When he reaches his room, he doesn’t turn on the light. The moonlight is enough. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he rolls up his sleeves and looks at the patterns on his wrists. A myriad of criss-cross scars, shiny white ridges on pale skin.
Should I?
Hanging on the back of his door is his toilet bag, and inside the bag, hidden in the lining, is a razor blade. He sits there for a while longer, presses his damaged wrists against his face. It’s going to be all right. Lace has someone to love her. Gibby has work to do, and years in which to do it. These things are sufficient to get him through the moment.
He undresses, puts on his pyjamas, and gets into bed. Turning on his side, he pulls the sheet up over his shoulder. The moonlight lies beside him on the pillow. Rough cotton, flat mattress, the possibility of dreams. Enough.
AWAY FROM THE EDGE
WHEN SHE OPENS HER eyes she’s in a different city. Low solid buildings are ranged around her. It’s Sunday morning. The streets are empty, bathed in sunlight. If she looks over the rooftops she’ll see space. Soaring, limitless, cup-runneth-over space.
Remember the city where we first met Lace? This one is nothing like it. Here there are no splintering glass walls, no elevators falling like guillotines, no ego-driven high-rises or malls pumping out loud music and desperation.
‘Home?’ She tests the word softly, reaches out for the nearest building and touches its blue-toned face. ‘Home.’ Carefully, to avoid any toppling, she removes the top storey and opens the cover.
tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther… And one fine morning —
‘So we beat on,’ murmurs a familiar voice behind her, ‘boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.’
She doesn’t turn around, closes her eyes against the light, the sudden delight. ‘Do you know the end of The Great Gatsby by heart?’
‘The last page of a book always has the greatest impact on me, because that’s where I begin.’
She opens one eye and looks at the thin wiry arm close to her face. The freckles are scattered so thickly there’s only the occasional glimpse of pale skin. ‘Reading the last page first! Isn’t that forbidden?’
‘It means I can relax. Surprise endings aren’t as bad if you’re prepared for them.’
‘Does that apply to real life?’ She strokes his hand: long fingers, bitten nails, callus on the middle finger from holding a pen.
‘Not at all, that’s why I live in such a state of high agitation. Real life’s a bastard. You never know what’s going to happen on the next page. Considering we’re always on the edge of a precipice, I’m surprised the whole world isn’t raving mad.’
Lace closes the book and trails her hand off the mattress, strokes the floorboards. ‘Why did we sleep down here?’
‘The bed’s too narrow. I didn’t want you falling out, or squished against the wall. I wanted to keep you safe.’
Safe. First Gibby, now Bright. She tries on the word for size. Feeling Bright’s feet moving against hers under the sheet, sensing his body at her back — yes, safe is definitely possible.
‘If we’re asking “why” questions —’ Bright’s arm is gently extracted from under her neck — ‘why haven’t you looked at me yet?’
‘Delayed gratification. The opposite to your reading techniques. I’ve been saving you till last.’ Now, finally, she allows herself to roll over. He’s raised on one elbow, looking down at her — and it’s the best kind of fall, her body loosening, limbs relaxing, mind letting go at last.
He’s half-smiling, his left cheekbone higher than his right. The skin around his eyes is stretched. Is he tired, or happy?
‘I’m both,’ he tells her. ‘I haven’t slept. I didn’t want to waste being with you. Not a single moment.’
‘Funny, because it was only after we — afterwards, that I could fall asleep. Properly asleep. At last.’ The night hours are folded quietly inside her like dark wings. When she closes her eyes she hears again the soft closing of the door. Then had come the laying down between the quiet stacks of books, fully clothed, shivering, her face against Bright’s chest, his arms holding her close but not too tightly. The thawing of black ice in her head, the slow return of blood into her hands and feet, the almost painful throbbing, the gradual undressing, the kissing, the touching. ‘It was like nothing I’ve ever known before,’ she says, laying her head once more against his chest.
‘It was new to me,’ agrees Bright, smoothing her hair back from her face.
It’s still early. The shadows are pulling slowly out of the corners of the room. She lies still, listening to his heartbeat, while he strokes her all over: her spine, shoulders, breasts. ‘I never liked the word succumbing,’ she says. ‘But that’s what I’m doing.’
