Writ in Water

by Natasha Mostert

  ‘Well, he might have had the right idea.’

  ‘Oh, come on.’ The gleam in her eye was more pronounced now. ‘You’re going to have fun, you’ll see.’

  The man with the jumpmaster overalls came up to them and smiled winsomely. His accent was Australian and his intonation was decidedly odd. It sounded as though every sentence ended on an exclamation mark. ‘Morrighan! I’m going to let you guys go up first! Is this the lucky victim!’ A crushing handshake and another dazzling, minty-fresh smile. ‘Cool! You’re in for a treat! Sweetheart! There’s no one up there right now! Can I leave it to you to get the ropes on this guy!’ It made Gabriel tired just listening to him.

  ‘Of course.’ Morrighan gave the jumpmaster a smile that was pretty dazzling in itself. ‘I’ll take care of it.’ She turned towards Gabriel. ‘Wayne and I are old friends. We used to go BASE jumping Down Under.’

  BASE jumping. She said it so matter-of-factly. No wonder bungee jumping wouldn’t faze her. Gabriel had a friend who used to BASE jump as well. Not any more. His friend’s parachute had failed and he had gone into the wall of the dam from which he had thrown himself. With BASE jumping there was no reaching for a reserve chute in a crisis. There was no time. His friend had died within seconds of the moment his parachute malfunctioned. If this woman did BASE, she was looking for a kinky way to commit suicide.

  He took a deep breath, trying to put thoughts of smashed bodies hurtling through space from his mind.

  ‘So, what’s next?’

  Morrighan lifted an eyebrow. ‘Last chance to go to the loo.’

  He swallowed, trying to hold on to his dignity. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Good. What do you weigh?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your weight,’ she said impatiently. ‘How much do you weigh? We need to know so that we can get the right ropes on you.’

  ‘Oh. Eighty-six kilos.’ Which she might think was just a tad on the heavy side for his frame, but he was not going to give in to vanity and lie when his continued well-being depended on being given a rope that could handle his bulk.

  ‘Right. Green for you. Orange for me.’ She caught his look. ‘Different-coloured ropes relate to different weights.’

  ‘You’re doing a jump as well?’

  ‘Well, actually,’ she smiled slowly, ‘I thought it might be fun if we jumped in tandem. You know, this being your first time. It might be best if I held your hand, so to speak.’

  Jumping in tandem. How exactly did that work, Gabriel wondered. Somehow he had created a picture in his mind of plunging to earth with arms stretched out wide like a bird in flight. Slipping the surly bonds of earth and all that. The image of himself with arms clamped for dear life round his female companion was not quite as heroic.

  The cage was really a basket which, it turned out, was to be their mode of transportation up the crane. He stepped inside gingerly. It did not feel particularly secure, although probably nothing except terra firma would feel secure to him right now.

  As the cage started its ascent, Morrighan spoke briskly. ‘OK. I know you’re probably feeling quite concerned, but bungee jumping is far from lethal. This is what you can expect. The first part of the jump is the most intense. You’ll be falling from nought to fifty miles per hour in only a couple of seconds. After that your speed decreases until you reach the full extent of the jump, after which you slowly accelerate again. A few more oscillations and the crane will deposit you back on land.’

  ‘That’s the part that sounds pretty good to me right now.’

  ‘Truly, there’s nothing to worry about. They do numerous safety-checks. And I’ll be right at your side.’ That tiny smile again. ‘It’ll be a blast, I promise. For the last guy I took up with me, it was a life-changing experience.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘It changed his entire outlook on the way he wanted to live his life. He realised that if you don’t take risks, you may never know your limit. And if you don’t know your limit, you don’t know who you are as a human being. As the poet said, one should never be a butterfly collector. Rather be the butterfly itself.’

  ‘Very profound. So is this guy still jumping?’

  Something flickered behind her eyes. ‘No.’

  ‘Who was he?’

  ‘Robbie? Just a friend.’ She turned away abruptly.

