Suzerain: a ghost story

by Adrian John Smith

  Frank smiles a little ruefully. I'm not jerking off, he says.

  In the heady, early days - coming back from Canada, introducing Moira around, feeling like a love-struck kid - times they found themselves parted they would sometimes do stuff over the phone, but even then, afterwards, Frank would feel like he'd been on the wrong end of a joke which he didn't quite get.

  No, Moira says, not that. We can do that after we're divorced. When our respective spouses are asleep. We can do it instead of Christmas cards. No, I just want you to have a look at something for me. Tell me what you think.

  What is it, Frank says, a manuscript? I'm not up to reading a manuscript Hon, he says. It's late.

  No, it's not a manuscript. It's a piece of film. I had a couple of drinks with Clarissa last night and this commissioning editor guy was there. Channel Four. He mentioned that he was looking for interesting shorts for a five minute slot after the news. I said I had something for him. Now I'm a little worried that I might have over-sold it. Would you mind Frank? You know how I value your opinion. If it turns out that it's crap then I can pull out before I embarrass myself.

  Is this film, film. Or video? Frank says.

  Digital, you old dinosaur. Would you mind? Moira says.

  No, I don't mind, Frank says. Moira had acquired an interest in shooting stuff herself on the set of Trams, and though she only picked up a camera occasionally, she'd produced some quirky footage, her technical naivety lending the images a certain freshness. Plus, she had a good eye.

  She tells him that there is a disc in the second drawer of her desk. Frank says, okay, give me your number, I'll call you back when I've watched it.

  No, Moira says, I'll stay on the phone. I want to hear your immediate thoughts. You can talk me through it. Why don't you fix yourself a drink?

  Which is what he does. When he's taken his first sip of whiskey he picks up the phone again, asks Moira if she's still there. Still here, Frank, she confirms. He hears a woman's voice in the background.

  Who are you with? he says, crossing the lobby.

  I'm alone, Frank, Moira says. Quite alone. Tell me when you get to my desk. Okay.

  Frank enters Moira's study. He stands over her desk. Okay, he says.

  Second drawer, there's the disc, Moira says. It's marked Diablo.

  Frank's heart skips a beat.

  Frank? Moira says.

  Nothing, he says.

  I thought the line had gone dead, she says. Have you got it?

  Frank opens the drawer. The disc is laying on a fat pile of types pages. Got it, he says. Diablo, he reads.

  Oh, and while you're there, there is something I'd like you to read, but you can do that at your leisure.

  Where is it? Frank says.

  A manila envelope, Moira says. It's underneath my typewriter.

  What is it? Frank says, a script?

  No, it's a couple of stories. One of them about Canada. I finally managed to get something down about that. I owe it to you to … well, you know.

  Frank slips the envelope from beneath the typewriter and tucks it beneath his arm, trying to ignore the mounting conviction that something is about to hit him hard.

  Frank's got a DVD projector and screen in his study. There's a couch where he and Moira would sit to watch stuff - old stuff, new stuff. Sometimes just a movie they'd rented. He drops the envelope onto his desk, fires up the machine, puts in the disc, takes his drink and the remote with him as he settles on the couch. He's left his smokes downstairs but it's one of those days when he's trying to cut down so he decides not to go fetch them. He puts the phone on speaker mode and sets it on the arm of the couch. Okay, he tells Moira. All set.

  Put it on mute, Frank. Okay, she says. There is a soundtrack but I want us to be able to hear one another. Besides, you may find the soundtrack a little hard to take, and I want you to concentrate on the images, which is your forte. Okay Frank, she says. Play the film.

  Blocks of digital information appear, disappear. Appear again. Then Frank's looking at a shot of a place he recognises.

  Pause the film, Moira says.

  Frank pauses.

  What does the counter read? Moira wants to know.

  Five seconds, Frank says.

  You recognise the mise en scene, Frank? Moira says.

  Frank sips his drink. It's LA, he says. It's the villa.

  What else, she says. Day or night?

  Night, Frank says.

  Anything else? Moira says.

