Suzerain: a ghost story

by Adrian John Smith

  This time, when she parts the curtain, she sees Moira Costigan striding down the harbour road from the car-park, wearing jeans and a black leather jacket, not seeming to mind the rain. Caroline watches her a moment longer, then she lets the curtain fall. She stubs out the cigarette she's just lit, then walks over to the bed, puts her wine back on the nightstand, slips off her dressing gown, pulls back the quilt and then reclines on the bed. She looks once at the water-stain. Then she closes her eyes. Downstairs, she hears a door bang closed. She knows which one. She bites her lip. There's a tear in her eye. For some reason, it feels like nineteen eighty-three. She listens for the first foot-fall on the stairs. It's been like this for days.

  She doesn't do drugs, she tells her, yet here she is, snorting cocaine and loving it, her eyes cracking wide, her brain crackling like cellophane crumpled in a slow hand, a smile trembling at the corners of her mouth. I don't sleep with women, she tells her, yet here she is, sucking at Moira's nipple while Moira, sitting on the edge of the bed, takes a good hit of the coke, throwing her head back, her teeth clacking together around a sigh, burying her hands in Caroline's hair. And here she is again, legs spread, Moira sucking her clitoris gently in and out between her teeth, Caroline disappearing into a point of light in the middle of her forehead, what's left of her presence of mind hoping that the sounds she makes won't carry into the street. I've never used a vibrator, she tells her, yet here she is, vigorously shafting a squealing Moira from behind with the bottom-of-the-range, huge black vibrator she'd bought at an Anne Summers party after Graham had failed to show sufficient interest in her new bedroom wear, Moira gripping the iron head-stead, thrusting back hard onto the vibrator, fuck me, fuck meeeee! Squealing. I'm never late for work, she tells her, yet here she is, lying face down on the bed, wondering why she's still here, still weeping, an hour after Moira has left, thirty minutes after Delores has started her shift. (I've got a headache, she tells Delores.) I don't do pills, she tells her, yet here she is, lying next to a snoring, farting, porcine Graham, adrift in a blue haze, strumming her clitoris, biting back her orgasm, tears of joy streaming down to her ears, thinking that if Billy's cock were inside her while Moira licked her, then life would be just perfect. Thinking she might suggest this to Moira, knowing she won't, that she wouldn't share either one. That she wouldn't take the risk. I don't worship you, she tells her, yet here she is, grovelling, licking Moira's bare feet, crying, licking between the toes, Moira - dominatrix in this game - calling her a pathetic cunt. I don't leave the pub in the afternoons, she tells her, yet here she is, rattling down the lane to Moira's house in Graham's ancient Land Rover with the graunching brakes and the gear stick which cracks out of her hand if she miss-times a shift. I don't do that tie-up stuff, she tells her, yet here she is, in the large basement room with the white-painted walls, watching Moira kneeling on the bed - the only piece of furniture in the room - watching Moira chain herself to the wall, snapping closed a steel collar around her neck, throwing a key across the room. Yes, I want you inside me, she tells her, kissing her. Yes, I want to be with you, she tells her, closing her eyes. Yet here she is, fifteen minutes later, climbing back into the Land Rover, rolling slowly up the drive, the gravel crunching beneath the cracked tyres. I fucking hate it when he guts the fish, she tells her, yet here she is, in the tackle shop in the harbour, buying the best - the sharpest - filleting knife they have. I think it's over between Billy and me, she tells her, yet here she is, back at the pub, phoning Billy, staring at Delores's pert, denim clad ass through the crack in the door, telling Billy she needs to see him. Christ, Billy says, I hope you're not fucking pregnant. Just meet me Billy, okay, she says. Ten minutes, at the end of the harbour wall. By the lighthouse. Can you make it? Billy can make it. Watching through the parted curtain in the room with the water-stain in the ceiling. Billy's van speeding up along the harbour. Billy not so much parking the van as dumping it. Billy's huge, angry strides, walking along the harbour wall. Two or three people walking back from the lighthouse, giving Billy a wide berth. I love Billy, she tells her, I really do. Yet here she is going out to meet him with a filleting knife inside a rolled-up newspaper. We had such fun, Billy, she tells him, yet here she is slashing the knife across his throat. Such a shame, she tells him, yet here she is, pushing him off the harbour wall with the sole of her boot, doing it easily because he's fallen to his knees, his eyes white and huge. Billy still clutching his throat even when he hits the water, wondering why he can't breathe, wondering where all the bright blood is coming from.

