Versailles

by Yannick Hill

  For a moment she thought about what would happen if her mom saw her like this. Not her mom now, but Mom from before, the Synthea she could tell anything, her best friend. For a moment she imagined being her, coming through the crowds and seeing her daughter like this, her arm around a random boy and drinking liquor straight from the bottle. Her child, her little Missy, her Missy Baer. The same girl who would bring her lunch on the Chinese dragon tray, prepared with love in Versailles’ kitchens with Leticia’s help. The same Missy who told her mother everything. Just like Synthea told her everything, all her secrets and regrets, doubts and desires. Things about Casey, things not meant for Missy’s ears. And Missy always knew the thing to say, her mother’s head resting lightly on her shoulder.

  Missy felt the alcohol taking effect, the anger unexpected. All those years. When she was still just a girl. Trying to make friends at school, still sleeping with the light on in her room. She remembered. How much she wished her mom could just be Mom, even for one day, one night. Not her best friend, but someone to tell her it would all be okay . . . Most times it had been the other way round. Even before what happened with Casey, before the pills and the walking Versailles’ corridors at night. Her mom was so unhappy. Casey asking her to work from home. Her mother said she felt like a prisoner. A prisoner in their own house. Missy remembered. Coming up to her mother’s studio one time with the tray of food and seeing right away from her eyes that Synthea was drunk ­– right in the middle of the day – drunk enough she barely noticed Missy there.

  The memory made Missy want to get more drunk herself. She took another hit on the vodka, closed her eyes and breathed deep. She hadn’t talked to her mom in what felt like a long time, but in reality it was a few days. Anyway, she didn’t want to talk to her mom right now, she didn’t want to hear how worried she was. Missy didn’t want any of that. She wanted this, this right now. This was real, this place, this festival, these people felt real, her life in Versailles was already like a dream. She was dancing now. Her hands, her heart, her blood, her anger. The fullness of her anger with her parents, her self given new shape, hoodie pulled down like she’s feeling the future, this dance, this dance was who she was now, the smell of bodies all around, sweat and smoke and dust, all these people here for the same thing, all these people and she was one of them, none of them, she was floating now, up, up into the darkness of her open mind, away from everything, from anger, memory, her parents, Versailles. If this is the future. If this is the future. This, this, this . . .

  She opened her eyes and the boys were still there, and it was cool, so great, so funny, so nice to be dancing with boys her own age – but she had to find Cass. Find Cass and it would all be okay. Cass had been so nice to her. Missy was about to kiss the first boy on the cheek goodbye when it happened. A familiar voice coming out of the speakers either side of the main stage. Special surprise guest. It couldn’t be. Missy climbed on one of the boys’ backs to get a better look. It really was. Black baseball cap pulled low but it was her. Scout Rose.

  42

  Off the rails. He hasn’t had an update on his daughter in four minutes. No sound, no picture. Nothing. Casey expresses his displeasure through dangerous driving. Once in a while he will drive himself to and from the network campus because he likes the feel, the constant hum of the engine, the vibration in his bones, the flash of sunlight and surface. These are residential streets. Casey drives so quickly he could kill, even fantasizes one or two bodies rolling up and over the forward windshield like wild animals caught off-guard, their elbows and knees, the blood splatter glowing pink in an oncoming high-beam. 4m 47sec and still no news. She is. Under the radar. He senses the weight of the car in his biceps and flexors, a sensation that he is at one with the machine, this journey home, this journey home should be a ­pleasure, the dark road disappearing under the hood of the sedan like lava, the whiff of lightly burning rubber in the open window. Casey expresses his displeasure through more dangerous driving, bites down on the metal zip to his hoodie and hits eighty miles per hour on the bend, this time alone, inside the beautiful car, street lights reflecting off the PX8, the blackest paint on the market. Casey wants the best, the very best. Streetlights off the PX8. He wants the best for Missy. 5m 24sec and still no signal, not a peep. This is not what he paid for. He would like to take this Silas character and— The blood splatter glowing pink.