  Well, as usual, Frank gripes, with this fucking format there's too much background light. No depth. The swimming-pool lights have saturated everything.

  That's very interesting Frank, Moira says. But don't worry, you'll be able to see what you need to see. You notice anything else?

  Not really, Frank says. I'm looking at a shot of the hall-way. It's dark. There's light from the pool lights. That's it.

  Right, Moira says. But there's not enough light thrown on the floor to obliterate that shadow. Is there?

  Frank looks at the floor. He sees a shadow. Bottom left hand corner, barely in shot. Part of a head, part of a shoulder. He can't be sure, but it looks like his own shadow - sparse hair ruffled up like a Halloween clown. I see it, he says. What-

  The date, Frank, Moira cuts him off. Look at the date.

  I'm looking at it, he says. His voice is calm, but the glass trembles when he puts it to his lips.

  Why is that a significant date, Frank? Moira says.

  You know why, Frank says, his voice lower, his voice with an edge.

  Say it, Frank, Moira says.

  Fuck you, Frank says.

  Okay, fuck me, Moira says. Play the film Frank. There's going to be a jump-cut to another camera in another six seconds.

  Frank plays the film. Blocks of data shrink and vanish. New ones appear, coalesce. Then, a fresh camera, a fresh angle. The camera placed high in the room. Darkness with muted illumination where the pool lights bleed through the drawn drapes. Then a light blazes. Two shocked faces, a naked man. This time there's no doubt. The mouths of the faces move, but, of course, there is no sound.

  Oh look, Frank, Moira says. There's Paco. And - look - there's Luisa. Your two water-babies!

  Frank feels sick. Someone in the room starts in with a low moaning sound. It's a second before Frank realises the sound is emanating from himself. The same second in which he realises that he's biting the back of the hand which holds the remote.

  And who's that!? Moira says. It's Uncle Frank. Note the hairy back. The fat ass. Turn to face the camera. Smile. That's it. Good. Now, just what is Uncle Frank doing without his clothes on. And just why is he doing that when there are children in the room?

  Frank stops the film.

  Are you still watching, Frank? Moira wants to know.

  I've killed it, Frank says.

  Don't you want to know what happens next? It gets better. By which I mean worse.

  The life has dribbled out of Frank like piss. His glass slips from his hand and spills over the couch. How did you do it? he says.

  I didn't. You did, Moira says. You just saw.

  You manipulated the image, Frank says, clinging to a very flimsy straw.

  Oh, come on Frank, Moira says, you know better than that. You remember, don't you?

  I went to bed. You woke me up. Then I went back to sleep. That's all, Frank says.

  No, Frank, Moira says. I know you remember some of it. Fragments. I know you dream about it. They always do. That's why they think there are holes in their head. And don't you remember, after you exposed yourself to those children, don't you remember waking on top of me, as if you were forcing yourself on me. And me still hand-cuffed to the bed. Crying and handcuffed to the bed? Oh, I really did a number on you. Watch the rest of the film, you'll see.

  In the background - Moira's end - Frank hears a woman laugh. It isn't Moira.

  Are there copies? Frank says, knowing the answer. There had been dreams, in the days of his LA malaise. Then, just
yesterday, a break in the weather, the sun had caught him in the eye as he drew back his rod to cast a lure into the river and, blinking away the glare, he'd seen the terrified face of Paco - the same face he'd just seen on his projector, in his study, talking to his wife on the phone, this dark parody of a dedicated couple.

  Of course, Moira confirms. You think you're dealing with a fucking amateur? I know you'll waste your time looking for a way out Frank, but, believe me, there isn't one.

  I'm going to kill you, Frank says.

  Please don't bluster, Frank, Moira says. It's so fucking tedious.

  Frank shakes his head. Bluster, he says, feeding off his own horror, his anger, his once again being on the butt-end of the joke. No, not bluster. The very next time I lay eyes on you, you're going to die.

  Frank, Moira says, let me apprise you of the situation. I've got friends. Loyal friends. You'd be surprised just how loyal my friends are, once I tell them what I know about them. You think I threw this project together in five minutes? One word from me, this little cinematic treat hits the web. As in, world wide. You hurt me, kill me, same thing. You're fucked, Frank. Accept it. You're fucked.

