by Clive Barker
“You like that?” she whispered.
He replied with short expulsion of air, almost a grunt, as he pressed his sex back into her, and the next instant withdrew it almost entirely. She let him do so without protest; the emptiness was delicious, as long as she knew it was only temporary.
She reached up and put her arms around his neck, knotting her fingers at the base of his skull. Then, oh so slowly, she preempted his return stroke by raising her hips toward his.
He spoke again. This time she heard what he said.
“Oh Lord in heaven . . .”
Slowly, slowly, she took him into her, both of them tender from a night of excesses; the line between bliss and discomfort perilously fine. As she rose he started down to meet her motion, and the image of him she’d had in her mind’s eye lost its particularity, his substance dissolved in the wash of pleasure. The gleaming darkness of his limbs spread behind her lids, filling her thoughts completely. He was quickening now. She urged him on, her urges incoherent. No matter; he understood. She didn’t need to tell him when to redirect his pressure, she’d no sooner formed the thought than he was doing so. And before he lost control of his body and came, she was distracting him from his crisis, slowing her own motion so as not to have their pleasure end too quickly.
So it went on, for two hours, almost three: sometimes a contest—jabs and sobbing; sometimes so quiet, so still, they might almost have been asleep in one another’s arms. They made no declarations of love; at least nothing audible. They didn’t even speak, not even to call out one another’s name. There was no failure of feeling in this; just the reverse. They were so entirely immersed in one another, so entirely joined in their bliss, that for a short, sacred time they imagined themselves indivisible.
ii
Not so, of course.
The illusion passed when their bodies had been wracked to exhaustion. They lay beside one another shivering in their sweat, gloriously satisfied, but returned into their own skins.
“I’m hungry,” Rachel said.
They hadn’t gone entirely without sustenance since boarding The Samarkand.Though Galilee had returned the fish to the sea as an offering to Kuhaimuana—all thirty fathoms of him—he’d opened cans of shucked oysters and brandied peaches in the middle of the night, which they’d eaten off and out of one another’s bodies, so that the satisfying of one appetite didn’t interrupt the satisfying of the other.
Still, it was now midmorning, and her stomach was complaining.
“We can be back on land in an hour,” Galilee said.
“I don’t want to go,” Rachel replied. “I never want to go. I want to stay out here, just the two of us . . .”
“People would come looking,” he said. “You’re still a Geary.”
“We’d find somewhere to hide,” she said. “People disappear all the time, and they’re never found.”
“I have a house . . .”
“You do?”
“In a tiny village in Chile, called Puerto Bueno. It’s right at the top of the hill. A view of the harbor. Parakeets in the trees.”
“Let’s go there,” she said. Galilee laughed. “I’m serious,” she said.
“I know you are.”
“We could have children . . .”
The amusement left his face. “I don’t think that’d be wise,” he said.
“Why not?”
“Because I’d be no use as a father.”
“How do you know?” she said, putting her hand over his. “You might find out you really liked it.”
“Bad fathers run in our family,” Galilee said. “Or rather, one does.”
“One bad father out of how many?”
“One out of one,” he said.
She thought he’d misunderstood what she was saying. “No, I mean, what about your grandfathers?”
“There aren’t any.”
“You mean they’re dead.”
“No, I mean there aren’t any. There never were.”
She laughed. “Don’t be silly. Your mother and father had parents. They might have been dead before you were born, but—”
“They had no parents,” Galilee said, taking his eyes off her. “Believe me.”
There was something faintly intimidating about the way he said believe me. It wasn’t an invitation, it was a command. He didn’t wait to see if she’d obey it or not; he just got up and started to dress. “It’s time we went back,” he said. “People’ll be looking for you.”
“Let them look,” she said, sliding her arms around him from behind, and pressing her body against him. “We don’t have to go yet. I want to talk; I want to get to know you better.”
“There’ll be other times,” he said, moving away from her to pickup his shirt.
“Will there?” she said.
“Of course,” he replied, not turning back to look at her.
“What was it I said that offended you?”
“You haven’t said anything,” he replied. “I just think we should get back, that’s all.”
“Last night—”
He stopped buttoning his shirt. “Was wonderful,” he said.
“So stop being like this,” she said, irritation creeping into her voice. “I’m sorry if I talked out of turn. It was just a joke.”
He sighed. “No it wasn’t. You meant it or you wouldn’t have said it. You’d like to have children . . .”
“Yes,” she said, “I would. And I’d like to have them with you.”
“We scarcely know one another,” he replied, and started up the stairs to the deck.
She went after him, angry now. “What about what you said on the beach?” she demanded. “About watching for me? Was that just a way to get me here?” She followed him up the stairs. By the time she got on deck he was sitting on the narrow bench beside the wheel, his face in his hands. “Is that all this was about?” she said to him. “And now we’ve had the night together you’re just going to move on?”
He kept his face buried. From the sound of his voice, he might have been dead. “I meant nothing by any of this,” he said. “I just got caught up in the moment, and that wasn’t fair to you. It wasn’t fair. I thought you understood . . .”
