Moira had insinuated herself into Suzy's body-space, sidling in before Suzy was even fully aware of her presence. Small dick I bet, Moira whispered (conspiratorially) in her ear.
Suzy glanced briefly, peripherally, at her uninvited interlocutor, still absorbed with the richness of the text before her. It makes no fucking sense, she'd said. That's the thing. I mean, how can it fucking mean anything? Fuck you, I drive a 2cv? Would that mean anything?
She stopped talking, looked at Moira again. Are you stalking me, she said.
Am I? Moira said, raising her eyebrows, lighting a cigarette.
You were there in the newsagents when I went to buy cigarettes. You were there when I considered and then resisted buying an ice-cream. When I turned around in the art gallery, there you were again. And when … wait a minute, wait a minute - that was you. On the embankment, ten paces behind. That was you. And now here you are again.
Yes, okay, I'm stalking you. I've been watching you very closely. You cut quite a figure. I was drawn. You gonna call the cops?
Drawn how? Suzy said.
What's your preference? Moira smiled.
The kettle boils to a climax and then clicks off. While it's cooling - and Karen likes it just so - Suzy deliberates for a minute as to whether or not she can be bothered to make real coffee, or just settle for instant. Karen would prefer the former, she knows. And since Karen's mood is still hard to determine she decides to pander to her preference. You can always shut Karen up with an orgasm, can feel some measure of control that way, but afterwards, when she turns that analytical eye on you, you have to be careful what you let slip.
The cafetiere hasn't been washed up and it still holds an inch of coffee slurry which she tips into the waste-bin. She rinses it, warms it, makes the coffee. Then she puts two mugs, sugar, milk in a cup and the cafetiere onto a tray and carries it into the bathroom, setting it down on the toilet seat. All very civilised. She pours. She shucks out of her clothes, aware that Karen is watching her, checking for damage no doubt, checking for signs and clues. She steps into the bath, wincing from the heat, then slips slowly, gingerly down until her back rests against the porcelain, Karen's wagging foot close to her shoulder. They adjust and accommodate their limbs until their bodies are loosely interlocked.
So, Karen says, blowing thoughtfully at her coffee, how was the class?
Just like you said, Suzy says. Ridiculous.
What about your tutor?
Moira? Suzy says. She shrugs. Kind of interesting, I suppose.
You suppose? You spent the night (presumably) at her house and you suppose, that she might just be, in some tiny little way, interesting. You suppose.
Karen, please don't start - Jesus, that tone; I'm not one of your fucking students you know. Plus, I've just walked all the fucking way from the ferry.
Just teasing, Karen says, though she isn't. Okay, let's leave interesting alone. What about attractive? Do you suppose that she's attractive?
She's attractive, Suzy admits.
Quite? Very? Incredibly?
Very, Suzy says, keeping her gaze steady despite herself.
Married?
Widowed.
Really? Karen says, interested on a different level now. How?
Suicide.
That's horrible, Karen says. She pauses, digesting it. How old is she?
Too young to be a widow.
Okay, Karen says, interesting, attractive, widowed. What about talent? Is she any good?
She's published, Suzy says. Widely actually. You were way wrong about that.
What's she written?
Books. Novels. I don't know - the titles, I can't remember … she told me but I forget.
One of those nights, Karen says.
Yes Karen, one of those nights. She publishes under her maiden name - Moira Craft. Costigan - that's her married name. The name she uses.
Moira Craft, Moira Craft, Karen says, pretending to search the vast array of literary data in her head. Nope, never heard of her.
Suzy, playfully, peevishly, flips a dripping hill of foam into Karen's face. Karen wipes it off, one eye closed. That's because, Suzy says, she hasn't been dead for a hundred and fifty years. Had she been dead for a hundred and fifty years, then, no doubt, you would have written her up by now.
Touché, Karen says. Did you sleep with her?
Did I fuck her you mean?
Okay, did you?
No, Suzy says, her gaze settling on a lifting wisp of cobweb in the corner of the room. I'm going to make some breakfast. I'll call you when it's ready. She pushes herself upright, the water dribbling from her pubic hair, forming the hair into a point.
