“Freddy, stop.” Percy put a hand on his shoulder and Edison swung wild, whacked him right in the eye. Percy doubled over, holding his face. “Fred! I’m trying to help you!”
“You need help, not me,” Freddy snarled back. “After everything I’ve given you people! Without me, without my family, you cunts are just flouncing around on a stage in hell with nobody fucking watching. And what do I get back? What’s my fabulous fee for making your entire disgusting existence possible?” He crossed to the body in two enormous strides and kicked Thaddeus’s shoulder, kicked him over onto his back, and kept on kicking him. Thad’s poor limp arm fell onto the floor.
Everyone started hollering, grabbing Edison, and gnashing their teeth—but all Maxine Mortimer saw was Thad’s left hand, the one poor softhearted Mary had worried would go all pins and needles on him. He’d curled his fingers into a fist. He had something in there, clutched in his bloody fingers. Nobody else saw it. They were too busy wrestling a drunk tycoon, sliding around in a good man’s death.
“That garbage shit-fucking cocksucker fucked my wife,” wailed Freddy, dogpiled under the biggest stars in Tinseltown. “That’s who loved him. My Penny. That’s who!”
Penny shook her head back and forth, her mouth hanging open, not breathing. She flopped onto the floor. “I didn’t…” she gasped. “I didn’t…”
No, she didn’t. Penelope Edison most certainly did not. She couldn’t have. Not in a year of Easters. What the hell was going on here?
“Jesus, someone get her a paper bag,” Maud Locksley said.
“Tell them!” shrieked Edison. The King of Sound and Colour was bawling his eyes out in a pool of cold blood. “That fucking whore snuck around on me while I was in Elish for the Worlds’ Fair! And when I got back, you were all slim and trim again, weren’t you, you bitch, you goddamned gold-digging Jezebel—”
It was going so well. Just like a movie. Right now, in my stateroom, in the silence of the deep, woeful night, I think it was going so well because…that’s what happens in a movie. I cast a spell, and for a moment, just a moment, life had a script. The detective locks the door and names the suspects and, eventually, someone confesses. That’s how the whole business works. It’s instinct. Freddy couldn’t resist it. Or Percy couldn’t. Couldn’t resist the desire to crawl inside the script. It’s safe in there. Nice. Warm. The script will look after you.
But Percy stopped it.
“Everybody cool off!” Percival Unck, for all his faults and virtues, can yell louder than anyone I know. Quiet on set! “Listen to me. This was an accident. Mary, I appreciate what you’re doing, but it’s not necessary. I am telling you the truth. Freddy and I were having a few scotches out on the deck, talking about the new camera line. Fred clapped me on the back, and when he turned around, he saw Penny and Thad through the ballroom windows. Thaddeus kissed Penny, and Freddy saw black. You can’t blame a man for that. He shouldered the door in, confronted Thad, it came to blows, we struggled—all of us, all four of us! We struggled and the gun went off. It could have been any of us who pulled the trigger: me, Penny, Fred—we all had our hands on it at some point. But it was an accident. And what we have to decide now is: How many lives does this terrible accident destroy?”
I had such a horrid feeling in the hollows of my stomach.
He’s lying.
Like MM always said, it’s bad maths. The sun might come up blue as Neptune in the morning, ice might turn to fire when it melts, I might become the long-jump champion of the world, but Thaddeus Irigaray did not kiss Penelope Edison. It didn’t happen. I go for a bit of each, but Thad was true blue. I wanted to say so, but I couldn’t. Not in that room. Not with all those people who Thaddeus didn’t trust enough to tell when he was alive. Not with that Algernon B-for-Bastard already writing next week’s column in his head. Even a corpse can be ruined. And a corpse’s reputation doesn’t mend. So I kept mum. God help me. I wouldn’t let Thaddeus go down in the books as just another dead pervert. Because that’s how we all end up, of course. No. I wouldn’t let his heart be somebody’s morality tale.
Or maybe I was just afraid. Of Freddy, of Percy, of all of them. I couldn’t help it. I thought, Percy, baby, you wanna run it back and do it again so you can get a better angle on the bullet? Make certain the shadows are right on Thaddeus Irigaray’s eyes when the light goes out inside them? Or was there a better line you could’ve hurled in his face? Or at Penny, or Fred? And why would you lie for them? Why would you bother? You don’t even know Penny, not really. You’ve been chummy with Fred since you were kids, sure…but the fraternal bubble never extends to wives. So what did Thad do to you, Percy? How did he really earn his bullet? Why is this happening?
