Suicide Club, The

by Quigley, Sarah

Lewis looks blank. ‘I just thought it’d help to be a bit older, so you’ve lived enough to have something to write about. Though considering what you’ve been through… that is, I guess you’ve seen too much —’ He stops and busies himself with the butter knife.

  ‘Some people can live to be a hundred and never notice a thing,’ says Bright. ‘But by and large you’re right. Authors are better middle-aged to ancient. Like Stilton. The more mature the better.’

  ‘Speaking of which,’ says Lewis thickly, ‘this cheese tastes a bit off. I thought the French were supposed to be good at cheese?’

  ‘Lewis, that’s butter.’

  ‘Butter!’ Lewis’ throat bulges. ‘Why didn’t you stop me?’

  ‘I thought you knew.’ Bright stares at him, fascinated.

  Lewis swallows gamely. ‘Damn! We’re a good pair this morning, aren’t we.’

  The word we. It falls so seductively amongst the crumbs, the smeared sugary spoons and the serviettes, all the debris of a shared breakfast. We, us, a pair of together-klutzes who trip over chairs and eat a quarter of a pound of butter. It could have been his father using such a word — but his father is far away in Florida, in another time zone, and has hired a kindly keeper to take his place. A kindly, stolid yet not unnoticing man who is being paid to deliver Bright to another country — and leave him there.

  THE ARRIVAL

  AN EMPTY STREET, LINED with flaring oak trees. Already autumn has dragged over the grass verges, leaving them sad and grey. And what about the sky? It’s grey, too, with a dark tinge over the mountains.

  A taxi pulls up outside the open gate. Two figures emerge. Both are pale. Travel sickness, exhaustion — or simply their natural state? They set down bags on the muddy pavement, stretch their arms towards an invisible moon. They could be brother and sister, with their long legs and their milky white necks.

  ‘So this is it!’ The boy pulls his cuffs down over his hands.

  ‘This is it,’ repeats the girl, putting one hand on the gate, swinging it on its hinges.

  The building floats on a sea of damp greenery. A few of the ground-floor windows are lit with a murky light. ‘Doesn’t look as grand as in the pictures,’ says the boy, sounding relieved rather than disappointed.

  The wind sweeps in at ground level, driving leaves in circles. The newly arrived pair stand still in ankle-high eddies. It’s freezing, it’s nearly dusk, but they seem reluctant to go inside. ‘We can leave if it’s terrible,’ points out the boy.

  ‘But we want it to work,’ says the girl, thin-voiced.

  They crack their knuckles, square their shoulders, like soldiers about to go over the top. Rooks swirl above the house, rising in columns, toppling like smoke.

  ‘Gate’s newly painted,’ says the girl, showing the boy a white palm.

  ‘Their equivalent of a red carpet?’ he says, trying to laugh.

  Up the path. Deep gravel, shifting under their heels. One step forward, half a step back. The building seems to retreat as they approach, and rose bushes grab at their sleeves. Will they ever make it?

  ‘No other houses in sight.’ The girl cranes her neck, pushes back her soft hair. ‘I hadn’t imagined it being so isolated.’ There’s a tinge of panic in her voice. Perhaps she’s a city person, more at ease amongst skyscrapers and trams.

  ‘They promised it would be peaceful,’ says the boy, putting his head down.

  Finally they’re at the stone threshold, cracked and dim. In the time it’s taken to get from the taxi to this large front door, night has rushed in.

  ‘Do we ring or just enter?’ The boy raises his hand, clutching his cuff close to his wrist. ‘Are we guests or —’ A light blazes on above their heads: paparazzi flash, gunfire, explosion, panic, racing hearts. ‘Shit!’ He shields his face. ‘That’s one hell of a security system.’

  Inside the light is dimmer. A vast foyer, lit only by a dusty chandelier missing most of its bulbs. They trudge across creaking parquet floor, the wheels of the girl’s suitcase leaving scratches like train tracks behind them. ‘There,’ hisses the boy. ‘A reception desk.’

  It is, of a sort. At least it’s chest-high and able to be leaned on, and there are old-fashioned key hooks behind it, but no keys. ‘I hope it’s not one of those communal places where it’s forbidden to lock your door.’ He sounds anxious, as if he’s not used hotels, hostels or anywhere where one can hear the sounds of a stranger in the next room.

