But Geoffrey is striding away up a short flight of concrete steps. ‘I’ll wait for you on the sunny side,’ he calls, silhouetted against the sky like Sherlock Holmes: cape, stick, rounded hat. ‘Don’t hang around waiting to see what other people write. Spontaneity is of the essence.’
The others hare away along the river path, looking for a piece of slope uncluttered by shrubs or plastic bags. ‘When did it become fashionable to confide in the entire world?’ asks Gibby, turning to Lace. ‘Is the reality-TV era responsible?’ But she’s gone already, flickering like a candle flame in daylight, half-seen and half-invisible.
‘Possibly television.’ It’s Bright who answers him. ‘Or perhaps it was all begun by Andy Warhol. Perhaps I’ll write a truth about fame.’ He looks at Gibby and shrugs, as if wanting the answer to a question he hasn’t asked yet. How strange! In this light his irises look not green, nor dark, but patterned. Gibby peers — can they actually be words streaming across Bright’s eyes? — but Bright, too, is sprinting away, running up the bank on a diagonal, searching downwards for a location in contrast to the others who are peering up.
Gibby is alone beside the concrete steps, hands stuck in his anorak pockets, with the train tracks running silently behind him. ‘Great. Forced to state a significant truth before I’ve even had breakfast.’ He considers telling a lie but, as we know, he finds this far more difficult than telling the truth.
What about:
The World Sucks?
But this is only partially true: only on some days, in some weathers. Today there’s sunshine on the whitened hills, and the knowledge that warm toast and hot coffee are only half an hour away. There’s his notebook waiting in his pocket, and the possibility of helping Admin, who so often helps everyone else —
‘If you’re going to do a job at all, you might as well do it right,’ affirms his father, speaking from the swell of a golden willow-tree on Gibby’s right. ‘You know what makes a champion?’ crackles his mother’s static-ridden voice out of the gravel between the tracks. ‘Playing every match like it’s the last.’
He waits for his shoulders to hunch and his collar to flip up defensively. But instead he feels — can it be true? — a pleasurable anticipation! Soon he’ll see his parents again, standing at the end of the cul de sac, welcoming him home. Living and breathing in all their irritating, unavoidable, yet quite endurable familiarity. And at the sight of them his life swings open wider than it’s ever been. He sees beyond this week, beyond the end of the year, to very many years stretching ahead, when he will live in his own place and see his parents once a fortnight with equilibrium, managing to keep empathy, pity and detachment in a manageable balance, and gaining a reputation for his work that will be more — far more — than fifteen minutes of fame.
But this is another story, one beyond the boundaries of Bavaria and the pages of this book. For now, Gibby simply gains certainty, standing on a path showered with yellow-spotted willow leaves. Of course he’ll write the truth today. He’ll stamp it into the white bank with his even whiter sneakers, and let the world deal with the consequences.
Perhaps because he hasn’t roamed far to find the perfect blank canvas, he’s first finished. Soon he’s standing on the sunny side of the bank, watching Geoffrey wrestle a mangled Mars Bar out of its packet. ‘First melted,’ sighs Geoffrey, ‘then frozen. It’s rarely the right temperature, for confectionary or for people.’
Gibby swivels slowly, taking in the flat fields stained with cowpats. ‘I don’t think I belong here any more.’
Geoffrey doesn’t ask an obvious question such as ‘Here in this rather dull rural landscape?’ He munches on his milk chocolate, regarding Gibby sideways. ‘I agree, Mr Lux,’ he says finally. ‘You’ve changed.’ By the time the last Mars Bar crumbs have been brushed from Geoffrey’s lapels, a couple more Truth-Writers have appeared on the top of the bank, shifting from foot to foot.
‘They’re self-conscious,’ speculates Gibby. ‘A little nervous.’
Geoffrey shakes his head. ‘Merely hungry. Soul-mining makes for empty stomachs and roaring appetites.’
HERE WE ARE BACK on the other side of the bank, straggling along, inspecting the results. If you look over Geoffrey’s tweedy shoulder, you should be able to make out some large letters scraped into the frost.
I LOVE
Is it a complete truth or only part of one? It seems that while Gibby has been lingering on the sunny side with Geoffrey, some animal — perhaps a dog or a fox — has run amok over the bank. Pawprints mingle with footprints, dirt is revealed through frosting: it’s a merciful mess.
