For Rye

by Gavin Gardiner

  Sandie adjusted her own glasses – a fashion accessory more than anything, Renata suspected – then hugged her. ‘You wholly don’t deserve this, Renata,’ she spoke in her ear. ‘You poor thing. You and me are gonna stick together, okay?’

  It had been so simple: she’d used the information on the business card the girl had slipped her to acquire her address. She’d received a reply to her letter within a week; the moth just couldn’t wait to fly back to the flame. Renata had only needed to express her desire to appease Quentin’s guilt at the harm caused by the truck explosion, wondering whether Sandie could think of anything they could do for him – perhaps together. Naturally, she’d also asked they keep their correspondence a secret. Unrestrained enthusiasm had gushed from the patterned pink paper of Sandie’s reply at the suggestion of collaborating to this end. Perhaps they could raise money for the victims?

  This was the opening she’d needed. Sandie eventually tired of waiting for the written replies, taking once again to the telephone. Renata had eased from Sandie the archive of memorabilia she’d previously mentioned, stuff hoarded from his films he intended to someday auction for charity. They could raise money for those poor men, as well as spend time together – perhaps even discuss the casting of Sandie in any future movie adaptations of Renata’s books.

  Sandie had said Daddy, for some reason, was having her stay with relatives in Phoenix, who’d left her alone in their city penthouse once they’d absconded to Vegas on a gambling trip. She could slip away to Millbury Peak unnoticed and surprise her father with this charitable gesture. Would he be angry at Sandie again? Possibly. Did she have to prove to him that she was her own woman, capable of her own enterprises and ambitions? Definitely.

  Why he’d ditched her with some aunt and uncle that she barely knew, she could not say. She’d explained that her father had always been manic in his love for her, but that her scolding at the film set, then her banishment to Phoenix, were both, like, so out of character. But Renata knew exactly why Sandie had been sent away: he was hiding his precious daughter while he waited on his lab rat to unhinge. Nevertheless, the flame had been lit and the little moth had come a-fluttering back. And now, barely a month after her first letter, here stood Sandie Rye, hugging this poor, supposedly blind old woman.

  So simple.

  ‘I was so happy when I got your first letter in the mail! Just as well the housekeeper forwarded it onto me from Daddy’s house. Nearly rumbled, huh?’ She giggled, scratching her nose. ‘I really enjoy…conversing with you, Renata. I’m just freaking out that we’ll get to spend more time together. We’re going to have so much fun.’

  Renata forced a smile as she looked her up and down. As before, skimpy cut-offs clung tight around Sandie’s butt. This time they were pink, matching the strappy top which sat just high enough to shamelessly tease the contours of the teenager’s midriff. Her appearance was as calculated as Renata’s cane and dark glasses. There was still a pseudo-intellectual within the girl begging to be taken seriously, but it had no chance against the beautiful blonde bimbo.

  Sandie’s industriousness was undeniable. She’d assembled a trusted crew – trusted enough to keep their project under wraps – who now busied themselves inside the town hall with preparations for the charity auction. Renata had emphasised the need to keep the event secret so Sandie would be able to surprise her father only after its success, therefore invitations had been restricted to contacts reliable enough to keep quiet.

  ‘What you got in there?’ asked Sandie, her manicured nails and tattooed finger reaching for the Millbury Hardware bag in Renata’s hand.

  She stuffed the carrier into her duffle coat pocket, then adjusted the beige scarf around her neck. ‘Nothing. Let’s go inside.’

  Sandie led Renata into the town hall, proudly carrying her Dostoevsky like a handbag. Leather couches lined the lobby, occupied by attendees awaiting the event’s commencement. Besides the couches, an illustrated map of Millbury Peak and a bank of telephones were the lobby’s only furnishings. Renata guessed the last event to be held here had been as long ago as her childhood, and even then she remembered nothing of the town hall. Life had now been injected into the place, with suited officials hurrying through the waiting area, seeing to last minute preparations as the time approached to open the main auditorium’s doors.

