Suicide Club, The

by Quigley, Sarah

  ‘This is tremendous!’ Geoffrey claps him on the back and beams.

  ‘It’s encouraging.’ Bright shuffles. ‘And a help to get started again.’

  ‘It’s a well-deserved coup. The book is a triumph.’ Geoffrey glances at the Paper Doll for corroboration of the fact.

  ‘You’ve read his book?’ She looks both blank and surprised. ‘That’s commendably thorough research.’

  ‘Not for research, for interest!’ Geoffrey throws out his arms. ‘For pleasure! For an education in the vastly different workings of human minds.’

  ‘You got all that from —? Thank you!’ Bright shuffles again.

  ‘Not to mention,’ adds Geoffrey, ‘the acuity of the language, and the pure entertainment of it. So sharp, so funny!’

  ‘Funny?’ echoes the Paper Doll. ‘So it’s a comedy, then?’

  ‘You haven’t read Bright’s novel?’ Geoffrey raises puzzled eyebrows. ‘How odd! I’d gloat over every page, if it were written by my son.’

  ‘Stepson,’ corrects the Paper Doll sharply.

  ‘Of course.’ Geoffrey falls silent, watching her reapply a thick pink mouth. He waits until she’s finished before continuing. ‘I’m afraid,’ he says smoothly, ‘we can’t accommodate you here. There’s a reasonable inn on the other side of the village. If you intend coming back tomorrow, I’ll need to discuss it with Bright first.’

  ‘God, no, I’m not coming back!’ She drops her lipstick with a horrified clatter. ‘I’m booked into The Retreat in Munich.’

  ‘Of course you are.’ Geoffrey picks up the lipstick, deposits it neatly in her open bag and turns to Bright. ‘I’m proud of you,’ he says softly, and walks away without another word.

  The Paper Doll is flushing behind her perfectly applied apricot cheeks. ‘What a strange person. He looked all right at first, but then I saw the stains all over his lapels. And was that dog hair on his trousers?’

  ‘He has his mind on more important things than clothes. Would you like to leave now?’

  They parade back through the shadowy garden. The Swede and Raven are still in a dark-haired huddle, Lace is still stooping under the tree — but the Paper Doll has no time to waste on further inspections. ‘I’ve booked a hot-stone massage. And the taxi’s been waiting forever.’

  When she air-kisses him goodbye, he notices a blob of mascara on her left lower lashes, and a small smear of makeup on her neck. ‘When you talk to my father,’ he says, ‘thank him for the money. Tell him I’ll pay it back as soon as my foreign royalties come through.’

  ‘He’ll be relieved to hear you’ve finally achieved something. He’s always saying if you’d just buckle down to it, you could make a decent living.’ She settles into the back seat, pulling her skirt carefully up to just above her knees.

  Bright watches the taxi out of sight, just as he did with Savage. ‘She’s just another person,’ he says out loud. It sounds believable. ‘And the Reverend is just another person. They happen to be part of my life. But I don’t have to like them.’

  As he stands alone on the empty street (the taxi has gone, the wind has dropped, the only sound is the long low call of cattle) phrases start pouring into his head like water. All those words, lurking for so long behind the darkness, breaking through. God, how he’s missed it! He longs to begin. But first he has something else to do, something he’s been looking forward to since he woke up that morning, watching the sun creep across the now-familiar streaked walls.

  She’s still in the garden, leaning against the tree as if she’s waiting for him. ‘Was that your stepmother?’ She looks at him anxiously. ‘Did you know she was coming?’

  ‘No warning.’ He shakes his head. ‘Birds didn’t stop singing, dogs didn’t bay, buildings didn’t shift on their foundations, mirrors didn’t crack. Strange, there’s usually some hint that monsters are approaching.’

  ‘How do you always manage to laugh off your worries?’ Her lips are blue with cold.

  ‘I don’t, not always. Sometimes I jump off buildings.’

  ‘But you’re okay, right?’

  ‘I am.’ He reaches out and touches her chilly cheek, smoothes her cold hair. ‘Well, I am now that I’m with you.’ They stand close, hip to hip, equal height, eyes on the same level.

  Lace looks down, her eyelids traced with violet. She opens her rustling hands to reveal the bare leaves, delicate skeletal fibre, no flesh. ‘I’ve been collecting these. Are they beautiful or sinister?’ She lets them fall in a transparent shower. ‘I can’t decide.’