  No one appears, in spite of the fact that they’ve made quite a lot of noise trundling over the ancient floor. ‘No bell.’ The girl peers behind the desk.

  Suddenly, from behind them, a voice. A very normal-sounding voice. ‘Oh, you startled me! I was just locking up for the night!’ It’s a small woman with braids coiled over each ear like glazed buns. ‘Weren’t you supposed to arrive tomorrow?’

  Were they? They look at each other. Neither has thought to double-check dates, because each is used to trusting the other.

  ‘I’m Gibby Lux,’ says the boy, flushing a little.

  ‘And I’m Lace McDonald.’ The girl steps forward. ‘We’ve —’

  The small grey woman holds up a panicked hand. ‘Don’t tell me anything! I’m just Admin. The professionals aren’t here yet.’

  ‘I was just going to say,’ says the girl slightly defensively, ‘that we’ve come from England.’

  ‘I’m afraid your rooms aren’t quite ready.’ The woman ducks her head apologetically. ‘We’re not as organised as we usually are.’

  They stand in an uneven triangle, not close enough to be easy, too close to be relaxed. Watch them from a distance — say, from the first-floor landing where the wide staircase turns — and you’ll see that their figures seem too small for their setting. The faded floor stretches around them like a plain, disappearing into shadows. The wooden columns stand about them like age-old trees. Their shuffling feet barely make a sound, while their voices — apologising, explaining — are not much louder than the wind whispering under the huge front door.

  THE CURSE; OR WANTING TO BE NOWHERE

  THE DRONE OF TRAFFIC on an unseen ring road. The intermittent roar of a chainsaw on wood. Sun glistens on the wet black surface of the car park. It could still be France — or anywhere at all.

  Bright kicks the fence with his pointy buckled boots, found in a crate of dumped pirate paraphernalia outside a community theatre. Suburbia, French or otherwise, always makes him nervous. ‘Here today, gone tomorrow,’ he mutters. ‘Gone today, elsewhere tomorrow.’ He does, indeed, wish that he and Lewis were somewhere else — but where might that be?

  The lace curtain flickers in the corner of his eye. The French maid is watching their departure. In spite of the Reverend’s certain approval of her demure manner and long legs, Bright also finds her appealing, and more than a little sad. ‘She likes you,’ whispered Lewis as he carried their bags to the car. ‘Never would have picked you as a lady’s man! No offence.’

  ‘None taken,’ said Bright. It’s slightly confusing, even to himself. Even though he appears misanthropic, his appeal is usually instant, and furthermore of such long-lasting effect that — as we’ve seen — hundreds had turned out on a bitterly chilly night to honour the last minutes of his life. ‘I can’t fall in love here,’ he says to Lewis. ‘Not in transit. My papers aren’t in order.’

  This had raised another chuckle from Lewis, which turned to a grunt as he lifted Bright’s suitcase into the boot. ‘Ufff. What you got in here, man? A dead body?’

  Glancing over his shoulder at the floral pension Bright sees, in sixty short seconds, an alternative life. Once Lewis has driven away, leaving him behind, he will stride back upstairs, find the maid behind the curtain and possess her, body and soul. Over the next few months he’ll do odd jobs around the hotel, the maid will fall deeply in love with him, her parents will heartily approve, and there’ll be a quick wedding followed by an early pregnancy (or the other way around).

  Soon he’s known in the village as the eccentric Engli
sh writer. He will finish another book — or not.

  Some years later, he will be replaced in the maid’s affections by someone more suitable. Or vice versa.

  With relief, he can then leave for Paris to live out the rest of his life in exile. Or he might return to England, head down but heart free: the prodigal son who often surprises and almost always disappoints.

  But what’s the noise, you ask? That rumbling that lies under the sixty-second/six-year story Bright is telling? It’s the huge black torrent of his loneliness. He’s like a human seashell; put your ear close enough — risk it — and you’ll hear the roaring.

  ‘Lewis?’ He turns his back on the window, on the girl’s hidden yearning, with a tearing in his heart. Why can’t it ever be easier? This is what troubles him, as he stands in the floodlight of the morning sun, which stretches the shadows of the shrubbery to troublesome proportions. ‘Lewis, shouldn’t we be leaving?’ What he really means is: let’s get the hell out of here.