  ‘Miss Rye,’ said one such official, shoving past Renata to get to Sandie. ‘It’s a pleasure to have you here. I’ve been informed of the discretion you’ve requested regarding today’s proceedings, and I’d like to assure you that—’

  ‘Sir,’ Sandie interjected, ‘care to watch where you’re going? In case you hadn’t noticed, my friend is visually impaired and I wouldn’t like to see you knock her on her ass.’

  The suited gentleman spotted Renata’s cane and dark glasses, then turned back to Sandie. ‘Miss, I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t mean to—’

  ‘When’s it starting?’ she asked, batting her eyelashes. ‘Wouldn’t keep us ladies waiting, would you?’

  ‘Please, Miss Rye,’ he gushed, ‘if you follow me I’ll show you to your seats before we open the doors.’

  Renata was led by Sandie through the tall doors of the auditorium. She had to stop herself looking up at the great domed ceiling and decorated walls, instead maintaining her supposed lack of sight by focussing on the path her cane tapped out. They were shown to the front row and seated right below the podium. They heard another official announce to the lobby that the event was commencing, and guests soon filled the auditorium to just over half capacity. The auctioneer, a round, grey-haired man, stepped onto the stage and towards the podium. To facilitate remote bidding, a trio of officials manned telephones at a desk to the side of the stage.

  ‘Ladies and gentleman,’ the man at the podium began, ‘thank you for being here, and our deepest gratitude to everyone who made this event possible. As you’re all undoubtedly aware, today is the orchestration of a very special young woman.’ He looked at Sandie. ‘I’d like to add, having worked with her father in various charitable events such as this, I regard Mr Quentin C. Rye as one of the most generous, noble individuals I’ve had the pleasure of working with. Is there anything you’d like to say before we begin, Miss Rye?’

  Sandie leapt up.

  ‘It’s so cool to be back in Millbury Peak,’ she said, entering performance mode. ‘What we raise today will go to the valiant victims of that lamentable accident involving Daddy’s production crew. They’re messed up pretty bad, so I’m really hoping this’ll get them, like, plastic surgery, or something. Anyway, there’s someone else that deserves a mention.’ She motioned to Renata as if unveiling a prize pig. ‘My friend, Miss Renata Wakefield. I couldn’t have done it without you!’ Sandie’s perfect white teeth spread into a beaming grin. Her crop top slid higher up her stomach as she stretched her arms excitedly. ‘Give it up for Renata Wakefield!’

  There was ripple of hesitant applause.

  ‘Right, yes. Indeed. Thank you, Miss Rye,’ said the auctioneer as Sandie took her seat. ‘Let us begin.’

  Amongst the items up for auction was a replica of the emerald green dress from the cover of Horror Highway. Renata flinched at the sight of it. There was also the typewriter Rye had used to write his first novels, the gun he’d controversially had ‘loaded’ and stuck in his daughter’s mouth on set (‘Daddy’s a nut!’ she’d said when an attendee in the lobby inquired as to her feelings on this), and unreleased nitrate film stock from his archives, locked in flame-retardant crates. Renata had overheard chatter indicating there were mixed feelings towards the nitrate film’s inclusion. Aside from the endless safety checks that had been required, the auction was raising money for an incident caused by nitrate film. Not in good taste, she’d heard over and over again, as if the lobby had been filled with one-trick parrots. Not in good taste at all. Nevertheless, Sandie insisted the film go on sale, at the very least to rid her father of the stuff responsible for his guilt.

  That terrible, terrible
guilt.

  Damn him.

  ‘Up first we have an early seventies, German-built Olympia SGE 50M typewriter, used by the man himself to write such early classics as Slaughter in Crimson Manor, Zalikha, and the very first Quentin C. Rye novel, Horror Highway.’

  Renata’s fists clenched.

  ‘Besides the important role it’s played in the horror legacy of Mr Rye, the model itself is somewhat of a rarity, having been in production for only a few years and—’

  It was bulky. It looked heavy. It would do.

  ‘Five hundred,’ a voice barked from somewhere in the audience.

  ‘Five hundred! Do we have any advances on five hundred?’

  Renata raised her hand timidly. ‘One thousand.’

  All eyes turned to her.

  ‘Goodness! An exceedingly generous offer,’ said the man at the podium.