  She wants to tell them about the hole in her head. About the missing time. About how the day got away from her. How she hadn't been at the pub when they say she was. That Dolores must be wrong, must be lying, must be on drugs. She wants to tell them that the first time Moira had touched her she'd told her, Okay, I'm sorry your husband's dead, but please keep your hands to herself. That the second time she'd threatened to put her through the fucking wall. That the third time she had touched her, something else had happened. That it's a fucking lie that she'd gone back to Moira's to wash off the blood. How could that be true when she'd been at Moira's the whole time? That she'd never left. Not until she'd rushed home in time to take over from Delores. Another lie that she had been angry over Billy and Moira. Over their affair. She didn't know about that. Oh, she suspected, but she didn't know. And why was Moira saying this? Why was she lying? Ask her - ask her who was making love to who. And why would she go back to Moira's if they'd fallen out? Which wasn't the case because she'd never fucking left. Was never at the pub. Was never on the harbour wall. Was making love to Moira. She wants to tell them how a single kiss can last forever. That there's music in a kiss. But all they keep telling her is that they found a bloody knife hidden under the driving seat of the Land Rover. That a crab scuttled out of Billy's mouth when they fished him from the harbour. That they know she and Moira were lovers. That this gives her more of a motive, not less. That, okay, some things don't make sense. But that a knife with Billy's blood on it makes perfect sense. First the police, then the doctors.

  Suzy Out on the Town (Summer 2004)

  Suzy picks up the girl - Jocelyn, but you can call me Joss - at the bar in the blue flickering light of a Torquay pub which is trying very hard to be a club. There's an aura - or more the antithesis of aura - surrounding Suzy, like a black hole sucking in the light, as she tap-taps the long cigarettes which Moira favours into the ashtray on the bar. Drinks a long glass of a blue cocktail flavoured with rum. Fingers the silver locket against the slope of her breasts. She's dressed like an ad-man's vision of a whore. Short black skirt, black stockings with high-heeled boots. Moira's cracked leather jacket over a low-cut black T-shirt. There are guys - young, boisterous, fuelled on continental lager and group bravado - who stare at her, who start a move, but Suzy stares them down until each withdraws like a limp prick. Something about her scares them.

  When Jocelyn steps into the vacant space beside her, money in hand, glass slammed down firmly, Suzy puts a hook into her. Tugs at something which Jocelyn barely knows about herself. Buys her the drink - a vodka cocktail, house double with a late happy-hour discount. Suggests to Jocelyn that they move to a table. Listens politely, with a faint, red lipstick smile to Jocelyn's complaints. Which are that she's on a dormitory holiday with friends and who's fucking bright idea was that? Clare's, that's whose. There's, like, ten of them in one room for a week. If they ever speak again it'll be a fucking miracle. Fifty odd pairs of dirty socks, fifty sweaty T-shirts and, like, boxer shorts, knickers, thongs, damp towels. Simon and Samantha (and get these fucking names) screwing half the night in plain view and ear-shot which is pretty fucking rude and inconsiderate if you want to know Jocelyn's opinion on the matter, and would be even if Samantha wasn't a skanky cow (which she is) with a stupid eagle tattooed on her back. And then all trooping off to the beach in - what was the word? Unison? - like fucking lemmings and then all trooping back again in time to get hammered and bolloxed and twisted every fucking
night like they haven't got the rest of their lives to get through and in any case they're all Clare's friends so who gives a shit if they all fall out - right? And who can blame her if she wanted to go out alone tonight just to get some space for herself?

  Right, Suzy says. So, where's your boyfriend?

  He's gone to Dubai or Brunei or somewhere like that. Somewhere hot anyway. With his parents. Abu Dhabi? No. Definitely Brunei.

  So you're alone. Apart from Clare, apart from Simon and Samantha and all the little lemmings?

