Suicide Club, The

by Quigley, Sarah

  She sits on a high stool with her back to the wall. Her heart is slow and steady, restored by solitude and sleep. ‘I need to live quietly, minute by minute,’ she will assert, ‘avoiding any possibility of sense of impending crises. It’s the only way to move forward.’

  ‘A deliberately unconscious approach to living.’ Geoffrey, already in tomorrow, seems to understand. He watches her swinging from one minute to the next, checking that she can manage it. After a time he gets up and opens the door. ‘Don’t worry,’ he says to the person waiting in the corridor, ‘she’s going to be fine.’ And the waiting person — someone who’s never lost confidence in her — replies, ‘Of course she will!’

  It’s restful arriving here early and being alone. At first the kitchen had seemed silent, but now she’s aware of a low hum: refrigerators and drink coolers, doing their thing. High in one corner a ventilation fan is clicking, letting in small puffs of the night.

  Voices! She stiffens, her spine grating against the cold wall.

  ‘I insist you keep a sharp eye — no pun intended — on the knives.’ Geoffrey pushes through the doors.

  ‘I’ve already told him that.’ Dr Mallory sounds peremptory, more like someone who’s been married for a decade than someone just engaged. ‘Any potentially dangerous equipment must be wielded by Donovan alone.’

  ‘Message received.’ Donovan pulls a few clips out of Dr Mallory’s hair, causing her to slip back into her more attractive dishevelled-fiancée state. ‘I’ve done these demonstrations in remand schools — even in prisons. There’s never been a problem, and the therapeutic benefits are enormous. Relax!’

  ‘Relaxing is exactly what we can’t afford to do.’ Faced with nonchalance not his own, Geoffrey grows hawkish. His shoulder blades jut like wings through his threadbare jacket. ‘The success of an open institution like ours depends on subtle but constant vigilance.’

  Before their entry, Lace was at rest, almost her old self. Now, as voices bounce off the walls and personalities bristle, her heart starts racing. She stares at her wrists; any moment the quiet pulse will flare into panic. The stool scrapes under her. Stay in the moment, she wills herself. Stay in the moment.

  ‘Lace! You’re here already?’ Dr Mallory sounds irritated, as people do when they’re caught off guard by someone else’s presence.

  It seems that Lace has spoken her exhortations aloud, as the three newcomers are all staring at her. ‘What was that you said?’ Geoffrey’s eyes are even more far-seeing than usual; he could swoop on a mouse from a height of a hundred feet.

  Lace shakes her head and her hands fly to her cheeks, the classic gesture of dismay.

  ‘Early for the demonstration?’ Donovan gives her a blazing smile. ‘I think you’re going to enjoy it. Next month I’m joining the team at a restaurant on the Côte d’Azur — tipped for a Michelin star. Are you French, by any chance? You look French.’

  Quick as a cat, Dr Mallory grabs Donovan’s elbow and redirects his interest. ‘Shouldn’t you start setting up?’ It’s nothing like a question and, obediently, Donovan submits. He retreats behind the large stainless-steel bench, leaving Dr Mallory free to turn her attention to Lace. ‘How long have you been sitting here by yourself? Is something wrong?’

  Geoffrey, who’s been closely scrutinising Lace, joins the chorus. ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’

  These sorts of questions demand automatic answers, voiced as strongly as possible. ‘No, nothing’s wrong. Yes, I’m perfectly all right!’

  But yet again it becomes clear how difficult it is to tell the truth! Right now, for instance, it would be impossible for her to describe — to an edgy Dr Mallory, a watchful Geoffrey, and an ebullient chef she’s only just met — the mounting chaos around her. A few minutes earlier she was in a simple black-and-white world; now Dr Mallory’s red shoes are bleeding onto the floor, an orange watchstrap is flashing on Donovan’s wrist like a warning signal, and Geoffrey’s handkerchief streams from his pocket in a blinding blue torrent. Added to this, there’s a new, scorching feeling behind her, as if the wall has begun to crackle with heat. The skin on her neck grows tight and feels as if it’s blistering. Next it’s her forehead, and then the backs of her hands.

  ‘I’m quite okay,’ she says in a faint voice. ‘It’s just that my skin feels odd. Very hot, sort of prickly.’ She clutches the edges of her stool but lets go instantly: her palms are scorching.