  Bright looks at her hands, also thin and veined. ‘Definitely beautiful. And I’ve brought you something else you might like.’ In order to take off the backpack he has to move back slightly, though even a step away from her feels too far. ‘Sorry about the wrapping.’ He hands her the stained grey canvas bag.

  ‘A present?’ Her face flushes slightly.

  Carefully, she undoes the zip and peels the tape off the paper wrapping that’s inside. Flowers burst out as if from a magician’s hat. Waxy white and deep pink petals, vibrant green leaves, orange-gold pollen-laden stamen.

  ‘They’re perfect!’ Even as she holds them in both arms, the lilies are growing. They blossom as Bright watches. How did one small backpack hold so much beauty? Their fragrance spreads to fill the garden, mingles with the smoke from the chimneys, infuses the fading sky with intense colour.

  They’re as perfect as you are. This is what he wants to say but he has such a lump in his throat that he can’t speak. She stands in front of him, her hands full and her eyes glowing. He can hardly see through the blur. And when they kiss, the lilies grow as tall as trees, hiding them from the world. Standing close, camouflaged by colour, safe at last.

  TRUTHS ON BANKS

  WHAT HAS HAPPENED TO Bavaria? Fly with the crows, across the sky on whirring wings, and you’re looking down on a changed landscape. The mouldering greens and browns of a drab autumn have been transformed overnight. Everything is white.

  ‘Not snow, merely a hard frost!’ Geoffrey stands in the dining-hall doorway, beaming. ‘Unexpectedly early in the year, but perfect for morning exercise.’

  ‘You don’t expect us to go running, do you?’ In spite of Gibby’s sporty-looking trainers, he has no desire to participate in a cross-country event, especially before breakfast.

  ‘It won’t take long! It’ll be fun.’ Geoffrey hands a large cardboard box to Gibby. ‘Winter woollies! Take what you need and pass them on.’

  ‘Other people’s hats?’ Gibby peers in at a mass of green knitted stripes and red pom-poms. There’s a reek of mothballs. ‘Is it hygienic?’

  But Geoffrey is too busy reeling in the others to answer. ‘Come, Raven. Come, Mirabelle!’ he cries, darting from table to table.

  Gibby hurries outside to intercept Lace as she crosses the crunchy white grass. ‘Don’t go in there. He’s like a mad Santa Claus, calling in the reindeer. And he wants to dress us up as elves.’

  ‘Isn’t he supposed to hate the great outdoors?’ Lace stops, her black coat swirling around her ankles. ‘I’m not dressed for running.’

  The New Building door opens with a swoosh and Geoffrey whirls out into the garden. ‘Lace McDonald! Zeere you are. Peer-fect!’ His accent has become alarmingly Russian. ‘I think our band is complete, apart from our already departed Savage — oh, and Mr O’Connor. Has anyone seen Mr O’Connor this morning?’

  Please don’t say yes. Gibby stares fixedly down at his round white toes on the frosted grass.

  ‘No.’ Lace choruses along with the others. No, she hasn’t seen Bright since yesterday evening.

  He unclenches his hands, lets out his breath, despises himself. Just a couple more days and I’ll let her go. Just a little longer of the way it used to be, Lace and Gibby, the twosome, the team, and then I’ll step aside. He doesn’t know if he can trust his promise, but he hopes so. The way Lace looks when Bright’s around: well, who wouldn’t wish for that sort of happiness for their best friend?

 
When he looks up he sees Geoffrey is watching him intently. He flushes but the only thing that Geoffrey says is, ‘Hurry along! It’s important we get there before the sun is too high.’

  They single-file into the foyer, where they find Bright looking almost cowered, cornered by Admin and her clipboard. ‘No,’ he’s repeating, ‘no, I don’t know anything about radiators! I only know they can be very useful when it’s this bloody cold.’

  ‘A brisk walk, Mr O’Connor!’ Geoffrey sweeps the group along before him. ‘Nothing gets one warmer faster. Would you like to borrow a hat?’

  Stepping past Admin, Bright looks at the depleted wool mound in the box. ‘Definitely not. How do you know where those have been?’

  ‘I had no idea it would get cold so early in the year.’ Admin sounds almost accusing. ‘And Donovan is arriving tonight. From Spain.’

  ‘Dr Mallory’s fiancé?’ Bright looks up, holding a thin holed scarf between his finger and thumb. ‘I thought The Palace didn’t allow outside visitors, particularly those with carnal intentions.’

