‘I’ll wait here,’ nods Dr Mallory.
‘That would be best.’ But he can’t leave without saying something else; anxiety stops him at the door. ‘I hope you’re not sunbedding, are you?’
She gapes. ‘Sunbedding?’
‘The last week, you’ve been looking increasingly tanned.’ Gruff with embarrassment, Gibby ploughs on. ‘Sunbeds can be extremely dangerous. There are proven links to skin cancer.’
‘It’s spray-on, dear,’ says Dr Mallory, flushing slightly. ‘I’m trying it out before I get to the South of France.’
‘Oh. That’s all right then.’
She pushes up her sleeves to reveal evenly bronzed arms. ‘Thank you, Gibby. You’ll make someone a fine husband one day. Now, please come and get me if you need help with your task.’
‘I’ll be fine.’ Gibby nods firmly, but he’s far from sure. In fact, by the time he reaches Lace’s door he’s in what his mother would call a right state. His breathing is ragged, and he’s clutching the key so tightly it feels as if it might be permanently embedded in his palm. As he stares at the door, the wood starts to groan like a ship in a storm. Beside the door frame he spots a tiny brown moth, clinging to the wall — and already he can hear the tiny rustle of the folded wings, moving in time with the imperceptibly beating heart. There’s the roaring whirl of darkness behind the blind eyes —
Don’t do this, he tells himself urgently. Preserve your strength for what’s inside. He closes his own eyes and concentrates on one still point (a strategy he’s been working on with Geoffrey). Think of the mountaintop! Focus on that bright peak that he’d seen in real life as he exited the station, reeling, stumbling, supporting a weeping Bright, flanked by police. The sun on the first snow on the highest mountain — and now the extraneous noise in the hallway shrinks away, and he sees only the tiny moth and the blank door.
But in the sudden silence he hears another sound from behind the door. A clinking, a clashing: wire squeaking on metal. Someone is already in there, pushing coat hangers along the rail. Could it be —? His heart leaps. The hands of the clock fly backwards, carrying her away from the edge. He opens the door fast, rushes in and sees someone turning quickly, some clothes in her hand.
‘NO!’ He races across the room. ‘Why the hell can’t you people leave her alone?’
It’s only Admin, of course: her hair in anxious grey wisps, her face scrunched with concern. ‘Gibby, dear. Did I frighten you?’ She’s beside him, patting his shoulder — but he slides to the floor and buries his face in his arms. ‘I wanted to do it!’ He sounds like a kid, but it’s the truth. ‘It’s the last thing I can do for her.’
‘I’m so sorry. I should have known! But Lace’s uncle asked me to.’
If Gibby’s nose weren’t streaming, he’d snort. ‘Yes. I’m sure he asked the town mayor to do it, too.’
‘The mayor?’ says Admin uncomprehendingly. ‘Well, if so, he hasn’t turned up yet. How about you supervise and I pack? Packing is a particular talent of mine — you might even say a hazard of the job, from working alongside Geoffrey.’
It feels all right, having Admin there. They work side by side, folding clothes into plastic bags and putting other possessions into cartons. ‘She didn’t bring much,’ ventures Gibby. ‘Do you think she’d already… that somehow she’d decided —?’
‘Best not to go down that road, dear.’ Admin coughs and turns her attention to the small bedside table. There’s nothing in the drawer except a tiny gilt dragon with glittering ruby eyes.
‘From a vending machine in the airport. Just before we came here.’ When Gibby holds it in the palm of his hand, he remembers everything about that day: the departure lounge, the boredom and the nervousness, Lace dozing on his shoulder, the boarding call for Munich.
Pretty soon, the task is done. ‘So this is it, then.’ Gibby sits on the bed and stares out the window, holding the dragon in his right hand and the key in his left, weighing them against each other. He can’t imagine how to move on.
Admin sits at a respectful distance, thin-kneed in her woollen trousers. ‘It’s no consolation, I know, but at least she’s not suffering any more. Living had become almost impossible for her. I knew it as soon as I saw her.’
‘Really?’ Gibby gulps. ‘I thought you weren’t supposed to say things like that. Not here in The Palace.’