‘You love — what?’ Mirabelle stares at Gibby, who gazes studiedly off into the distance.
‘No personal questions!’ says Geoffrey. ‘Let’s move on.’
Next is Bright’s missive, ringed around by light yellow branches and glossy red leaves. Absorb and memorise his truth as quickly as you can! The sun is closer, snapping at your heels.
I’M IN LOVE
‘I didn’t copy.’ Bright addresses Gibby, who manages to meet his gaze. He was right: there really do seem to be sentences running over the surface of Bright’s eyes, like water over stone. ‘I didn’t see yours until I’d finished mine.’
‘Plagiarism is never an issue when it comes to truth,’ says Geoffrey briskly.
They’re rushed on by the sun, which pushes on necks and in the smalls of backs, inducing euphoria and also slight nausea. They come across SUDDENLY I’M HOMESICK and I’M TIRED OF BEING A TWIN, pause beside POSSIBLY GAY, and linger in front of CREATIVITY IS A CURSE. (‘Interesting,’ muses Geoffrey, resisting for a second the hurrying hands of the sun.)
But no one is prepared for the sight at the end of the word-row, just before the bank crumbles, falling away into a hollow crammed with mattresses and rusty oil-drums and old bicycles.
‘Lace?’ Gibby and Bright speak in unison.
There she is, sitting on the railway path, her feet planted in grit. She’s staring at the embankment, which is no longer white but a churning mess of dirt. Her boots are covered in mud and her hands, clasped around her black woollen knees, are streaked with dirt and scratched to the point of bleeding. What’s that she’s muttering, over and over again? It sounds like, ‘I couldn’t tell’.
Someone is kneeling beside her (it could be Bright). He’s putting his arms around her and gathering her head tenderly, close, to his chest. But just as you move aside, trying to see more, you’re forced to shade your eyes. It’s the sun. It’s been moving in such an odd way this morning, rising not steadily but in erratic leaps and bounds. And suddenly it’s jumped forward, ambushing the huddled watchers and the kneeling figure and the bleeding girl, hurling its light so directly at the bank that it obliterates the scene. Far in the distance, a train shrieks. It’s as if the whole world has gone blind.
HOW TO HELP
THINGS ARE BETTER BY evening. For one thing Donovan has arrived, making the Palace seem less shuttered, more open. The arrival of a newcomer is the oldest trick in the film-maker’s book. His shadow splits rooms in half; saloon doors flap behind him. Usually he proceeds to test loyalties, divide couples, perhaps even kill someone.
But Donovan’s presence is authorised, and he brings not foreboding but a holiday air. Dark-haired with gleaming olive skin, he’s sighted several times that day breezing through the Old Building and into the New. In his wake are fresh aftershave, flirtatiousness and fragments of energetic chat.
‘It was starting to feel rather hothouse-ish here.’ Gibby — never one to renege on a promise, even on days of high stress — is hammering at the boiler with a spanner. ‘Does it often get like this?’
Admin steps away from the flying rust. ‘I can’t recall. Every time we move premises, I seem to leave my memories of the previous place behind.’
‘Self-administered brainwashing to ensure patient confidentiality? Is “annual amnesia” in your job description?’
But Admin, like so many people, has no sense of h
umour when it comes to her vocation. ‘No, dear, the main requirement is a desire to help others.’ She looks a little prim. ‘Helpfulness is the most rewarding human instinct.’
More like a curse. Gibby straightens up and hears his back crack. Thrust on one at birth like bad circulation or a clubfoot. He hears the building start to roar into tepid life above him. ‘Now I really must get on,’ he says, sounding like a harried professional plumber.
‘Yes, of course, we’ve kept you too long.’ Admin follows him up the cellar steps at a respectful distance.
In the foyer Dr Mallory is reclining against a sputtering radiator, watching Donovan rummage in a large trunk. ‘The hero of the hour!’ she says brightly.
‘What’s he done?’ Gibby stares. Even Donovan’s white-linen buttocks seem to radiate a positive attitude.
‘Not him, you!’ Dr Mallory pats the radiator beside her curved hip in an almost inviting manner. ‘Things are warming up already.’
