Suzerain: a ghost story

by Adrian John Smith

  I bent back to my work, only looking up when I heard the outboard start. I watched Suzy round the end of the cove, returning her wave until she slipped out of sight. Then I re-applied the majority share of my mental assets to a particularly pregnant pause, a shimmering back-flow of meaning bridging a caesura. Have fun Suze, I said, automatically.

  Eventually, it grew too hot on the balcony, humid and breathless, so, not wanting to risk a headache, I took my things inside and set myself up to work at the kitchen table. It was a mistake. The ticking of the clock distracted and irritated me. Tick, tick, tick had something to do with Suzy, who would be swimming - naked perhaps - with her new (attractive, interesting, talented) friend, or else drinking wine on a patio, or perhaps at a pub on the river - there were bound to be pubs on the river. Or, perhaps, dear, sweet Suzy was, by now, half a tongue deep in her new friend's vagina. Which is the thought that made me quit work. Six thirty.

  I closed my notebook and capped my pen. Though I'd tailed off at the end, I was pleased with my day's performance. I even smiled as I laced up my hiking boots. I wriggled my toe inside the boot and felt no discomfort. I left the cottage and climbed the steps up to the road and then set out up-hill toward Castle Point. I anticipated walking a couple of miles, nothing too strenuous, just to get back into my stride. But it was incredibly humid beneath the tree canopy, almost visibly steamy, as if I'd stepped into a foreign climate, and by the time I reached the point and stared out over the calm, open sea, I knew already that the coast path would be too demanding in this weather - remembering that I'd barely walked more than a hundred yards in days. So I smoked a cigarette and watched the cormorants skimming low over the sea. There were towers of white cloud building on the horizon, promising a storm. Which settled it. I decided to cut my losses, turn back, and mooch around town for an hour or so. I retraced my steps, passed the cottage, and then descended the first stone steps that I came across. I passed the lower ferry, walked through narrow streets of shade and tourist chatter, and then onto the embankment. Boys hoisted crabs from the green water with orange hand-lines. An angler cast a string of feathers far out into the river. Gulls wheeled raucously amongst the ranks of white yacht masts. I walked as far as the higher ferry. The woods on the far side of the river looked deep and rich. Rising out of them, far upstream, was a large, stately house, built in red brick with white-painted windows. I wondered if this was Moira's house (I would later learn that it was).

  On my return journey I traced the streets further back from the river. I paused at a couple of pubs and peered in through the windows, tempted to call in for a small beer, but then deciding I'd sooner remain out of doors in the hazy, pre-storm light.

  Then I saw Suzy. Suzy and Moira. I didn't notice them at first. I'd paused outside the restaurant-cum-café purely because I liked the look of it, the sound of it. Built into the bank which carries Higher Street back to the castle, the open-fronted interior had a cool, cavernous look. An idiosyncratic, hand-painted sign told me that the restaurant was called the Blue Moon. Outside was a patio, half-covered by a tarpaulin, with three rows of wooden tables, mostly occupied by middle-aged tourists. A sparsely-bearded kid with a guitar was making a decent fist of "Karma Police".

  I observed all of this through the high iron railings which fronted the patio. Though the Blue Moon was most definitely an eatery, it also looked like the kind of place that wouldn't get too sniffy if I just ordered a beer. But just as I was uncurling my fingers from the railing, I saw them. They were seated opposites at a single, aloof table - placed, it seemed, for honeymooners or freshly-bonded lovers - back in the far corner of the patio. Above the table, candles burned in coloured jars - red, blue, green.

  Suzy's back was toward me from where she'd turned sideways on her chair, searching for something in her small denim shoulder bag, but I knew immediately that it was her. Her hair suggested it, her laughter confirmed it. There was some kind of fish platter - slices and fillets on a wooden board - on the table. Half-empty beer glasses, a basket of bread. It all looked very cosy. I watched Moira reach across the table and, very gently, tease something - a petal, a piece of grass - from Suzy's hair. It was a small enough act, but one which seemed pregnant with intimacy. I watched Moira roll up a piece of fish and pop the roll into her mouth in one go, eating with un-suppressed relish, then dabbing at the corners of her mouth with a napkin, a vivacious smiling flourish. I noticed vaguely that Suzy had eschewed the remainder of the meal in favour of a cigarette. But it was Moira who held my attention. She was everything - I recognised it in an instant - that Suzy said she was. She wore her short blonde hair teased back from her smooth brow into a kind of low-key, punk effect. Her skin glowed with a healthy, natural-looking tan. What struck me most, however, was the sheer, overwhelming blue-ness of her. Her clothes - T-shirt and jeans - were blue. Her nails were painted blue. Her eyes were shocking with the colour. And when she turned them on me it was like being hit by a wave.