  Chatter sizzled through the room. ‘Renata,’ Sandie whispered, ‘check you!’

  ‘One thousand three hundred,’ the voice contended.

  ‘Three…thousand,’ she stammered, tugging on a sleeve. A chorus of gasps went up from the audience.

  ‘Three thousand…that’s three thousand pounds! Do we have any advances on this handsome sum? Anyone?’

  Silence descended as the eyes of the audience glanced around for further drama.

  ‘Going once! Going twice!’

  Sandie grabbed Renata’s arm in excitement.

  ‘Sold to the lady in the front row!’

  Applause filled the hall.

  ‘What a remarkable opening to proceedings! A contribution of mammoth proportions, an absolute…’

  Renata turned to Sandie. ‘Excuse me, I’ll be right back,’ she whispered, adjusting her scarf.

  Her cane tapped down the aisle as the man at the podium introduced the next item. She stepped into the lobby and stood behind a stone pillar, removing the scarf to rub at the raw red ring around her neck. She redid a couple of pins in her hair, then made her way to the bank of telephones.

  ‘Good afternoon. You’re through to the Millbury Peak Rye Charity Auction.’

  ‘Oh, hello. Yes,’ Renata said. ‘I’d like to place a bid, please.’

  The typewriter did its duty. Having lost interest in carrying around the Dostoevsky, abandoning it at the hall, Sandie wrestled the bulk of the typewriter under its protective covering up the high street, its weight like a gale slowing her progress.

  ‘Can’t we just grab a cab, Renata?’

  She watched the girl’s legs buckle. The machine was tiring her. Good.

  ‘We’re not far now,’ Renata said, her cane patting the pavement. ‘Besides, I thought you wanted us to spend more time together?’ They stopped at a pedestrian crossing and waited for the signal to change. The road was empty. ‘It’s so kind of you to help a useless old lady like me.’ Her dark glasses pointed straight ahead. ‘You’ll have to stay for a cup of tea, Sandie.’

  The girl leant the typewriter’s weight against a lamp post. ‘I’d love to!’ she panted. ‘But not much further, right?’

  Renata turned to the teenager, her eyes piercing through tinted lenses. ‘We’re close,’ she said. ‘Very close.’

  The footpath out of town led them between the fields towards the Wakefield house. The weather remained dry until Renata had shown the girl into the now-immaculate lounge, when the patter of rain against the sparkling windows made itself known. The clean-up of the vile house had taken days, during which she’d been careful not to skimp on the bleach and bottled ammonia. A pristine house meant the overpowering smells of chemical cleaners didn’t seem out of place, and these chemical scents kept that other stench at bay. She glanced at her father’s still-stained armchair, then at the bookcase.

  ‘Oh my, I knew that awful rain wouldn’t hold off long,’ chirped Renata, spraying air freshener in a zigzag above them. ‘No matter. At least we have an excuse to talk, just us.’

  Sandie set the typewriter down on a polished walnut table by the living room window, sighing with relief. She rubbed her arms. Fragile little moth.

  ‘Cool,’ she said, ‘maybe we can talk about your books. I’m serious, they’d so work as films. Just imagine, Adelaide Addington on the big screen!’ She batted her eyelashes. ‘All you’d need would be the perfect actress to pull it off.’

  ‘Oh, there’ll be time to discuss everything, Sandie,’ said Renata. ‘Please, take a seat while I make some tea.’ She stepped into the kitchen and filled the kettle.

  ‘Splash some cold water in mine, would you?’ Sandie called from the living room. ‘I’m so impatient. I’ll just burn my mouth if it’s too hot.’ She glanced quizzically at Renata’s dark glasses and cane. ‘Wouldn’t you…like me to make them?’

  Renata lifted the kettle before it began steaming and filled two mugs. ‘No,’ she called, ‘I can manage, thank you. Stay where you are.’

  ‘You can manage to clean too, by the looks of things,’ Sandie said, coughing on the stink of cleaning fluids. ‘The place is pristine. Kinda cold, though. This how you like it?’

  Renata took a packet of Dexlatine from the drawer and pushed six pills into a bowl.

