by Peter Besson
Alone.
The brief glimpse of light extinguished. His heart would close in on itself again, the scars hardened.
“I’m afraid we can’t have you on the premises any longer, Ms. Forlan,” Morton said. “So if you would?”
“But—” Nikki looked to Ansel for help, but he was frozen in place. “Ansel.”
One final surge of blistering pain. Ansel groaned, but he straightened out, forcing the tide of charring emotions down, deep down, into the bitter cage of his heart.
“Have a good life,” he said, wanting to avoid her eyes, but she wouldn’t let him.
“I don’t want to go,” Nikki said.
“Don’t be stupid,” he hissed at her before he caught himself. His tone softened. “Live. Get old. Fall in love.”
Nikki was fighting back tears. “Come with me.” She turned to the others. “He has to come too. Mr. Gallagher?”
“I’m afraid Mr. Grayson is here for the duration. However short it might be.” He couldn’t help his self-satisfied smile. It was too delicious. “Now farewell, Ms. Forlan. I’m glad we could clear up this little misunderstanding.” He bowed, so deeply it could have only been ironic, and turned on his heel and slinked off.
“Let’s go.” Douglas tugged on Nikki’s arm. She resisted, but then she saw Ansel’s look. He nodded, smiled at her. It’ll all be good.
Not that he believed any of that. He tried, and failed, to put up a brave façade for her. He took a deep breath. Not much time left now, and it would be over.
All of it.
“Come on, Nikki.” Douglas eased her out the door. The bodyguard followed closely behind, and with one last look over her shoulder, a despairing look that seemed to last an eternity, a last clawing attempt at connecting with Ansel and not letting go, Nikki was swept from sight.
“It seems all for the best, sir,” Huntley said.
Where had he come from all of a sudden? The man moved like a shadow. He’d materialized right behind Ansel, as if sensing his need for some kind of support—any kind, even from the person Ansel might have to call upon in the end.
“It is,” Ansel said.
Was it?
“It is, Huntley.” Ansel patted Huntley on the shoulder, let his hand linger for a split second, then drifted off, lost.
***
“So, how much did it cost?” Nikki sat in the back of the large black car, Tom next to her, keeping a close eye on her in case she tried anything stupid. “Dad?”
Douglas, riding shotgun up front, closed his eyes. He’d hoped his daughter would be in too much shock to want to talk—he knew better than to expect her to be happy—but they’d barely made it out of the driveway of the Hotel Terminus. He didn’t want a scene, not in front of the dimwit bodyguard next to her in the backseat, or the driver. He’d always been more than discreet, but this was a family matter, and it should stay in the family.
“How much?”
“More than you’d ever want to know.”
“A million?”
Douglas shook his head. Maybe if he didn’t say anything at all she would—
“Two? Three?… Don’t tell me four? Fi—”
“Nikki.”
“What?”
“There’s no amount of money I wouldn’t have paid for your life.”
“Really? That’s nice. Well, tell me…” The impulse to hurt, to lash out, was simply too great. “Was it worth it? Dad?”
Oh, was it ever. Twice over.
He couldn’t tell her how any parent would give all they had, even more, simply to see their child for one more day. How he already felt guilty for negotiating the price of his daughter’s life, as if there were a limit to his love for her. There wasn’t. He couldn’t tell her any of this because he was afraid it would make her weak, dependent, manipulative. All her life he’d tried to shield her from his massive wealth. If anything, he’d erred on the side of deprivation—not buying everything she mentioned in passing, even though he wanted to lay the world at her feet with every step. Her allowance? A pittance compared to her friends. She’d always had to do chores, work, perform—there was nothing Douglas hated more in life than slothfulness. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling he had taken a wrong turn with his daughter somewhere. Well, if there ever was an understatement, that was it. He’d just rescued her from committing suicide. It seemed he’d taken the mother of all wrong turns.
He turned around to look at her, and he was struck again by how much this particular bundle of cells and muscles and bones meant to him. He’d sink two fortunes just to see her happy. For once.
“You wouldn’t understand,” he said.
“No, I don’t.” Somehow, seeing her father in this vulnerable state, his eyes shining suspiciously, she felt the need to lash out. “I’m just some stupid kid who doesn’t know any better, right?” The light in his eyes dimmed. His features hardened. She had a sudden urge to apologize, to reach out and touch her father’s arm, to show that under all the garbage that had accumulated in both their lives, there was still a connection, but then her father turned around, his face closed like a door.
“Look at me, Dad.”
He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. He’d shown vulnerability, and again, without fail, she’d taken advantage of his perceived softness. He wasn’t soft. He wouldn’t allow himself to be.
“Look at me!”
He stared out the windshield.
“I’m grown up, Dad. I can make decisions. Good or bad. But at least they’re mine. Ansel—”
“I don’t want to hear one thing about that man.”
“Ansel Grayson. That is his name. And he’ll be dead in two days. He shouldn’t die alone. I should be there for him.”
