Enormity

by Nick Milligan

  I follow McCarthy for another ten minutes, winding up long, forest roads. Night settles in and I turn the headlights on. McCarthy has too. I can see his red brake lights glow in the distance, as he slows to negotiate the tight curves in the road. As I follow him around a sharp bend, we turn into a long stretch. Ahead of me, McCarthy slows down and turns left into an obscured driveway. I ease my speed and cruise past where he turned, pulling on to the shoulder of the road about one hundred metres on. I park the car and sit, alone in the moonless night. I can’t see beyond the windscreen.

  I sit in the driver’s seat for a minute, thinking. I haven’t been paying enough attention to the turns, so I don’t have much idea where I am. There are no other cars passing by. Maybe there’s nothing out here.

  I open my door and step on to the road, locking the car behind me. Using the light on my mobile phone I head back, looking for where McCarthy turned off. I find a narrow, gravel drive that ploughs into the forest. I keep the light low to the ground, trying to be quiet on the small stones shifting beneath my feet. I hear insects and birds argue in shrill chirps beyond the glow of my phone. Something rustles in the ground cover. But a different noise chills me. Something that makes my flesh rise in goosebumps. Beyond the trees I can hear a sound piercing through the night, echoing into the same void that I’m trying to navigate with each precarious step. It’s the sound of an electric guitar. It’s unaccompanied, wailing on its own, as if calling me to it. I know the song. I thought I was the only one. The guitar is playing ‘Like A Hurricane’.

  After another fifty metres, I arrive at a giant set of gates. If I was honest with myself, this is where I expected to be. My phone illuminates the broad, grandiose entrance. Written in wrought, cursive metal is the word Godiva.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  I’m underprepared. Through Godiva’s gates I can just make out the lights of Brannagh’s mansion. I hear voices in the distance. Jovial conversations. But they’re too far away to be deciphered. The guitar continues to howl and I feel sick when I realise that it’s me playing it.

  I’m bolted to the ground. I need to make a decision to investigate further or turn back. The perimeter fence of Godiva is tall and effective. But there would surely be a way in. Or a way over. The unrelenting darkness does not make my plight any easier. I’m not sure if there’s a chill in the air, but I’m shaking. Somewhere inside me is an alarm bell. I feel like a surfer that sees the dark shape in the water. The ripples of danger before the frenzy.

  I find my way back to my car. I need to regroup. To rethink my strategy. I will try to sneak into Godiva’s grounds. My curiosity is strong and it’s now hard to ignore the theory that Brannagh knows something about the clandestine group that is exploiting me. Convincing girls to disappear.

  Since landing on this planet, it’s been my desire to observe as much as I can. I’ve had the predicament of a wildlife documentary director, standing by as the cheetah closes in on the baby gazelle. It’s not my place to interfere. Nature must take its course. I’m not here to act as a moral compass. I’m just a man among the natives, learning their ways. But that plan hasn’t really worked out. In a flash I lost control. I became a celebrity. The most loved figure in music. My blind wish to not take the wheel and steer has led me very far off course. The cold streets became stretch limousines. Homeless shelters transformed into satin sheets and supermodels.

  I decide to hide my car somewhere. I’m sitting here on the side of the road, in plain view of any cars that cruise past. I’ll find somewhere up the road where I can pull into the tree line. I turn the key in the ignition and the engine quietly clicks to life.

  The headlights project into the night. My entire body lurches when I see Natalie standing in front of the car, staring, smiling. That mischievous expression. She’s wearing a white dress. She walks around to the passenger door and taps on the glass. I disengage the central locking and she enters, sliding into the seat and closing the door behind her. I re-lock the vehicle.

  “Hi, Jack,” says Natalie.

  “Natalie,” I say, turning off the engine. I flick off the headlights and the night is again uninterrupted. Just the glow of the dashboard illuminates the car.

  “What brings you out to this part of the world?” she asks.

  “Probably the same thing as you.”

  “Really? What’s that?”

