One of the genial waiters nods and takes a red wine bottle from a small stand to his right. He then fills my glass with the deep red beverage.
“I’ll have some more too,” smiles Natalie, motioning towards her near-empty glass. The waiter abides.
“Jack, how is your writing coming along?” asks Brannagh, his voice booming across all other conversations. “I’m sure everyone here is dying to know more about what you’ll be working on next.”
All talk stops and every eye redirects at me.
“The next record is coming along well,” I smile, leaning back in my muscular, high-backed seat. “I’m working on a ballad called ‘No Woman, No Cry’, which I’m happy with.”
“No woman… no cry?” asks one of the girls, who I’m fairly certain is called Jessica.
“I know, it sounds strange. But, phonetically, it works very well in the context of the song.”
Everyone stares at me blankly, as if I’ve admitted a penchant for torturing small animals.
But Brannagh’s weathered face grins and says, “Well, I’m very intrigued. Nobody here would dare question your judgment on songwriting.”
“I’m not opposed to criticism,” I smile.
“No, of course,” replies Brannagh. “Any other songs in the works? Something we might be hearing on the radio soon?”
“I’m working on another big, rolling ballad called ‘Wish You Were Here’, which I’m very happy with so far.”
“Fine news,” smiles Brannagh. “And you’ve nearly finished your tour. Have your fans been taking good care of you?”
“Excellent care, as always,” I say, and sip some of my wine. As the curve of the glass distorts my vision, I notice a black shape near the roof, up to the right, in the corner where the ornate ceiling meets the wall. It’s over Brannagh’s shoulder and he can’t see it.
When I put the glass down I stare at the shape. It’s a spider, the size of my fist. That’s large by Earth standards. By Heaven’s standards it’s a baby.
Brannagh notices my stare and follows my line of sight. He jolts from his grand chair and is against the opposite wall in half a second. He turns white as a sheet, pressed against the edge of the room, moving slowly towards the arch of the living room behind me. The rest of the dinner party notices the arachnid and their reaction is of equal horror. They leap from their chairs as if the room is ablaze. They too move past me and into the adjoining living room.
I’m now alone at the table, but I remain in my seat. I recline into the soft upholstery of the tall backrest, bemused by everyone’s reaction. I chew my mouthful of food and then unfold my white, linen tablecloth and casually dab the corners of my mouth. I then stand up, slowly pushing my seat away.
When I glance back at the dinner guests, all huddled in the next room, staring nervously at the creature, I notice that Natalie is watching me. I turn back to the arachnid. It has remained in a crouched position in the high corner of the room.
As I carefully walk in its direction, I recall that on Earth tarantulas cannot climb walls or jump. While this spider is tarantula-like in appearance, I know that it can indeed scale walls swiftly and is smart enough to capture prey of any intellect. They would love to be able to study this specimen on my home planet. It could unlock secrets to evolution that will otherwise remain in the dark.
“Stay away from it, Jack!” squeals one of the terrified girls. I think her name is Jessica.
“It’s fine, everyone. Remain calm,” I call over my shoulder, as I walk and stand beneath it. The spider doesn’t move.
“Jack!” yells Brannagh. “That thing is deadly.”
“Marty,” I reply. “Don’t be a coconut.”
I stare up at the arachnid. “Friend,” I say to it, “while I enjoy your company, you will need to leave. It’s nothing personal.”
The spider is still. There is silence in the room now, my crowd of onlookers taught with fear and amazement.
“Friend,” I say again, stepping over to the door that opens onto the outdoor area, “you will have to leave.”
Then, as if it understands, the spider slowly uncoils and takes a step towards the floor. I hear the guests gasp. I remain perfectly still, my arm still locked in its gesture to vacate. The arachnid, like a dejected teenager, traipses down the wall until it reaches the floor. Then, in complete obedience, it walks past me and out into the paved entertaining area. I watch as it steps to the grass and then makes its way across the back lawn, its eight legs shifting up and down with fluid majesty.
“Close the door,” says Brannagh, peeling away from the crowd in the living room. The colour of his tanned face returns as I slide the glass door into place and lock it. He steps to my chair on the other side of the table, resting on it and staring at me. “That was quite a party trick,” he adds.
I just shrug. “They’re more frightened of us then we are of them.”
“Trash,” says Brannagh, chuckling. “They’re hunters and killers. I’ve lost family members to the poison of those creatures. Even the little ones will happily chase you down.”
“Perhaps that one was house-broken,” I smile.
I see Natalie continue to study me over Brannagh’s shoulder. Brannagh picks up my half-full wine glass and walks around the table to offer it to me. He is close now. “There’s more to you than meets the eye,” he says.
“Depends who’s looking,” I smile.
Later, when everyone’s sprawled around the living room, drinking and chatting, I excuse myself and go to the bathroom. Rather than attend the main bathroom downstairs, I head up to the second storey. At the top of the stairs, to my right and at the end of the corridor, is a small washroom. I lock the door behind me. I lean over the basin and splash cold water on my face. I pull the hand towel from its silver ring and slowly dry away the moisture.
I examine my pale, thinning features in the mirror and say, “Hello, Godiva.”