  Yeah. Fucking children. Hey, I like this track.

  Techno? Suzy says. It's starting to all sound the same to me. You want to go to a party Joss?

  Jocelyn doesn't flinch when Suzy reaches across the table and deftly teases a small, white petal from Jocelyn's long blonde hair. She drops it into the ashtray and burns it with the tip of her cigarette.

  A party? Sure, Jocelyn says. Where?

  Oh, just a little way along the coast. Friend of mine. She's got this big country house. She's also got a low boredom threshold and too much money. You know the kind. It'll be fun.

  How will I get home?

  Hey, don't worry about that. I'll see to that.

  I don't know, Jocelyn says, bites her bottom lip. The other guys - they might worry.

  I thought you didn't care about that.

  I don't.

  Then don't worry.

  I'll ring Clare, Jocelyn says. She takes her mobile from her white leather shoulder bag. She flips it open.

  Suzy eases the phone from her grip. Snaps it closed again. Let them worry, she says. Pay-back. She hands the phone back to Jocelyn.

  Jocelyn seems uncertain. Her thumb describes a nervous circle on the phone's silver plastic case. Then she makes up her mind. Yeah, she says. Fuck em.

  By the way, Suzy says, my name is Martha.

  It's spitting with rain in the premature dusk when they emerge into the street, Jocelyn unsteady on her feet but telling Suzy she's fine. Suzy takes her hand, leading the way. Odd how the gangs of garrulously drunk teenage girls fall into silence as Suzy approaches them, turning to watch her pass. Chip wrappers blow across the car-park entrance as Suzy leads Jocelyn to Moira's black BMW. There's a dark rain cloud over the sea. If Jocelyn notices that the rear number plate of the Beemer is smeared with mud, rendered illegible, then she doesn't comment.

  Suzy drives out westward along the bay, up onto the headland - the same deserted car park where Billy had hit Moira. Which isn't coincidence. It's dark now. The rain ticks against the windscreen. Suzy turns off the lights, then the engine.

  What are we doing here? Jocelyn wonders.

  You take drugs, Joss? Suzy says. Sure you do. Your generation - you all do drugs don't you? You and Clare and all the little lemmings.

  Actually, for your information, Jocelyn says - plumbing for indignation but coming up empty - I'm pretty straight-edge. The occasional pill is cool. Some dope. I don't do skunk though because it fucking stinks. Plus, it makes me fall over. Some coke sometimes. I tried acid once. Won't touch smack. Come anywhere near me with smack and I'll tell you to fuck off you fucking waster. A friend of mine brought some crack to a party once and that was pretty cool too. We all tried some.

  But apart from dope and crack and acid and coke, you're pretty straight-edge? Suzy dead-pans.

  Yeah. I don't like to lose it in front of people. You know?

  I know. Well, I haven't got any dope or crack. But, if you can bear to forget your nasty little puritanical streak for the evening, I've got some pills that'll help get us in the mood. You want to try one?

  Okay. Sure.

  Good. Here you go. A blue one for you. A red one for me. We'll have a cigarette, then we'll make our way to the party.

  Cool. What about driving?

  Fuck that. How old are you? This is about fun, not rules. You like to break a few rules Joss?

  Yeah. Sometimes. I suppose. I still think maybe I should call Clare.

  Forget Clare. Here, have a cigarette. How do you feel?

  I feel… - that's a strong pill. I hope it doesn't make me sick.

  Don't worry, Suzy says, it won't. You don't have to worry about anything. In any case, it's too late for that. Another five minutes, you won't care about a thing.

  Jocelyn lets out a long sigh. I don't now, she says.

  Suzy plucks the half-smoked cigarette from between her fingers and stubs it out in the ashtray. How do you feel now, she says.

  Like I'm melting into the seat. Like… she trails off with another sigh. Oh, she says, that feels nice. Really fucking nice. Where are we?

  Don't worry, just relax, Suzy says. She puts her hand on Jocelyn's thigh. Jocelyn lays her hand on Suzy's, closes her eyes. A smile breaks on her face and she rubs her cheek against her shoulder.

  Nice? Suzy says.