  In spite of the fact that Lewis has emphasised what a long drive is ahead of them, he’s been under the BMW bonnet for some time. ‘Lewis, is everything all right under there?’ queries Bright. ‘Can I help?’ He’s probably less capable of fixing a car than Lewis is of writing a novel, but life is crammed with ostensibly helpful questions that mean something quite different.

  The bonnet rears up like a gleaming black tidal wave. ‘I love you!’ — and Lewis emerges, phone clutched in his hand. ‘Sorry,’ he says to Bright. ‘Just wanted to talk to my wife before we leave. I don’t use the phone when I’m driving.’

  There’s a strange grunting from the bushes. A stoat backs out, dragging a dead hedgehog in its mouth. The casual savagery with which it repositions its teeth in the soft belly impresses Bright. The dual-bodied shuffle and the trail of blood are mesmerising.

  ‘Ahem?’ Lewis is holding out the phone, looking slightly uncomfortable. ‘I was asking if you’d like to call anyone before we get on the road? I’ve got cheap international roaming. Call anyone. Anywhere.’

  Bright pauses, blinking hard against the sunlight. ‘Thanks, but there’s no one.’ He pulls on his dark glasses and gets into the front seat.

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘No one at all.’ Bright bites hard on the inside of his cheek, making his eyes stream, until finally Lewis starts the motor. Soon the cul-de-sac is behind them, and the motorway ahead, and all the while Lewis goes on killing Bright with his kindness. ‘You’re welcome to borrow some funds, until you’re on your feet again. Hell, we could even keep in touch if you want to. Texting, emailing, whatever method you like.’

  Bright half-lies against the door, manoeuvring himself into a position where, at any minute, the seatbelt could slice straight into his neck. Half an inch deeper and his arteries will spray, and there will be blood and black coffee and long years of exhaustion all over the pale fawn leather of Lewis’ front seat. ‘That’s kind,’ he says in a tight voice. ‘But you know, I like being out of touch. Excluding oneself from the communications loop makes one see more clearly what’s wrong with the here and now. It’s not always a good thing to be part of the automatic conspiracy.’

  Lewis clears his throat uncertainly. ‘Right. You — you want to see people on your own terms.’

  The seatbelt slackens, and Bright gasps with the release of pressure. He sits upright and smoothes his hair. ‘It doesn’t mean I’m not grateful for the offer.’ His voice sounds almost normal. ‘Besides, from tomorrow onwards, I’ll be earning money again.’

  ‘They actually pay you to go there?’ Lewis sounds surprised.

  ‘Of course!’ Bright laughs. ‘I wouldn’t participate out of the goodness of my heart! They’re paying for our expertise. To document what we’ve been through.’

  ‘Paying you for what you’ve been through. I… I see.’ Lewis passes a lorry, then another and then a third. Not until there’s clear road ahead does he speak again. ‘My wife said to say hello, by the way. She says she knows who you are.’

  ‘That sounds like a Mafia line!’ Bright attempts a joke, but the sleepless night is flaring in his stomach and his cheeks are hot.

  ‘Her book group did your novel. Some of them found it a bit hard to understand. An old head on young shoulders: that was the consensus.’

  ‘Better than the other way around.’ Bright lays his sizzling face against the cool glass.

  ‘Joanna said to ask you what happens after the book ended.’

  ‘How should I know?’ says Bright, surprised.

  ‘Well, you wrote it!’ Lewis looks equally surprised.

  ‘I went with him as far as I could,’ explains Bright, ‘all the way to the last page. I can’t follow him any further. Tell Joanna she can make up the rest.’

  ‘I don’t think she’ll be too happy with that.’ Lewis sounds nervous at the prospect of returning empty-handed, epilogue-free. ‘Apparently the entire book group was mystified by the ending.’

  ‘That makes a whole lot of us,’ says Bright, aiming blasts of vented air at his face.

  ‘So what’s your next one about?’ Lewis ploughs on, perhaps thinking he can placate Joanna with insider titbits about future plots.

  ‘I have no idea. I hadn’t anticipated still being around now.’

  Lewis burps. ‘Excuse me. Damned reflux. All that butter.’

  Bright’s also feeling a little queasy. Ahead of them the motorway is a blur of exhaust fumes and flickering brake lights. The harsh sunlight is breaking repeatedly into thousands of pieces, falling, bouncing against glass and steel. He sees himself in the side mirror: wild-eyed, flushed, hair on end. ‘Lewis? I think I need to sleep a bit.’

