Versailles

by Yannick Hill

  The faded make-up around her eyes, the lipstick still perfect but there was no one to see it, no one except the cameras installed throughout the house, she couldn’t believe it sometimes, all those cameras picking up every single thing that happened in that house. It was not right. Sick, in a way. And what did Mr Casey want with all the footage? Why did he want to film everything like that? His family, he could see his family if he just knocked on the door and talked to them, it was all so strange in a way, so strange. She stroked her mistress’s long hair and began to sing the song her own mother sang to her at night when she was a young girl.

  Synthea closed her eyes and listened to the singing like listening to water. She was lying on a beach, the ocean breaking gently on the shoreline, so gentle she almost fell asleep but for the gracious refusal of her mind, her mind continuing to work like a projector, going over and over what had been today, and all she saw was color, and all she heard was sound, flashes of color from a single point and out, unfolding like a folding fan flicked out, folding back and then out, and then no sound, only the splayed visual, of metal and glass and silk and skin, clean-shaven skin, her husband’s face, angular, triangular, always clean-shaven, so clean she could not remember his smell, far across the room from her, asleep facing away from her, his back smooth and muscular as a teenaged boy.

  She couldn’t understand how she had ever found him attractive. Her hate for him was a perfect machine, but the perfection was surface. Inside the casing, under the hood, her hate for him was a dirty thing, more of a contraption, the workings glistening and dripping with black oil that was almost blood. On the surface her hate was perfect. Like one of her designs. It woke her up in the morning and kept her awake. Industrial design was as much about dreaming as the waking work towards perfection. Her hate for her husband was perfect until they shared the same space. She looked at him and saw her children. Their flesh and bones. Blood and oil. She looked at him and saw what she had become, because when you were in a room with Casey you saw things only from his point of view.

  He’s one of those people that when he walks in a room you . . . she despised this idea, that charisma should mean anything at all, that it should allow a person to succeed in convincing those around him that his point of view mattered more than anything else, to the exclusion of everything else. There were times when she tried convincing herself that it was his work that had changed him, the success of the network. She was only human, looking for correlations. The truth was she had at one time found his determination to be an attractive quality. The man she fell in love with had been an idealist. He really believed his social network would set us free. His code would bring people together, allow them unprecedented access to one another, wherever and when-ever. The more we shared, the deeper our understanding, in each other and ourselves. Perhaps beyond. His code. There’s the rub. His code, his website, his terms. It had changed him. Not the money, but the power. He had become more than us. We were his customers. More than human, but far less.

  Synthea remembered. Their year living in the RV, Versailles rising from the marsh like a waking kraken. Their trips into the mountains, views of the city in the great distance, toast-ing marshmallows over the fire and Casey’s voice telling the kids their stories as they went to sleep last thing. That’s what he’d do. Instead of reading to them from books he’d make up stories about the kids themselves, the adventures of Missy & River Baer. Sometimes they were stories about what they’d done that day, with new parts about bears and talking rabbits and doors in trees to other worlds. But toward the end of their year in the RV, Casey’s stories were more about Missy and River when they were older. These stories had less magic and more audience partic­ipation, with Casey letting the kids chime in for key plot moments and twists. Synthea remembered, or rather she couldn’t remember, when the bedtime stories stopped.

  The Casey from those days seemed as fictional to her now as his character in the news media and his social networks. Those photos on his profile of the family together, smiling for the camera with Versailles gleaming in the background. Versailles, house of a thousand cameras and a majority were pointed inward. His fortress, their prison. The ocean framed and framed again, a grand illusion. A family in name alone. Four Baers. But this was no fairytale. Her hate for him a dirty thing, workings glistening and dripping with black oil that was almost blood. All their blood.

  Leticia was uncomfortable in her position on the bed but didn’t dare move. She looked down at Synthea’s face, the faded make-up on her closed eyelids. She was sleeping now but Leticia would not stop singing, not yet. These songs. These songs she had sung to the children when they were much younger and it always worked. With both of them. Leticia smiled at the idea of River falling asleep to her sing-ing. She imagined singing to him now and almost laughed out loud, but she didn’t want to wake Synthea who was sleeping now. She needed to sleep, so important to give her strength for the next day. We humans needed sleep because without sleep we go crazy, we forget who we are. Her eyes were open again. Leticia stopped singing. ‘You were asleep,’ she said. ‘Go back to sleep, Mrs Synthea, it is time for you to rest. Rest, rest, rest.’