‘You’re right, I shouldn’t say it — but you should hear it. I can see things. Foresee things. I’ve told you before.’
They sit there talking quietly, until the light is dim and grey. Then they place the bags and boxes holding the remains of Lace’s life by the door and leave the room.
FROM WHERE BRIGHT STANDS, forehead against the windowpane, he can see the whole damn world. Is this his fate? Always to be looking down?
In the mass of coloured panes there’s a single clear one: a hasty repair job, a diamond-shaped peephole. He stares through it. The shrubbery is bare, twists of ancient tissues caught in its twigs. He raises his eyes without moving his head: an unnatural way of looking up that causes an ache in his skull. A pewter sky, some birds that flicker over the roof and are gone.
From here on the second-floor landing, he can see into parts of the New Building. A corner of Geoffrey’s room, the bookshelves scattered with clinical books and sheaves of papers. The empty conference room, with chairs in a crooked circle. And the games room — but he has only a slanted view of this, as it’s right on the edge of his diamond-shaped vision. He sees a few familiar backs, elbows, arms: an awkward gathering. And there’s Dr Mallory, marching across the garden in her white coat, carrying a vase of flowers.
He feels sick. Rummages in his pocket, extracts a piece of paper and smoothes it out on the windowsill. A splinter of wood pierces right through it and into his thumb.
‘Shit!’ Blood wells but he doesn’t move.
‘Is everything all right?’
‘Jesus!’ Bright turns to see Geoffrey standing there. ‘You scared me.’ He glances back at the windowsill and quickly moves to retrieve the paper.
Too late. Geoffrey — laconic, drawling Geoffrey, who often appears half-asleep — has read what’s written there in one lightning glance.
‘That’s a beautifully expressed sentiment.’ He speaks in the conversational tone that has never fooled Bright, not from day one. ‘And a true one. Did you write it?’
‘I don’t write poetry. I write prose. It’s a line from Milosz.’
‘Ah, the Pole! A courageous man.’ Geoffrey nods carefully, not looking at Bright. ‘And the heart does not die when one thinks it should. Hmm. Do you think Milosz was referring to political prisoners — or to something more personal?’
Oh, shut up! shouts Bright silently. We’re not in a fucking session now! ‘Perhaps both,’ he says in a controlled voice. ‘I believe his words, like Primo Levi’s, can be read on multiple levels.’
‘Indeed.’ Geoffrey sounds approving, but the usual smile doesn’t spread over his face. Instead he shoves his hands in his pockets, pulls out a silk handkerchief and wipes his eyes. ‘I’m truly sorry for how you feel.’ This is less like him.
Instantly, Bright’s nose starts running. ‘A terrible thing,’ is all that he manages. ‘Terrible.’
‘Indeed.’ Although the word is familiar by now, Geoffrey’s tone is not. ‘We moved too late. I moved too late.’
‘To be honest,’ Bright hesitates, ‘I think you’d have had to meet her years earlier. And even then —’ But heavy drops of water are falling onto his sleeve. Raising his hand, he’s surprised to find that tears are streaming down his face.
‘Kind of you to say so,’ says Geoffrey. ‘But one can’t help thinking, of course… one can’t help worrying that one has let another person down.’ He wipes his eyes again, pulls a second handkerchief from his pocket and hands it to Bright. ‘This isn’t what I came here to discuss, however. I wanted to check that you’re not feeling guilty. Or angry. Or both.’
‘Angry?’ Bright blows his nose.
‘Guilt and anger are natural reactions to such a situation.’ Now Geoffrey sounds more like his old self.
‘No, and no. I feel neither.’
‘Neither? That’s unusual.’
Bright stares fixedly at the carpet.
‘But nonetheless perfectly natural,’ adds Geoffrey hastily.
Suddenly Bright is gasping, clutching at the windowsill. ‘My chest!’ he bursts out. ‘It hurts so much. I can hardly breathe.’ The paper is beside him but he can hardly read it. The heart does not die… The words blur and disintegrate.
The weight of a hand on his shoulder anchors him. ‘You miss her.’ Geoffrey sounds quite matter-of-fact.