  ‘Dry skin?’ queries Donovan, who’s perched a tall white hat on his dark curls. ‘Try olive oil and the yolk of an egg. Twenty minutes, total rejuvenation!’

  Ignoring him, Dr Mallory peers at Lace. ‘You do look flushed. Perhaps it’s an allergic reaction? There’s been a different brand of soap in the bathrooms this week.’

  Lace forces herself to meet Geoffrey’s eye. ‘It’s probably the soap, yes.’ She tries to give him the same confident look she once used on experienced Friday-night comedy-club audiences: she’s funny, she’s fine, she’s telling the truth.

  Perhaps because Geoffrey has seen her not even twelve hours earlier sitting on a muddy railway path with her head in her hands, he doesn’t seem convinced that her current condition is caused by scented soap. ‘Please stay here,’ he says. ‘I’m trusting you.’ To Donovan, he says, ‘I’m afraid I’ll have to miss tonight’s culinary entertainment. I have to make some phone calls.’ And to Dr Mallory — well, it’s hard to hear what he says to Dr Mallory, because he shuffles her behind the ham-slicer and starts muttering to her very quietly.

  Donovan beckons to Lace. ‘Any interest in being my assistant? I need someone to dice and stir.’

  She stays at a safe distance and speaks with the clarity of the condemned. ‘I’m sorry, I’m not very good in the kitchen.’ Although Geoffrey and Dr Mallory are whispering, she manages to hear ‘rapid deterioration’ and ‘dangerous to wait’.

  ‘I admit you don’t look like the domestic type.’ Donovan swishes water over his hands. ‘Though glamour and culinary pursuits aren’t always mutually exclusive.’ Removing his hat, he runs his wet hands through his luxuriant hair, like a star in a shampoo advertisement.

  Instantly Dr Mallory cranes out from behind the forest of industrial appliances. ‘Donovan! Please leave Lace alone.’ Trained professional, or insecure girlfriend? It’s difficult to tell with a large mincemeat funnel half-obscuring her face.

  ‘No problem,’ says Lace quickly. To Donovan she says, ‘Ask my friend Gibby to help you — he’s an excellent cook. He’ll be along any minute now.’ She feels nauseous with the effort of trying to hear what Geoffrey is saying about her, and of shielding Donovan from Dr Mallory’s wrath, and of preventing Dr Mallory from feeling insecure — and of walking the line between truth-teller and liar, between feeling all right and feeling as if something’s very wrong indeed. ‘Gibby will be here soon,’ she reiterates. ‘Along with all the others.’ It’s a promise to herself as much as to Donovan. How ironic! For a short while she’d believed she was best off alone; now she’s hoping for safety in numbers.

  INFLAMMATORY

  BRIGHT SKATES IN LATE, on a golden trolley of words. Before the doors have closed behind him he’s looking for her. All afternoon he’s been pulled in two directions, and even now his book still catches at him, though he’s desperate to find her.

  ‘Aha, you must be the cooking friend of the Beauty Queen!’ Donovan waves at him from behind the huge gas stove.

  It’s impossible to duck or hide. Bright is still ten foot tall from writing, borne in here on an inflated platform of words. He towers, shines as brightly as his name, draws everyone’s attention.

  ‘Are you the one with the culinary talents?’ persists Donovan.

  ‘No.’ Bright stares over the heads of the onlookers — Palace people, townspeople, unknown people — and sees her sitting at the back, with flushed cheekbones and glittering eyes. His stomach flips and steadies, the way it does when he starts writing. Like writing, she’s everything. Everything. He starts towards her.

&nb
sp; ‘So you’re not Lace’s friend?’ Donovan halts his escape with a snap of his tongs.

  ‘Well, yes, I’m her — friend.’ The word seems entirely inadequate, but around him there’s a general exhalation of breath. It seems that everyone is hoping for some connection between him and Lace. ‘But I’m not the one… I’m not the culinary —’

  ‘He’s not the main friend. That’s me.’

  Heads swivel interestedly at the approach of another latecomer. This one isn’t such an obvious crowd-pleaser: his trousers are crumpled, as if he’s slept in his clothes, and one side of his hair is pushed up in a lopsided rooster’s comb. In fact, neither suitor looks worthy of the girl under debate. Dishevelled Chicken-Boy may have known her longer, but in his current glowing state Carrot-Top looks the better match. Which will she choose?