  Casey keeps a pair of king cobras in the trunk, likes to keep the danger close. Death as discreet stereo system. This car is his car. This custom model was two full years in development, his personal vision machined into existence by reprogrammed industrial robots and capable human hands that no longer bleed. This car is his car. The faint creases in the leather hide upholstery are his creases, left by the rearrangement of muscles inside his new clothes, his entering, driving and exiting of the car. Man enters car. Man drives car. Man exits car. A vision caught on photochemical film, the grain giving off its own perfection. This car is his car. The horror-green readings on the dash include up-to-the-second heart-rate and blood-pressure counts. The values rising. This car is his car. Six minutes. An impulse that feels predestined, as though everything were building to this moment. Casey continues steering with his left hand for a second as he coils his right fist for the strike, a mean uppercut that catches his lower jaw so hard that at first he thinks he’s knocked it off its natural hinge. It takes everything he has to correct the swerve, but it is too late, the front right tire hitting the curb at seventy miles per hour, pitching the car on its side in a long, halting skid, painted metal over tarmac, sparks reflected in the lenses of no less than seven closed-circuit cameras positioned along the street.

  Casey releases his seatbelt, completely unharmed save for his jaw, takes his automatic handgun and sunglasses from the gaping glove compartment and climbs out of the car. He stands atop the gleaming wreckage for a moment, surveying the scene, his body language that of the apex predator. He jumps nimbly down and strides to each of the seven cameras in turn, shooting out every lens with unflinching accuracy, the gun reports doing nothing to interrupt the main soundtrack of field crickets and distant coyotes. Casey removes the sunglasses and hooks the gun inside the waist of his jeans, concealing it from view with an adjustment to the loose material of his hoodie. He whips his smartphone from his pocket and swipes for an update on his daughter. Still nothing. He keeps his cool this time. He must return home, to his base of operations. Mission control. Mission Missy now and there’s no turning back. A roller coaster rebellion gone off the rails.

  He starts on the long walk home through the city, streetlights reflecting off the upward-facing screen of his phone, this dark, velvet window telling him nothing just now, only that his daughter is somewhere out there, outside the map, passed through his invisible walls into another realm, her world, her game, and the idea nearly makes him drop his phone on the concrete sidewalk but he doesn’t, he grips more firmly, his fingers growing whiter as they close around the device, this dark window into every reality but his own. This world is his world, his beautiful car on fire now, the trunk sprung open in the crash, a pair of seventeen-foot king cobras continuing on their way.

  43

  Missy caught glimpses of her hero as she pushed through the crowd, but by the time she reached the front, Scout’s guest appearance was over. She watched Scout turn from the stage with a perfect smile and disappear behind a black curtain. No way, not like this, not after everything. Missy puffed her flushed cheeks like a boxer. The vodka meant no hesitation. Her new mission: meet Scout Rose. Deep Sky or no, this was her favorite singer in the whole world, and she had to meet her. Right here, right now.

  What happened next did not take place in slow motion. As she clambered over the metal barrier, ducked the security guard and vaulted onto the stage, Missy was a leopard cat, her make-up faded but she didn’t know. She turned once on the spot, crouching low to the scratched black floor, taking in the crowd for only a second. Twenty thousand souls, all eyes on her, the dream logic of
her actions. The camera in her mind. But this was not a dream, this was reality. She made this happen. Giant men in black T-shirts running at her from the sides, but Missy was too quick, scrambling away on all fours and finding the divide in the heavy black curtain.

  Backstage was a maze of stacked equipment, miles of cable and the rows of drums and other equipment. Kick drum. Kick drum. Keyboard. Keyboard. Speaker. Speaker. Black box. Where next? Rough black boxes with the heavy-duty locks. Missy sprinted along a corridor of speakers and turned a corner, heard Scout’s voice among others. There, across the way. A door closing. Click. Green sign. A way out.

