The Beresford

by Will Carver

  They found themselves standing around the table once more, as though that minute had never happened, and they were midway through their discussion, but clearly they were not. They had Mrs May in front of them twice. Once on the floor dead and the other decanting a bottle of red wine.

  ‘I’ll tell you, this carafe was worth every penny. Very sturdy to stand up to the blow you gave me.’ She itched her temple where the other version of Mrs May had been hit.

  Gail was somehow embarrassed.

  ‘She wasn’t lying to you about the one-minute thing, Irving. It may be difficult to swallow, but it is true. You have seen it for yourself, now. And I was not lying to you about your dreams. They can become a reality. You can have what you want.’

  ‘So, what, you’re going to tell us that you are the Devil, are you?’ Feisty Gail was back in the room.

  Mrs May laughed heartily.

  ‘Of course not. I’m really not that important. A minion at best.’

  She went on to explain that she was a collector. Some people have cupboards filled with paperweights, or they buy a thimble from the different towns they visit, or it’s teddy bears, old books, classic cars, jazz vinyl … Mrs May had none of that clutter. She collected souls.

  It was her job.

  She had given hers up a long time ago. God had forsaken her as he so often did. He was not answering her prayers, so she prayed in a different direction. Hoping her cries would be heard.

  ‘You’d be shocked at how many people have literally no idea what they want in life. You ask someone for their favourite film and they falter, instead, giving you a list of ones they do not like. People want things: smaller thighs, bigger breasts, their mother-in-law to contract a mysterious wasting disease. But a soul is worth so much more than that. It must be the thing you absolutely desire the most.’

  For Mrs May, it was simple, she wanted more time. Her husband’s illness had progressed too quickly and there was no time to do the things they had always dreamed about doing together.

  So Mrs May had begged for time.

  She was given an extra year with him. In return, her soul was no longer her own, and her eternity would be spent at The Beresford, collecting the souls of others.

  ‘It was worth it. I swear to that.’

  Gail and Irving found themselves buying into it, believing everything the old woman said. She had reappeared a minute after her own death and was now standing next to her dead self. Was it so much of a stretch to accept that she had convinced Sythe to relinquish his soul in exchange for artistic notoriety?

  The fact that she was so calm about everything only made her seem more credible.

  Most people are more upset to have been murdered.

  ‘Listen, I don’t want you to give me an answer right now, too much has happened. What I want is for you both to go back to your apartments. You have a few minutes. Imagine the building is engulfed in flames and you can only take one thing. I want you to grab that one thing and bring it back to me.

  They both left without saying a word.

  Irving was intrigued.

  Gail was starting to feel the control that Mrs May seemed to have over her. Though she had not used the unborn baby as leverage yet.

  Once they’d left, Mrs May kicked the dead Mrs May to roll her forward and underneath the dining table. She pushed her chair beneath the table, too, so that she did not have to look at herself.

  Gail returned with a bunch of keys, and Irving had his laptop slung over his shoulder.

  ‘That was quick. But the good news is that you both seem to have the capability to choose the one thing you need or want the most.’

  ‘So, in return for my soul, you can guarantee my son will be born safely and thrive throughout his long, illness-free life? That’s what you’re saying? And for that, I get to spend forever in Hell.’

  ‘Well, as you’re already here.’

  ‘What? What are you talking about now?’

  ‘Oh, my dear. You think the greatest trick He ever pulled was convincing the world that He didn’t exist? It was convincing the world that they were living on God’s green Earth. God is defeated. He’s checked out. And His Earth is now our Hell.’

  The old lady persisted with her final explanation. She told the young pair that it was the great lie that somebody invented Hell. Fear is a powerful tool. If you tell the world that they will end up in a pit of fire for all eternity if they are not good in life, if they do not worship a good Lord, if they are not fearful of a God, then you have created something evil, something to avoid. But the truth was that had never occurred. What had been created was the idea that humankind lives on Earth, it was a more positive message. A solid marketing campaign.

  That way they would never question or realise where they really were.

  ‘Sell your soul, don’t sell your soul. Live at The Beresford, live somewhere else. Wherever you are, you’re in Hell.’

  FIFTEEN

  Turns out that it was as simple as signing a contract.

  ‘Just like the one you signed before you moved in here. The kind that says that I get to keep your deposit if you stop paying what you owe me.’

  There was no crossroads. No ritual. No blood-letting or human sacrifice. They would not be surrounded by men in cloaks or branded in any way. Again, these were the lies perpetuated to obscure the truth that there was no Hell after Earth and there was no Hell on Earth.

  Hell was Earth.

  And it was getting worse with every passing day. So why not make the most of it?

  Mrs May had sold this story a thousand times before. Sometimes she would use a person’s desperation, like she had with Sythe. And it helped that he drank a lot, too. With somebody like Abe it was a longer game. She could have done it faster but there was no sense of achievement with obtaining an easy soul. It was worth more for the person to dig deep and find their desire.

  Irving had stayed quiet throughout the explanation. He had only been at The Beresford a little over a month. He had not seen anything out of the ordinary. He had been endeared to the old lady and was warmed by Gail’s apparent optimism.