  ‘I wasn’t asleep, I had my eyes closed but I wasn’t asleep,’ Synthea said. ‘I want to talk to my son. I want to talk to River and tell him goodnight.’ She sat up in the bed. Leticia put a hand on her shoulder saying she should lie back down. ‘No, I want to talk to River. I want to tell him goodnight and that I love him and that it will all be okay.’

  ‘But it is late, Mrs Synthea, very late and River is sleeping by now.’

  But Synthea was already off the bed, her bare feet on the carpet in the master bedroom. She walked across the room to her walk-in wardrobe and disappeared inside. She emerged some time later wearing a dress, nothing too formal, just a dress, not too young, not too old, a nice, normal dress a mom might wear to go and see her son and tell him goodnight, tell him she loved him and that soon his sister would be back and everything would be okay, she promised.

  45

  Missy untwisted her long blonde hair from under the black hood and Scout moved back in her seat like she’d seen a ghost. ‘Oh my God, you’re Missy Baer!? No freaking way, dude. No. Freaking. Way. I didn’t recognize you under the crazy make-up, which I’m loving, by the way. Missy Baer up in my trailer, I can’t believe you’re really her! . . . Wait, I heard you deleted your profile. And oh my God, you threw that Molotov, you—’ Scout Rose suddenly burst out laughing. ‘Whoa, girl – Daddy issues much?!’

  ‘About that,’ Missy said, ‘this can’t come out online, you can’t tell anyone you saw me. Truth is I . . . I ran away. From home. I think the cops are after me. The cops, my father . . .’

  ‘Oh my God, are you serious right now?’ Scout waited a beat before holding up her hand for the high-five. They high-fived, just like that. She was really here with Scout Rose and they just high-fived. If only they could see. If only she could share this moment, it might feel more real. She took a photo with her mind for later. #ScoutRose. ‘Look,’ con-tinued Scout, ‘don’t worry about that stuff, all my people have to sign something. I run a tight ship. Nothing gets out. When you’re with me, you’re with me, you know what I’m saying? Under the radar. Don’t sweat it, Missy Baer, you can relax.’

  ‘But what about Deep Sky?’ Missy blurted. ‘How come we heard about that?’

  ‘Ah, now that’s different,’ Scout said, removing her sunglasses for the first time. ‘Deep Sky,’ she smiled. ‘Deep Sky was cover. Image control.’

  So strange to see her without her sunglasses. Two eyes, her nose, her delicate mouth and perfect teeth. She was a real person, breathing the same air. Missy suddenly saw why people sang songs. Such a pure form of expression. Emotion. Meaning. Scout Rose was just another girl trying to be heard. ‘Cover,’ Missy said, ‘You mean you never joined a cult?’

  Scout unconsciously touched the brim of her baseball cap. ‘Truth is, Missy, I needed a vacation, fall off the face of the earth, out the pu
blic spotlight, from under all those cameras. Paparazzi were driving me crazy. So, yeah, one day this package arrives at my house. Hand delivered. A sword. I’m not kidding. There was a message too, an address. Sounds crazy, but I took my bodyguards and went along. I was curious. I’m a curious person. Anyway, it turns out it was these guys calling themselves Deep Sky. They told me I was chosen, that kind of thing, that they intended to expand their operations, bring more Americans into the fold. They invited me to visit their facility somewhere in the north of the country. And I was sitting there in this meeting thinking, oh my God, this is like, some kind of freaky-ass cult and these guys are trying to recruit me. This is perfect. Cults are a good look right now. Dark, dangerous, you know what I’m saying? Plus, these guys know a thing or two about how to keep a low profile. I mean, I’d never even heard of Deep Sky till I took that meeting. So I figured: maybe I can meet these guys halfway, come to some kind of arrangement where they get to use my brand and I theirs, all while taking some time out from my career. I’d disappear off the face of the earth for a year and then name check them in my first interview back. They weren’t interested at first, but I brought my lawyer along with me to the second meeting. He knows how to talk to these types of people . . . Let’s just say Deep Sky were adequately compensated. But, no, to answer your original question, I never went all the way, I never actually joined any cult.’