I notice, she says, by the way, that you waited until after I'd finger-fucked you before you asked me that.
Suzy sets out the breakfast on the balcony. Karen had left her notebook, her papers, her copy of Dickinson out on the table all night. The pages of the book had warped from the dew. Suzy takes these items from the table and spreads them out in the sun to dry. The river is flat and sparkling in the sunshine. But the tide has drawn out from the beach and the smell of salt and sea-weed pervades the still air. The atmosphere is somehow suggestive of the aftermath of bad sex. Suzy is reminded of what Karen told her, about the room where Stephen had died.
Karen steps through the patio doors, dressed in her bathrobe, sweeping her wet hair back from her forehead. She looks drowsy, healthy, fully present. Suzy feels a sudden shock of love for her, and is surprised by it. The way it cuts through resentment, frustration, the losing end of a pathetic power-struggle which Karen seems unaware of entering into. She yawns and smiles. What a perfectly beautiful day, she says. She sits.
I put your things in the sun, Suzy says.
Karen glances at her things spread out on the floor at the end of the balcony. The first murmur of incipient breeze turns a page of the Dickinson. Thanks Suze, she says. I was too ill to put them away. She says it matter-of-factly, not poor me and where-were-you?
Were you that bad? Suzy says.
Christ, I retched myself inside out.
I'm sorry, Karen.
It doesn’t matter Suze. Really. Anyway, I feel okay now.
Suzy spreads strawberry jam onto her toast. Pours some orange juice for Karen. I'm assuming you’re going to work today, she says.
Yes, Karen says, then (making a big deal of flexing her famous meat-eater's toe) I thought I might walk a little way along the coast. A couple of miles maybe. Want to come?
Suzy looks out to the river, a small yacht gliding by, running on its engine. Maybe, she says. If I'm back in time.
Which means you've got plans, Karen says, trying not to look flustered, put-out, disappointed. Trying not to be Karen. Curling off the butter with the knife and trying not to act like Karen.
I told Moira - Suzy starts, draws breath.
You told Moira… go on.
That if you were working I'd go and visit.
I see.
She's got a private beach that's good for swimming.
There's a beach right here.
Hers is better. Deeper.
The tide's out.
Which is why a deeper beach is better. Besides, it'll turn again soon.
So, Karen says, did you just come home for breakfast? Oh, and to favour me with an orgasm.
Which you enjoyed.
Which I enjoyed. Thank you. Should I have been placated? Maybe I am. Perhaps if you bother to come home tonight I can return the favour.
You've got no call to be snippy Karen. You really haven't. Then she adds: You could always come with me, you know. We're both invited. Moira was very interested in you. In what you do. In fact, she was very interested indeed.
I'm flattered, Karen says. Indeed, she adds. But I've got work to do, as you know.
You can't take the afternoon off? Suzy says (thinking: Jesus, how long can it take to butter a piece of fucking toast?) You've got the rest of the summer for fuck's sake. When I go home you can work as much as
you like.
Thanks for the permission, Suze, Karen says - finally reaching for the jam - but I think I'm the best judge of when it's the right time to work. Don't you?
That's right, Suzy says, get fucking snippy again. Look, this is the point. You're always missing the fucking point. We are both invited Karen. Don't you think it'll be interesting? You never give, do you? Not an inch. Never. You never fucking give. For Christ's sake, all we have to do is go up there, have a swim, have a drink.
Karen laughs. Snorts. The kind of laugh that makes Suzy wonder why she's bothering. Why she ever bothers. Just a drink Suze? Suzy, I love you. I really do. But have you ever noticed what happens to us when we drink?
Yes. Yes I have. We lose control. We revel in it. So fucking what? It's the 'why' of it, isn't it? The world is in an ugly fucking mess, Karen - as you're always so ready to point out. The world is going to blow, Karen. And all of your books and your textual analysis won't help you then. All you'll have is the knowledge that you had some fun, for Christ's sake. Some fucking excitement. Look, this could be really good for us Karen. This could be an adventure.