  Missy found herself outside again, only there was nobody here, an expanse of moonlit grass, almost like a lawn before a house, the thrum of the main stage like the weight of an ocean behind her. Any second now they would find her, catch her. Any second now and the waves would crash around her, the backwash carrying her all the way home, to Versailles. Where next? Where next? There, in the middle darkness, two rectangles of soft yellow light, the sound of laughter. Missy tore across the grass, realized it was a trailer and for a second she thought the very worst and skidded to a halt. But this trailer was different, no white star against black. A Winnebago they called them, the metal housing polished to a surreal shine. More laughter. Scout’s voice from inside. But it was too late.

  ‘YOU, STOP!’ The men in black T-shirts closing in, their arms out to the sides like they were ready for a big hug. And for a crazy instant Missy actually felt like a hug, for someone to take her in their arms and tell her it was going to be okay, that this really was all a dream. But this was not a dream, this was real. Her story. Flying Twinkies. She made this happen. Her current mission: meet Scout Rose. The vodka fading but Missy didn’t know.

  She shouted at the top of her voice. ‘SCOUT! SCOUT ROSE!’ The laughing in the trailer stopped. The men in black T-shirts looming over her. No one to help her now, her brother far away in Versailles, four out of seven screens telling him the same thing. No time for teddy bears. Flying fucking Twinkies. ‘SCOUT! I NEED TO TALK TO YOU. SCOUT ROSE!’

  The men in black T-shirts closed in and got a hold of Missy, their hands clamping her shoulders so hard she fell to her knees. ‘SCOUT!’

  ‘Wait!’ Scout’s voice again, her speaking voice, so clear in real life. ‘What’s happening here?’ Scout said. ‘Hey, Cassius, Jean-Pierre, take it easy. HEY! I said take it easy. Look, she’s just a kid. Let her go.’

  Missy couldn’t bring herself to make eye contact, not right away. She studied Scout’s sneakers for a long moment, the newness of these sneakers, the factory-white laces tied in two perfect, perfect loops. Like the idea of sneakers in someone’s mind. Did Scout tie her own laces? No, she probably got Cassius or Jean-Pierre to tie her laces for her, right? The newness of these sneakers, box fresh, the windowed soles pumped to max. Max air, Scout’s wrists tied with ribbons, black baseball cap pulled low like she’s feeling the future, her arms, two arms, her hands, Missy’s leopard make-up fading but she didn’t know. ‘Scout, I need to talk to you,’ she said, catching her breath. ‘I need to talk to you.’ She looked up at Scout and saw the sunglasses, those delicate features but the sunglasses hiding her eyes, probably Cassius who tied her laces, Cassius or Jean-Pierre.

  ‘Hey, don’t cry,’ Scout said, holding out her hand and helping Missy to her feet. ‘It’s going to be okay.’ She held Missy at arm’s length, gently lifted her chin so she could get a look at her face. ‘Oh my God, it’s you. You’re the one – you threw the Molotov. It was you, you started the fire back there.’ Missy turned to run, but Scout held her arm. ‘No, don’t go, it’s okay, it’s okay. That was the coolest thing. Don’t cry, sweetheart, you’re safe with us, Cassius didn’t mean it . . . Hush now, listen, why don’t you come inside and we can talk. Just the two of us. I can’t believe it’s you.’ Probably Cassius tied her shoes and Missy almost blacked out. This time right here was precious. She had to stay awake for this. The vodka fading but the adrenaline making her shiver inside the black hoodie. ‘You’re cold,’ Scout said. ‘Let’s get you inside.’ She took Missy’s hand in hers and led her up the stairs into the trailer, into the soft yellow light, Cassius and Jean-Pierre standing guard outside on the moonlit grass.

  44

  In Versailles’ master bedroom, Synthea lay with her head in ­Leticia’s lap. She had blacked out, Leticia told her. Three members of staff and Leticia had had to carry her to her bed. She had slept right through the evening and Leticia hadn’t left her side. On waking up Synthea was very talkative. The pill was wearing off. All she wanted to do was talk about her two children, Missy and River.

  These two women had known each other for some years now. They liked each other very much. They loved each other. There was trust. Their words overlapped. Their words overlapped because there was always something to talk about. Not the future, nor the past, not even the now. They needed each other. Sometimes Leticia played the mother. Sometimes Synthea played the mother. They were always sisters, they shared secrets. They never lied. They could tell each other anything but in reality they didn’t. This was important. There remained a darkness between them, around them, like the opposite of light cast by a lampshade, these skirts of darkness that swished around them, and that is how it always was and always would be.