  It was just as well she had her back to him because he knew he would not have been able to keep his face expressionless. Robbie. Robert Whittington. It was a shock hearing his name on Morrighan Monk’s lips. When he had studied those photographs of the boy in the bedroom in Monk House he had had the feeling that he was looking at a memorial. A shrine. Of course, all photographs are preserved in the aspic of past memories, but when he was looking at those pictures there had been no doubt in his mind that Robert Whittington was dead. Now, hearing his name spoken by Morrighan Monk, it sounded fresh, immediate. As though he might turn round to find the kid standing behind him, looking at him with that ready smile, those vulnerable eyes.

  The cage juddered to a halt. He glanced at his watch. 9.02 A.M. Morrighan stepped out nimbly onto the open platform. After a moment’s hesitation, he followed.

  It was windy up here. That was his first impression. The second was that it was a clear day and he could see forever. The view would not end. Rooftops. Spires. Green oases. Even where sky and earth met, the horizon seemed transparent.

  Right underneath and to the side of him was Chelsea Bridge. The cars inching down the two lanes of traffic were toy-like, the bridge itself so small, he could pick it up between forefinger and thumb. And flowing silently underneath the bridge was the Thames, the water crinkled and grey like the hide of an elephant.

  ‘Isn’t it gorgeous?’ Morrighan was on her knees, once more checking the green ropes round his ankles. She glanced up at him.

  ‘Yes.’ He was feeling light-headed. His heart was hammering. He looked at his watch. 9.11 A.M. Where had the time gone? In a daze he saw Morrighan stepping forward, coming so close her breath was warm on his cheek. She had a tiny scar at the corner of one eyebrow—he had only just noticed it.

  ‘I have to bind us together,’ she said. ‘And then we hug. And we keep hugging all the way down, OK?’

  He managed to nod. His throat was dry. His palms were dripping sweat. Her body was now touching his in a disconcertingly intimate way, but she seemed oblivious. Her eyes unreadable and dark as space.

  She placed her lips close to his ear. ‘Time to be a butterfly.’

  • • •

  Stepping into a void. The act that most goes against every instinct of self-preservation.

  Falling. Falling. The speed of it ecstatic: propelling his mind and his body into a belly-clenching delirious place. The sky a fierce rush of blue against his cheek. The wind in his ears like a hurricane.

  Morrighan’s body was pressed against his: legs and stomachs touching, hips close. Her face blotted out the sky directly in front of him. He saw on her face a look almost of pain: forehead creased, eyes half-closed, lavender veins appearing ghost-like through the delicate skin underneath the black lashes of her lower lids, jaw clenched. With a slight shock he realised that what he saw reflected in her face was in fact the image of his own. He touched his tongue to his lips and so did she. He blinked and opened his eyes to their widest extent and immediately she stared back at him with eyes rimmed with white. When she opened her mouth slightly as though in protest, he knew his own jaw had slackened. It was as though she was experiencing the sensation of the jump not through her own emotions, but vicariously through his. Even tumbling through the air at fifty miles per hour, the feeling that she was feeding off his sensations was disconcerting.

  They were slowing down. The noise of the rope as they reached the full extent of the jump sounded like the crack of the sail on a tall ship. And now they were accelerating again, up, up, and suddenly they were hanging suspended: weightless in space. No up or down. The feeling of disorientation absolute.

  His che
st was tight. He was holding his breath. As he gulped for air, the oxygen hit his blood like an additional shot of adrenaline. They plunged down again and he heard a shout explode from his chest: a cry of victory, a howl of defiance.

  He saw her smile widely, her teeth a white slash in her face. She opened her arms wide, letting go of him, and leaned back so that her throat formed an arc, the ponytail a rope of black swinging clear of her shoulders. All tension gone. And then they were both yelling and whooping, shouting their heads off; drunk with elation.

  • • •

  He went up a second time. Solo, this time. Morrighan seemed content to wait for him, waving him on when he apologised for keeping her.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t mind?’ he asked her when he fell in line behind the jumpmaster once again. A new line of jumpers had formed, but none of the other souls who had jumped that morning, he was interested to see, had followed him. He was the only repeat customer.