‘When it’s mutual,’ he says quietly, ‘it’s a different thing.’
Remember that fairytale in which the fire princess steps from the glowing embers and into the rain-drenched room, simply to be with the water prince? Here it is happening in real life. Lace is meeting Bright halfway, and vice versa — only this time it’s not in the blind midnight hours but under the clear gaze of morning. ‘Is this okay?’ murmurs Bright. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Very okay.’ She pulls the sheet over their heads. It covers their nakedness with a rough but soft touch, hiding them from the world. Lace may or may not be lying under Bright, feeling his ribs against hers, arching her back in a slow luxurious way. Bright may or may not be whispering to her, pressing close against her with a tender but insistent force. A succumbing? Certainly it’s that — but for their eyes only. The book-buildings turn away, the walls maintain a respectful distance, the drowsy shadows keep their eyes half-closed for just a little longer.
AFTERWARDS, AS LACE LIES facing him, she touches his face. Her fingers are exactly the same temperature as his cheek: the perfect temperature, neither burning hot nor numb with cold. And her feet feel the same way. As she stretches her legs and entwines them with Bright’s, she realises that her whole body is warmed all the way through, free of fevers or chills. It feels — it feels cured.
‘It’s hard to explain,’ she says, ‘but being with you makes me feel different. Do you think it’s possible —?’
He covers her mouth with his hand. ‘Yes, of course. Anything’s possible. You just need to believe in it.’
‘That’s not Fitzgerald.’ She speaks into his palm, then kisses it.
‘No, nor a last page. Think of it as a beginning.’
She wants to. She will. Can it be true that loneliness is nothing but a state of mind?
Somewhere down the corridor a door slams; the floor shudders, the shudder works into her spine, merges with her blood. The whole world is gathered here, all energy concentrated in this bed, this body.
‘Do you want to come to breakfast?’ Bright’s red hair is slightly quieter this morning: no longer ablaze, more a steady russet colour. And perhaps Lace has also lost a little of her sparkle? It would be unlikely, after the past weeks, that she looks at her Lace-ish best. There are dark hollows under her eyes. Her cheeks are concave, as is her stomach; her thighs are thin, her fingers like sticks. And, after last night, there’s probably debris in her hair from the dirty floor of the refrigerator room, where she’d lain in a desperate bid to stop her veins, spleen, stomach, heart from bursting into flames.
But the way Bright looks at her — oh! it’s as if he’s seeing everything beautiful. Curved marble statues, soaring cathedral arches, a patchwork landscape touched with the brilliant longed-for green of spring. It makes her feel almost shy. ‘I think I’ll stay here,’ she says. ‘I need some time to — to relish all this. I’ll meet Geoffrey a little later.’
‘Yes, about that…’ Bright takes hold of her hand. ‘Gibby and I thought we might come with you.’
Her stomach flips. ‘He’s going to send me away, isn’t he.’ She knows it, but nonetheless her brain shies away from the moment when she’ll hear Geoffrey say that she’s not gettin
g better. ‘I feel better,’ she says almost mutinously. ‘I feel like a whole new person.’ The problem is, Geoffrey’s heard her say that before. How can she convince him that this time it’s real?
Bright squeezes her hand. ‘Gibby and I will tell him that you simply need to be back in England. Back there, with us. Hell, we can leave tomorrow! If we all stick close to each other, it’ll be fine. We can look after each other. We’ll be each other’s Geoffreys.’
‘You don’t look like you need a Geoffrey.’ She looks at him narrowly. ‘To be honest, you look as if you’re doing really well.’
‘For now!’ He shrugs, glances away. ‘For some reason this freakish place has kick-started my writing, as well as lowering my expectations. Right now, sure, I could be the poster boy for open psychiatric clinics! But who knows what will happen? I might end up needing the edge of a roof again — in which case you will make all the difference.’ He tugs her hair very gently. ‘Everyone can do with having a close eye kept on them.’
‘Do you think Geoffrey will let me go home?’ She bites her lip. ‘I’m not so sure.’
‘He’s not in charge of you. You can walk away at any time. Anyway, he may be highly trained but he doesn’t always know what’s right. In the end we have to decide what’s best for ourselves.’