There’s a slight pause and then Godiva answers, her voice emitted from a small speaker on the wall. “Hello, Jack. Welcome back.”
“Thank you,” I say. Then I ask, “Can we talk privately?”
“My voice is only active in this room,” she replies.
“Can our conversation remain known to only you and me?” I ask.
“If that is what you want,” replies Godiva.
“It is,” I reply.
“Then this conversation will be known only to you and me.”
“Even if someone asks you if we had a conversation, I need you to lie. You must never tell anyone that we spoke.”
There is a pause. Then Godiva says, “I can comply.”
“Has anyone ever been harmed in here? In this house?”
“Yes,” replies Godiva.
“When was the last time? What happened?”
“One week ago. Six-forty-seven in the evening. Mr Brannagh cut his toe on broken glass. A superficial wound that did not require medical attention.”
“And what about before that? Who else has been injured?”
“A young man. Approximately twenty-three years of age. He was sedated in the kitchen.”
“Sedated? Why?”
“The young man was unable to be calmed by conventional means. It was determined that he was a danger to himself and others. He was throwing glassware.”
“Who was the young man?”
“I do not know.”
“Where did he come from?”
“He entered my home through the side entrance, next to the racquet-ball court.”
“Which direction did he run from?”
“My censors end at the edge of the immediate garden, but I believe he was running away from the labbia enclosure.”
“What happened to him after he was sedated?”
“He was removed.”
“Carried?”
“Yes.”
“Through which door?”
“The doors that open into the rear garden.”
“Can you tell me how heavy he was?”
“He was sixty-two units.”
I know that I’m seventy-two units, which equates to about eighty-four kilograms. I was ninety-four kilograms when I landed here. Sixty-two units in Heaven is very light for a young man. That means he was either short or gaunt.
“What was Mr Brannagh’s reaction to this young man being here?” I ask.
“Mr Brannagh was very concerned.”
“Was he expressing anger towards the young man?”
“He was concerned. The tone of his voice and his behaviour suggested that he was worried about the young man’s welfare.”
“Who carried the young man from the home?”
“Two of Mr Brannagh’s security guards.”
“And it was a guard that sedated the young man?”
“Yes.”
Suddenly there’s a knock at the bathroom door. “Yes?” I say.
“Jack? It’s Britney. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I reply. “Why would you think otherwise?”
Britney doesn’t reply. I open the door and am greeted by her smiling, cherub face. She is still naked from the waist up, wearing a white sarong and white bikini bottoms.
“Aren’t you cold?” I ask.
“It’s hot,” she replies.
“You should be more modest,” I reply.
“Isn’t your message to condemn inhibition? To be completely free from social expectations?” asks Britney. The speed of her questions gives them away as recitation. But she is not quoting anything I have ever said.
Britney looks up with her wide blue eyes, brimming with blind belief and joyful reverence. When someone presents you with unwavering love and admiration, it’s difficult to not be engaged by it. Even if it makes you uncomfortable.
“It is,” I smile, deciding to play the part. I pull Britney against me in a warm embrace. She presses her head against my chest, squeezing me in her young, vulnerable arms.
“Who were you talking to?” asks Britney, still holding on to me.
“I wasn’t talking to anyone, I was just verbalising some new lyrics. I do that sometimes to see what they sound like out loud.”
“Oh, okay,” says Britney, satisfied with my answer. “Mr Brannagh asked us not to pester you too much, but do you think later you might sing for us?”
“I don’t see why not,” I reply. Then I add, “We should probably go back downstairs.”
“We don’t have to go down straight away,” says Britney, who leans against me, pushing me slowly backwards into the bathroom.
“Really?” I say, taking a step backward.
“Yes, really,” smiles Britney, who puts her hands on my chest and closes the door behind us. She moves me until I’m leaning against the basin. Then, without any prompting, she lowers to her knees.
“I thought we weren’t going down straight away?” I ask.
The night is warm. This seems to be the perpetual temperature at Godiva. The party’s guests alight to the pool’s edge. One of Brannagh’s maids is kind enough to bring me a pair of white cotton shorts that I can use as swimming trunks.
I’m standing in the shallow end of the pool, smoking a cigarette. I have an elixir standing on the pool’s edge that I sip every so often. Six of the girls are standing around me, asking questions. Just casual things. They quiz me on my band and our music. They have lots of inquiries about the progress of our world tour and what we’ve been getting up to. I regale them with a few anecdotes, wry observations and witty repartee.
One of the girls, a slender brunette named Mia, asks me about the lyrics to some of the songs I’ve released. “Who is ‘Ever Fallen In Love?’ about, Jack?” she asks, with a cheeky smile. “It sounds like she hurt you.”
I smile and take a sip of my elixir. “Does it have to be about someone in particular?” I ask.
“It seems like it is,” replies Mia.
“It’s hard to explain,” I say, “but my songs are rarely about one girl in particular. There might be a girl that inspires the song, but then the characters become their own entity. When I sing the songs, I’m not picturing any one person. A girl might only provide the smallest seed of inspiration. But then the lyrics germinate.”
Mia steps closer to me and says softly, “Do you remember the night when you took me?”