  ‘No worries,’ Sandie said, ‘I’ve worked on some freezing sets. I’m, like, inordinately professional when it comes to…’

  Another three pills fell from the blister pack. Renata ground them.

  ‘I just think the character needs someone who, y’know, gets her. Like, what I’m thinking is…’

  She dropped the powder into the mug on which a cartoon worm grinned maniacally.

  ‘Someone with passion for Adelaide. I mean, I just think she’s so, like, unfettered to the conventions and unchallenged tropes of modern—’

  ‘Tea’s ready.’

  Renata set down the tray and sat next to the teenager. Sandie adjusted her glasses and glanced around at the shining wooden surfaces and impeccably fresh décor. ‘So you live here on your own?’

  ‘It’s my father’s house,’ said Renata, positioning the mugs and a plate of biscuits in front of them. ‘He’s taken ill and is resting upstairs. He’s asked for no visitors, but I’m sure we can make an exception for stardom.’

  Sandie flicked her hair and smiled that practised smile. ‘You’re so sweet, Renata.’ She edged away from the biscuits. ‘None of those for me, though. Low-carb cleanse,’ she said. Then, peering into the mugs guiltily, ‘But…well, maybe some sugar in the tea wouldn’t kill me?’

  Renata returned to the kitchen.

  She couldn’t know for certain whether the Dexlatine would have the desired effect. Ideally, such a high dose would freeze the girl’s muscles as it did her father’s, but quicker. There was, of course, every chance it would simply knock her out – or kill her. She could work with all these eventualities, but she hoped for Sandie’s survival.

  Drink up, little moth.

  She returned with the sugar and spooned a shallow heap into the mug. The cartoon worm grinned as she took a seat. ‘How many, Sandie?’

  The girl wiped her mouth. ‘Oh, sorry, Renata. I just remembered something about this model who, like, took sugar in her tea and it went straight to her thighs and…’

  Renata stared at the empty, non-drugged mug.

  ‘…one of my fitness instructors says, well, I forget now, but…’

  She placed the sugar on the coffee table and stood.

  ‘…I mean, he’s cool and everything, it’s just…’

  She stepped to the table by the window.

  ‘…I’m, like, so pleased with my figure at the moment and…’

  She gritted her teeth at the typewriter’s weight.

  ‘God, check me going on about myself again. Listen, I wanted to thank you for something…’

  She approached the back of the couch and heaved the machine above Sandie’s head.

  ‘…for, well, being my friend. Not everyone’s as genuine to me as you are, and it’s really cool. You’re like a big sister to me. Always keeping me straight and giving me advice and
inspiring me. So, y’know…thanks, Renata.’ The girl turned around.

  Their eyes met.

  The moment hung.

  ‘Renata?’

  The typewriter dropped.

  24

  Patterned cornices lapped like waves against a ceiling that refused to fall into focus. She turned her head and saw blurred shapes rolling past, then lay back and let the carpet continue its massage of her neck. It was a fairly comfortable situation to have found herself in, except for the screaming headache. As for how she’d gotten here? Not a clue.

  Then the stairs.

  Each step scraped from her buttocks right up her back, thumping her head before falling away behind her. That wasn’t what she needed, not with this headache. She faintly imagined the set of stairs to be a jaggy-peaked mountain range. She giggled at the absurdity.

  Light hit her, so much she wondered if she was heading outside. Of course she was, that’s where mountains live! She giggled again.

  She suddenly remembered the typewriter.

  The giggling stopped.

  Then the smell hit her.

  It pervaded every pore. The stench covered her from head to toe like an upturned swill bucket, leaping down her throat, up her nose, even stinging her eyes. She retched.

  The room into which she was dragged was like a vacuum of cold, the kind of cold she imagined you’d feel walking onto the surface of the moon butt naked. Actually, it wasn’t so much the air was cold, more that there was no air, whatever left in its place cruel and hostile.

  The final jagged peak passed beneath her, giving way to an exquisitely solid surface. Its icy touch shocked every inch of her exposed skin, of which there was plenty. Focus dripped gradually back. Her eyes squinted at the sun, which in this place was shaped like a long, thin sausage. She struggled to make out a shape rolling past in the sky.