by M. Suddain
Also, he believes in witches.
‘They’re everywhere, Boss. Any woman you meet could be a witch. You have to look deep in their eyes. That’s how you can tell.’
So it spoke loudly that this man who believes in witches and Elk conspiracies had trouble believing that I’d been attending dream-seminars in preparation for a visit to a mythical hotel. At times I thought I had gone mad, too. That’s why I had to run away to sea. To get some sense of perspective again. And I did.
The invitation found me at sea. Someone left it on my bunk: a square of 300-gram cotton card, in Monoset Gargoyle. Hotel Grand Skies: the Empyrean. Well, it didn’t say that on the invitation. ‘Privacy above discretion above all else.’ That’s their motto. Though it didn’t say that on the invitation, either.
I jumped ship and rushed back to show it to Beast. I booked myself into a shabby three-star called the Royal Mustang, using the wages and danger pay I’d earned at sea. I had to bribe them to give me a suite. I smelled so bad. Beast had waited in the hall until I was showered, and my sailing clothes had been put in a refuse bag and given to a porter. Once that was done he came in and discovered the card where I’d casually left it: propped against a pewter candlestick in the centre of an Osterland vintage writing desk with all three of my suite’s directional standing lamps pointing at it.
‘What is this?’
‘It’s my invitation, Beast. I told you they’d find me. I await your apology.’
‘This is just a string of numbers. Nothing else.’ True. Twenty-nine numbers. The exact same numbers that were printed on the back of the laundry ticket. ‘They’re the exact same numbers that were printed on the back of the laundry ticket, Beast. My UIIS.’
‘Sure. But how do you know it’s from the hotel?’
‘I just know, Beast.’
‘You came back from sea for this?’
‘Look, the engraving is exquisite. Intaglio. And this number, it’s … well, it’s just a beautiful number. Look at it. For fuck’s sake, Beast, just look!’ He didn’t look at it. He was too busy looking at me. There’s that look he does when he thinks I’m acting crazy. I’ve gotten to know that look very well. But oh, you should see him now, Colette. Sitting here on the Night Ferry, slo-o-o-o-w ly munching on pickled eyeballs from my travel-hamper, and gazing at me through narrowed eyes. He’s barely able to comprehend the fact that this phantom hotel might actually exist, and that I might not be quite as mad as he assumed.
But until he saw the ferry with his own eyes, he remained deeply sceptical. He played along nicely, though. He moved me dutifully from hotel to hotel, and then to the Rivoli for our final four nights before sailing to the Empyrean. He called a tailor, and even arranged to borrow a set of very expensive cases from his friend, the radio star Mary Xixi-Catton-Highburn. These cases would let me travel in appropriate style. The clothes to go in them would cost.
‘Where are you going to get the money to cover all this?’ It was a good question. Recent misfortunes have put me into financial flatline. I know what we spend on this trip can be offset against the money we’ll earn when we finally publish A Table at the Undersea. (Working title.) Cash up front was always the problem. To get that I knew I’d have to make an application to draw down from my trust. And that would mean a call to Esmeralda.
My mother is still a presence in my life, Colette, because she controls my inheritance. Worst of all, this omni-taloned matrisaurus controls my life despite having been dead for many years. In her will she left power of attorney to a psychic medium called Salmander. I know Salmander is a fraud. Unfortunately, she is a fraud to whom Esmeralda gave power of attorney, and who was able to convince a magistrate of her authenticity, and who I’m legally obliged to listen to.
Esmeralda has been unhappy with virtually every decision I made for myself since her death, even the ones which led to me being wealthy and famous and adored. I could only imagine how indisposed she’d be towards me after I’d destroyed my career and reputation with an ill-fated visit to the Fair, and then ran off to sea. She hadn’t responded to any of my letters, or postcards, or telegrams. The only option left was a phone call, which I knew would be hell. Salmander would make me wait on the line while she went through the process of ‘connecting’. When I told her I needed cash because I’d been invited to review the Undersea, at Hotel Grand Skies, and was due to sail out the day after next, I expected an exclamation of delight. Instead I heard Salmander emit a kind of high-pitched wheeze.