  Ur-hur, Jocelyn confirms. What are the red pills like?

  They make you burn. Like you're on fire.

  Are you on fire now?

  Like the sun, Suzy says. Like a volcano. You want to break another rule Joss?

  Jocelyn nods her head, grunts an affirmation.

  Have you ever kissed a girl Joss?

  No. Not like … ohhh. Not like, you know.

  You mean, not like this? Suzy says, kissing her closed eye-lids. Or this? - kissing her mouth. Or this? - her lips close to Jocelyn's throat. But it isn't a kiss.

  And thank god for late-evening, any-weather dog walkers. Because how much worse would it have been for Jocelyn, weeping, disoriented, drugged, rain-sodden and shivering, bleeding heavily from some very ugly, very difficult to close wounds in her neck - wounds that would later corroborate her version of events, that she'd been attacked, fucking bitten by a woman dressed like a whore - had she not been found by just such a stoic?

  Frank Tells (May 2003)

  A month or so later, Frank's sitting in front of the TV - slumped you might say - a scotch and soda almost pitching from his grasp. Since the Bad Thing - that awful business with Juanita - Frank's been watching a lot of TV. He's been drinking a lot of scotch and soda too. He's got barely a clue as to what he's watching, other than that it's a late-night, made for TV murder mystery. In so far as he's interested in it at all, his main preoccupation is in trying to decide whether or not the leading actor is wearing a toupee. You'd think it would be easy to tell but it isn't. This is what passes for intellectual stimulation during Frank's malaise.

  Meanwhile, with Frank adrift in this soporific, not-quite-shit-faced-but-getting-there state - with the half-empty scotch bottle and the soda siphon on the floor within easy reach so that Frank doesn't have to leave his chair for anything until it begins to feel as if a truck has parked itself on his bladder - Moira is out there in the pool, swimming length upon length in the light of the porthole lamps. (Moira's a great swimmer - which is something I haven't mentioned yet, but which maybe I should have mentioned, especially when I touched upon the suicide down near Chula Vista.) She almost always swam naked and there was a time when Frank would have wandered out to the pool just to watch her propel that goddamned beautiful body through the water with the light breaking up all around it. He doesn't though, and not just because he doesn't want to or because he can't summon the will. Moira's writing again now, and she's full of commitment and energy. This is Moira in yet another guise, wearing yet another mask, saturating herself in yet another persona. This is Moira working. At the time it had felt to Frank - even in that hazy, whiskey fogged slump - that she had needed - no, had been waiting for - the Bad Thing - to propel her back to her desk just as completely as she now propels herself over and over, from one end of the pool to the other, that elegant little duck dive allowing her to change direction without losing momentum. So, for two hours every afternoon, and then another four or five hours from late into the evening and on into the early hours, the sound of her old Underwood typewriter rattles through the villa. Sometimes it keeps Frank awake, sometimes it doesn't. It's a sound which proclaims, I am working; a sou
nd which says: Don't you dare fucking disturb me. Pure, mechanical fury. And before she writes, she swims. Length upon length until she's figured out exactly what she's going to write, and then she moves from the pool to her work-room at the back of the house, pausing only to throw on a bathrobe.

  But this time, instead of going straight into her room to write, she pads into the living room, into Frank's somnolent domain, wearing only a blue and white striped beach towel clutched tight at the small of her back, her free hand finger-combing her wet hair.

  Frank raises a heavy arm by way of greeting, but he doesn't speak in case he betrays the slur which is bound to throw a rope around his tongue. Besides which, Frank's not proud of where he is, but it's not something he's willing to talk about. Not tonight. It's a conversation waiting to happen alright - with Moira playing the wife again, with work back into her life, and with the coke, along with that awful fucking abrasiveness, now out of her life - but not tonight. Just not tonight, is how Frank feels about it.

  But Moira, as usual, has other ideas. Frank, she says - gently, kindly - when are you going to stop this?

  This? Frank says. He looks at his glass, sees that he'd been on the verge of spilling its contents into his lap. He uses the glass to gesture at the TV. When I find out who the murderer is, he says. No - when I find out is this asshole, Mr Clean there, when I find out if this asshole is wearing a hair-piece.