  Caught in the glare of fluorescent lighting and attention, Lace seems confused. She opens her mouth. She’s hectically flushed but, yes, she’s still beautiful — and, it seems, mute.

  Where’s Geoffrey, who would normally step in like a competent MC? Bright looks around but sees only Dr Mallory, blundering forward, looking less than her usual efficient self. ‘You’re both friends! And you can both assist.’ She tucks errant strands of hair behind her ears.

  Donovan rallies. ‘An excellent idea! I’ve plenty of work for two kitchen hands.’

  This is not at all how it was supposed to go. All afternoon, between writing, he’s been thinking of her sleeping in her room one floor below him. Now he needs to be beside her, anchor her, touch her, never leave her again. ‘I don’t want —’ But already Dr Mallory is ushering him behind the bench, and Gibby is joining him. Garlic presses and vegetable peelers are placed in their reluctant hands, graters are positioned at their mutinous elbows. The Donovan Show has begun, and they’re part of it whether or not they like it.

  Fierce garlic juice runs into a cut on Bright’s finger and he winces. ‘This is not what I was expecting,’ he mutters to Gibby. ‘I thought it was all about demonstration, not fucking participation.’ He tries to see past Donovan, capering at the stove with a searing pan in his hand, to get a glimpse of Lace’s face. ‘Is she okay? Have you talked to her?’

  ‘I haven’t had a chance.’ Gibby speaks under the hiss of frying zucchini.

  ‘Talk less, chop more!’ exhorts Donovan, heaping more vegetables onto the pile. ‘It’s time to flambé!’ He darts back to the stove with a clashing of pans.

  Peeling, dicing, grating: the heat is rising. Bright brushes sweat out of his eyes. It’s never easy making the transition from solitude to being in a crowd, let alone being press-ganged into a performance. He tries again to catch Lace’s eye.

  ‘Mr Skinny?’ Presumably this is his cue. ‘Bring the shallots, if you please.’

  Armed with a laden chopping board, he stations himself at Donovan’s left shoulder. ‘In spite of the fact that I know what shallots are, I assure you again that I’m not the Cooking Friend. So may I be excused?’

  ‘Stay right where you are, my ginger amigo. In God’s great kitchen, we’re all Cooks and Friends!’ Donovan inclines his head towards the stove. ‘Put the goods there, Carrot-Top.’

  ‘I don’t believe in any god.’ Bright shovels the shallots into the pan. ‘I’m an atheist.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy yourself, right? And that’s what tonight is about — enjoyment for all!’ Donovan’s segue, spectacularly illogical, is lapped up by his audience. He’s right: everyone’s enjoying themselves except for Bright, now marching back to the bench, Gibby, who’s chopping onions with stony-faced precision, and the girl sitting silently at the back of the room.

  Butter hisses, salmon is seared, lemons are squeezed and cast aside. Donovan looks like a satisfied seal, with debris from a vast meal spread around his feet. ‘See how I combine expected ingredients in unexpected ways?’ Alarmingly, he looks as if he might start applauding himself at any moment.

  ‘At the first clap of the flippers,’ comments Bright, ‘we take him to the nearest zoo.’

  Remaining oblivious to snide remarks seems to be one of Donovan’s fortes. He chatters on. ‘I’m about to introduce you to one of my favourite dishes, delectable yet notoriously difficult. I call it —’

  ‘Dr Mallory!’ interjects the Swede with impeccable timing.

  It’s his first spontaneous joke! The Palace residents are impressed and they offer congratulations. Donovan, on the other hand, doesn’t realise how big the moment is. ‘As I was saying,’ he continues with a forced smile, ‘don’t try this at home. It may look easy but it’s nearly impossible.’

  ‘He’ll have his own cooking show within a year,’ predicts Bright, ‘and then lose it due to an elitist attitude.’

  ‘People love being talked down to.’ Gibby sniffs loudly: disapproval, or the juice from his onion mountain? ‘It’s the inherent flaw of democracy.’

  Donovan whisks charismatically, Dr Mallory watches with a gloss on her cheekbones, and the Twins appear to be in danger of another joint infatuation. Bright stands on tiptoe so he can see Lace, points at his watch. I’ll be with you as soon as I can! This is what he wants to imply but, in a room full of steam and hero worship, the simplest message becomes distorted. Lace, with a subdued smile, points at her own bare wrist and shrugs as if to answer I don’t know what the time is.