  ‘He’s arriving from Spain.’ Admin is running determinedly on her own mental track. ‘The South of Spain, to boot.’

  ‘Italy is the boot, not Spain. Everyone knows When Italy kicked Sicily into the sea.’ In recent days Rosalind has become not only less dependent on her twin but alarmingly argumentative.

  ‘A figure of speech, dear. Try to keep up.’ Admin raps on the nearest radiator with her pen. ‘Stone cold. Can you imagine how arctic this place will seem to a distinguished gentleman from southern climes?’

  ‘Distinguished gentlemen are vastly more sensitive to cold than hoi polloi,’ agrees Bright. ‘The question begging to be asked, though, is whether anyone has ever met a gentleman from Spain?’

  Lace laughs, Raven laughs, the Swede laughs, even the Twins laugh, ensuring they do so out of unison. Hee, ha ha, hee hee, ha. The sounds ricochet off the pillars and bounce off Admin’s back as she bends over a rusty radiator dial.

  Only Gibby doesn’t laugh. For a moment he’s back home — oh god! — his mother, the pity, the gut-wrenching responsibility. Doors and windows slam around him like starter guns, then the air begins to boom, slapping his ears, boxing him in. Alarmed, he quickly reaches to his pocket, feels the rectangular shape of his notebook there — and the world gives a sigh, and falls quiet. ‘I can have a look at the boiler,’ he offers, wiping his forehead. ‘I know a bit about them.’

  ‘Oh, thank you! Thank you so much, Gibby Lux!’ Admin is almost radiant with relief.

  ‘Happy to help.’ He is, and he’s also relieved. He’s no longer Atlas, staggering under an entire globe; he’s just another person, sometimes helpful, sometimes not, and choosing when to be so.

  ‘Mr Lux can lend a hand when we’re back from our excursion.’ Geoffrey darts one of his multi-blended looks at Gibby as if to say: That’s very nice of you, and don’t think I haven’t noticed the positive change in you, but you’re not escaping that easily! ‘Here,’ he says kindly to Admin, handing her the woollies box. ‘Put one of these on. I’m sure things will pick up.’ And with this vague sentiment he strides to the front door. ‘Come along!’ he cries, waving his cane, while Pookie materialises at his side clad in a small knitted rug.

  This morning Mirabelle seems to be particularly impressed by kindness. No sooner are they out the gate than she attaches herself to Gibby, murmuring, ‘Helpfulness is so underrated in a man,’ while Rosalind, perhaps by default, sticks close to Bright’s side. As so often happens, those with dark hair and dark natures walk at the rear — which means Lace is out in the front, blazing the trail. The irony is, today she doesn’t seem to be capable of blazing, not in any way at all. With her black coat pulled around her, a black polo-neck turned up over her chin and sleeves pulled down over her hands, she’s turned into a shadow, so slim in the bright morning light that she might easily slip through the dazzle and disappear.

  We have to do something! Long attuned, newly aware, Gibby looks sharply at Bright. ‘Shall we —?’

  ‘Of course.’ Bright understands instantly. He increases his speed, Gibby keeps pace, and they power ahead of the others to flank Lace like two armoured cars.

  She looks left and right, surprised and then relieved. ‘Thank goodness. My two best —’

  But it’s impossible to hear what she considers them to be, the blond guardian and the red-haired angel, because a train is roaring past, blasting its horn that trails into a long fading toot. For Geoffrey, like the Pied Piper, has led them on a fine and fast dance; they’ve passed right through the gritty streets, and are on a narrow path running beside the railway tracks.

  With the sudden flare of noise, Bright has almost — but not quite — taken hold of Lace’s hand. ‘Are you sure this is safe?’ he calls out to Geoffrey, sounding ever so slightly frightened.

  Geoffrey shouts confidently back. ‘At this time of morning, perfectly. The high-speed trains don’t run this early in the day.’

  ‘What if we have vertigo?’ Rosalind’s voice is combative. ‘Or any other type of middle-ear imbalance that might make us topple sideways onto the tracks?’

  ‘Then I trust you’ll have the good sense to tell me now.’ Geoffrey stops short, and Pookie gives a sharp squeal. ‘I’m sorry, Pooks. Your tail is so thin, it’s not immediately visible.’