  He had not strangled a neighbour or melted their flesh or slit their throats. He knew nothing of that. He was a simple man with a complicated vision of his future. And he found himself looking towards Gail rather than the soul collector.

  Mrs May took a step back. She had made Gail kill for her unborn child. She would let her reel in Irving.

  ‘Look at me,’ Gail said. ‘You hear everything she is saying. You have seen what you have seen here tonight.’

  The old lady almost smiled, Gail was going to do the work for her.

  ‘Look at the choice you made. You could save one thing in the world and it was a piece of technology. Your laptop. Because that is where you keep your dream, right? That is where your life’s work is. That’s your screenplay. It’s your music and photos. It is who you are.’

  Irving nodded at her.

  ‘And I grabbed my keys. Because the thing I want most is my son’s safety, right?’

  ‘Right.’ Irving nodded his head like he was psyching himself up in his agreement.

  ‘Wrong.’

  The old lady’s eyes widened in the same way that Gail’s had when she walked back through the front door of her building. Not dead.

  ‘I want to get out. I want my fucking freedom. And my baby’s freedom.’ She turned to Mrs May. ‘I’m sorry, you do put across an interesting offer, but you have just confirmed that you are out of your fucking mind.’ Back to Irving. ‘Come. Now.’ She grabbed his hand. They had been comfortable physically since their first meeting. He followed her to the front door.

  They stopped at the threshold.

  ‘I’ve got my keys. We get in the car and drive. You take your laptop, your work. It’s still with you. The dream is still alive.’ She was emphatic, convincing.

  ‘Be careful, now.’

  Mrs May had never said that somebody had to be killed, they were always allowed to leav
e. Part of her wanted Abe to get out, she could see his end. There was nothing she could do to stop Gail and she certainly would not be able to stop Irving.

  ‘You’ve had your say, old lady,’ Gail was getting feistier by the moment, ‘I am not against grabbing something and smacking it around the side of your head again. Let the man think.’

  Gail looked at Irving. He hoiked his laptop up onto his shoulder and she pulled at his hand to take him outside.

  Mrs May was in the doorway. Silent.

  ‘Come on. Let’s do it. Let’s go. The Beresford is Hell. Not the planet.’

  They were walking away.

  Irving stopped.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  At first he said nothing.

  ‘Don’t. You don’t need to. Come on. You’re talented. You work hard.’

  ‘You go.’ He spoke softly and certainly.

  He never said that he was going to stay, that he was going to sign that contract and risk it all. Sell his wonderful soul. He just started walking backwards, keeping his eye on that brave, pregnant woman who was going to chance her arm. She had been told that she was in Hell and she was going to make the best of it.

  Drive right through.

  Keep going through Hell.

  Irving was, too, in his own way.

  He stepped back into The Beresford. Mrs May sidled up next to him. She didn’t look smug that she had won, but you could see that she knew she had.

  What do you want, Jordan Irving?

  Everything.

  Gail cried for Irving.

  Mrs May closed the door of her building.

  So it was done.

  SIXTEEN

  Gail continued to weep in the driver’s seat of the car she had arrived in all those months ago, when she ran away from a situation she thought was hell. She looked into her rearview mirror. Irving was in the apartment with the Mrs Mays and was signing his life away.

  Or his death.

  His remaining time would undoubtedly be filled with artistic blockbusters and awards and sex and money. What the old lady hadn’t explained was what happened after. Irving may not become another soul collector. He may be whipped for eternity in a pit of fire while being raped by demons.

  She hoped he was reading the small print.

  It had been nearly a minute. She could see a young man in his twenties with a large duffle bag over his shoulder, walking up the drive to the house he thought was an absolute steal. He had a dream and thought that the low rent would afford him the opportunity to pursue that.

  She could wind down her window and warn him.

  She could put him out of his misery by running him down on her way out.

  But she was done with The Beresford.

  It wasn’t her problem.

  She threw the car into gear. Somehow, she had less than she had arrived with, but she didn’t care. She was out of there. Once again, driving in one direction. She didn’t know if it was north or south-east. It didn’t matter. It was away.

  The roads were winding. It was dark. Gail was in her head.

  Hell on Earth? Hell is Earth? Earth is Hell?

  She tried to think back to her childhood. Nothing.

  College. Nothing.

  A time when her husband was not a piece of shit. Something, but perhaps it wasn’t real. Maybe that was another of her dreams. She was creating a person that she wanted rather than a person that she had.

  Driving. Winding. Darkness.

  Could she have guaranteed her child’s future? Increasingly she was certain the life inside her was a boy. He was going to be born. Born into Hell, if what the old lady had said was true.

  Driving. Steering. Stopping.

  She was home. Her old house. Like a carrier pigeon, she had automatically returned to the place she was from.

  Was it any worse than The Beresford?

  She pulled into the drive, got out and walked up to the front door. Gail didn’t know what to do. Should she let herself in or ring the bell? Did it matter? Did anything matter anymore? She was feeling increasingly nihilistic. Not that life was predetermined, but that it didn’t matter what we chose.

  She let herself in.