He wanted to turn around, to take her hands, to tell her everything would be all right now, that she was safe; they would start over, they would leave old hurts behind and reaffirm their bond as father and daughter… but he found he couldn’t. He would have to slay who Douglas Forlan III had been all his life, and that would be too painful. Instead, he heard himself say, “Because you feel sorry for a man, you’d want to stay there and have to die with him? Only so he wouldn’t be alone? Have you given no thought to anything else besides yourself?”
“I have. You’re just not listening.”
“Oh, I get it. You hop in the sack with somebody and all of a sudden, he’s the love of your life? You can’t be without him? Is that how it works?”
“Yes, Dad. Love. That’s how it works.” All feelings of tenderness she’d had earlier toward her father were gone; only intense loathing was left. “But that’s something you’ll never understand.” She turned away to stare out the window, incapable of even looking in his general direction.
Outside, the city rushed by, block upon block of concrete, interrupted only by gaps of polluted air and exhausted sunshine.
***
Someone had said life’s nothing but an endless series of goodbyes. Billy Joel?
No. Morrisey.
Ansel’s hand traced the line on his bed where Nikki had lain only a few hours ago. He imagined he could still feel the warmth of her body trapped in the sheets. He was certain he still smelled her lingering scent.
It wasn’t an endless series. At some point, there was a last goodbye.
Tamara, on the beach. Her hand let go of Ansel’s. She was slipping away. Smiling. Stealing off into the sun that seemed to envelop her, welcome her.
No matter how many times he replayed the scene in his head, he felt trapped as if behind glass, powerless to touch his own experience. The pain was as sharp as it had ever been, but he didn’t live inside it. All it offered was annihilation, the cold ashes of death. With Nikki, the hurt was alive. He’d felt life and blood pulsing under his fingers.
And now, Nikki had joined Tamara, both behind glass, both unreachable, one pain.
Ansel found himself standing on the rooftop. How had he gotten here? He had no recollection of lea
ving his room, of walking up the stairs, or of crossing the roof to where he stood now.
He glanced out over the city, toward the sinking sun weaving through the tangle of skyscrapers toward its date with the horizon and its daily plunge into darkness. Ansel moved to the ledge, where the low retaining wall was only a step away from oblivion.
He pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Only one left. Maybe that was a sign. He fished out the cigarette and was about to light it when he stopped. The flame of the Zippo thirsted to burn tobacco leaves, but Ansel held it steady, then he clicked the lighter closed. Pocketed it again.
He flicked the cigarette out over the edge, stepped on the low wall and watched it fall, taking a capricious path determined by wind and gravity before it disappeared in the general detritus of a city of millions. What was left of him? Ansel Grayson? Like that cigarette, he was disappearing, unwatched. His existence a blink, and nothing but pain to anchor him.
He stood tens of stories high above the city, and far below him, life continued on, and probably would without him.
He raised his arms and closed his eyes.
***
Romer couldn’t remember ever looking that young. Or that healthy, for that matter. He’d also forgotten how beautiful she’d been. He took the picture from the nightstand and blew the dust off. There they were, standing on a mountain range, the sun behind them kissing the horizon.
Simply perfect.
Jesus, how long had it been since he looked at it? In heroin years, it was an eternity. Using his thumb, he rubbed the glass covering the woman’s face clean. Very, very gently. Her blond hair was on fire, blazing with the cool evening sun. Behind her and Romer, the world seemed to stretch forever, liquid orange mountains piled atop one another. Romer had his arm around her waist and she leaned in toward him, both glowing from cold and happiness and one too many drinks, if he recalled correctly. All the joy on earth was wrapped up in that picture frame. No wonder he hadn’t looked at it in ages. Especially sober.
Oh god, he was sober.
His hand trembled. Carefully, he set the picture back down. It clattered on the wood top of the nightstand, but with a monumental mental effort, Romer brought the tremors in his hand under control and the picture frame settled. Being sober required way too much work. There was a reason he’d shot the last decade into oblivion.
He was halfway across the room to fetch his kit when he caught himself.
No.
Today he wouldn’t.
There was absolutely no way he would shoot up today, he told himself while he was unpacking his kit. While he set the needle on the desk. Rubbed at the black gunk left over on his much-used spoon. Shook the baggy with the heroin inside. He really shouldn’t. Not today. Not when—
A knock on the door.
Romer froze, a sheen of cold sweat on his face. Maybe they’d go away, so he could go on pretending he wouldn’t shoot up.
Another knock.
Romer snapped back to reality. He stared at his hands holding the kitchen torch and spoon with the heroin in it. He shook his head, trying to clear the wisps of addiction. Whoever it was at the door, Romer, for the first time since he’d danced with the white lady, was grateful to be interrupted.
“Romer?” Ansel’s voice.
Tears flooded Romer’s eyes. He blinked them away quickly. Now was not the time to get emotional. He could keep it together for a few more hours.
“Romes?” Ansel again. “You there?”
Romer opened the door to Ansel. It was good to see him. So good. But what was he doing with that gun in his hand?
“I need help,” Ansel said. “I can’t do it.”