“Understood what?”
“That this was just another story,” he replied.
“Look at me,” she said. He didn’t move; his face remained hidden from her. “Look at me and say that!” she demanded.
With great reluctance he looked up at her. His face was gray; so was the expression in his eyes. “I meant nothing by any of this,” he said steadily. “I thought you understood this was just another story.”
Her eyes pricked, she heard the whine of the blood in her ears. How could he be saying this? Her vision began to blur as the tears came. How could he sit there and tell her it was all just a game, when they both knew, they both knew, surely, surely, that something wonderful had happened?
“You’re a liar,” she said.
“That may be.”
“You know it’s not true!”
“It’s as true as any story I ever told you,” he said, looking down at the deck. She wanted to quote him back at himself on the subject of what was true and what was not, but she couldn’t remember the argument he’d made. All she could think was: he’s running away from me. I’m never going to see him again. It was unbearable. Ten minutes ago, they’d been talking about his house on the hilltop. Now he was telling her nothing he’d said was worth a damn.
“Liar,” she said again. “Liar, liar, liar.”
He got up and went into the wheelhouse, not looking at her once. He switched on the engine, and then flipped the switch to haul up the anchor. Between engine and anchor-raising there was quite a noise; any further conversation was out of the question. Frustrated, Rachel went below to dress.
The cabin was in total disarray, the pillows and sheets cast in every direction about the bed, her clothes scattered. She focused her emotions on a missing shoe for a minute or two, which kept the
tears from coming again. By the time she’d found the shoe and got herself dressed, the weepy feeling had passed, and she was almost ready to have a rational conversation.
Shoes on, she went back up on deck. The boat was ploughing through the placid waters at quite a clip, the wind cold and bracing.
“Look!” Galilee yelled to her, pointing toward the bow. She could see nothing. “Go see!” he urged her.
She climbed up past the wheelhouse and onto the forward deck to see what he was so anxious she see. There was a pod of dolphins keeping pace with The Samarkand, three or four of them racing to stay so close to the bow they were practically touching it, their bodies like velvet torpedoes as they sped along. Now and then a smaller individual—a juvenile, she supposed—leaped out of the water to one side of the boat or the other, the leaps decorated with a fillip of the tail or a half-twist of the body.
She glanced back at Galilee to show her appreciation, but he had his eyes on the island. There were rain clouds obscuring the heights of Mount Waialeale, as there had been the first day she’d arrived. It was just a short time since she’d been driving with Jimmy Hornbeck and they’d had their conversation about Mammon, the demon of acquisitiveness; but it seemed like weeks. No; more than weeks: another life. She’d been a different Rachel then; she’d been a Rachel who hadn’t known Galilee was in the world. For better or worse, that changed everything.
IX
The jetty had an occupant when they came in sight of it: a solitary figure sitting staring out at the sea. Rachel assumed the man was fishing, and paid him little attention. It wasn’t until The Samarkand was within a few boatlengths of its destination that she studied the figure more closely and realized that it was Niolopua. He’d risen now and was waiting at the end of the jetty, plainly agitated. Before the boat had even come alongside the jetty he leapt aboard. He took no notice of his father; it was Rachel he needed to talk to; and urgently.
“There have been messages for you,” he said, “from New York.”
“About what?”
“The woman wouldn’t say. She just told me to find you. Very important, she said. I’ve been looking for you since dawn.”
“Who was it you were talking to?”
“Mrs. Geary.”
“Yes, but which Mrs. Geary? Was it Margaret?” The man shook his head. “Loretta? It was Loretta?”
“The old one?” Niolopua said.
Before Rachel could confirm that yes, Loretta was the old one, Galilee had done it for her. “And she didn’t tell you what it was about?”
“No. Just that . . . this Mrs. Geary had to call as soon as possible, because there was something she had to know.”
“Cadmus,” Rachel said. The old man was dead, more than likely. “Come with me,” she said to Galilee.
“Niolopua can go with you. I’ll follow.”
“You promise me?” she said.
“Of course.”
“We need to talk.”
“I know. I understand. I’ll come in a while. Let me just take care of the boat.”
It was hard not to look back as she and Niolopua returned to the house; hard not to fear that Galilee was lying to her, and that the moment she was out of sight he’d cast off and sail away. But she had to have some faith, she told herself, if she didn’t believe the promise he’d made her, then there was no hope for them. And if he broke that promise, then there’d been no hope anyway.
Still, it was hard. The closer they came to the ridge of rocks which divided one bay from the other, on the far side of which she would be out of sight of the jetty, the more the temptation grew to cast just one glance over her shoulder and confirm that he was still there. She resisted successfully, but the effort of doing so must have been visible to Niolopua because once they were down on the sand again, with the house almost in view, he said:
“Don’t worry. He’ll come.”
She glanced sideways at him. “Is it that obvious?”
Niolopua shrugged. “He’s who he is. You’re who you are.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“That he won’t break his promise.”