  It was quiet.

  ‘Hello?’ The first part of the word came out with a nervous croak. She asked again. ‘Hello?’

  Cautiously, Gail stepped into her old home. Into the hall, past the empty lounge and into the kitchen. She was so nervous she didn’t realise she had left the front door open behind her.

  The kitchen was a mess, but it looked as though her husband had been cooking for himself. There was a chopping board on the side with a dirty knife resting on top and some dried tomato seeds and garlic skin.

  Her husband was not there but he wasn’t far away. And he had, predictably, been drinking. When he got back and saw that the door was open, he clenched his fists and entered. Naturally, he clenched his teeth, too. He was ready for whatever was going to come at him, he thought.

  He wasn’t ready for Gail.

  ‘Fuck. Gail. You’re home. You’re back.’ The tension in his hands released.

  ‘Don’t you dare tell me you want a sandwich.’

  She found herself somewhat pleased to see him. The familiarity, perhaps. The difference to her time at The Beresford.

  Nobody wants their life anymore.

  She hated herself for feeling that way.

  ‘Are you home?’ he asked, looking like a little kid.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  He was hopeful. Then he spotted her bump.

  ‘What the fuck? Where have you been? What is that?’

  ‘It’s yours. Don’t worry.’

  ‘Oh my God. A kid. A dad. I…’

  Gail watched him. He went from elation to loathing in no time at all. That’s when she knew that Mrs May had been telling the truth. It didn’t matter where she went, she would still always be in Hell.

  ‘You knew you were fucking pregnant. With MY kid and you ran away. You weren’t even going to tell me, were you?’

  Ordinarily, Gail would have submitted to him. She would have apologised for what she did, taken a backhand or three. But not with that innocent boy growing inside her. He was going to be the size of a rutabaga soon. Whatever that was.

  ‘Shh,’ she told him.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Shhhhh,’ she repeated.

  ‘Don’t you come back here and tell me to—’

  The knife was in his stomach. The blood was mingling with those dried-on tomato seeds from whatever he had made himself. Something more than a drunken sandwich.

  She pulled the knife out, and he grabbed at the wound.

  That first stab was for him. The next ones were for her. Two into the chest. One into his shoulder. A slit across both biceps. He was drunk and losing blood and couldn’t move. She had complete control over his life and how he would die.

  Castle dropped to his knees.

  Gail pressed her heel into his chest and pushed him back.

  He was weak and heavy, but Gail managed to flip him over. She laid herself down on top of him and whispered into his ear, ‘You like it when I put my weight down on you like this? It’s fucking awful isn’t it? How about this?’ She stabbed the tip of the knife deep between his legs.

  ‘You like that, huh? You fucking like that?’

  He was crying. This was his end. The tears were tinged with a sense of relief.

  She spoke into his ear one last time. ‘You’re already in Hell, you fucking drunk. Where you’re going is worse than this.’

  Gail gripped his hair in her left hand and ran the tomatoey blade across his throat then stabbed it into the back of his neck for good measure.

  She did not have to sell her soul. Nobody was going to hurt her son.

  Gail went to the front door and shut it. Her husband was dying. Not long, now. And she was going to watch him.

  The Beresford was behind her. Whatever happened there, whatever rules and routines occurred in that strange place with
its eccentric owner, would happen only there. That’s what she told herself, what she had to tell herself.

  Castle’s breathing was laboured, and his pulse was weakening. Gail could see him slipping away. He would have grabbed at his throat if Gail hadn’t cut through the tendon attaching his bicep to the bone. He could no longer flex his arm.

  He would never again raise his hand.

  This is not The Beresford, Gail told herself. Nobody else is coming.

  Castle stopped moving.

  Gail slid her back down the kitchen cupboard, sat on the floor and smiled as she exhaled her relief.

  The knife was still in her hand. She started to count.

  Sixty…

  Fifty-nine…

  Fifty-eight…

  Just to be sure.

  In a minute, she would be free. Free of her abusive husband. Free from Mrs May’s offer. Free of The Beresford.

  The building had changed her, made her weaker, made her act out of character, irrationally at times. It had tried to trick her and make her believe that she was starting a new life when she was, actually, being broken down further. Too weak to say no to the bargain.

  Take the deal.

  Get what you want.

  Give me your soul.

  Gail knew that the bell would not ring, she knew that Mrs May only operated within the walls of The Beresford; that giant purgatory. Gail would be free, she would have her child, she would protect it with everything.

  She didn’t take the deal but had still got the thing she wanted most. Gail was strong. And whatever place she found herself to be would be a Hell of her own making.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  This has been a strange year. I haven’t seen that many people. I don’t usually see that many people, anyway, but it has been fewer than even I am used to. I haven’t been ill. I’ve kept writing and working and not sleeping.

  I have to acknowledge my wonderful publisher, Karen, who has been hit hard in these unprecedented times. Yet she still managed to publish my last book and sign me up to write more and support me in my efforts to up my output and publish this stand-alone alongside the series we have worked on for the past few years. I don’t know how she does it. I’m thankful for the editorial feedback, the encouragement and the daily texts.