  ‘They sent me a sword too,’ Missy said.

  ‘Get out.’

  ‘No, I’m serious. I don’t have it with me, but I totally have one of those swords. I saw your video, the one without music, and next thing I get this long package delivered to my house, same as you. That’s why I’m here. I’m on my way to Deep Sky right now, or I was until I ran away . . . It’s a long story.’

  ‘Missy, tell me you’re messing with me,’ Scout said. ‘Because if you’re not messing with me, I have to tell you something.’

  ‘I’m telling you the truth,’ Missy said. ‘It was Silas brought me here. I was with Silas until this afternoon. But I ran away because—’

  ‘Silas?’

  Missy felt her throat close up. ‘You don’t know Silas? He said he knows you.’

  ‘It’s possible,’ Scout said. ‘I’m no good with names, and these meetings . . . there were a whole bunch of them there. It was freaky, actually, a whole room of black suits. Sunglasses. These perfect, white shirts buttoned right to the top. No ties. I know how it sounds, but it’s true. I don’t remember any Silas, but that doesn’t mean this isn’t real, that you’re not in danger. Missy. Deep Sky. From what I heard, these guys play for keeps!’

  ‘Why, what did you hear?’

  ‘It’s gonna sound so dumb saying it out loud,’ Scout said.

  ‘Tell me,’ Missy said.

  ‘All I know is Deep Sky’s brand of redemption doesn’t come cheap. I mean, they don’t send those swords out to just anyone. Check it out, the two of us. Most downloaded recording artist of all time and daughter of internet royalty . . . Look, I don’t pretend to know everything about Deep Sky, but before I took those meetings I had my people look into it and they turned up some dark, dark material let me tell you.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Okay, you’re not going to believe this but someone got hold of the blueprints for their main facility, the one I was telling you about, somewhere up north. You’d be surprised what money can buy if you know where to look. Deep Sky. It’s an actual building, like their headquarters. We never did get a location on this thing but it’s somewhere in the far north, maybe even Alaska. But there was one detail in these blueprints, a series of rooms whose function matched another story we’d heard, and actually it’s a story that’s since made it onto the internet, in one form or another.’

  Missy was nearly off the edge of her chair.

  ‘These rooms,’ Scout continued. ‘It was an operating theater. Like at a hospital. The real deal . . . So, I’m guessing you haven’t heard this story. Like I said, it’s out there online, there’re different versions but the basic details are always the same. It’s the last stage of your journey. If you go all the way with these guys, they . . . they take out your eyes. I’m totally serious. They remove your eyes and replace them with a pair of rough diamonds. Uncut diamonds. Something about true dark. I don’t understand the whole thinking behind it, but it seems these guys are equipped to do this thing. I told you it sounded crazy. But it makes you think about those celebrities who wear their sunglasses all the time, and I mean all the time. I started doing it to look the part, like I was really in with these guys.’

  ‘But if they’re blind, how do they—’

  ‘Bodyguards,’ Scout said. ‘Ever notice how these celebrities are always holding onto their bodyguards? I’m telling you, girl, Deep Sky is no joke.’

  Missy looked pale.

  ‘I shouldn’t have told you,’ said Scout. ‘You don’t need to be scared, Missy, it’s over now. It was a close call, but you’re clearly smart enough to have gotten away in time. And now you’re here with me, you’re safe. I have to ask, though. They may have sent you the sword, but there must have been something else, something that made you want to run away.’

  ‘Something did happen,’ Missy said. ‘I had to get out of that house.’

  ‘Versailles. I heard about that place. Biggest private residence in the United States? I mean, I got a big house, I got more than one, but that place . . . Didn’t your dad, like, invent the internet?’