“Whose gun was it?” I asked.
“What?”
“Whose gun? Who brought a gun to a wrap party?”
“It’s mine,” Percy admitted. Oh, Percy. No. “I was showing it to Fred. Showing off, I suppose. I don’t fancy ending up in a Plantagenet vault, Mary. I protect myself. Maud’s got a pistol strapped to her thigh. Ask her. It’s not so strange.”
Then Percival Unck told us how it was going to be. His best directorial effort and only thirteen people ever saw it. Thaddeus had a heart attack. The ship doctor could be paid off; he barely graduated from medical school, anyway. We’d clean it all up, all of us together, and Thaddeus would be cremated before anyone knew the difference. The rest of us would keep the secret for our own reasons. Because we were accessories, because we wanted system-wide distribution for our tawdry little magazine, because we didn’t want a divorce to leave us penniless, because we wanted a part, because we didn’t care, because we loved Thaddeus Irigaray and didn’t want him to be remembered as a homewrecker or worse, because we could live forever on the favours Unck and Edison could do us.
What about me? Will I keep quiet? I said I would. I promised. With blood on my cheek, I promised. I took my silver—any part I want, and the director’s chair, too. Though, honestly, I think it might be time to retire.
I don’t want to write about scrubbing blood off ebony with a wire brush. Or burning my buffalo fur in the engine room. But I do want to write this: While we were cleaning Thad up, I pried open his fist and swiped a wadded-up piece of paper out of the muck and the crusting blood. I didn’t look at it ’til I got it safely back to my room.
It’s a photograph. Of a baby girl.
I can’t be certain—babies all look a bit like one another. But I think she looks an awful lot like Severin.
Kansas
Transcript from 1946 debriefing interview with Erasmo St. John, property of Oxblood Films, all rights reserved.
Security clearance required.
CYTHERA BRASS: Session three, day two. Arlo Covington, C.P.A., Oxblood representative, instructed your crew to abandon the Adonis set. Why didn’t you follow his lead?
ERASMO: We did. We just…got distracted. Look, I know you think we’re a great fat lot of useless drama society layabouts, but we are, each and every one of us, professionals. We stabilized the situation very quickly. Dr Nantakarn had a mobile ICU already set up in advance of the dives we had planned. Retta isolated Anchises and put gloves on him so he couldn’t infect anyone else. She took Mari in hand, sliced that thing right out of her palm, and bandaged it up before Konrad and Franco could get breakfast cleared away. Gave her morphine for the pain. Mari was pretty doped up. She slept it off in the medical tent while we discussed what to do about Horace.
Venusian freshwater wells are deep. To get past the saltwater you have to really burrow down. We had a boom mic and a small crane. Nothing nearly long enough. Max said…he said Horace was already buried. We could cap the well, carve his name on it. It would be a beautiful grave. He was trying to be kind. Maximo’s kindness can be morbid. But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t just let Horace rot down there, getting chewed on by who knows what blind, awful worms live in Venus’s underbelly. I have too good an imagination. I could see it, some horrid night-eel laying eggs in his ey
e sockets…I couldn’t leave him down there in the dark. He deserved a better final scene than that. Besides…he could have been alive. What if he’d only broken a leg? Both legs? What if he was slowly bleeding to death down there?
Well, the only other option was the diving cables. We had two suits left: one for the diver and one for the cameraman, and heaps of breathing tubes. We could lower someone down, just as we would from the gondola into the Qadesh. I thought it should be me. Look at me—I’m the obvious choice. I’m a big man, I’m strong, I could carry Horace back up, easy. Like a fireman. I could carry them all back.
But Iggy killed that idea. “These village wells, they narrow as they go down. You could get stuck, and, you know, we have to lower you and haul you and the body—and Horace—back up. We have no climbing equipment. No cleats or crampons. The tube could snap. We could drop you. You’re the heaviest one of us, Raz. The lightest should go.”
And all eyes turned to Arlo.
CYTHERA: Did the background noise let up at all while this discussion took place?