‘That is a palace of the dead … All the spirits scream against it with one voice … The Lord of the Darkness tells me only someone who wished to suffer the greatest horrors would go that way … There lies death and madness … Et cetera, et cetera.’ She would not even bother to trouble Esmeralda about it, she said, since that way lies horror, and whatever. Personally, I have no time for superstition, despite my maternal lineage. I don’t believe in ghosts, or omens, or dark spirits. And even if I did, I think not even the Lord of Darkness himself could have persuaded me to abandon my visit to the Empyrean. Our ambitions are the darkest lords of all.
Beast returned to my suite not long after the call. ‘How did it go with Esmeralda and the witch?’
‘Good. The money has been approved.’
‘Oh? Hot-stuff. At least we’ll be able to pay Diggity. Why is there a bath towel over that painting?’
‘It’s a clown.’
‘You don’t like clowns?’
‘I’m not fond.’
‘The towel doesn’t even cover it.’
‘It covers the eyes. I have ordered a bed sheet.’
‘Right, well, Silksmith will be here in an hour with your suits. I won’t dare show you the bill. But with Esmeralda’s cash it should be fine. Xixi-Catton-Highburn’s cases are imminent.’
‘Good, because we leave the day after tomorrow.’
‘Sure. Let’s talk protection.’
‘I don’t need protection.’
‘Yes you do. I’ve compiled a list of bodyguards who are suitable, manageable and available.’
‘And?’
He handed me a slip of paper with a single name on it.
‘No.’
‘Yes.’
‘Absolutely not. I can’t work with her.’
‘The feeling was mutual. I had to offer her double her usual fee.’
‘Double! Fucking beyond the question, Beast!’
‘We are short on options.’
‘Well, how long was your longlist?’
‘Eighty-seven names. Then I told them who you were.’
‘And?’
‘Eleven names. But then I told them where you wanted to go.’
‘And?’
He reached out to tap the piece of paper I held. ‘One name.’
‘She’s the only pro who isn’t afraid to work with me?’
‘’Fraid so. You’re tainted meat.’
I screwed up the paper in disgust.
‘Jonathan, listen. First: she’s the best on the list of eighty-seven. You can’t deny that.’
‘She’s the best on that revised list, I’ll give her that.’
‘You might have failed to get along personally, but she’s never failed to keep you alive.’
‘Except for the time she tried to kill me.’
‘OK, sub-first: you tried to read her diary. Sub-second: if Gladys tried to kill you, you’d be dead.’
‘She’s unstable. And I can’t afford double her fee.’
‘OK, sub-sub-first’ – Beast was struggling to keep the points ordered – ‘Gladys is only unstable around you; you press each other’s buttons. Sub-sub-second: you do things intentionally to antagonise her, like read her diary, because you’re secretly fascinated by her temperament –’
‘Don’t analyse me, Beast. I’ve had enough of that from Doctor Rubin.’ His nocturnal ‘healing sessions’ had resumed in earnest since I’d come back from sea, inflaming my already tender nerves.
‘… Sub-sub-SUB-first! I’m no
t analysing you. Sub-sub-sub-second: you can afford her, now that your mother has come through. She agreed to the full amount?’
‘Of course. Why would you think otherwise?’
‘Good.’ He etched a figure on his notepad. ‘Initial-second: Gladys is the most case-suitable on that list. Initial-third: she’ll only act as professionally with you as you do with her. Don’t wind her up. Initial-fourth: I’ll be there this time to keep you both in line. Initial-final-point: you have no choice.’
I said nothing.
‘Jonathan, listen to me. Whichever lunatic gassed the Butcher’s boat at the Fair is probably still out there, and he or she probably hasn’t finished with you. Someone is trying to destroy you. If Gladys had been at the Fair, do you think those thugs would have bothered you? None of what you’ve been through would have happened if she’d been there. She’s your protecting force. And look, I can’t really say much about this, but she’s gone through some stuff lately.’