  She seemed suddenly pulled into impossibly sharp focus. The ambient sound - the chatting, the small chinks and clinks of cutlery against crockery, the kid finishing his song - seemed to fade away. There was a direct, un-impeded connection made between us. And the look on her face was one of recognition. Then the sound rushed in. The kid winding up the song – singing about losing himself….

  As did I. I panicked. I could have calmly returned Moira's smile. I could have entered the patio, joined them at the table. I could have put my arm around Suzy, drawn her close, kissed her, claimed her, asserted some fucking control over the situation. But I did none of that. What I did instead was run. Yes, run. This was no dignified, demure retreat. No, this was me being comprehensively routed by a stranger’s glance.

  I ran for at least two hundred yards, until I was safely out of sight of the Blue Moon, and then I forced myself into a slow walk. I was shaken by the encounter, hurt by the propinquity and obvious intimacy between them. Resentful of this turn of events. On top of that, I was already feeling the embarrassment of my own loss of nerve. I had blown it. Whatever "it" was, I had blown it.

  When I got back to the cottage I decided I needed a drink. Which would mean going back into town. Christ, I thought, I must have passed two or three off-licences on my walk. Knowing the fridge was empty of alcohol (Suzy had finished what little I'd left) I started towards it anyway, just to check. Then I saw the note on the table. Karen, it said, called in to see if you wanted to join us for supper. You must be walking (hope you enjoyed it). We are at the Blue Moon (two streets back from the river). If not, wine in fridge. See you later. Love, S. X

  Fuck!

  Two bottles of white and an Italian red. I poured myself a large white and lit a cigarette. I needed to calm down. If they had been expecting me, if Suzy had spoken to Moira about me (She's very interested in what you do, Karen) then wouldn't such a discourse most likely include a physical description? And if so, wouldn't that explain the look of recognition on Moira's face? And perhaps then, that it was a look of realisation, rather than recognition, that I saw. Oh, look, that must be Karen.

  Aside from the fall-out of my more drunken excesses, I have seldom experienced such a soul-shrinking blend of stupidity and embarrassment. But I had, inadvertently, crossed this particular Rubicon and there was no return. Drunk, I could have brazened it out. Drunk, I wouldn't have lost my cool. Drunk, I realised, could have its uses. But I'd been stone, cold, ineffectually sober. I set about belatedly rectifying the situation.

  With a little wine inside me I was able to analyse things more calmly. The good news: I was pretty sure that I had moved too quickly (that is, ran like a fucking rabbit) for Suzy to even catch a glimpse of me. Which means that Moira would not know for certain that it was me she'd seen. The bad news: Moira had seen me, which eliminated any return to the Blue Moon which wouldn't have some horror of an explanation in attendance. On top of this was the intimacy I'd witnessed between them. Which I perceived as a threat.

  But there was something else which would
have prevented me from returning to the Blue Moon - the same thing which had made me flee in the first place: fear. Moira had scared me. She had scared me because burning behind that look of recognition there had been hunger. Desire. Intent. And what would she have seen on my face? Shock? Yes, because I had felt it. But what else? Reciprocity? I think that too. I have to admit, that too.

  I took a fresh glass of wine out to the balcony and smoked another cigarette, standing by the balustrade. Deciding that I would have to phone Suzy, I went back inside to fetch my mobile. Seeing that the battery was low, the signal lower, I decided to use David's house phone. Suzy's mobile went straight into message mode, which meant that she'd switched it off. Feeling obliged to leave a message, I told her thanks for the wine, that the Blue Moon sounded lovely, but that I'd decided to work on after my walk. Then I asked her if she would pick up some cigarettes, which was a sly way of letting her know that I was holding her to her promise of returning home.