‘I do. I do.’ He tries not to sob. ‘I miss her so terribly much.’
‘Stay up here as long as you need to.’ Geoffrey pats him on the back. ‘But I hope you’ll join us at the gathering in a bit. It may help to be around other people who also loved her.’
‘Who?’ He feels a surge of rage. ‘The idiots in our group? They worshipped her. They idolised her. They didn’t love her.’
‘Perhaps not the way you did. But there are degrees of love. Some people are lucky enough — or unlucky enough — to be born with a magnetic pull, and the whole world wants a piece of them. Right now, down there in the games room, a lot of people are missing Lace in their own particular ways. You’ve got to allow them that.’
Bright frowns. ‘Why haven’t you told me things straight out like that before?’
‘Not my job.’ Geoffrey gives a small smile. ‘Come to think of it, you don’t tell things straight, either. Maybe our professions have more in common than you think.’ He starts off down the stairs. ‘Don’t be too long. Donovan baked a spectacular cake before his departure, to apologise for burning down the kitchen. I’ll save some for you.’
Bright stays where he is. A minute or so later, he sees Geoffrey loping across the grass, turning and waving vaguely upwards, as if unsure which window Bright is at.
The paper is smeared with tears. He turns it over, and his stomach jumps at the sight of the handwriting. Already, he’s read this fifty, seventy, a hundred times over.
Bright — you brought brightness back to me.
It breaks my heart to leave you, but I can’t go on.
Look after Gibby, keep writing and remember that I love you.
He traces the words with his fingers. The splinter of wood has driven right through the word heart. He holds the note up to the stained-glass window and the hole becomes a small red point of light.
He’d found it in his pillowcase — had heard a tiny rustle as he’d lain there, eyes wide open, stunned, bereft — on that first terrible night afterwards. He’d held the note all through the night, and every night since. As he’d watched the sergeant searching his room, the paper had breathed quietly in his pocket, close to his heart. Had he broken the law, concealing it? He neither knows nor cares.
Sliding down against the wood-panelled wall, he closes his eyes. Then he sees her: alive again. She’s not talking or laughing, just looking at him with a serious but happy expression. He opens his eyes: sees the threadbare carpet, the brass stair rods. Closes them: sees Lace. She’s there. All he has to do is keep her safe and steady, whole.
Down in the games room, speeches will be starting. There’ll be floods of tears, awkward jokes, quick hugs. All the truths, all the clichés; the cloying scent of unseasonal roses, the scratchy arms of wintersweet. Admin anxiously shuffling serviettes, Dr Mallory nodding wisely, Geoffrey standing with his back to the wall, keeping a close watch on his remaining charges.
Bright stands alone on his second-floor limbo. He peers out from his crow’s nest, his high and lonely vantage point, and sees a tufted head in the crowd. It’s Gibby, turning slightly, glancing anxiously around like a boy lost in a crowded shopping mall.
‘I’m coming.’ Bright folds up the paper. ‘There in a minute.’ The splinter is lodged firmly in his flesh, a small burn of pain that’s almost welcome as it distracts him from his hurting heart. He starts down the stairs.
THE CROWS ARE FLYING low over the stubbled beige fields. Hotels and restaurants are closing for the winter, and the earth is turning inwards, burying its face, preparing for sleep. The light fades to an all-pervading grey.
Soon The Palace will be a shell again. Scratched floors, empty rooms, coat hangers rattling in stray draughts. Occasionally a local will pause at the gate, thinking they’ve seen a flicker of movement at an upstairs window. Is it… could it be —? But common sense is reliably heavy, suppressing the shadows of memory.
All day suitcases and doors have been closing, taxis pulling up at the gate, contact details being exchanged and farewells said. The Twins get into the back seat of the same car, but on opposite sides. Raven is picked up in a bright yellow Mini. The Swede films each departure as closely as possible, providing brief yet meaningful commentaries.
And now Bright, in his midnight-blue travelling coat, is knocking at Geoffrey’s door, entering to say a private goodbye. His heavy suitcase, full of his books, ready to be freighted back to England, stands in the foyer. Dr Mallory is sitting alone in her office eating pink marshmallows and flicking through a Bride magazine — and Gibby is waiting by the front door, his hair brushed and his jacket zipped up all the way to the top.