ERASMO: No. Maybe? I’m not sure. It wasn’t constant. It surged and ebbed and surged again. But it never found a rhythm. If it had rhythm, we could have ignored it eventually, the way you learn to ignore the sounds of traffic late at night in Tithonus. But it never lulled, it just crackled and shrieked and garbled out those dreadful bursts of growling.
CYTHERA: And Covington agreed to go down after the cameraman?
ERASMO: After Horace. Surprisingly, yes. Everybody did the same mental maths: we couldn’t risk the doctor, there was no way I’d let Rin go, Mari was out cold, Crissy’s almost six foot of lean cheetah-girl muscle. We all had at least a stone on Arlo. If it had to be the lightest of us, he was it. You knew him—skinny as a jockey, and not so tall as all that. He was wiry, though. He must have done some sport or other—accountants don’t usually have that sort of whippy physique.
CYTHERA: Rowing, actually. He was on the Oxblood crew. Up every morning at four pulling oars across the Rainy Sea.
ERASMO: Huh. I can see that.
CYTHERA: You said he agreed to this plan? You didn’t coerce him?
ERASMO: Is that what the others said? That I forced him?
CYTHERA: I’m asking you. I’m having some trouble with the notion, Mr St. John, because Arlo hated confined spaces. He worked on the Oxblood accounts by the lake in Usagi Park so he didn’t have to suffer in his own office. And you’re telling me he cheerfully went along with a plan that required him to jump into a pit in the ground.
ERASMO: Without one second of argument. He’s your family—that’s what he said. You don’t turn your back on family. I don’t know. Maybe he lost a brother way back. Maybe his mum abandoned him. Maybe you don’t know him that well. But I’ll tell you for nothing that in that moment, I loved Arlo Covington like mad. He didn’t even dawdle. Suited up right away—we had to strap down the suit a little to fit him. He kept the diving bell on, to protect his head, in case he fell. We rigged up a sling for Horace out of one of the hammocks and some gaffer tape, secured a lantern to Arlo’s belt, and strapped Mariana’s pride and joy to his chest. If she hadn’t been surfing the morphine coast she would have lost her mind. Send her baby down a big black hole? No chance. See, she’d brought along a brand-new Edison-brand prototype wireless microphone. For field and stress testing.
CYTHERA: That would be the Type I Ekho Ultra-Mic?
ERASMO: You’ve got it. Mariana wouldn’t let anyone else touch it. She had to keep notes on everything she did with it for the company back home. She kept saying it was worth more than the Clamshell, though that strikes me as bullshit—It looked like a little tin lunchbox. We needed it. What if something went wrong? We were happy to stroll around White Peony with parasols and a song in our hearts, but going…inside Venus—we couldn’t let Arlo do that without some way to tell us if something went wrong. We gaffered the Ekho around his chest and tuned our field radio to seventy-six megahertz so we could pick up his broadcast. I cranked the volume up all the way and hoped to heaven we’d hear Arlo over the white noise.
CYTHERA: What time did Mr Covington begin his descent?
ERASMO: I’d say around 1100. It was stickily warm; the air didn’t seem to move at all. We helped Arlo waddle into the town centre, to the mouth of the well. He stood there like a comic book hero amidst all that wreckage, all those mangled, mutilated houses, with his diving helmet tucked under his arm like Barracuda the Brave from that old Capricorn cartoon The Arachnid vs. The Seven Seas. He smiled at us, and I knew he was terrified, so it must have cost him something to flash that astonishing supernova grin our way. He was just trying to tell us everything was gonna be okay.
“Hey,” Arlo said. “So there’s this mummy snake and this baby snake and the baby snake says, ‘Mumsy, are we poisonous?’ and the mummy says, ‘Yes, sweetums, but why do you ask?’ and the baby says, ‘Because I just bit myself!’”
It’s not a great joke. But we laughed like he was headlining at Carnegie Hall.
CYTHERA: Did Severin record any of this?
ERASMO: [laughs] Are you joking? Of course she did. Severin and Crissy set up two cameras, one on our faces and one for the wide shot. It’s a pretty amazing scene. If everything had gone differently, I think we’d be munching hors d’oeuvres at Academy Awards pre-parties right now, instead of these, frankly, dreadful biscuits and this abomination disguising itself as tea. Even after, in the darkroom, Crissy and I thought it was something else. The shards of Adonis casting hard, sharp shadows, the well in the centre of the shot, Arlo doing his Barracuda the Brave shtick, the breathing tube and diving cables tied tight around his chest, then a pan around Maximo, Santiago, Konrad, Franco, and Severin. All of us braced against the stone wall of the well like we meant to play tug-of-war with the public waterworks.