Oh Suze, Karen says sadly - so sadly that Suzy actually feels sorry for her - I had so much fun. I really did. An endless carnival of fun. Well, now it's time for a little lent. And Suze, so's you don't forget, she says in conciliatory tone - you are my adventure.
Suzy lights a cigarette, fills the pause with smoke. Then she says: Well, okay. That's fine. But I have no interest in sitting around here while you slave over a twenty-five page essay that's going to be read by a handful of people who will already have anticipated anything and everything you've got to say on the subject of … whatever. She waves “whatever” into the ether with the lift of her hand.
Thank you for that Susan. Why don't you just trash my entire professional life while you're at it? Look, you don't understand. Do you realise how long it's been since I've actually wanted to work? Do you know, do you have any idea how scary - how empty I feel when I'm not working? Well, now I'm back in control and it's the right time to work. I know it. Just a couple of days, Suze. I promise. And when I'm done we'll go and dance on tables. We'll fuck some fishermen. Inject smack into our fucking eyeballs. Whatever. But first I have to write this essay. It really is that simple.
But Suzy takes her hand, tries again. Come with me, Karen. Please.
You're going anyway right? Karen says, laying her other hand over the back of Suzy's. With or without me, you're going. Yes?
Their hands part. Yes, Suzy confirms. Yes I am. This is supposed to be about fun. And I'm sorry Karen, but I know fun when I see it. Aren't you - scratch that - I fucking know you're curious.
Of course I'm curious. I'm curious on all levels. And I'm jealous and I'm scared. But we're both grown-ups. And we're just arguing round in circles here. So, you do your thing - as agreed - and I'll do mine. And then we'll meet on the other side. Okay?
Okay.
Just promise me you'll be careful, Karen says.
Yes, of course, Suzy smiles. I'd forgotten. You don't trust writers, Karen, do you? Slippery little devils with meanings you don't subscribe to. It's why you spend your life re-writing their work.
Promise? Karen says.
I promise, Suzy says. And Karen, I'll make sure I make it home tonight. Okay?
That would be nice, Karen says. I'm happy to walk alone. But I really would like to have your company tonight. After all, I do owe you an orgasm, and I don't like to be in debt.
Don't worry. I hadn't forgotten.
Billy (Summer 2003)
Billy with a head-full of Moira's red pills, brain pulsing. Naked, sweating, breathing hard. Everything looks red. Cock; semi-erect. Hands, skinned and bloodied. A braided steel cable is wrapped around the knuckles of his right hand, the cable long enough to touch the floor with his arms hanging loose.
The curtains of the empty, upstairs room are drawn, blinding out the sunny afternoon. Melanie, also naked, crawls, enfeebled, toward him out of the gloom. Moira's locket swings from her neck, somehow glinting off a light that isn't there. There is intermittent laughter just about distinguishable from the grunting of her effort to cross the room. Palm prints painted in blood form a rainbow pattern on one of the walls. Melanie's back is a cross-hatching of wet, open wounds.
Billy stoops to light a cigarette. Are we done? He says. He snaps closed his Zippo and tosses it onto his clothes piled on the floor.
Melanie lifts her head. It dips and wags while she smiles up at him with her Dawn of the Dead face. Three of her teeth are missing, her lip is split, drooling blood. One of her eyes is swollen closed. What the fuck, Billy, she murmurs. Why not give it just one more? Hey?
Billy shrugs. Alright, he says. He stands. He swings up the cable, ostentatiously describes a circle above his head, then, catching its momentum expertly, cracks it down in the small of Melanie's back. She screams, throwing her head back as her body collapses from the blow. She lays panting on the bare floorboards. Her arm flaps, then slowly she reaches around to the small of her back, as if to check that the last blow has opened up a fresh wound. It has. Slowly, she brings her arm back up to grip the locket. The nail of her index finger is torn almost off, jutting from the bloody pad beneath at a right-angle. She lays panting. A dust-ball stuck to her lip trembles in the draught of exhalation, inhalation. Billy kneels beside her. He begins to stroke her hair. Now, are we done, he says. There's a mirror in the room but Billy won't look in it, because what will he see if he does? A monster, that's what.