‘Let me know where you end up next year, will you?’ Gibby is reluctant to say goodbye to Admin, anxious that she’ll be overworked while knowing she thrives on this.
‘Dear, by next year you’ll have forgotten all about me.’ But clearly she’s pleased that he’s asked. She’s planning to spend the winter in Wales, shrivelling inside her cardigan until spring arrives, when she’ll start making lists and planning new itineraries again.
Gibby brings up a map on his phone and studies it. ‘Bright and I are going home by an indirect route,’ he explains. ‘In a circuitous manner. By bus, by car, by chance.’
‘You don’t want to get there too quickly,’ nods Admin. ‘Slow and steady. Very wise.’ She sounds as if she’s seen everything from the very point where this story began: the high-rises and the fallings, the plummeting lifts and speeding cars, the glass and the scissors and the matches.
‘Planes are no good for the equilibrium,’ says Gibby, poring over the map. ‘It’s unnatural for the body to outpace the mind. It’s better to see what lies between two points.’
At last Bright is approaching, with Geoffrey by his side. Crossing the squeaking floor, their coats flowing behind them, they look like modern-day necromancers. ‘I’ve asked Bright to send us a copy of his new book,’ Geoffrey beams at Admin, ‘as soon as it’s finished.’
‘It’s some way off,’ says Bright, looking embarrassed but pleased. ‘But the shape is there.’
It’s time for those awkward moments that precede departure. Gibby tries to zip up his already zipped jacket, Bright runs his hands through his hair and drops his pen. Admin kisses them both in an auntly way, while Geoffrey shakes hands with each of them, twice.
Then they’re out the door and heading down the path towards the open gate. They turn, not right towards the town, but left towards the main road heading south. Seen from a distance, they look like an incongruous pair. Thin red-haired Bright in his long coat, loping along (no trace of a limp) with his satchel slung across his body. And Gibby, with his shock of white-blond hair, scrunching up his eyes at the horizon, striding out in his pristine white high-tops.
What do they talk about? Well, their conversation might go something like this:
Gibby: So you’ve started a new novel. What’s it about?
Bright: I didn’t tell Geoffrey, but it’s about us. All of us.
Gibby: (hesitating) You mean… you, me and Lace?
Bright: Yes. It starts at the moment when I’m about to jump off the building and it ends — well, it will end…
Gibby: Do you already know where it ends?
Bright: I think so.
Gibby falls silent. He and Bright tru
dge along, past fields scratched by the blades of ploughs and dissected by hedges. A tractor roars by in a spray of mud, spattering dark spots on Gibby’s white shoes. When the noise has died away, he takes a deep breath.
‘Will it end with Lace?’ he asks tentatively. ‘Start with a fall, end with a fall?’
‘I’ll see when I get there.’ Bright looks sideways, reaches out briefly and touches his shoulder. ‘It doesn’t matter so much where. Like any novel, it’ll only assume a definitive ending. That is, the book ends but the story goes on.’
‘It’s a fool’s game.’ As he says them, the words echo inside Gibby’s memory. He’s heard them earlier: a different time and place, a different self.
‘It certainly is,’ agrees Bright. ‘But some of us have to keep playing it.’
The sun glints through the cloud and they raise their heads. They walk side by side, sticking close to the edge of the road, but between them there’s just enough space for a third person. The silences aren’t always easy, but the days ahead — the wide fields and rivers, the sprawling cities — well, these will help to fill in the gaps. They’re each missing their closest person, and they need some new impressions to layer over the grief.
Draw back now, give them space — and perhaps take an occasional look at them in the decades to come. Gibby, one day far in the future, will win a Nobel Prize. Bright will be garlanded with scholarships and awards, and recognised as one of the greatest writers of his time. Both have lost an extraordinary person; both have extraordinary lives ahead. But for now they’re just two twenty-year-olds, brought together by their love for a third, walking down a road.
A superb collection of stories from a prize-winning writer — some short, some long, set in locations that span the globe, all exploring the theme encapsulated by the title: tenderness.
Suicide Club, The Page 37