  He looked back at Morrighan. ‘Please don’t feel you have to stick around to keep an eye on me. I’ll be fine.’ He was smiling; the same stupid smile of idiotic delight that had been plastered on his face ever since they finished the first jump together. All his senses were still on high alert.

  She shook her head. ‘I like hanging around here. So go ahead.’

  ‘Well, after this one, I’ll call it a day.’

  ‘Good. And then I’ll buy you lunch. You’ll be surprised to find how hungry you are.’

  She was right there. After he finished the second jump—the experience just as intense as the first—he was not just on a high, he was ravenous. The restaurant she had picked was a small, unpretentious place with very good food.

  When he finally sat back, sated, she put her head to one side. ‘Are you sure I can’t get you anything else?’ she asked solicitously. ‘Another crème brûlée, perhaps?’

  ‘Sorry.’ He coloured slightly. ‘I’ve made a pig of myself. But you’re right. This morning gave me a heck of an appetite.’

  ‘Flirting with danger tends to have that effect.’

  ‘Well, you should know. You seem to have a real predilection for it. BASE, bungee, what else? Is it fun being an adrenaline junkie?’

  ‘Dopamine junkie. Like craving chocolate.’

  ‘Strong chocolate.’

  She pulled a face. ‘Don’t try to fool me. You felt it yourself, this morning—the rush. The mere fact that you went back for another go is proof. Most people when they do the jump don’t do it again, you know. Only about fifteen per cent repeat.’

  The approving tone of her voice made him pause. As though he had passed some test he wasn’t even aware of taking.

  ‘So your quest in life is to find the ultimate thrill?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ She looked pensive for a moment. ‘Of course, the chance that you’ll ever find the ultimate thrill is slim. Surfers know the best waves remain unsurfed. They’re breaking on unpeopled shores, travelling across uncharted oceans.’

  ‘Seriously, Morrighan. Why do you do it? Don’t just give me that line about feeling more alive. It goes deeper than that.’

  For a moment she hesitated. ‘Don’t you sometimes wonder how strong, how fast, how brave you are?’

  ‘Sorry to disappoint you, but no. I can’t say I do.’

  ‘Well, I suppose it’s about taking yourself to a new level. And I’m not just talking about jumping off a tower. It could be a mental thing as well. Whether it’s a challenge to the body or the mind, it doesn’t matter. The common denominator is turning your back on safety and embracing the void.’

  Like slamming a ride, he suddenly thought. Like leaving the relatively secure environment of your own emotions for the alien landscape of someone else’s thoughts. That feeling of losing yourself, of not being able to turn back. It was every remote viewer’s fear. Of getting hopelessly, irrevocably lost in the labyrinth of someone else’s mind.

  ‘Gabriel?’

  ‘Sorry. I was just thinking about what you said. About embracing the void. Some people might call it a latent death wish.’ He smiled, mockingly. ‘Freud probably had something to say about it.’

  ‘Oh, he did. Apparently thrill-seeking has to do with repressed feelings of guilt.’

  He looked at her from the corner of his eye, wondering if he should chance it. ‘Guilt, huh? So, anything you feel guilty about?’

  ‘Guilt? Let’s say a few regrets, maybe. And some disappointments.’ She turned those amazing eyes on him. ‘What about you, Gabriel Blackstone? What keeps you awake at night?’

  He stared at her, suddenly at a loss for words. In his mind, unbidden, came the image of a woman with a perfectly oval face and long blonde hair. Although when they had found her in that outhouse, her blonde hair had been black with sweat and dirt. Melissa Cartwright. He had heard later that she had won a beauty pageant in her youth.

  He looked up. Morrighan Monk was watching him with unwavering intensity.

  ‘I sleep like a log. And guilt is a wasted emotion.’ He tried for flippancy but he knew his voice sounded harsh.

  For a moment it was quiet between them. Tense. Then she smiled and raised a quizzical eyebrow. Leaning forward in her chair, she placed both her arms on the table. ‘Look. You had a very special experience this morning. For a brief moment you took to the sky and flew. But let’s not get too serious. You know what G.K. Chesterton said about angels and flying.’