‘Nothing a tradesperson couldn’t do,’ mutters Gibby. Being praised for manly accomplishments in front of Dr Mallory’s fiancé makes him feel uneasy.
‘Found it!’ Donovan rears back from the trunk, his teeth flashing, brandishing a knife.
‘Arrgghh!’ Gibby leaps backwards (it’s been a fraught day) and ricochets off Dr Mallory’s chest.
‘Donovan, that should be in a protective cover,’ snaps Dr Mallory, effecting one of her swift changes from woman to gorgon. ‘Take it to the kitchen at once.’
Donovan appears admirably uncowed. Running his thumb professionally across the blade, he smiles beatifically at both his fiancée and Gibby. ‘The cooking demonstration will start at seven!’
‘Cooking?’ Gibby’s heart is still thumping in his chest. ‘I’ll be there,’ he says a little faintly. And at last he can take off up the stairs.
First landing, second landing — he’s nearly there. But everybody seems to want a little piece of Lux today: now Bright is standing in front of him, blocking the way to his room.
‘You’re here at last!’ Bright sounds almost aggrieved. ‘I’ve been waiting almost half an hour.’
‘Your choice,’ mutters Gibby. At least, he’s about to say this, but considering what he saw on the railway path this morning he’s less inclined to be anti-Bright. In fact, remembering the shock in Bright’s eyes and his white face as he moved quickly towards Lace — well, perhaps he’ll have to learn to be friendlier. ‘What is it?’ he sighs, skirting around Bright to get at least a little closer to his own bedroom door.
Bright spreads his hands. ‘It’s her.’ As he says this he becomes grey. Grey as the linoleum, grey as the thin steel bars covering the window behind him. ‘She told me what happened this morning. Every time she started to write on the bank, she began looking at the words in her head and they —’
‘Disappeared? Yes, she told me that.’ There’s a hint of competitiveness in Gibby’s voice, a touch of impatience. Don’t act as if you know more than I do; I knew her first.
‘Not just that.’ Bright looks helpless, almost frightened. ‘She said the words flared.’
‘Flared?’ Gibby flattens his hands against the door behind him.
‘Went up in flames.’ There’s a visible lump in Bright’s throat. ‘I told her it was probably nothing more than a migraine. When your vision sort of burns away in the middle.’
Gibby swallows. ‘It’s — possible.’ Is it good to reassure someone, if the reassurance verges on falsehood? Before fixing the boiler he’d spent half an hour with Lace, assuring her how difficult the Truth Bank task had been. ‘A nearly impossible exercise,’ he’d said, watching Lace scrub the mud from under her fingernails. ‘Especially on an empty stomach. And in those freezing temperatures. Everyone knows that hunger and cold slow down the brain.’
‘Cold? Hunger? That might have been it.’ Lace had looked at him the way Bright’s looking at him now. The way Gibby’s father looks, on the odd occasion that Mrs Lux makes a joke as she used to before her life shrank to a velour sofa and an empty glass. The way a dog stares at its bowl after the food has gone, for minutes on end. The hope-against-hope look, an ‘Everything’s-going-to-be-all-right’ look — with an unspoken question mark that makes Gibby’s heart fail.
‘Where is she now?’ he asks abruptly.
‘Sleeping.’ Bright bends double, as if in pain. ‘I love her,’ he says in a choked voice. ‘I love her.’
‘I know.’ Gibby manages to reach out, almost touching the ends of the fibres of Bright’s mohair jumper. He stands and stares at the tips of Bright’s hair, at the way they spike the air. He wants to say So do I but this isn’t fair. Instead he forces himself to tell another truth. ‘She loves you too.’
The mohair crackles at his fingertips, like a tiny bunch of electric shocks.
Bright straightens up. Instead of looking happy that Lace, the unattainable, has fallen in love with him, he looks worse than ever. The whites of his eyes are marked all over with tiny scarlet lines. ‘She doesn’t suffer from migraines, does she.’ He speaks almost in a groan. ‘She never has.’
Gibby watches the redness spill out of his eyes and over his lower lids, blotching his cheeks. So Geoffrey was right, and so was I. Telling the truth can be the most difficult thing in the world.
‘No.’ He almost whispers it. ‘No migraines.’
‘What the hell do we do? Bright looks wildly around. ‘Should we ring her uncle?’
