Suzerain: a ghost story

by Adrian John Smith

  "Okay," Maria says, with a smile and faux-civility, "shall we find something to put the flowers in?"

  Frank looks at the flowers. The broken stems angled over her knuckles. "Sure," he says. "Can't have them wilting."

  "You bastard, Frank Costigan. You total and utter shit."

  Maria fixes drinks. Frank can hear the fridge door open, close, open again. A chink of ice hitting the glass, some unrelated rattle of pans, some unfinished business. He's sitting in one of the red easy chairs in the living room, sucking a period-sized but re-occurring spot of blood from his finger where he cut himself cleaning up the glass on the patio. There's a smear of orange pollen on his shoulder where Maria hit him with the flowers. It's the new shirt and now it's stained. Still, this is a flash of temper which seems to have partially burned out because now he can hear her singing to herself while she fixes drinks. It's in Frank to take advantage of this shift in her mood; to sneak in there and wrap his arms around her from behind. She might give; she might not. It's not something that he really feels like doing though, more a kind of pre-programming - not so much of himself, but of the situation. Call it a dramatic convention. In which case something she'll be expecting him to try - her blender-related threats not withstanding - so maybe something in which he should not disappoint. Either way, Frank finds that he can't be bothered. Besides, if he's wrong, he'll be back on the street blinking scotch and soda from his eyes and from there it's back to the bars and the Dutch students. Plus, he remembers how tall she is.

  White walls and red curtains to match the couch and chairs. A deep red. A sanguine red. A print of line-drawn bulls which looks like preparatory work. What is that? Picasso. He thinks Picasso. There's a colour-block painting which could be one of Maria's own. Frank's not the kind of guy prone to weeping but the more he looks at the painting the more he knows it's hers because he can see her in it and he remembers how much he's missed her and a rogue tear - well, it's probably just a reaction to the pollen. That could be. A thirty-eight makes a big fucking hole. There's a kid on a paddy field road with the top of his head flipped off like a breakfast egg. Which is something the Dutch students didn't want to hear. This from a war which Frank doesn't think about all that much. Something he never talks about. But this is back-story, preliminary. It's the way the rest of his face is untouched, so that if the kid is in a photograph which you cropped, he'd just be a kid with a peculiar expression on his face. That's if you crop the part which shows the top of his head flipped off like a breakfast egg. There's a smell to a paddy field which you see in your dreams. And you know something about pollen? You may never have suffered from an allergy - not even if you were raised in the middle of ten thousand square miles of grassland - but let a woman you've known and loved for fifteen years hit you with a bunch of flowers and just see how that pollen makes your damned eyes leak. Which is why Frank wipes his eyes. Which is why he shifts his (fat) ass in the chair to pull himself from the slump he's settled into just in time for Maria not to see him do it.

  Drinks on a tray, which she sets on the coffee-table. Scotch and soda for him. Gin and tonic for her. A bowl of surplus ice and an ashtray, along with a bowl of olives. Frank fucking hates olives. How can she not know that about him?

  Frank looks at his finger, which has stopped bleeding. Then he downs half the whiskey in one.

  "Jesus Frank," she says, "maybe I should just fetch the whole damn bottle."

  "What? Oh yeah. Sorry. Tell you the truth I've been hitting it a little lately. You?"

  Maria sits in the chair opposite, keeping the table between them. "Mostly on the weekend. I hope you don't think you're going to get shit-faced, Frank."

  Frank puts down the glass. Picks it up. Swirls the ice. Puts it down again. He watches Maria draw up her long legs and tuck them beneath herself. She's still wearing the kimono and now she's let her hair loose, which takes off some years. He wants to tell her that it wasn't a line, the business about her still being attractive. He swirls the ice instead.

  She says: "Okay Frank, what do you want?" This in a voice roughly equivalent to her loosed hair.

  "I want to tell a story," Frank says. Can feel something in his own voice which says: what else?

  "A story? You mean make a pitch?"

  "If you want. It can be a movie. Let's call it a movie."