  The back seat is a lot more appealing than it was yesterday, and softer than the bed he’s lain on for eight wakeful hours last night. There’s a surprisingly threadbare rug, which scratches his face in a not unpleasant way; it smells a little of dog, and a little of grass. The car sways and finally he closes his eyes.

  THE AMENITY COUNT

  GIBBY’S EYES OPEN. He looks across a rough white desert to three vast red numerals standing like pillars.

  9.00

  As he watches the numerals flicker, trembling with possibility. Your future starts here!

  He lies still and breathes in. A faint whiff of chlorine, an overlay of dust. He listens for familiar sounds: the drone of his father’s electric razor, the crash of crockery (his mother is clumsy before the first drink of the day), the enthused voice of a Sky Sports commentator rising though the floorboards. Nothing. Sweet zilch zippo nada.

  He turns his head in time to see the numerals shrink to the size of a thumbnail. Time tips over before his eyes.

  9.01 a.m., on the first day.

  The radio-alarm clock is all his. The scratched floor: his. The upright chair, the empty shelf, the plastic coat hangers — his, his, his. When he shuts his eyes again, the room he sees has no front wall; it opens straight into thin blue air. So he soars out over the bumpy grass and the freshly painted gate, past delicate bare poplars and on over fields running for many furrowed miles and over wide brown rivers, all the way to the foothills of the huge mountains. Snow? He can smell it already, clutched in the hands of secret valleys. Soon the world will be white.

  Hunger returns him to reality. He gets up, unpacks quickly. Two beige shirts. One long-sleeved T-shirt. Two pullovers. One jacket. One pair of trousers. The closet is still almost empty, but he’s done. Under the bed he spies a thumbtack, retrieves it, sneezes — making the dust balls scurry.

  On the back of the door is a tattered laminated sign. ‘All guests must vacate by 10 a.m. on day of departure.’ Gibby sticks the tack through it and carefully loops his dressing gown over the top. ‘I’m not departing,’ he says to the waiting window, the sagging bed. ‘Not until —’

  From the other side of the door he hears a tiny rapping. ‘May I come in?’ The voice is as small as the knocking, barely making it through the layers of wood and plastic, and the ancient tasselled wool that had once belo
nged to Gibby’s grandfather, inventor of the windowed business envelope and the resealable freezer bag.

  Gibby opens the door a crack. ‘Oh, it’s you, Admin! Sorry, I mean —’ But the grey mouse-woman’s real name has been washed away in last night’s debris: the awkward explanations, the unfamiliar corridors, the tentative allocation of unready rooms.

  ‘You’re not dressed!’ Admin steps back in a flurry of green wool, her small glasses flashing with alarm. ‘I beg your pardon!’

  ‘I did sleep in these,’ admits Gibby, looking down at his sweatpants and sweatshirt. ‘But only because I forgot to bring my pyjamas. Officially, this is daywear.’

  But Admin continues to shield her eyes, her braids bobbing uncertainly over her ears.

  ‘One minute.’ Gibby pulls on his trainers, smoothes his hair and returns to the door. ‘Please come in. Was there something you needed?’

  Now he has shoes on, Admin seems more at ease. ‘I have to make a list of amenities,’ she explains, pulling a spiral-bound notebook from the folds of her hand-knitted cardigan. ‘It’ll only take a minute.’

  ‘Be my guest.’ Gibby would wait it out in the wooden chair, were Admin not already inspecting it. ‘One chair with cracked seat,’ she murmurs. ‘Eight plastic coat-hangers, no brand.’ He goes to the window. Outside the light is so bright that at first there’s nothing but dazzle. He squints, shields his eyes and slowly shapes emerge: ragged rose bushes, the path, the gate — and a girl sitting straight-backed on the stone wall, facing the road. ‘Hey, Lace!’ Gibby leans forward and his head bangs on the glass.

  Admin looks up at the sudden noise. ‘I’m afraid the windows have been nailed shut. You’ll get used to it. Now, would you like a desk in here, or are you intending only to sleep here?’

  ‘A desk would be excellent.’ He rubs his forehead, turns back to the room. ‘I’ve brought some work with me. Diagrams, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Work?’ Admin’s pebble eyes gleam with curiosity behind her glasses, but just in time she remembers her place. ‘You won’t have much spare time, you know. The programme’s very full.’