It was only once she reached the house, and stood still for a few moments, that she realized how she’d lost some of her equilibrium from being on board The Samarkand. The floor felt unreliable beneath her bare soles, and she felt oddly queasy: a strange reversal of seasickness. She went into the bathroom and splashed some cold water on her face, then asked Niolopua if he’d mind making her some hot, sweet tea while she called New York. He was happy to oblige. She retired to the relative privacy of the dining room and dialed the mansion, wondering as she did so how to best express her condolences. Would Loretta expect her to be tearful at the news? Surely not.
The voice at the other end of the telephone was not one she recognized: a man with a Bronx accent and what sounded like a heavy cold. She asked for Loretta.
“Mrs. Geary can’t come to the phone right now. Who is this?” Rachel told him. There followed some muffled sounds as the receiver was passed over to somebody else. This time she recognized the voice. It was Mitchell. She felt a sudden spasm of panic—the way she felt when an elevator lurched between floors, and she feared it was going to stop. The prospect of entrapment loomed. “I had a message from Loretta,” Rachel said.
“Yes. I know.”
“Who was that I was talking to?”
“A detective.”
“What’s going on?”
“It’s Margie . . .”
“What about her?”
There was a short silence. Then Mitchell said: “She’s dead, Rachel. Somebody shot her dead.”
The elevator lurched a second time. “Oh God, Mitch . . .”
“They’re saying Garrison did it,” Mitchell went on. “But that’s just bullshit. He was set up. It’s just bullshit.”
“When did it happen?”
“Late last night. Somebody must have broken into the house. Somebody with a grudge against her. God knows, Margie could piss people off.”
“Poor Margie. Oh Lord, poor Margie.”
“You have to come back, Rachel. The police need to talk to you.”
“I don’t know anything.”
“You talked to Margie a lot lately. Maybe she told you something—”
“I don’t want to come back, Mitchell.”
“What are you talking about?” For the first time in the exchange there was some’ emotion in his voice; a mingling of rage and disbelief. “You’ve got to come back. Where the hell are you anyway?”
“It’s none of your business.”
“You’re out on that fucking island, aren’t you?” he said, his tone all anger now. “You think we don’t know about that place? You think it’s some big secret? I know what goes on out there.”
“You don’t have the first clue,” she said, hoping he heard the certainty in her voice.
“If you don’t come back, the police are going to come looking for you. Is that what you want?”
“Don’t try bullying me. It won’t work any more.”
“Rachel.”
“I’ll call you back.”
“Don’t hang up.”
She hung up. “You bastard,” she said quietly. Then, more quietly still: “Poor Margie.”
“Something bad?” Niolopua said. He was at the door with her cup of hot tea.
“Very bad,” she said. He brought the tea to her table and set it down. “My sister-in-law was murdered last night.”
“How?”
“She was shot. By . . . her own husband.” She was laying all this out more for her own benefit than for Niolopua’s; putting what was nearly beyond belief into words.
“Do you want me to go tell my father?”
“Yes,” Rachel said, “If you don’t mind. Would you ask him to hurry up? Tell him I need him here.”
“Is there anything else before I go?”
“No, thank you.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “She was a nice
woman.” So saying, he left her alone.
She took a few sips of tea, which Niolopua had sweetened with honey, then got up and went to the cabinet. If her memory served she’d seen a half-emptied carton of cigarettes in one of the drawers. That’s what she needed right now: a bitter lungful of carcinogenic smoke inhaled in memory of her Margie. Several lungfuls, in fact, and fuck the consequences.
The carton was where she’d hoped it was, but there were no matches. Taking her tea and the cigarettes, she went through to the kitchen. The vestiges of her land-sickness remained; not the queasiness, but the unsettling sense that the ground beneath her was rocking. She found some matches and went out to sit in the veranda, where she could watch for Galilee.
The cigarette tasted stale, but she smoked it anyway, thinking of the countless times she’d sat happily immersed in the cloud of smoke that hung about Margie, talking with happy purposelessness. If the victim had been somebody else, Margie would have been thoroughly entranced, she knew; eager to talk over every possible scenario of how the murder had come about. She’d had no sense of tragedy, she’d told Rachel once. Tragedy only happened to people who gave a damn, and she’d never met anybody who did. Rachel had said this was nonsense. Amongst all the important people Margie had rubbed shoulders with there’d been some who genuinely wanted to make a difference. Not a one, Margie had replied; cheats, liars and thieves, every last one. Rachel remembered the conversation not for Margie’s cynicism, but because there had been such disappointment in her voice as she spoke. Somewhere behind the veil there’d been a woman who’d wanted nothing more than to be proved wrong about what wretched bastards the movers and shakers of the world were.
Which thought led on, inevitably, to Garrison, about whom Margie had never said one good word. According to her he’d been—among other things—selfish, pompous and inept in bed. But these were minor felonies beside the crime of which he was now accused; and it was difficult for Rachel to imagine any circumstances in which he would pick up a gun and shoot his own wife. Yes, it seemed they’d despised one another; but they’d lived in a state of mutual contempt for years. It didn’t make him a murderer. If he’d wanted an end to the marriage, there were easier resolutions.