’ Geoffrey leans lower and sideways to enter Bright’s line of vision. ‘Did your father not apprise you of what sort of place The Palace is?’

  The room is very still. The studio audience is waiting for Bright, Life’s Most Promising Young Contestant, to choose the right reply.

  A) If you answer ‘No’, you may get your father into big trouble!

  B) If you answer ‘Yes’, you run the risk of appearing even more of a fuck-up than you already are.

  He clears his throat. ‘The answer is C.’

  ‘Pardon?’ The room edges closer, a narrowing circle of curiosity and concern.

  ‘Sorry, I mean, the answer is: I don’t know.’ He puts up his hands to ward off attention. ‘He might have told me. He probably did. It’s just that I can never hear what he says to me.’

  This halts them in their tracks. Admin speaks first, raising her voice and enunciating exaggeratedly as if speaking to an elderly person with a faulty hearing aid. ‘You can’t hear him?’

  By now he’s exhausted but he senses that, until their tedious questions are answered, they won’t let him leave. He sighs. ‘I stopped hearing my father because all he ever said was how disappointing I am. How weird I am, how useless. How different.’

  ‘What do you think he meant by “different”?’ It’s Dr Mallory’s turn for a question but, because her head is
hidden behind Geoffrey’s shoulder, the girlish voice seems to come directly from Geoffrey.

  Even in the midst of extreme fatigue, Bright finds this funny. He opens his mouth to laugh loudly but quite a different sound emerges. ‘Different from him,’ he bleats. ‘I’m disappointingly different.’ The words, and the way he cries them out, are so embarrassing that he clamps his mouth shut and refuses to say another word.

  He listens to the Palace People whisper about his errors and misconceptions, and the present situation, but he doesn’t speak. Not to confirm or deny, not to defend himself or condemn his father. It is what it is, it’s happened and it’s happening, this is the situation as it’s now known, let’s move on, let’s never forget but try to forgive, let’s go. This might well be an approximation of his thoughts, could we glimpse inside his head — his own version of Beckettian resignation, a stoical despair, a wry hope.

  ‘He thought he was helping with scientific research,’ murmurs Dr Mallory.

  ‘He believed he was part of a Near-Death-Experience Club,’ muses Geoffrey.

  ‘He thought he was on a payroll,’ adds Admin. ‘I’ll help him out with money from Petty Cash, until we can contact —’

  Don’t say his name. Bright presses his knuckles into his eyes, making red dots circle neverendingly into black. Naming him gives him power. I will not yield to his power. I will win.

  It appears he’s said some of this out loud, as Geoffrey is turning towards him. ‘Of course you’ll win! That’s what The Palace is all about.’ He claps Bright so heartily on the back that Bright almost topples off his chair.

  ‘You thought you were here to help us. Now let us help you!’ The top button of Dr Mallory’s coat bursts open with enthusiasm and relief.

  ‘Here to help,’ nod Geoffrey and Admin. ‘Help. Here. To. You. Help.’

  He allows Admin to loan him a bank note, Geoffrey to administer a small dose of valium, and Dr Mallory to give him a pat on the shoulder and an eye-watering view of a blue satin bra. She accompanies him the short distance to the door. ‘So everything’s okay now?’ she says encouragingly.