  As I set down the phone, my eye fell on David's notebook, which I had used to record Moira's number the previous night. I stared at in disbelief. At the bottom of some notes, David had written a phone number, the digits printed with a more obvious care than he'd employed to scribble his notes. Tantalisingly, David had circled the number and connected it with an arrow to a piece of his more familiar scrawl. Ask the expert, it said. Beneath that was the number I had recorded. Which was identical to the one above.

  Context? The page in full:

  Metempsychosis

  Later Jewish teachings.

  Ibbur - in which souls may inhabit bodies by temporary possession without passing through birth or death.

  Plato - return to the one - consult Abrams on this.

  Gnostics - following Plato - also had something to say.

  Idea of metempsychosis starts with Pythagoras - but given name by Christian theologists.

  Don't entirely trust web sources. (Don't entirely trust Christians come to that).

  Ask the expert. 0137 569 87639

  [My hand] 0137569 8 7639

  David had told me that the work he did ("toyed with" was his phrase) at the cottage was by way of esoteric relief from his usual, purely lit-crit concerns. But what made Moira an expert on metempsychosis? I reasoned that Moira, like any other writer, would, per force of her projects, acquire some expertise in all kinds of areas - with or without design. I decided that this was less important than the coincidence that David obviously knew Suzy's increasingly enigmatic new girlfriend.

  Decorum suggested that it was perhaps a little late to phone David, but I phoned him anyway. We exchanged pleasantries. I told him that the cottage was lovely, that we were having a nice time and that yes, we'd figured out how to run the boiler for hot water. I mentioned the boat (Good God! You mean it still floats?). Then I said: "David, what can you tell me about a writer called Moira Craft?"

  There was a pause. "Ah," David said, "small town. I take it the two of you have met."

  "Well, no actually," I said. "That is - Suzy went to one of her creative writing classes up at the old church. She's been spending some time with her. In fact," I added, the wine making me unguarded, "she seems quite taken with her."

  "I don't doubt it," David said. "A remarkable woman. I had the good fortune to sit next to her at a dinner party. Very interesting." (That word again.) "She's a delicious flirt too. I left that party feeling fifteen years younger."

  "Is she worth reading?" I said, not wishing to dwell on the implications of this.

  "Oh," David said, "I wouldn't necessarily go as far as that - though her last novel - The Suzerain I believe it's called - garnered a few good reviews. But I think, on the whole, she's better taken in the flesh, so to speak. A very lively mind. She also has a wealth of abstruse knowledge at her fingertips - you know how they are, bless them. In fact, it was my conversation with Moira which re-kindled my own flagging interest in my pet project. Though briefly, it has to be said."

  "Oh," I said, with a tone of convincing interest, "and what's that?" I had no wish to divulge to David that I had been forced to enter his study. I'd received no dictate from him forbidding such a thing, but I understood that he'd feel his desk was sacrosanct. Of course, I had a good excuse, but even so.

  "Probably best not to depress you by rehearsing all of that," David said. "let's just say that I found myself dwelling on the eschatological. It's my age, I suppose. Natural enough I'd argue. Moira had, at some time or other, conducted some research which had a peripheral bearing on my enquiries. Which I've since ceased to further."

  Knowing there was no point in pressing David on the issue, sensing his vague discomfort, I employed the only other fact that I knew about Moira. "Suzy tells me she's a widow."

  "Yes, that's true. Last year. Craft, you know, is the name she writes under. Her maiden name. Costigan was, is, her married name. Irish-American I suppose."

  "Did you know her husband?"

  "No. Frank? - yes, Frank, that was his name - Frank was already dead when we met. Nasty business."

  "Suzy said it was suicide."

  "Yes. Poor fellow shot himself. In Madrid of all places. Apparently he was a film-maker. A bottom-feeder in the movie business was how Moira so eloquently put it. He got into some kind of…. I'm not sure of the detail, Karen, but Moira hinted that he had associates at the seedier end of the business. By which I mean pornography. Perhaps something darker. It all sounded a little sordid to say the least. Frank, it seems, became caught up in some kind of ill-advised business machination with no way out. Except, of course, for the one he took. A very nasty business."

  "Yes," I said, "it sounds terrible."

  "Indeed," David said. "Karen, don't let any of this discourage you from engaging with Moira. I'm sure you have a lot to gain. You may even be glad of a friend once …"

  "Suzy," I reminded him.