  "Is it a movie or not Frank? Shame if it is because I'm not in movies anymore. Remember? I'm in real-estate. Which means I don't get lunatics phoning every hour of the damn night and day, and I don't have to make allowances for the egos of all those pathetic - "

  "Plus you can pay for this house."

  "Right. Plus I can pay for this house."

  Frank drinks. "No. This is a true story. This is a true story which I need to tell," he says, trying to keep this need from bleeding into his voice. Jesus. He's not as steady as he'd hoped he'd be. He smiles the old Frank smile. "Shit," he says, "what else are we going to talk about?"

  But the old Frank smile is devalued currency. "What else?" Maria says, getting back her edge. "Well, let's just talk for a minute about what we're not going to be talking about shall we? How about you getting married, you sonofabitch, for one thing and about how I didn't even get the courtesy of a phone call. Or how about the four fucking scripts I help you write for pocket change before we get an idea we kick around for several months plotting and making story-boards. You remember Frank, don't you? A little idea we call Trams, which you decide to put on the back-burner, where it bubbles away until you write it with your new wifey and shoot it with my goddamned story-boards and my goddamned dialogue and at least half of my fucking plot and make yourself - what was the gross Frank?"

  "I don't remember?"

  "You don't remember?"

  "Look, Maria. Shit, it wasn't like that-"

  "Don't you dare fucking patronise me Frank-recently-multi-millionaired-fucking-Costigan. Don't you dare 'shit-it-wasn't-like-that' me. If it wasn't for the fact I've got a life; if it wasn't for the fact I'm not going to waste five fucking years of that life looking at you across a goddamned courtroom, I'd sue your fat ass to the last drop of blood. Marcos offered to kill you for me. Did you know that? I should have let him."

  "Maybe you should. It might have saved me some trouble. I didn't know the two of you were so damn cosy."

  "He helps out Frank. I needed some help. What? You think it was a case of tough hustler can take the knocks? You left me with nothing. Nothing. Christ I ought to kill you myself."

  "You want a cigarette?"

  "What? No. I quit. You should too. Jesus Christ what do I care? What are you even doing in my house?"

  "I told you. I need to tell you a story."

  "That was rhetorical, you fucking nit-wit. Alright Frank, tell your damn story. But you listen to me Frank Costigan: I've got a job. A real job. I have to be sharp and ready to work at nine-fifteen AM. Are we clear on this?"

  "Yes we're clear on this."

  Frank lights the cigarette. Takes a deep breath…

  "It's about Moira," he says.

  "Moira your wife? Now I get an explanation?"

  "That's not why I'm here. The purpose of the story. Listen: I can only do this once. Let me start. Let me finish. You can run my fucking balls through the blender if you like, I don't give a fuck. But after. When I'm done. But listen. I'm in deep shit. You're right about that. Deep enough I'm going to drown in it. No reprieve. No bullshit Hollywood last minute intervention. No benign deux ex machina for this country boy. No luck left in Lucky Frank. You understand? End of the fucking line. Telling it is all I've got left."

  "Frank? Are you-"

  "Yes it's about Moira. But it's more than that. It's about the biggest fucking mistake of my life. This is a ghost story I'm going to tell you. You believe that? No. Neither do I. But that's what it is. I'm living a goddamned ghost story. And you know what? It's better - by which I mean worse - than anything you or I ever dreamed up."

  "A ghost story. You know something Frank? You are truly a
fucking marvel. You come in here-"

  "Do I get to tell or what?"

  "Oh what the hell. Go on and tell it. No. Wait. If I have to look at you looking at your empty glass like that one more time, I'm going to pull my own fucking teeth out. Jesus. This had better be good Frank. This had better be worth a hang-over."

  "Go easy on the soda," Frank says. There's a minute here, alone in the room, he doubts he can go through with it. Then he knows he can. But there's a muted bleep and a vibration in his trouser pocket and for a minute he thinks he's being stung by a bee because his mobile hasn't done anything in days and he's forgotten it's there and when he takes it out he sees that it's a text. A text from Moira. His hand shakes as he operates the phone.

  Do it Frank. Now.