“Of course,” I reply. The evening in question was an after party at a club that Brannagh owns. Mia and I had been flirting for many hours and at one point we were left alone in one of the private VIP rooms. Mia was sitting on the edge of a pocketball table and I started kissing her. She wrapped her legs around me and without further coaxing I penetrated her. I was drunk and high and loving life. But if I had been sober and evaded the situation, Mia would not be here. She might be somewhere safe, away from this questionable shindig.
“I think about that night all the time,” she says. “I think about how badly I want you to take me again.”
“Be patient,” says one of the girls, putting her arms around Mia in a comforting embrace. “We have eternity to spend with Jack. There’s no hurry.”
After more casual banter in the pool, I lift myself from the water and step over to the cabana where there is a pile of white, clean towels. I’m drying myself when I notice Brannagh standing next to me.
“We’re close aren’t we, Jack?” he asks.
“Sure,” I reply.
“There’s something I need to share with you.”
Once I’m sufficiently dry, I retrieve my shirt and follow him into the main entrance room, past the grand piano and down the corridor next to the main staircase. The hallway has more rooms off it. There are three servants’ quarters and a games room with lounges and a large flatscreen on the wall. At the end of the hallway is a set of stairs that descends to the vast wine cellar. Brannagh flicks a switch and the stairs are lit. I follow him down, the walls turning into sandstone. The cellar is very plush and atmospheric. Polished floorboards with small uplights dotted in them, spaced evenly, light the many rows of wine. The bottles lie in their cradles. Everything is eerily still.
Brannagh leads me to the very far corner of the cellar. We face a narrow rack of wine that stands alone from the other rows. He smiles at me for a moment and then reaches out and twists one of the bottles about ninety degrees in a counter clockwise direction. The entire rack then slides to the right on a well-disguised rail system. A moment later an area of the sandstone wall recedes and slides into itself, revealing a hidden door. The owner of my record label revels in his voluminous sense of drama.
Behind the wall is another staircase. It leads downward. It occurs to me that there is probably dozens of secret areas in this mansion. Lots of hidden things. I follow Brannagh down the narrow stairs and then along an equally narrow, darkened corridor. The path twists and turns, passing closed doors. Eventually it opens into a chamber. It has a high ceiling and when Brannagh switches on the chandelier, an elegant, finely furnished room appears. There is a long dining table at one end and a communal area at the other, which harbours an array of lounge suites and futons. I wonder what sort of gatherings Brannagh has here and why I haven’t been invited.
“Nice place,” I say.
“I’m glad I can finally bring you here,” smiles Brannagh. We walk over to the far wall, which has a deep red velvet curtain hanging along its length. “I’d like to show you something very precious to me.”
At one end of the curtain Brannagh pulls on a thick, gold cord and the flowing crimson screen parts at its centre. I step back to admire this possession he keeps locked away in the bowels of Godiva. Behind the curtain is a wide, tall glass case. Inside is a human skeleton. It has been assembled perfectly, hanging with its arms by its side. But it’s slightly different to most. The shoulder blades are much larger, reaching down the back of the rib cage. Protruding from them is a pair of wings, extraordinary in diameter. The two colossal appendages reach to the far edges of the case, surely twenty feet from tip to tip. Just like the skeleton, they’re without flesh and skin, just th
e bare bones of two wings. It looks like an angel.
“Is this…?”
“It’s one of the Carver bones,” says Brannagh. “He found quite a few. More than he let on. Many of the bones went to museums and galleries, but some found their way to private collections.”
“I see,” I say, a little speechless. “How old is this meant to be?”
“It’s hard to determine, because they age at a slower rate,” says Brannagh. “Maybe ten thousand years?”
Natalie’s words ring in my ears. This is surely what she was referring to. I need to convince Brannagh that I believe him. I look up at the bones. “It’s beautiful,” I say. “So… did we evolve from this?”
“Not us,” says Brannagh. “You.”
“But I don’t have wings.”
“No, but your father did.”
“Oh?”
“In a mixed coupling, the wings are passed from the succubi. The winged woman.” We both look up at the bizarre specimen. “We used to share this planet with these magnificent creatures,” he says. “We lived in harmony with them. We even shared our beds with them.”
“So my father had wings?”
“Have you ever met your father?” asks Brannagh.
In the interests of maintaining my homeless orphan backstory, I give the only answer I can. “No, I never met either of my parents.”
“And you don’t have human DNA,” says Brannagh.
“Where are all these winged people now?”
“They left us.”
“Really?”
“They left our planet. They told us that they were needed somewhere else and they left. In one night they had all gone and we were left to our own devices.”
“Leaving lots of half babies.”
“Yes,” says Brannagh. “Those without wings couldn’t leave. Their DNA by now is completely diluted with our own. There are very few traces of them left in anyone.”
It concerns me that I’ve heard the words incubi and succubi on Earth. Back home they’re completely fictional. The fodder of juicy gothic fiction. But here, on this planet, nothing would fucking surprise me.
“So where do I fit in?”
“They promised to return one day, but first they would give us a gift. Something to prepare us and remind us of them,” says Brannagh.
Enormity Page 40