  As Rosalind argues that her sense of balance is perfect and her concern is for others, Geoffrey holds up an imperious moth-holed hand. ‘That’s not the reason I stopped! Pardon me, Rosalind, but this morning we must concentrate on more important things than your new-found desire to debate every issue you come across.’ He pauses, head tilted towards the chilly blue sky. With plumes of breath billowing from his nostrils, his profile looks almost noble.

  ‘At least he didn’t make us run here,’ mutters Gibby. ‘But do you think this is going to be some sort of army exercise? An obstacle course, or one of those ghastly team-building exercises?’

  Geoffrey lowers his chin and gestures grandly at the frosted mound of earth beside him. ‘The Bank of Truth,’ he announces, ‘awaits you.’

  ‘To juxtapose the words “bank” and “truth” —’ Bright is jogging on the spot to keep warm — ‘is surely oxymoronic. Did you ever meet a banker who was interested in honesty?’

  In spite of Geoffrey’s speed at getting them here, the sun has beaten them. It leaps over the top of the embankment, striking at Lace’s face. She closes her eyes, looking not blinded but blissful. Gibby stares. Has she — have she and Bright already —?

  Don’t do this, he tells himself fiercely. Don’t let ego get in the way of what’s important. When he looks again at the wan rapture of her face, he realises: her expression is that of a martyr on a cross. She is surrendering.

  ‘No!’ Panicked, he pinches her arm hard enough to reach flesh through several layers of wool. ‘Don’t!’

  ‘Ouch, what was that for?’ Her eyes spring open, and her expression changes to indignant, which at least is an active emotion. ‘Don’t do what? What’s the matter —?’

  I would wrap you up and keep you from harm. Out loud Gibby is apologising, but his mind continues with its own tune of longing and despair. I would wrap you in a blanket of grass, trap the sun to warm you and keep out the wind, restore your heart to a steady beat, let you lie low and stay out of harm’s way, allow your veins to run green and vital again —

  — and now he realises another alarming thing, which interrupts his running thoughts altogether.

  ‘You know something, Lace? I haven’t seen you cry for days.’

  ‘That’s because I haven’t.’ Her eyes are screwed up against the glare: dry, desert-eyes. Even the wind searing off the tracks doesn’t raise a tear. ‘That’s one good thing, at least.’

  Gibby steps closer. In the cold yellow light he sees small cracks around her nose and mouth. Her skin is splitting like parched earth, her eyes are burning inwardly. ‘You always cry,’ he says a little wildly. ‘It’s one of your things. Water. S
alt. Moisture. Release. They’re all important, you know.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ Bright is circling like a hawk in ever-decreasing circles, homing in on their conversation.

  ‘Gibby seems to think I should be crying more,’ says Lace, ‘although when I actually do, he worries excessively.’ Her words are sharp, whiplash-words, but the look she gives Gibby is at odds with her voice. It’s full of gratitude. And four years of friendship appear between them, curving like a bridge over the white treacherous ground.

  ‘So, people, are we all clear?’ This is Geoffrey, resorting to the tricks of a schoolteacher, knowing full well that nothing is clear to those who have been talking instead of listening.

  ‘Erm, not exactly. Could you —?’ But suddenly Gibby’s eyes are blurred and his nose is full of snot, so it’s Bright who asks for the instructions to be repeated.

  ‘I was telling the more attentive members of the group to claim a piece of ground on the shady side of the bank.’ Geoffrey stamps his feet like an impatient horse; all around him the others are primed and raring to go. ‘Use a stick, use your feet or your hands. Write a truth. Shout it to the world!’

  ‘A truth?’ Gibby trumpets into his sleeve. ‘How long should it be?’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t recommend a sonnet,’ replies Geoffrey slightly sarkily. ‘The frost will soon melt, and the rest of us will be wanting our breakfast.’

  ‘Couldn’t we have stayed inside and used the Summary Tree?’ Bright blows on his reddened hands.

  ‘I need hardly point out to a writer,’ says Geoffrey, who already appears to be regretting the excursion, ‘that a Truth is very different from a Summary. Now go!’ He flings out an arm, almost hitting Raven on the nose. ‘Be gone! Write out a White-Out Truth. Emblazon your heart upon the icy earth!’

  Bright looks amused, Lace looks distant and Gibby’s stomach clenches as he looks at the uninformative bank with its chilly coating and patches of dark earth. ‘What if we don’t want to tell a truth?’