  Tonight. Or I swear

  to god…

  Oh that bitch that monster that whore that fucking psycho. He wants to weep and he wants Maria to hold him and he thinks of the part where he tells her the part that's killed him and he…

  Stands up. He fixes a smile to the door she walks in through. There's a look on her face.

  "I've got to run," Frank says.

  "What?"

  "Yeah. Something came up." He holds up the phone by way of explanation.

  "You are a fucking beauty, Frank Costigan. A real fucking sweet-heart."

  "I've got to go. I'm sorry. Listen-"

  "Save it Frank."

  Which is what he does.

  When he turns in the courtyard for one last look at her, Maria draws her finger across her throat and slams the door.

  I know, Frank thinks. I know.

  Billy (April 2003)

  Billy sits on the edge of the bed smoking a cigarette. It's cold - goose-pimples prickling his forearms - in Caroline's spare room, but Billy doesn't like to stay close to a woman he's just fucked until he's ready to fuck her again. He also likes it to be quiet. Caroline knows this; it's one of the best things about her. He's got his back to her but he's aware of her physical presence in the bed. He also has a vague idea of her emotional condition; happy in a sad kind of way - happily fucked anyhow (Oh Billy Billy deeper Billy give it to me Billy make me ooooh yes!), but otherwise she could be a million fucking miles away, which is just how he likes it.

  Rain against the window. Drops of rain trembling in the wind at the bottom of the sash which Billy has opened a few inches to flick his ash out. Sometimes the ash blows back in and lands on his thigh and he sweeps it off with a casual backslap.

  April. Around the harbour, which he can see distorted through the rain patterns in the glass - white masts; dry-docked, rust-iron trawlers far side; vans waiting at the fish-quays, the blue flash of a welder flickering back there - it's mostly local people going about local business. He spots Dell, his beer-belly form wrapped in a blue fleece, throwing scraps to the seagulls wheeling and crying in the wind. Soon enough the streets and the pavement around the harbour will thicken and throng with tourists. Fat fucking tourists. Delusional, pink, fat, fucking short-wearing, crop-top sporting tourists; sagging, mottled flesh spilling out, spilling over; oily fucking noses smearing estate-agents' windows. Most of them just stick to being tourists. Some of them though … some of them - too many of them - become grockles. Grockles, as far as Billy is concerned, are the ones who fuck things up. Posh grockles are the worst. Buying up the housing stock and filling the pubs with their listen-to-me-aren't-I-fucking-worldly-wise-and-fucking-interesting-with-my-too-loud-posh-cunt's-voice?

  "Penny for your thoughts Billy."

  "You don't want to know," Billy says, without turning. Then he relents. He's almost ready to climb back on the pony and so he doesn't mind to diminish the distance between them. "Tourists," he says. "Grockles." Gives the G its own syllable, crunches the rest of the word like he's biting on a clam shell.

  "God I can't wait," Caroline says. She doesn't remind him that she is herself a grockle.

  "They get on my fucking nerves," Billy says. "You ever notice how fat they are?" (Except the posh ones, Billy privately allows.)

  "Well, we could use the trade in this place. And don't tell me you're not glad when the town fills with women."

  Billy smiles. He doesn't turn to show it though.

  "Come back to bed Billy." That kind of soppy, half pleading, half coaxing voice.

  "In a minute."

  "Please Billy." (Forget the coaxing.) "I have to open up soon. That and straighten this room out before Graham gets home."

  "Fuck Graham," Billy says. Something about taking their kid - Josh - to the eye specialist in Plymouth. A more fucked-up looking set of peepers Billy's never seen. Billy doesn't really care much why Graham is absent - it's enough to know that he is - but he's curious to know the limits of corrective optical science. Maybe he'll call back later and see for himself. Maybe have a quick drink with Graham.

  "Don't be that way Billy. It's not his fault." She doesn't say what isn't Graham's fault and Billy doesn't ask.