  You think? Frank says.

  I know, Moira says. I'll tell you what, since you saved my life and everything, I'm going to tell you how I did it. The short version? I can leave this body, this hunk of meat, any time I choose. So long, that is, as there's somewhere else to go. A sweet young thing down in Palo Alto, for instance. A fat fuck of a failed film director. The stuff I made her do, the horrors I planted in her head, no wonder she drowned herself. As for you, Christ, that gut! Have you any idea how fucking scorched your lungs feel? But when you came, that was pleasurable enough. I really think you should watch the rest of the film, you'll see just how much I made you enjoy yourself.

  Okay, Frank says, enough. Do you think this half-baked bullshit is going to throw a scare into me?

  It's not bullshit, Frank, Moira says. And it already has. Accept it. You want to know where Moira Craft is? That wet little bitch who washed up in Canada - she's cringing down inside me even now. Cringing in a corner. Just like you were when I was inside you.

  Who are you? Frank says. Who are you really?

  My name is Martha, Moira says. And I've been around for a very long time.

  You're fucking crazy, Frank says.

  A very long time, Moira goes on. I've been in that house, I've made love in every room, when that house was not two years old. I killed someone there. I put a hatchet in her head Frank, right there in that house. Now, enough history. Here's the deal. I want your fat ass out of my house by the time I get back from London. I want you to go see Ashley Brent - how is Ash by the way?

  Frank doesn't answer.

  Okay, Frank's lost his tongue. Go see Ashley Brent, make a new will. I want the house. I want the money. I want your movie rights, royalties. Everything. I want the hundred grand you've ear-marked for those fucking brats of yours. That'll help off-set what I lose on your insurance, because, as we know, those fuckers are sniffy when it comes to paying out on suicides. Oh, did I just hear a penny drop? Okay, after you've attended to business, then, sweet love of my life, then, in a place of your choosing - I really don't care so long as it's not England - you, sweet love of my life, you will end your misery.

  You cunt, Frank spits. I'm going to cut your fucking heart out.

  Make sure your body is identifiable Frank, Moira says. No body, no good will from me. I'll keep the film extant, of course, just in case. But I'll make sure it's never released. You can trust me on that, Frank. Because poor little me, well, the last thing I need is that kind of scandal - it's exhausting. Especially when I've got kids to raise.

  Kids? You told me you were sterile, Frank says, looking for any flaw, any hole in the plot with which to bring the whole narrative tumbling down.

  Have you listened to a word I've said, you fucking nit-wit, Moira says. I don't have to stay here, in this body. Who would have thought that butter-wouldn't-melt little bitch had gone through a botched abortion? She's going to pay for that. When I'm done with her, with this flesh, I'm going to drown her like a fucking dog. I'm going to give you until the twentieth of May. I know how stubborn you are, you fat prick, and I know you're going to flounder around looking for a way out. So, I'm giving you time to accept this new reality. But if you're not dead on the morning of the twenty-first, you tub of guts, then - well, think how Jesse and Jane will feel after they've seen their old man in action. Oh, and by the way - you know what I'm really looking forward to? Selling that hunk of shit you've got moored in Loxham harbour. Jesus, what a waste of fucking money. Goodbye Frank. Oh, listen, don't drink too much. Remember that you have to pack in the morning.

  If this were one of Frank's films, this scene, he'd have the actor playing Frank smash up the DVD projector in a rage. Throw it through the fucking window. But this isn't a film. So Frank just sits in stunned silence for several minutes. Then, because he needs to know, he watches the rest of the film. Which makes it easier, because once he's seen what he's done, he actually wants to die. The next morning, he starts packing. He feels doomed. He is doomed.

  On the plane to LA he opens the manila envelope he'd taken from Moira's desk. He reads both stories. One is about a woman called Martha. The other is about Canada. Taking them at face value, taking them in the context of last night's events, he goes to the rest room, stuffs his knuckles in his mouth and begins to scream.