  “I decided to get away for a few days, so I’m heading for Godiva. I think I just missed the turn off.”

  Natalie is grinning and it unsettles me. “Michael said you paid him a visit today.”

  “Michael’s my accountant.”

  “He’s here at Godiva. It’s a strange coincidence.”

  “Are there any normal coincidences?” I ask.

  “There’s actually a little party,” says Natalie.

  “At Godiva?”

  “At Godiva.”

  “What an unusual coincidence.”

  “Do you want to accompany me?”

  “I don’t know. Do I?”

  “I think you do.”

  I don’t respond.

  “Brannagh’s throwing a get-together. A big dinner. He’ll be very happy that you’re here.”

  I unlock the car and step outside. I then open the rear door and sit behind the driver’s seat. “Why don’t you join me back here for a few minutes,” I say, articulating it as a request.

  Natalie looks back at me from the passenger seat. She’s still smiling. “Sure, why not.”

  My passenger climbs into the backseat. She sits pressed against me, immediately forward with her body language. Eyes only for the jugular. Natalie moves her face close to mine, as if to kiss me. I turn to face her. With my right hand I take a fistful of her dress, grasping the material just below her bust. I then push her back into the seat, slowly asserting pressure on her diaphragm. I know I’m causing her pain when both of her hands grab my forearm, trying to move my arm away.

  “Jack,” she gasps, “you’re going to be rough, are you?”

  “I want to know things. I don’t think you’re going to tell me, because you like to tease. So I’m going to have to squeeze the answers from you.”

  Natalie releases her grip on my arm, instead putting her hands on my cheeks. “Keep hurting me,” she says, softly. “You’ll turn me on.”

  I release my fist from her abdomen. I could beat Natalie to death and she still wouldn’t give up that coy smile.

  “What am I going to do with you,” I say.

  “The mind boggles.”

  I slump into the seat. Natalie leans in and kisses me on the cheek. “Aww, c’mon Jack. Don’t stop. I’ve been wanting to see more of your dark side.”

  “Why?”

  “Personal interest.”

  “I don’t think my dark side is well hidden.”

  “We’re not just light and dark. We’re millions of shades.”

  “So what shade are you now?”

  Natalie rolls forward and throws a leg over me, straddling my lap. She pulls my face into hers and kisses me on the mouth. “I think I’m a dark shade of pink,” she says. As Natalie kisses me again and our tongues joust back and forth, I admit to myself that interrogation is not my strong suit. Natalie takes my lower lip between her teeth, pulling on it before she lets me go.

  Although I’m resigned to the fact that Natalie isn’t going to tell me anything, I probe in a desperate tone. “Natalie, will you please tell me what the fuck is going on? Tell me what you know about Brannagh.”

  Natalie sighs. “Jack, we both have our secrets. Don’t pretend that you’re not keeping things from me.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t have secrets.”

  “DNA, porcines, bringing a girl back to life,” lists Natalie. “You’re a work of fiction.”

  I don’t say anything. I just look away, defeated. Natalie runs her hands through my hair and lightly strokes my face. I can tell she feels a strong affection towards me, but we’re at a stalemate. I also d
on’t have any reason to trust her, especially if she’s working for Brannagh.

  “What if we trade information?” I ask.

  “Ah,” says Natalie, “now you’re talking my language.”

  “I’ll tell you something if you tell me something.”

  “That sounds nice,” she says. “But first we should go to the dinner party.”

  “Why? Why can’t we just talk now?”

  “Because they’re expecting me to bring you to the party. I can’t leave you out here.”

  “How do they even know I’m here?”

  “You were on the security cameras at the front gate.”

  “Oh.”

  “Now listen to me carefully,” says Natalie. “Pay very close attention.”

  “Okay.”

  “When we’re in Godiva, get involved, okay? Go along with everything and enjoy yourself. You can’t act strangely in there. You’ve got to be a rock star. Be wild. That’s what they want from you.”

  “I suppose I can do that.”

  “And this is very important. Believe whatever Brannagh tells you. No matter how crazy it might seem, agree with him and believe him.”