  There were parameters, unspoken rules established when Leticia signed a contract to work at Versailles as a nanny to the two children. Leticia would never get angry with Synthea, but Synthea might lose her temper with Leticia because she put something somewhere. But Leticia had never gone to sleep thinking badly of her mistress. They might bicker. They were always sisters. Leticia remembered being at the toy store with Synthea and putting toys back on the shelf. Synthea got very angry but Leticia just kept doing it, taking the brightly colored boxes and returning them to their place on the shelf, saying the kids didn’t need two of everything for Christmas. Synthea had wanted to slap Leticia across her face, but she just stood with her hands on the trolley, watch-ing this little woman put the boxes back. She was right, of course, her children didn’t need so many things.

  She lay with her head on Leticia’s lap and they remembered the time River taught Missy how to ride a bike when she already knew from being at summer camp but pretended because she didn’t want to upset her little brother. It was true, although they were twins, River had always been the little brother. Missy looked out for him. At school. She fought for him. Sometimes the fights were physical. And it worked, they left him alone after a while. She protected him from Casey. She protected him from Casey again and again. Telling her dad he was being too hard on River.

  They remembered how much the kids loved playing in the swimming pool when they were younger. Being inside and hearing their voices outside, their endless games. Their play had always been collaborative, Synthea thought. No winners, no losers. She told Leticia she could remember everything about their lives, her children’s lives, but found it hard to remember the details of her own. ‘Sometimes I forget what I look like, but I don’t want to look in the mirror. Sometimes I think I’m losing my mind, Leticia.’

  Leticia’s way was to say nothing in response, only stroke her mistress’s hair like she would a child.

  Synthea continued: ‘I remember everything about their lives, Leticia, but sometimes I think I’ve spent so much time just watching them: from behind glass, from across a room, hearing them through the walls, these terrible rooms, I always hated how big all the rooms are in this house. I sometimes think I’ve spent so much time . . . She could tell me anything, we talked about everything and now . . . It’s my fault, Leticia, it’s all my fault. My darling Missy. I should have protected her. I should have protected her . . .’

  ‘From what, my dear? She was fine, she was fine, what would Missy need protecting from?’ Leticia paused, wanting to choose her words carefully. ‘Mr Casey?’

  ‘From myself, Leticia,’ Synthea said. ‘It’s all my fault. I should have protected her. She’s my dau
ghter. She saw things . . . she heard things . . . no daughter should have to . . .’

  ‘You are their mother,’ Leticia said, stroking the long hair of her mistress. ‘And the children love their mother.’

  ‘Sometimes I think she loves you more than she loves me,’ Synthea said.

  ‘You know it’s not true,’ Leticia replied, very calm. It wasn’t the first time she had heard this, and she knew what to say. ‘You know the children love you in a way they could never love me, you know that, Synthea.’ It was rare that she used her mistress’s first name. She looked down at Synthea’s face, upside down, the faded make-up around her eyes, the lipstick still perfect. She loved this woman, and it was not out of pity. No, she had been at Versailles for long enough to see the bigger picture, everything that came before, the way her husband treated her, or the way he didn’t treat her like anything because he was always away from the house, and when he was here there were the arguments.

  Leticia was not proud, but she had listened at the door to this bedroom more than one time. More than one time she had listened at the white door to this bedroom and heard the way he talked to her when he thought there was no one to hear and, oh, my goodness, she had never heard anything like that before. Never, not even in any movie, it was so bad how he talked to her, as his wife, but also as a woman, like an animal he talked to her, with no heart. Leticia loved this woman, but it wasn’t out of pity. She admired her strength after all these years as his wife, on her own in the house, all her talent wasted because she stopped believing, and how could she still believe if her husband, who was meant to protect her, was the one telling her she was nothing. You hear it enough times. You hear these things and it is all you hear.