  He joins her in bed. Eases beneath the quilt. Parts her legs easily. She's warm and comfortable. Sometimes Billy feels himself becoming quite fond of her. This is certainly a nice place to be. Better than working on Frank Costigan’s yacht, which at the moment is all about stripping old varnish from the deck; monkey's work. Better than sitting in yet another smoky bar for yet another afternoon. Better than rotting out the afternoon in his own pathetic little flat with the grumbling water heater and the smell of downstairs cats in the hallway, reading Elmore Leonard or else watching some brain-dead TV show. Certainly better than paying a visit to his mother in the nursing home in Paignton, sitting in a non-smoking room listening to her tell him - plead with him - to "Put Bobby out. Oh, please put Bobby out." (Bobby being a one-eared ginger tom which hadn't drawn breath since Billy was eight.) Or else she'd be calling him Georgie, which was the name of his dead brother. Georgie, she'd say, I don't want you to drown like Billy. I don't want you to go to sea ever again. Do you promise me? And Billy would repeat the vow that he'd made and adhered to after Georgie had got himself washed from the deck of his trawler four years ago, which was before the dementia had taken a big bite into her brain and Jesus so young. Yes, better than all that.

  Caroline is not as tight this time. Well-lubricated. Slimy in fact, but Billy doesn't mind. It gets her going, pumping and groaning. Stop, she says, I want the beads. They've got this thing going the last couple of times. Billy takes the string of pearl beads from where they hang on the bed-post. He pulls out, wraps them tightly around his cock. They feel good the way they roll up and down. They do wonders for Caroline who shudders her way through a theatrical orgasm, a long deep groan and a death-lock around his neck, thighs clamping him tightly. Oh Billy, she says, that was wonderful. She strokes his hair until he rolls off to toss the beads onto the floor and to wipe his cock on the quilt.

  They lie quietly side by side. There's a water stain on the ceiling which Billy has decided looks like a lion with a spear in its throat. Caroline breathes heavily. She rolls onto her side to hug him. He feels her stomach against his hip in a way he definitely hasn't done before. Soft. Not flabby exactly, and it doesn't show when she's on her back, which is mostly how they do it because that way Billy gets more of her warmth. Not flabby but softer and, well, just more of it - noticeable enough that she'll have to take herself in hand. It's wine that does it.

  "Billy," she says, "what's going on with you and Moira Costigan?"

  Billy turns, looks her in the eyes. Looking into her eyes makes him forget about her stomach. He can seldom tell what she's thinking looking into her eyes, he just knows that he likes to look into them. He could say: Mind your own fucking business - something like that - get out of bed, be alone by the window, put her a million fucking miles behind him, which is of course the way he likes it, except that it's warm where he is and he's looking into her eyes and so he decides to treat her kindly.

  "Nothing. Just work," Billy says.

  "It's all over town that you're running around with her."

&nb
sp; "It's that kind of town. I wouldn't worry," Billy says. He thinks about this though, turning his gaze to the lion with the spear in its throat. "Running around?" he says. "Jesus. I do the occasional fucking job."

  "What kind of work is it, Billy?" Her fingers tease his pubic thatch and he can feel the coldness of her gold bracelet against his skin which he likes her to keep on when they fuck.

  "The kind that pays."

  "I thought we were friends," Caroline says.

  "We are."

  "You're in my bed Billy."

  "Is this going to be a rights and claims conversation, Caroline? Because if it is then I think you know already that you've got the wrong feller."

  "Don't be like that. I'm just curious. She seems interesting. That's all."

  Billy sighs. "She's a writer. Did you know that?"

  "So I keep hearing. I keep hearing that she's a very famous writer but no-one can tell me a damn thing she's written."

  "Like I say, it's that kind of town. Why are you bringing this up now?"

  "Because you're usually sitting by the window and I can't talk to you. You're like eggshells Billy sometimes. Like walking on eggshells, once you've got what you want."

  "Now you wonder why I sit by the window?"

  They were quiet for a few minutes.

  Back in February, a couple of weeks or so after the incident in the car park; Billy and Moira. They were in Billy's old Ford Escort van climbing the road out of town. In the back of the van a spade, a pick, a shovel and a gas-fuelled hurricane lamp, which, given the weather, had been pretty appropriate.