  “What could he possibly be wanting to tell me? If it’s something to do with me being the fucking Messiah-”

  Natalie puts a finger to my mouth to silence me. “Whatever he tells you,” she reiterates, “convince him that you believe every word he says.”

  “Fine.”

  “When we leave here, we won’t be able to talk in the car. So drive me straight to the Pluie Tordue and check us into the Emperor’s Suite.”

  “Can’t we go back to my place?” I ask.

  “No, we can’t talk at your place either.”

  “Alright, if you say so.”

  Natalie kisses me again. Then she says, “We’d better get to this dinner party. I hope you brought your appetite.”

  The car approaches Godiva’s gates. Natalie tells me to wind down my window. Next to the entry is a small telecommunication box on a thin metal stand. A crackled voice emerges.

  “Yes?” asks a man’s voice.

  Natalie leans across me and says, “It’s Natalie. I have Jack with me.”

  There’s no response, but soon the grand metal gates creak to life. They pierce the night with a deep moan. I lean my head out the window and listen. The electric guitar has stopped.

  As I roll the car up the long paved driveway toward Godiva, dotted lights appear on each side of the path.

  “Everyone will be very happy to see you,” says Natalie. I sense her excitement.

  “That’s a nice dress,” I say.

  “Thank you,” says Natalie, smoothing the material on her stomach. “Who did it belong to?”

  “A girl I used to see.”

  “Was it Jemima’s?”

  “How did you know?”

  “Good guess.”

  “How do you really know?”

  “I heard you were fucking the wife of the singer from Known Associates.”

  The colossal, illuminated outline of Godiva emerges from the blanket of night, stretching in front of the car as the dark trees part. Around the circular driveway are guests’ vehicles, all stately and expensive. Box designs. Large chunks of over-priced conservatism. To my left is McCarthy’s Empyrean.

  I pull up opposite the steps that lead to the main doors and two men in long black coats, probably valets, approach the car.

  “Good evening,” I say to one of them.

  “Jack, welcome,” he says. “We can park your vehicle for you, if you’d like to make your way inside.”

  The two valets open our doors and Natalie and I exit. I hand one of them the keys and he sits in the driver’s seat and parks my sedan in a space at the end of the row.

  “I heard someone playing an electric guitar earlier,” I say to Natalie, as we ascend the steps. “Who was that?”

  “They’ve been playing lots of electric music,” says Natalie. “Which song are you talking about?”

  I smile at her. “You just said ‘they’ve’. Not ‘we’ve’.”

  “That’s an interesting observation.”

  I open one of the two front doors and then stand aside. “After you.”

  “Thank you, sir,” says Natalie, taking my hand and leading me inside.

  There is music playing and it builds around us as we walk through the grand foyer and living area. The song is ‘The Wind Cries Mary’. It’s my version, not Hendrix’s. Over to the right is the white grand piano and beyond it the wide steps climbing to the top storey.

  We walk through another living area and I still can’t see anyone, but I can hear voices outside. Through an archway we move past the dining room, with its grand twenty-seat table. Two chefs in white uniforms are placing dishes in the table’s centre. Their culinary creations are hidden beneath steel domes. There is a setting in front of every chair. The waiters smile as I pass. There is an array of aromas, all warm and inviting. Perhaps a roast dinner of some kind. Spices, herbs, seasoning and, above everything, cooking meat.

  We continue toward the outside voices, which are laughing and whooping. Someone jumps in Godiva’s pool and a cheer erupts.

  “Let’s join the fun,” says Natalie. “Don’t forget. You’re the star attraction here. Everyone wants to bask in your glow.”

  As Natalie and I step into the alfresco area and across to the edge of the rear lawn, the eyes of many young, pretty things turn on me. Three reclining girls, naked from the waist up, are smoking and drinking at a nearby glass table.

  “Jack!” they exclaim, almost in unison. They rise from their seats and circle me, each pulling me into a relieved embrace.