  It's a hard flight but he pulls himself together. He decides not to roll over and die. In LA he starts to make enquiries. He has a mental list of the cast of reprobates that Moira calls her friends. It's a long list. One night, two weeks later, sitting in a wrecked recording studio, the guts of a fifty-thousand dollar mixing desk strewn over the floor, a producer called Steve Roadstone morosely wiping blood from his face, Frank gives up on his enquiries. The sheer proliferation of possibilities is too much for him. Too much for the time left. He flies to Madrid. There are days of wandering which lead to this room, this night. This final night.

  Frank wipes tears from his eyes. The girl is asleep. He finds that he doesn't care. He wakes her, asks her to leave. He's got things to do. A thirty-eight makes a very big hole.

  Karen (Summer 2004)

  The weather has turned ugly and ill-humoured. The wind gathers a driving rain; a nostalgic rattle against the sea-ward windows. I lie in the dark, totally still, totally silent, listening to the gusts and the fall between the gusts, until I feel separate from time, separate from myself, not thinking about Suzy; not thinking about Moira. Before dawn I shuffle myself to Suzy's side of the bed and breathe the quiet scent of her pillow. Breathing in Suzy. Breathing in Moira.

  The morning blows in grey and slanted with rain. The river has a grey as gun-metal look to it and there is a white wash driven over the dull red rocks across the river. I don't want to go out into that weather and so I put off the moment with coffee and cigarettes until my throat grows sore and a perceptible tremble inhabits my fingers. After studying both sides of an ordnance survey map, I decide to drive across Dartmoor.

  It's almost one o'clock before I steel myself, put on my walking boots and nylon jacket, pitch out through the rain and into Suzy's 2CV. She hasn't been using it - David's boat has become her principle mode of transport - and I wonder if it will start. After three attempts - there is smoke, there is a rattle and a heavy, grumbling vibration - the car grudgingly honours its obligation.

  An hour and a half later I'm lost in a Twilight Zone of narrow, high-hedged lanes with which my map seems to have the most tenuous of relationships. The wind bullies and rocks the little car with the struggling wipers and the exhaust fumes rising through the floor. Leafy branches fall into my path and crash to the road in the rear-view mirror, making me acutely aware of the 2CV's soft, canvas top. The afternoon is sunk in a preternatural gloom. Sullen, rain-sodden sheep stir reluctantly from the roadside and disappear into the low tunnels they have made through the gorse and heather. A fox
darts across the road, so close and quick and then gone that it's like an image caught in a strobe-light.

  When I luck upon a road cutting across a swathe of open moorland the rain hits the car side-on and perfectly horizontally, and when I flip open the window to jettison a half-smoked cigarette the rain drives through the car's interior like grapeshot and stings my face so that I close my right eye against it. I manage to laugh from the exhilaration. But when I park nose on into the wind I feel my loneliness in the passion of wind and rain.

  I pass isolated pubs and resist the urge to stop. In a small copse beneath a curdling sky I pause to watch a herd of ponies sheltering from the storm. A foal scrapes its hoof experimentally against the edge of the road until its mother emerges to guide it back into the trees. I find this touching beyond words.

  I decide not to walk, emerging from the car only once to pee in some bushes and, while I'm out of the car, to study a babbling stream from a gravel bank. A few minutes of this is enough to thoroughly wet my hair. My return journey is frustrated by lanes closed by fallen branches, a car which had been driven half off a narrow bridge, quickly-forming queues of traffic which seemed to accumulate from nowhere, forcing all involved to co-operate in complex manoeuvres of shuffling reversing. I'm tired and hungry when I drive down the winding road into Yarlmouth close to an early nightfall. There are palm branches lying supplicant along the embankment; rubbish blown and scattered from bins. Deep waves running along the river. The rain-slick streets are deserted. Abandoned. And then there's a woman running in the rain and my heart leaps because I think it's Suzy. But it isn't. I haven't seen Suzy for days.

  It's almost three weeks since she went to her writing class, met Moira, and then began, in broad strokes, to extricate herself from our relationship. She is due back at work next week, but I wonder. Either way, she is lost to me now. And still I hope.