  "Yes, once Suzy has left."

  "I'll bear it in mind," I said. "Thanks. Goodbye David, sorry to have troubled you."

  "Always a pleasure Karen, as you know. Goodbye."

  I hung up. Something- everything - felt wrong.

  I find Suzy's grass - her strong, serious grass - stuffed inside the drawer like a consolation prize. I smoke the joint on the balcony, one hand on the balustrade. I drink more wine. I try not to think. Though there is no smile inside, the first wave-burst of pleasure makes my mouth smile, makes my head roll against my shoulder. A warm wind stirs itself into being, teasing at my hair. A flash of lightening that I sense more than see.

  It's hot in the bedroom. I lie naked on the bed in the dark, propping myself on my elbow intermittently to finish my wine, to take a deep drag on the last third of the second joint, knowing in my heart that Suzy will not be coming home tonight.

  I stub out the roach, lie back, follow a trail of thought which lifts me into the night, sends me swooping and skimming over the night-slick river, the water riffling beneath. I fly to the brick house with the white windows and enter like smoke through the key-hole of an oak door. I find a four-poster bed in a red room lit dimly with red light. Moira nips playfully at Suzy's neck and shoulders. Suzy moans, husky with smoke, a lightness trembling around her as if she is on the verge of levitation, as if Moira leaning over her like a succubus is what keeps her from doing just that - a delicious tension, paused on the edge of gravity, of materiality itself. And then Suzy issues a wild, orgasmic cry, her head thrown back deep into a pillow - a cry which rents itself loose of the long and quivering arc of her body, while I, hand between my legs (barely aware that it had migrated there) release a long groan of clitoral pleasure.

  And Suzy is gone. There is only me, drunk and masturbating in an empty bed while the thunder begins to roll in from the sea.

  Caroline (Summer 2003)

  Caroline. Standing by the window of the room with the water stain above the bed - the water-stain which Billy had said looked like a lion with a spear in its throat. Billy. Except that Billy hasn't been here for a while. Busy, he says.

&
nbsp; It's three-thirty in the afternoon and Caroline is wearing a red silk dressing gown, black stockings, suspenders. No Bra. Things she'd bought last year to rekindle Graham's less-than-smouldering interest in her. Fat chance. Still, she should be grateful for his absence. She could count on his being out on any given afternoon. He'd either be up on the moors fishing for the desultory, fingerling trout that seemed barely worth the effort of their capture - especially when you considered that there were mullet and bass almost literally on the doorstep; fish you could actually put on the menu - or else he'd be playing golf with the self-satisfied bores that he was always sucking up to. Or he'd be out sailing his yacht. Or conducting the kind of business which seemed designed just to get him off the premises. Proposing this, looking into that, discussing the possibilities of the other. Now that it's the school holidays it suits Caroline to encourage Graham in the kind of activities he can share with Josh. Which means less business and more fishing - taking his erectile dysfunction with him, teaching Josh how to waste a lifetime. She was entitled, she felt, to an afternoon or two without having to worry about Josh. Wasn't she?

  She lights a cigarette, comfortable with what she is; a woman grown used to making love in the afternoons. Because of Billy. When Billy had stopped coming (despite all the talk of Spain) she'd found that she had missed sex in the afternoons more than she'd missed Billy. That it had more to do with time than with Billy.

  A two bar electric fire burns in a corner of the room. It's one of those days when the summer falters - when the showers come over the headland with no warning - and it had been cold in the room when Caroline had entered. She stands and smokes, parting the curtains occasionally, peering out at the drab day. Her hand trembles a little as it touches the curtain, the only sign of her mounting anticipation. She lets the curtain fall back. She grinds out the cigarette. She slips her hand inside her dressing gown, rubs at her nipple with the palm of her hand, making it erect. Then she lifts her breast, feels its weight, lets it fall. Banishes the word "droop" from her mind. Crossing the room with the two-bar fire, the peeling wallpaper, the water stain in the ceiling which looks like a lion with a spear in its throat, she lifts a glass of wine from the nightstand. She takes a sip. Then another. She carries the glass to the window and lights another cigarette, reminding herself to air the room before Graham gets home. Graham doesn't like her smoking.