‘Oh has she!’
‘She could really use a job like this. As a distraction. And listen, I don’t like to play this, but you owe me.’
As usual, Beast was right. About everything. Though I wouldn’t give him the pleasure of telling him. And it was a moot point because at that moment Gladys came slouching through the door of my hotel suite in a rumpled cream day dress, a leather jacket, her favourite green scarf knotted around her neck, those green shoes I hate. She was carrying her silver case in her left hand, her battered leather travel bag over her right shoulder, and that murderously bored expression.
She stopped when she saw me, looked at Woodbine, said: ‘You didn’t tell me it was him. I want triple.’
2 ‘… This humble anti-anxiety drug has been hauled from obscurity to become Cloud’s most popular prescription tranquilliser, largely thanks to the moneyed and mobile Experimental Jetset, who hunger for fashionable new medicines that blur the line between treatment and recreation. It comes in pills shaped like multicoloured larvae.’
NOTES ON A CONVERSATION
I knew Beast would already have briefed her on my delusions, my whims, that I was having in-sleep seminars in preparation for a stay at a possibly imaginary hotel. This was confirmed later that day when I came back early from a shopping trip. I’d been out to buy a gift for Gladys. I wanted to get things off on the right foot. Also, I felt guilty for firing her after our last jaunt. Also, I thought I might need to ditch them both later, so I wanted her guard down. I only use the stairs now because lately elevators make me edgy. They must have been listening out for the elevator bell. I heard them talking through the door to my suite.
‘I need you on this, G. That’s why I’m offering triple. Triple to sit around here and look pretty.’
‘Don’t.’
‘He’s not right, G. He’s gone through some stuff.’
‘Well, he shouldn’t have fired me. Again.’
‘He shouldn’t. He knows that.’
‘And he shouldn’t have tried to read my diary.’
‘He regrets it all, G, I can tell. He’s a proud man. You know he’s out shopping for you?’
‘Couldn’t give a fuck.’
‘We need to help him. You’re the only one who can manage him.’
‘There’s plenty of people who can manage him. I know some guys. Who else you talk to?’
‘No one. I made up some shit about a list. Because I know I can trust you. I know even if he drives you nuts you won’t sell him out to his creditors for a cut, or go off squawking to the papers.’
‘No. Might kill him, though. If he starts that colour-code bullshit I might kill him.’
‘That doesn’t matter. Death is not the issue here. It’s his reputation I’m trying to save. It’s what people say about him fifty years from now.’
‘They’ll say he’s a cunt.’
‘Exactly, G. He’s our cunt. And don’t you secretly love it? Don’t you get a kick out of seeing him destroy some preening dick-hole without breaking a sweat? The man is an artist. Was. Don’t you want to see the old John again?’
‘I suppose.’
‘I know you hate him, G.’
‘I don’t hate him.’
‘I just need you to help me keep him here, until he gets better.’
‘He won’t get better, Daniel. He’s a burning ship. Why are you still on deck?’
‘Why are you?’
‘Because you hired me. You said triple, right?’
‘You could have turned me down. But you didn’t because you secretly want to help him, too.’
‘Don’t analyse me, Beast. I don’t care what happens to him.’
‘OK, first: I’m not analysing. Second: I think you do care. Deep down. He has a sensitive side, too, G. There’s a part of him that cares about people, and wants to be close to people. You and I need to work together to destroy that part of him. Yes? The world of tomorrow needs to remember the man who could be cool while you’re shoving his head into an industrial fan oven. They do not need to remember sweet little Jonathan Tamberlain, whose dad was a drunk, and whose darling mother was executed by machine gun. He thinks he’s been invited to a phantom hotel … in his dreams.’
A heavy sigh from Gladys.
‘He’s talking about self-publishing his next book, G … Self … publishing.’
‘Fuck.’
‘Right? And listen, G, I don’t want to play this, but you owe me.’
Another heavy sigh. ‘You definitely said triple, right?’
‘Sure, triple. But look, he’s pretty low tide. You’ll have to run a tab.’