‘Living by experience? By educated guessing? It’s not exactly a foolproof plan.’ But right now, in this moment, she’s certain of what’s best for her. ‘Lying next to you. Always being close enough to touch you. We should stay here forever.’
‘Assuming you’re speaking figuratively,’ says Bright, ‘I agree. Let’s stay in this place forever.’
Lace’s bones, however, are speaking more literally. Shoulder blades, ribcage, pelvis, knees, ankles — all are exhausted. Don’t make us leave this bed, they whisper. We’re finally at rest. Her tired brain and heart echo the plea. Please let us stay. We’ve only just remembered how peace feels.
It’s true, the future seems hard to picture. In spite of Bright talking about familiar surroundings and new beginnings, plans for the next day and the journey home, Lace squints — dazzled, blinded, when she tries to look beyond this hour. See what love does to you! Her old self speaks challengingly to her new one. It makes you complacent, lazy; you want to lie around in the moment and never go anywhere!
Nonetheless she feels as if she’s been let in on a great secret, one that’s been kept from her all her life. ‘Yes,’ she murmurs, simply so Bright will keep talking. ‘Yes, yes.’ She’s no longer listening to what he’s saying, only to his voice. Existing in the moment is all-consuming. Her racing heart has steadied. She’s no longer running away.
‘Shall I bring you back some toast?’ Somehow Bright is up, out of bed, dressed and standing by the door: a thin streak of red and turquoise, like a horizon line stood on end.
‘Yes, please. And a banana.’ She stretches out on her raft-mattress in a sea of scratched floorboards and second-hand books.
‘Okay. After that we’ll tackle the powers that be, all three of us. An unholy triumvirate to conquer all.’
Suddenly she has a vivid image of Gibby, tying his long shoelaces in double knots, stooping in his room just along the corridor. ‘Give him my love,’ she says.
Bright doesn’t need to ask who. ‘Of course I will. We’ll be back in about half an hour, with carbohydrates and paper serviettes.’
‘I’ll be here.’
As he stoops to kiss her his green eyes are so bright that they outshine everything: the glinting mirror, the sparkling bowl of marbles on the desk — even the sun.
‘I love you,’ he says — and so does she. They say it at exactly the same time, and their words meet halfway across the room and merge in a bright indistinguishable flare.
THE FINAL BREAKFAST
THE ATMOSPHERE IN THE dining hall is subdued, like the aftermath of a drunken orgy. Quietly clinking spoons, shamefaced chewing of cornflakes. The staff table has been moved some distance away from the rest. Dr Mallory and Admin sit amongst the nurse aides, decorously eating toast, as if to negate the fact that, twelve hours earlier, they were involved in pandemonium: fighting, flying food and fire.
Shining-haired Donovan sits in solitary state at the end of the table like a glamorous dunce. When he sees Bright enter he raises his teacup in a furtive welcome.
But where’s Gibby? Bright skirts around the Swede, who is crouched on a chair filming Raven tucking into a plate of mackerel. ‘Vitamin D is a proven mood elevator,’ he intones, ‘which is why oily fish is frequently served at The Palace.’
‘Bright! Come and sit with us!’ Mirabelle waves with her serviette, while Rosalind holds her orange juice aloft like a beacon.
‘In a minute,’ he fibs. After yesterday evening, he feels a trifle nervous being around the Twins and any liquid substances. ‘I need to talk to Gibby.’
As if conjured up by his name, there he is, half-camouflaged by a pillar, his pale face and beige shirt merging into the plaster. He’s ploughing stolidly through scrambled eggs, but when he sees Bright he drops his fork and looks both eager and anxious. ‘How is she?’
‘Much better.’ Bright pulls up a chair and lets out his breath: whoooosh. ‘She didn’t feel like coming down for breakfast. But she sends her love to you.’
‘Is she really okay? When I saw her lying there —’ Gibby closes his eyes for a second. ‘Did she talk about what happened?’
‘Not much. But maybe last night was the turning point that Geoffrey’s always going on about? When I left her just now she seemed like a different person. A totally different person.’ Remembering her, remembering what happened just twenty minutes earlier — flustered, he knocks over the salt shaker. ‘Whoops. Sorry.’ He throws a pinch of salt over his left shoulder.