For a brief moment Gibby glimpses Chummie at the end of the corridor, round-shouldered, chewing on a frayed plastic pen, dandruff on his lapels. ‘No,’ he says heavily. ‘He’ll be no help at all.’
‘And there’s no one else?’
‘Just us. Maybe she’d be better off in England again, in familiar surroundings? Let’s get her home and take it from there.’ One step at a time, his father nods. That’s the ticket. No doubt he’s talking about expanding markets, merging companies and moving up the career ladder; nonetheless, his approval makes Gibby feel more certain.
Bright squares his shoulders. ‘We’ll talk to Geoffrey, then. First thing tomorrow.’
Suddenly Gibby’s eyes are smarting with relief that at last it’s no longer just him. It’s us, it’s we, it’s Bright and Gibby together. ‘Tomorrow morning, yes. Geoffrey will help.’
‘Well, I should go. My writing —’ Bright begins drifting away down the corridor, still half-turning towards Gibby as if drawn by a magnet too strong to resist. ‘See you later!’ Already his voice is faint, barriered off, like something living shut in a jar with the lid screwed on tightly.
Back in Gibby’s room, which is almost as bare as the day he arrived, his work is also waiting. Here are the diagrams you started for this — and the equations that might solve the acoustic problems for that —
‘Later,’ he promises, shutting the notebooks, patting them, then leaving them. He lies on the bed and stares at the familiar ceiling: the flyspecks shaped like the Ace of Spades, the splayed pink light shade, and the exposed bulb with its central brown bruise.
THE PEOPLE RESTORER.
He draws it up out of the ground of his mind. It’s not made of glass, or plastic, or any type of resin. It’s soft and pliable, able to accommodate the quiet breathing of the person sheltering inside. And it’s opaque, so an onlooker will see only the dusky-beige walls pulsing like lungs. No one knows what the interior is like, except Gibby, its inventor, and the person inside: the fragile person, the skeletal and weak person, the oppressed or the splintered, someone who has been through a war or seen something so terrible they’re afraid to close their eyes at night for fear it will replay in their heads.
What about the entrance? The door can be pushed aside like a curtain: no hinges, handle, or anything metallic that might be a reminder of weapons or traffic accidents. When the door is open, the light that briefly slants across the floor is more intense than sunlight but gentler than candlelight. It won’t strain the eyeballs or irritate the memory. When you’re in the Restorer, opening yo
ur eyes and closing them feels like the same thing. It’s suspension without suspense, it’s falling without the moment of impact. Best of all, when the door is closed no one can get to you. Take your time! Here, in the People Restorer, you’re safe. You can stay as long as you want to, and when you’re ready to step out you can look without wincing, touch without flinching. You’re whole again.
The People Restorer. Gibby breathes quietly, in and out, imagining. It would be the finest achievement of a famous man, Dr Gibby Lux, inventor, scholar, philanthropist. But right now he’s only twenty years old, staring at the ceiling, wanting to keep someone safe.
PREPARING FOR WHAT
THE SPACE BETWEEN THE buildings is awash with darkness. Deep, peaceful, inky black. Lace wades through it without making a sound. Halfway across she stops and looks up into a vault of blackness. After a while she can make out a few silver stars, barely there, like glimpses of other personalities.
She feels much better. All afternoon she’s been so deep in sleep that what happened this morning seems quite unreal. ‘Tomorrow,’ Geoffrey had said gently, extracting a promise, reminding her that change lies in wait. But at this moment, after sleep, she doesn’t mind. She’s caught in the web of the present; it holds her close, stays with her at every step.
Out of the dark, into a milky white world. She glides down a corridor and through some swing doors onto a chequered plain of tiles stretching all the way to stainless steel bench tops. She’s only ever seen the kitchen through the serving hatch: a place of chaos, clashing noise and stress. Now it’s empty, clean and orderly. Utensils are hanging in rows, pans are stacked, cloths are folded; it looks like an operating theatre between disasters.
I’ve decided on a different philosophy. (This is what she’ll say to Geoffrey, as he avoids looking at her to put her at ease, clicking his pen and dusting Pookie-hairs from the arms of his chair.) I’ve decided to live in the present; too much looking back is making me ill. (This is what she’ll say, before he can open his mouth and suggest that she’s transferred to a less open, more protective environment.)
Suicide Club, The Page 31