‘Fuck!’
‘Just for the first while, till I can get things moving again, get an advance on the new book.’
‘The one about the imaginary hotel.’
‘I know. I know.’
‘Fuck all this.’
‘Yep, but what can you do? Loyalty’s the biggest cunt of all.’
I hit the button for the elevator, waited for the ping. When I walked in G didn’t look up, and Beast shouted: ‘How was the walk!’
I waited till Beast was out having one of his thrice-daily steak meals before I gave Gladys her gift. ‘Gladys, I bought you a gift. It’s no big deal. It’s just to say thanks for putting up with me. And my shit. And sorry for firing you.’
I had spent a decent chunk of my sea-money on the dress. But it had to be done. Where she was going she’d need a dress. Assuming I didn’t manage to ditch her. And it was very unlikely that I would. I’d found a genuine silk Gavage her size in a vintage store. She approached the box on the bed warily, lifted the lid of the box, lifted a corner of pale blue silk, then turned to me and said, ‘Fuck you, John.’
So I knew I had to ditch them and make a run for the docks. And I knew it wasn’t the nerve gas speaking. I know Coma thoughts when I have them. Like earlier when I’d heard two maids talking about how the colour blue was out to get me. I knew that was powered by gas. My true thoughts are powered by suns. I was going to the Empyrean. I was on the List. Fuck everything else but that. I’d spent years dreaming of the place. Now I was going to make it a reality, or die trying. I had a plan to conquer the world again, and I didn’t need those two coming along and fucking it up.
NOTES ON A DARING ESCAPE
My run to the docks had everything, Colette: action, suspense, a dash of big-screen romance. My taxi took me slithering through the gullet of Zoraster City Subsea Districts. Zoraster is 90 per cent water; only 20 per cent of its cities stand above the wavetops. My driver nosed his magna-cab through falling blades of water, past a malfunctioning neon sign: ‘GIRLS. WOMEN. LADIES. BOYS. LADYBOYS.’ Kakivlia! Nononsi! Nononsi! He only spoke Low Kaukassian. He took me through impossible alleys, riding the wheel with his whole body, muttering things I probably didn’t want to understand, and on down a familiar alley, past a malfunctioning neon sign: ‘GIRLS. WOMEN. LADIES. BOYS. LADYBOYS’ – ‘We’re going in bloody circles!’ – he smiled through the steel grille between us – Kombina! OK! – his teeth
were steel, too, and his eyes were milky white, they scanned the darkness as we drove elliptically on. ‘GIRLS. WOMEN. LADIES. BOYS. LADYBOYS’ – ‘Hopeless!’ – Gladys would be on my scent by now, she’d be impossible – ‘If she finds me she’ll be impossible!’ He nodded as if he understood.
Ditching Beast is always easy; you just have to wait for him to eat. His meals usually take at least an hour. But Gladys eats like a clinically depressed sparrow in a snack-food focus group. She’ll open a packet of flavoured corn extrusions, eat two, then put the pack aside and open the next, and then the next, all while grimly reading her trash novels, and only pausing to shout: ‘STOP WATCHING ME EAT!’
But you aren’t eating, Gladys. That’s flavoured packing material you’re pecking at. You’d get more nutrition devouring that awful novel you’re reading. And more intellectual gratification reading the back of that Cheese-a-Ma-Call-ums packet. Her eating habits, and her Water Bear mods, make her all but impossible to shake. She used to be in the Water Bear Legion, Colette, did you know? That’s why she makes such a good bodyguard. She’s essentially telepathic. She probably knows I’m writing about her now. She just looked at me. Must be careful.
I knew I’d need an hour’s start on her, at least. Ordered her to take a message to Beast at Steak City Steak Palace, where I knew he’d already be attacking his second Big Boy Beef Basket. She groaned and left. My bags were packed. I waited till Diggity was away from his desk. I paid a bag boy to order me a taxi for Sentinel Docks. Then I snuck out and found a black-market car to take me to Combina. My staff, and anyone else waiting in the shadows, would follow the first car.