Fuck me, Melanie says.
Like this? Billy says.
Just like this, Melanie says, so quietly that Billy has to strain to hear it.
He kicks her legs apart, kneels between them. He drops his cigarette to the floor but doesn't stub it out. He gives his cock a few brief pulls to gain an erection, then he grips her hips and yanks her ass up toward him. She cries out, and her knees buckle at once. Billy takes her weight, steadies her until she can support herself. Then he rams himself inside her up to the hilt. Just before he comes, he lifts up the cigarette, puffs it back into life, then grinds it into Melanie's left buttock.
The following day, Billy and Moira, standing in the lobby of Moira's house. Billy in his heavy motorcycle boots, his crash-helmet hanging from his right hand. It's a humid evening - a storm growling over the sea - and Billy sweats through his T-shirt beneath his donkey jacket. Moira is wearing a blue nylon boiler suit over nothing else (is Billy's guess). He can almost feel the static crackling off her skin. Can visualise the ubiquitous locket hanging coolly between her breasts. Thoughts which run from his brain to his cock and back again, bringing news of incipient engorgement.
They are staring, in the muted light of the candelabra, at Melanie's body, which is hanging from the balustrade by a rope around its neck. Melanie's forearms are slashed open from her wrists to the crooks of her elbows. A filthy white T-shirt hides the outrages inflicted upon her upper body and her legs hang pale and curiously un-violated save for the blood splashed onto her feet. Her mouth is a torn, mutilated thing, like the utterance of an idiot. Her one good eye stares bulbous, unblinking, at Billy.
What's that on her arms, Billy says. Burns?
Yeah. She had some issues.
Cigarettes?
Soldering iron.
Jesus. You've fucking cooked her.
Doesn't matter. What matters is cleaning up this goddamned mess. She pissed all over the fucking floor. It takes four fucking hours to polish this floor, top to bottom.
You should get a cleaner, Billy says. He lights a cigarette.
Don't flick your ash on the floor Billy. Okay? Christ. Blood I can handle but that piss is bound to lift the polish. You know they used to wash sheep's wool in piss?
Ammonia, Billy says absently. Did you do this?
She did it herself. Like I say; issues.
Just like Frank.
Just like.
You're a dangerous woman to be around, Widow Costigan.
&n
bsp; Maybe. Not for a guy like you though. Don't sweat it. I've got to admit, Billy, that there have been times I've had my doubts about you. But you worked Melanie over pretty good. I'm going to give you a bonus for that.
She wanted me to call her Martha. Everyone wants me to call them Martha. Who the fuck is Martha?
Just someone I made up. Someone from another time. Don't fret about it. I hear you're going to Spain.
Where did you hear that?
Your friend. The frumpy one. The one you're going to elope with.
Caroline?
I saw her in town.
She's got a big mouth.
She says you're going to run a bar. Spend your afternoons on the beach. Get a tan.
Like I say, big fucking mouth.
She's in love with you, Billy.
I know.
What a crazy cunt.
She can't help it. You know, that husband of hers hasn't had a hard-on in a year and a half.
I could help him with that.
You don't know Graham. We'd better cut this bitch down.
Christ Billy, didn't I just tell you not to flick your ash on the goddamned floor?
Karen (Summer 2004)
Again, I worked at the table on the balcony. I worked hard and well and happily to begin with, while Suzy cat-napped on the sofa. My notes began to evolve from mere jottings into lengthier explications. I was writing again. I was doing my job - and doing it well.
Then Suzy stepped outside to announce her imminent departure. I'm going to take the boat, she said. Is it safe, I wondered. It makes sense, Suzy said, not answering the question. But, I said, will it get you there? It's pretty antiquated. It's a Seagull engine, Suzy said, as if that ought to count for something. Well, don't get drunk and drown yourself, I said. That wouldn't be very good at all. She planted a kiss on my cheek. You worry too much, she said.
Suzerain: a ghost story Page 22