  ‘What?’

  She smiled again and it lit her entire face. ‘They fly because they take themselves lightly…’

  • • •

  The afterglow of his experience stayed with him throughout the day. Even now, several hours later, he was still pumped.

  He was back in his apartment, sitting in a red-striped deckchair on his balcony, a book on his lap, a cup of coffee cooling in his hand, watching the city being swallowed by the night. The smell of the river was strong. Seemingly floating in the gloom, Tower Bridge was a fairytale structure of inspired light. Closer by, on the street below, the lit sign above an optician’s shop was sputtering, the giant pair of green neon spectacles flashing intermittently.

  For the umpteenth time he found himself reliving the jump. The fear. The ecstatic sense of liberation. It might not have been a life-changing experience for him, but it had certainly been a mind-bending one. Thanks to the enigmatic Ms Morrighan Monk. She was a fascinating woman. She and her sister both.

  He was surprised, and a little amused, by how much he was looking forward to seeing them again. And he couldn’t fool himself it was because of his interest in the weird ride he had slammed, or because of his promise to Frankie. He was intrigued by the two women themselves.

  Minnaloushe was the more openly sensual of the two. Morrighan was a tad icier. But both women exhibited a self-awareness that was undeniably erotic even though—or maybe because—it was eroticism tinged with danger. When Minnaloushe looked at you, you sensed a powerful undertow hiding behind those soft-focus green eyes. Touch her and you might drown. Morrighan was diamond-sharp. Touch her and you might bleed.

  Before they went their separate ways earlier today, Morrighan had invited him to dinner at Monk House next weekend. He still couldn’t understand why the sisters were interested in him. He had a healthy self-image—no doubt Isidore would use the word ‘conceited’—and he knew he could pull, but he was smart enough not to flatter himself into believing it was his charm they found irresistible.

  Well, no use worrying over it. They might have an agenda, but he had one too. Not only would he have the opportunity to spend time in the company of two highly attractive, intelligent women, but with a little bit of luck he might discover what had happened to Robert Whittington.

  Thinking of the boy made Gabriel frown and look down at the open book on his lap. He had selected it from among the numerous volumes in Robert’s apartment. It was old and the pages had a parchment-like feel to them. Titled The Alchemical Student, it was a history of alchemy and its principles.

  He was findi
ng it tough going, although there was some information in the book that was good entertainment value:

  The German philosopher Agrippa, author of the alchemical treatise De occulta philosophia, was said to have paid his creditors with gold coins that shone with remarkable brilliance, but which invariably turned into slate or stone within twenty-four hours.

  Hah! He knew it was too good to be true. All that stuff about lead magically turning into gold. These alchemists were just a bunch of tricksters. And it seemed to him as though they pretty much made a point of writing as unintelligibly as they possibly could. If no one was able to understand what they said, no one could expose them for the fraudsters they were.

  Gabriel took a sip of his coffee and replaced the mug on the small side table next to the chair. Leaning his head against the back of the chair, he yawned. His eye fell on the mask Minnaloushe had given him, hanging on his living-room wall. On the other side of the glass door which separated them, the wooden face smiled at him patiently. He gazed into the hollow eye sockets…

  His mind shifted. The gate to his inner eye opened.

  In a way, he had been expecting it. He had known that in order to determine what had happened to Robert Whittington, he would have to slam the ride again. He could have forced it before now, and the idea had entered his mind more than once. He was still attracted to the thought of giving it another go—it had been a monster RV ride, detailed and immensely intriguing. But drowning in that pool had been a bloody awful experience. Whoever said drowning was a peaceful way to die had it flat-out wrong. He would very much prefer not to have to go through the whole chest-burning, eye-popping horror again.

  But greater than his aversion to choking to death in cold water was his fear of having to relive that awful jaw-clenching moment when he had stepped into the portal and a torrent of visual information had rushed at him with unimaginable force. He still hadn’t the faintest clue what it was he had encountered. All he knew was that he had quite literally gone insane.