  Missy laughed. ‘My dad’s not who everybody thinks he is.’

  ‘Tell me more.’

  Missy was cold, but this shivering wasn’t the adrenaline. This was something different. She missed her mom. Cassius outside with his big arms. She missed her mom, the smell of her perfume faded almost to nothing, the choice of lipstick, her head resting against Missy’s shoulder as a tear rolled down her cheek. She wished she had her phone again, not to go online, but to feel the velvet of the unbreakable glass, her mom’s design. The whiteness of Scout’s sneakers and Cassius outside. Cassius with his big arms and small ears. Big like a bear and he tied her shoelaces, the muscles flexing in his big arms as he ties her shoelaces. Missy nearly passed out again, tucked her hair behind her ears and tried to breathe. #ScoutRose.

  ‘You don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to,’ Scout said.

  ‘I love your music,’ Missy heard herself say. ‘I love your music so much. It’s been my inspiration for as long as I can remember. I think you have the most beautiful voice.’

  ‘Thank you, Missy, that means a lot,’ Scout said. ‘You’re a cool girl, Missy Baer. I still can’t believe you threw that Molotov. What does that even feel like?’

  ‘Do you have any alcohol?’ Missy said, like she was asking for water.

  ‘Why, you wanna get messed up? Scout Rose and Missy Baer getting wasted in the middle of nowhere. I like that.’ Scout opened a cabinet and held up a dark brown glass bottle. ‘I got this moonshine, I don’t know what it is. My bodyguard makes it on the bus, he’s like a chemistry major in real life. It tastes like apples, I swear to God.’

  *

  Missy doesn’t remember everything but she remembers this, these moving pictures, scrolling up and past like looping GIFs:

  Slipping out the skylight of the Winnebago, a crazy-far jump to the grass below, too drunk to feel the pain, Cassius none the wiser, Cassius and Jean-Pierre standing guard outside an empty trailer. Funniest thing ever. They enter the crowds arm in arm, two drunk girls in sunglasses showing everybody else what time it is. Scout is smaller than Missy expected, she smells like her perfume. Running, laughing, dancing, falling, triple piggy backs and gonzo gymnastics. Boys here, boys there, the boyz, the boyz, nothing bad, a kiss here, a kiss there, everything given rhythm, the sheer joy of this youth brought together by a shared love of hate, all love, all love, all now and for never. Two drunk girls in big sunglasses and Missy’s fading make-up but she doesn’t know; Scout’s disguise destined to fail and pretty soon they
have an audience, the randomness of everyone around them turned less random, less good, boyz will be boys. A crowd of people all around, watching Scout Rose dance with that chick who threw the Molotov, the fading make-up. The mutual feeling, two girls not too drunk to know what’s happening, Missy takes Scout’s hand and pushes her way through the audience, boys here, boys everywhere, Missy wide awake now and Scout’s fame like a force field until her sunglasses are crushed underfoot and a boy makes eye contact and it’s too much for him to bear, Scout Rose right there and he’ll never get this chance again. He grabs her T-shirt in his fist, but Missy keeps hold, pulls her friend behind her and they make it through, and now they are running, not too drunk for the rush of adrenaline as they break free of the crowd and make a run, people calling after them, wanting them to play, they run away, tripping on the lines of half-pitched tents, out to the edges of the festival, where the grass grows longer and then trees, young trees and darkness.

  They run into the trees, into the darkness of the trees, the moonlight out of frame. They run into the darkness, two drunk girls, deep into the forest, the music faded right into the background. Time to rest, time to rest, some moonshine still left in the bottle, two girls getting drunk by the dim light of the moon, the stillness of the forest winning out against the music, the bass still pushing through the leaves, but these girls are deep, their laughter muted like buried glass, crystal fragments buried in the loose topsoil of the forest, laughter giving way to sleep, the deep sleep that comes after too much excitement.

  Missy doesn’t remember everything but she remembers this: her eyes flickering open, first light streaming in low through the young trees, Scout’s hand touching her hand and she turns to say hey but it isn’t Scout, it’s the boy with no name and he’s saying hers. Missy. Wake up, Missy Baer.