He blew by Romer and into the room. He didn’t pay attention to his friend still standing at the door, or the packed suitcase in the middle of the room. Ansel was too preoccupied with his own drama to realize he’d never seen Romer so sobered up, his room so impeccably cleaned. He didn’t notice that the picture of Romer and the stunning blond woman atop the mountain range was turned to face the room—for over a decade it had faced the wall because Romer couldn’t bear to look at it, but couldn’t get rid of it either.
“I was up on the roof,” Ansel said. “Couldn’t jump. Stood up there like an idiot, arms flapping, but couldn’t take the step. Then I went in my room, but of course, there’s no more chandelier. Which reminds me: I’m paying for the replacement, so wouldn’t it be only fair if I got to christen the new one?” Ansel was pacing back and forth. There was so much emotion inside, so much upheaval that if he stood still he’d burst. “Then I got the gun out, and I stared at it and I realized: I can’t. I waited and I waited and I waited, all those years, and then I was finally ready, you know, and she walks in. And now I can’t think about anything else than just having one more day with her. Only to find out what will happen. Just one more day.” He stopped and glanced up, searching for Romer, who had been strangely quiet.
Romer hadn’t moved from the door. He stood still, his head low, a small tremor running through his frame. Silent. Eyes blank. Turned inward.
Ansel hadn’t often seen his friend like this. Maybe never.
“Romes?”
After a long silence, long enough for Ansel to wonder if Romer had forgotten he was even there, he spoke, so low Ansel almost didn’t catch the words. “I wouldn’t mind one more day myself.”
It took a while for it to sink into Ansel’s self-occupied brain. “What do you…” He shook his head, realization dawning on him. “What happened?” He looked around the room. It was like it had never been occupied: The bed was made, the curtains straightened, the bathroom spotless and sparkling. Everything was in its place except the packed suitcase standing in the center of the room as if Romer were about to go on vacation.
“You leaving?”
“Not the way I had in mind.” Romer lit a cigarette with trembling hands. The shakes had gotten worse. Pretty soon he wouldn’t be able to hit a vein with a needle even if he tried. “Seems Hotel Terminus doesn’t have any use for me anymore.” He held up his wristband.
Two hours and counting down.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Ansel asked.
“I didn’t know. It started counting down this afternoon.”
“What? No. Can’t be. I thought you’re… didn’t you have a deal with Morton?”
“I did. Well, I thought I did. He thinks otherwise. I don’t know, Ansel. I don’t remember. I don’t remember much from the last ten fucking years!” He took an angry drag from his cigarette, attempting to control himself. “You think if I’d known this was my last day I’d have shot up this morning? I woke up a few hours ago and all of a sudden this goddamn thing started ticking down.” He tried to take another puff, but his hand twitched like he was being electrocuted. The cigarette stub bounced around his lips, against his nose, but simply wouldn’t fit into his mouth. “Jesus Christ, Ansel. All I want to do is cook up, but I don’t want to spend my last hours floating. So what do I do? I start cleaning. Packing. As if I’m going on a little jaunt. Fuck!” Furious, Romer threw the butt down and ground it into the carpet with his heel.
“Okay. Okay. Hang on.” Ansel held his hands up is if trying to make everything stop. “Let’s think this through. Why don’t you go and talk to Morton. Maybe you—”
“I already did.”
The words sank like stones in a pond.
“First thing I did when I saw the numbers move.” Romer’s voice was scarcely above a whisper. “Like I said, I thought we had an agreement.” He sighed. “That was so long ago though…”
Ansel waited patiently for Romer to find his footing in the present again.
“I knocked on his office door. First he didn’t want to see me, but I wouldn’t go away, so he let me in. That’s when he told me we never had an agreement. Nothing written as such, more of an… an ‘understanding,’ he called it. And then he looked at me in that smarmy benevolent way, squirmed a bit and asked if I wouldn’t agree th
at over a decade was plenty of time for that sort of an understanding to mature? And since I’ve got nothing in my account, well… and he spread his arms like he was so very sorry for me, but what could be done?” Romer clamped his left hand on his right. The shaking got worse. “I know what he’s doing, and there’s nothing I can do about it.”
“What? About what?”
“It’s because of the girl, Ansel.”
“Nikki?”
“Do you have any idea how much that moneybag paid for his daughter? I threw together the paperwork, and I’ve never seen that many zeros in real money. That’s Morton’s retirement. He’s checking himself out. The whole thing. He’s closing shop. And I’m…”
Romer paused. There was something, an important detail he’d forgotten a long time ago, or perhaps he’d never truly known it, had no reason to think about it further and consequently buried it in the fog of near-constant drug abuse. But now, with death knocking on his door, his best friend about to follow, something was dredged up from his memory.
Then it hit him. He knew. An impossibility, but still…
“I’m the only one who knows,” Romer said.
“Knows what?”
“Shit.” Romer rushed over to the writing desk and flung open the drawers, rifling through heaps of paper. “Why didn’t I think of this earlier?”
“What? Romer!”
“It’s here somewhere. Fuck I need a shot. I know it’s…” Then he saw the papers. “There.” He ripped a handful of pages out and slammed them on the desk. With shaking hands, he rifled through them. “There. This is it.”