Arlo tested the Ekho mic. The radio crackled on. “Good evening, Ladies and Gentlemen! Gather in, pour yourself a cup of something nice, and sit back for another instalment of the solar system’s favourite tale of adventure, romance, and intrigue on How Many Miles Before Arlo Smashes His Skinny Arse to Bits? Okay, down I go! Don’t forget to make a wish!”
I turned away when he jumped in. I’d seen that once already.
As soon as Arlo saying wish whined out on the radio, the static boomed out its usual unintelligible hissing, then a voice exploded out of the white noise. This time we could all hear the words perfectly clearly: Somewhere the sun is shining, but here it don’t do nothing but rain…
It was Mariana’s and Cristabel’s voices. Singing “I Left My Sugar Standing in the Rain,” exactly the way they did on our first night at the Waldorf in White Peony Station. But it came showering down from everywhere, knotted up in ribbons of static, out of the sky, out of the trees, up from the mud and the water.
CYTHERA: How did Ossina react to that?
ERASMO: The same way we all did: it scared the tits off us. But we had Arlo hanging off of our belts—if we lost our composure, he’d fall. It was so loud! All any of us wanted to do was put our hands over our ears. We took turns, so the rest could still let the cable out slowly. Arlo called up every ten metres or so. And between his reedy voice threading out of the field radio, other voices began to pop up out of the sea of white noise like…like lobster cages with monsters inside.
“Ten metres down! Nothing to see, just brick. Some very exciting mould.”
And Max’s voice would float behind: Heaven knows what she has known; my mind she has mated and amazed my sight…
“Twenty metres! Can you imagine being the fellas who had to dig this thing out in the first place? Boy do I love taxes, accounts payable, and central heating.” Then Severin’s voice spooled out of the dusk: I used to look up at night and dream of the Solar System…
“Fiftyish and all’s well! I’m not gonna call out the metres anymore. It’s getting hard to tell. I was counting the bricks, but they’ve gone now, and I probably had it wrong, anyway. It’s not like I have a ruler. I’ll just keep ta
lking. It can’t be that much longer.” Maximo’s baritone snapped and sizzled out of the air: I tell my baby it never rains on Venus, I tell my baby the sky is pink as a kiss… “So…how do you get a dog to stop digging in the garden? You confiscate his shovel.” A little girl’s voice battered our eardrums from the sky: They are all telling the story to me… “What do you call a four-hundred-pound gorilla? Sir. Or anything he wants. Or the next big thing at Plantagenet Pictures, am I right? This is wonderful. I can just pretend you’re all laughing. So much easier when there’s only mud to give you a bit of side-eye. Ooh, there’s a snail. Sort of. It’s hot pink. And has little feet. You could probably make a joke out of that. What do you call a snail with feet?” Begone, deceiver! I shall marry Doctor Gruel at the stroke of dawn!
CYTHERA: Even for Arlo, that’s a terrible punch line.
ERASMO: The punchline was “A crawlusc.” Which is also not spectacular. No, the field radio started losing its connection with Arlo, and other broadcasts sort of sagged in over his. Seventy-six megahertz is just a frequency—and a popular one. We hadn’t picked anything up since we got out to Adonis, so we didn’t think frequency traffic would be a problem. But the Ekho mic couldn’t quite hold its own once Arlo had gone down past…well, I don’t know. Like I said, he stopped telling us his measurements past fifty metres.
CYTHERA: You can’t possibly remember all this so well.
ERASMO: I can. We were rolling film the whole time; recording sound, too. I listened to it about a thousand times on the trip back. Before Max went on his little crusade. I remember it like it’s written on that wall over there.
The tube bottomed out at one hundred and eighty metres, give or take. Arlo called up: “Don’t worry! I think I can jump down from here if I disconnect the tube!”—Behold, this is not a hospital, but my ship!—“…climb back up with Horace in the sling; it’s only a bit of a drop to the bottom.”
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