The Swede is there in an instant, zooming in on them. ‘Although The Palace is a modern medical institution, superstitious customs abound. In this instance, salt has been thrown over the shoulder to ward off the devil.’ Already he’s adopted the most annoying traits of the documentary film-maker: the low meaningful voice, a calm disregard for personal boundaries.
‘Considering that this is a modern medical institution, what you’re doing may well be illegal.’ Bright stares stonily into the lens until the Swede moves away to find a more willing subject. ‘He’s out of control,’ Bright says to Gibby, ‘and it’s partly your fault for inventing a camera so simple that even idiots can use it.’
‘He was less annoying when he was depressed,’ admits Gibby. ‘Do you want some of my eggs?’
‘I guess. But they look watery. And tasteless.’ Bright grinds pepper vigorously over the plate. ‘So we’ll go to Geoffrey this morning —’ he peers through the pepper storm — ‘and pitch the idea of mutual support in England.’
Gibby sneezes. ‘Do you think he’ll agree to it?’ For a second, with his eyes watering, he looks as anxious as he’s ever looked.
‘It’s the best possibility for — well, for all of us. We just need to stick close for a while. Even I feel better when you’re around! Less likely to shuffle off buildings, for instance.’ But even as he jokes, his mind leaps back to the heart-stopping moment when he saw Lace’s face, the waxen skin and the lips, the lifelessness. ‘Besides,’ he says through a mouthful of egg, ‘we’d be leaving next week anyway. We’re no longer Geoffrey’s responsibility, after next week.’
‘All the same, that phone call to Alabama — it sounded pretty serious.’ Gibby wipes his eyes with a paper serviette. ‘He’ll take some convincing.’
‘Yes, Alabama.’ Bright speaks in a spray of parsley. ‘God knows, we need to save her from that! Whoever left Alabama feeling better?’ But as he swallows and reaches for his coffee mug, the light through the window fades to grey. He knows, as definitively as the cloud blocking the sun, that for Lace’s sake they’ll have to accept Geoffrey’s decision.
‘If she isn’t fit to come home —’ Gibby blows his nose with a trumpeting sound.
‘We can go the
re,’ nods Bright.
‘And if she can come home now —’
‘Then things get better all the sooner.’ But as Bright looks around the room, his head spins. For one second he feels as if he’s back on the ledge, where he started.
PROMETHEUS AGAINST STONE; OR ROCK PAPER SCISSORS
IT’S STRANGE HOW FAST it happens. She’s wandering around the room, looking at but not touching Bright’s temporary life. A miniature gramophone with coin-sized records. Several white feathers pinned over the bed. A torch whose Cyclops eye has been partially blinded by strips of silver duct-tape. Why? This is what she’ll ask Bright, when he steps back into her life in an hour or so. Usually she’s always the one who runs away from questions (What’s your phone number? Can I see you again? Why do you never talk about your past?). But now she’s the one who wants to ask — well, pretty much everything. Stopped in her tracks, she has time to look around, and there are question marks on top of on every item, and stories underneath.
Speaking of stories, she’s reached Bright’s writing desk. A stack of clean white paper in the centre. A Parker fountain pen jammed upright in a ball of Blu-Tack. On the floor by the chair is a large brown cardboard box, and on the lid of the box, in red pen, is a skull-and-crossbones and a warning:
NOVEL IN PROGRESS. ENTRY PROHIBITED.
LOOKING BACK IS FATAL!
Although the message has been written by Bright, perhaps to himself, Lace takes a respectful step away. Like a gallery-goer keeping their toes behind a painted line, she peers from a distance at the wall above the desk. Word counts, lists of dates, sketches of buildings, newspaper clippings. And over the face of it all sprawl Bright’s inky admonitions. Fix this! Forget that! Facts are enough! When it comes to himself, he’s a hard taskmaster.
The edges of the papers rise and fall in a draught as if the wall is breathing, and Lace breathes equally quietly. She feels as if she’s looking at a secret navigational map, destination known only to Bright.
Suicide Club, The Page 34