  Their faces are familiar. They’re three of the missing girls. I smile back, asking them how they are, feigning a casual demeanour. As I make friendly conversation, I watch Natalie walk across the perfect green grass, under the white outdoor lights towards the pool. Michael McCarthy and a few other men are standing by the water in their business suits, chatting and holding beers. Natalie greets them, kissing each politely on the cheek. Martin Brannagh looks relaxed in his deckchair, drinking a spirit as the rest of the girls splash in the crystal blue, shimmering water or sit on its edge, their hair hanging wet down their backs, talking and laughing with each other.

  Brannagh sees me, smiles and waves me over.

  “You’ll have to excuse me, ladies,” I say. “I’m being summoned.”

  “Come back and talk to us,” says one of the girls, who I think is called Marcy.

  “I promise I will,” I smile.

  I cross the yard and Brannagh stands, opening his arms. He hugs me. “Jack, you made it.”

  “I’m sorry to intrude,” I say. “I didn’t realise there was a gathering.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous! You were invited. You’re always invited.”

  “Yes, but I… didn’t get a specific invitation,” I smile. “So I feel a little awkward.”

  Brannagh’s expression turns serious. “Jack, I knew you would come. You heard the music and you arrived.”

  “I heard a guitar before…” I say.

  “We’ve been playing music,” repeats Brannagh, smiling again. Then he gestures at the people around us. “Look at all these delightful creatures I’ve kidnapped.”

  “I can see that,” I smile. “Do their parents know where they are?”

  “Oh, I certainly hope not,” he replies, with a wicked grin.

  “So, the missing girls…” I say. “They’re friends of yours?”

  “No,” replies Brannagh. “They’re friends of yours.”

  “And they’re all here?”

  “Almost. There’s some that couldn’t be with us. Stephanie isn’t here. She’s having some work done.”

  “I see,” I reply, looking around. I notice Britney standing in the shallow end of the pool, wearing only a pair of white bikini bottoms. She raises her hand from the water and waves at me, smiling.

  “Everyone seems very happy tha
t you’re here,” says Brannagh. “We’ll be having dinner soon. You’ll be staying?”

  “Yes.”

  Michael catches my eye and gives me a small wave. His grin is friendly but there is an alert flicker in his eyes. He will have told Brannagh I visited him and asked questions about my finances. While the visit alone might not have aroused suspicion, simply because my behaviour is erratic, my arrival at Godiva is more than a coincidence. Brannagh and Michael, who are clearly up to mischief, will have suspicions.

  Brannagh sits me at the opposite end of the table from him. We have a clear view of each other down the line of colourful platters and bowls of decadent and exotic cuisine. The girls remain in their state of undress. No modesty above the waist. Those that entered the pool have a towel wrapped around their hips. Nudity at the dinner table might violate certain hygiene guidelines, but I let it slide.

  Michael and his friends have removed their jackets, but remain in their business shirts and ties. Their modesty seems a great imbalance. I also observe that Brannagh’s daughter, who I believe is McCarthy’s fiancé, is not here. I don’t know her at all. Perhaps she avoids these get-togethers. Or isn’t invited.

  Natalie sits to my right, her hand occasionally reaching for my leg under the table. Nothing particularly suggestive. Just a warm and encouraging squeeze, as if Brannagh is some potential boss or client that I need to impress. Natalie has remained in her dress, which is unlike her.

  I cut small pieces off the thick slice of roast meat on my plate. It’s good, cooked rare and melts in the mouth, but I’m not hungry. Everyone at the table chatters to one another, either ignoring me or too nervous to engage the great Jack in conversation. The girls occasionally glance in my direction, but when I look back their eyes dart away as if they’re shy. Perhaps intimidated.

  I empty the remaining liquid in my wine glass with a quick gulp. Despite his distance, Brannagh notices my vacant glass and immediately gets the attention of one of the waiters. They stand against the wall, hands crossed in front of them, wearing crisp black and white uniforms.

  “Could we please bring Jack some more wine,” says Brannagh, with a wave of his hand.