  How alone she looks. The crowds have edged towards the action, leaving her high and dry. Bright has had enough of separation and delays. ‘Five more carrots and I’m stopping.’ He attacks with such short, sharp blows that the chopping board shudders.

  ‘Do you mind?’ Gibby frowns from the other end of the board. ‘I’m trying to slice mushrooms here.’ On the side of his head where his hair is pushed up, his scalp shines through like a scar. There are crease marks on his cheek.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ Bright’s really not sure. Hadn’t he and Gibby parted earlier that day as allies?

  ‘I wish I’d stayed in my room, that’s all. It was better there. More productive.’

  ‘So why didn’t you?’ A piece of carrot leaps from under Bright’s knife and flies towards the unsuspecting Dr Mallory. Just a couple of centimetres further, and it would have made it into her cleavage. Bright laughs to himself, in spite of the rising tension, the fact that his shirt is plastered to his back, and that he has to — simply has to — get to Lace.

  ‘Of course I had to come,’ says Gibby almost angrily. ‘For the same reason as you. To check on her.’

  ‘Mr Large!’ calls Donovan authoritatively. ‘We’re ready for the mushrooms. They are to go quietly — very quietly — into this creamy sauce. They must not be plopped in from on high. Slither is the word. Slide is the motion.’

  The buzzing kitchen quietens. All eyes are trained on Gibby. Flushing, he edges towards the pan. The leaping flames are banished to one side of the huge stove, while the element for the creamy sauce has been subdued to a tiny purple hiss.

  ‘Easy does it, Mr Large!’ says Donovan in a hushed voice. Dr Mallory bites her lip, looking rapt and anticipatory. Even Bright is drawn closer, pulled in by the concentrated flame and the magnetic sight of stubby white fingers hovering over white mushrooms. But just as Gibby lowers the plate and begins brushing fleshy slices towards the rich sauce —

  ‘Stop!’ shouts Donovan. ‘Your cuffs!’

  The onlookers leap back in alarm. Yes, Gibby’s taupe cuffs are trailing, brushing fragments of mushroom all over the stovetop. And the underside of his overly long left cuff is coated in thick white sauce, its button looking like a creamy edible blob.

  Donovan becomes stern, no longer the amicable capering seal — although his voice certainly sounds like a bark. ‘I thought you have kitchen know-how? No self-respecting chef would begin work without their sleeves rolled up.’

  Hovering behind the disaster, Bright sees that Gibby’s neck is flushing; red blotches are spreading up to his ears and the roots of his hair. ‘I’ll get them.’ He reaches out for Gibby’s messy
wrist. ‘Hold steady.’

  Gibby launches back from the stove like a tidal wave. Mushroom slices fly like blossom in a storm. ‘Get away from me!’ Now his well-sauced cuffs are up in front of him and his fists are clenched. The plate he was holding is slicing through the air (in a second it will be caught, Frisbee-like, by the newly humorous Swede).

  ‘What the hell —’ Wham! Bright finds himself on the floor. There’s a haze of blood in his eyelashes (from his nose, his eyebrow?) and his whole face is smarting. He finishes his sentence — ‘What the hell was that for? I was only trying to help!’ — before surging to his feet, pushing Donovan aside, and lashing out at Gibby. ‘You fucking bastard!’

  And then they’re at it, hammering with their fists but mostly missing each other, lashing out with their feet like supremely unskilled kick-boxers. Gibby slips on carrot peelings, grabs Bright on his way down, and they’re both on the floor. ‘Mr Big! Mr Skinny!’ Donovan shouts. ‘I command you to stop!’ But now that he’s no longer the conductor of the evening, his orders have lost all power.

  ‘You pallid chopper of fungi!’ pants Bright, although Gibby’s face is far from pallid, his cheeks bright red and his split lip blooming into magenta.

  ‘You multi-coloured freak,’ spits Gibby, lashing out from his bed of peelings. The insults are as embarrassing as what they’re doing, but some fights just have to happen.

  Now Dr Mallory is bending over them in her low-cut dress, chosen with care for her fiancé’s special night. Nice view! With one half of his brain Bright admires the curve and swell, while the other half focuses on grabbing Gibby and pulling his hair hard enough to elicit a yell. ‘Stop it at once,’ cries Dr Mallory, but her voice is lost in a crashing tidal wave of china — Gibby has rolled into a nearby shelf, dislodging a stack of plates.