The Five Gates of Hell

by Rupert Thomson

  He drove into Mangrove South and stopped at the first bar he saw. Polystyrene skulls hung from the ceiling. The Day of the Dead ceremony was being broadcast on TV. There was a phone in the back. He called Mitch. No answer. He drank a beer, watched TV.

  Half an hour later he called Mitch again. Still no answer. He tried Carol instead. Lady Dobson answered. Carol had moved out, she said. She gave him Carol’s new number. He called the new number and Carol was home. Well, kind of home anyway. She used his name, but it didn’t seem to mean anything to her. He imagined her surrounded by hundreds of special shoes. None of the shoes made pairs.

  ‘This weekend’s no good,’ she was saying. ‘Can you do Monday?’

  Monday? Every day was so big at the moment, Monday seemed like someone else’s life.

  ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘OK.’

  She gave him a time and place, but he was still thinking about Monday. He just couldn’t picture it.

  At last she realised. ‘Are you OK, Jed? Where are you?’

  But it was too late, he was already hanging up.

  Back in his car, he began to drive. He was only one of thousands who’d arrived in the city during the last twenty-four hours, and people were beginning to mass in the streets, some in blue body-paint, some in skull masks, some in luminous skeleton suits. There was a man lying on the bottom of a glass tank that was filled with water. A placard above him read PLAY DEAD! ONLY $1.25!. As he passed Jed by he opened one eye and winked. It was the Day of the Dead all right. Part fairground, part nightmare. Jed took comfort in the thought that he could hide in all this chaos and hysteria, that he could wear the carnival like a disguise. There was no way he’d be able to stay downtown, though. He’d passed a few hotels, and it was the same story all over: SORRY WE’RE FULL. He’d have to resort to the perimeters. Newtown, Austin, Normandy. No SORRY WE’RE FULL signs out there. It didn’t matter how eager tourism was, it never quite reached that far.

  Then, as he crossed the bridge for the third time that day, he saw lights on the west bank, high above the river. That row of grey houses. He had lived there once. With Vasco and his uncles. Last time he’d seen the uncles (though he’d never actually seen Reg, of course) was fifteen years ago. They’d been senile then. They could be dead by now. The house might be standing empty …

  In five minutes he was pulling up outside. Though the sun had almost set, no lights showed in the windows. That didn’t prove anything, of course. The uncles had always been tight. He climbed the steps to the verandah. Two punctured flyscreens lay on the bleached wooden boards. He thought of afternoons spent here with Vasco. Tins of beer and talk of war. He looked back down the garden. From here you could see clear across the river to the Crumbles in the distance. He turned away from the memory, the view. He pushed on the front door and it swung open.

  It was dark inside except for one thin bar of orange light that had found its way into the hall and now stood propped against the wall. Dust dropped slowly through the air, as if settling in water. He began to move towards the stairs then, noticing the door to the elevator, hesitated. He punched the button, thinking nothing would happen. There was a clunk from somewhere up above. A snap as metal gates slid shut. Through a glass panel he watched the thick black cables loop in the empty shaft as the car dropped down.

  The gates slid apart. Jed opened the door and then let out a gasp. In the elevator was Mario, sitting in his wheelchair. His head had fallen sideways, so he appeared to be listening to his shoulder.

  ‘Mario?’

  Jed took one step forwards. Large black flies rose from Mario’s eyes and lips.

  When Jed could look again, it was the wheelchair he noticed. The leather upholstery had started to decay. In some places it had lost its lustre and worn thin. In other places it had torn. Underneath the leather Jed could see bright paper. He moved closer, trying not to breathe. He reached into a gash behind the dead man’s back. His hand closed round several hundred-dollar bills.

  Listen. Hear that? Money.

  Jed felt a queer, crooked smile appear on his face. Everybody used to think that Mario was senile. Everybody used to wonder what he’d done with all his millions.

  Listen. Hear that?

  Every time he moved he must’ve heard it. He’d been sitting on it. He’d been wheeling himself around in his own mobile bank.

  Jed was still smiling when he parked outside the Lucky Strike Motel an hour later. He’d chosen the Lucky Strike because it was in Newtown. The bleak north-western edge of the city. Even so, he knew he was running a risk. Vultures had always favoured motels. Motels were low-life information banks. They were ideal places to hold meetings, do deals. Skull McGowan used to run a team of vultures out of the Ocean Bed Motel on Highway 12. One night, Jed decided. Then he’d move on. He hid his car in the darkest corner of the parking-lot, and checked in under the name Matt Leech.

  It was still early, just after eight. There was a liquor lounge next to the motel. He walked in, sat down at the bar. There were only two other guys in there. Just old guys from the neighbourhood, drinking beer and shots, watching the service of remembrance on TV. Jed said it was his first day back in the city after being away. He said he’d like to buy them both a drink. The barman too.

  Jed turned his eyes to the TV. The first boats were just reaching Angel Meadows. He raised his glass.

  ‘One day it’ll be us,’ he said, ‘but not yet.’

  ‘I’ll drink to that,’ one of the guys said.

  They all drank to it.

  ‘So here we are,’ the TV presenter said, the sun setting behind him, the breeze toying with his fringe, ‘coming to you live from Moon Beach –’

  ‘Live,’ the barman said. ‘That’s a joke.’

  They all chuckled.

  The boats were dropping anchor. They’d reached the Angels of Memory, the most famous of the cemetery gateways. Two white angels watched over the cemetery. They were both standing on pedestals, their wings spread wide against the sky, their hands folded modestly in prayer.

  An aerial view.

  From the helicopter the fleet of boats was a loose collection of lights on a great dark surface. They had gathered round the two floodlit angels. The service was about to begin.

  Then the cameras swooped down. Closed in on the bridge of one of the larger boats. Froze on a man in a dark suit. Still face, still hair.

  ‘– Mr Neville Creed,’ the presenter’s voice was hushed and reverential, ‘chairman of the Paradise Corporation –’

  Jed’s hand jerked and his whisky spilled.

  ‘Something wrong?’ the barman asked.

  Jed shook his head.

  Later that night he lay on his back in bed and watched small blocks of light move along the top of the wall above the window. It worried him and then he worked it out: it was just cars passing. It was late now, past midnight, but there was a highway outside. Those small blocks of light would cross the wall all night.

  He closed his eyes, but couldn’t stop the image forming. That still face on the boat. That still face slowly turned towards him. Those still lips began to speak.

  Here I am.

  It was as if Creed had known that he’d be watching. As if Creed knew everything. As if Creed was some kind of god.

  Jed switched the light on. He hauled himself upright, leaned against the headboard. Remember what you came here for. He lifted his wrist and checked his tattoo, the way you might check a watch, and it reminded him, as time does, that he was locked in a process that was irreversible, inescapable. He wouldn’t be used again. He wouldn’t be outwitted, or double-crossed. This time the boot was on the other foot. He had the power now. He had the initiative, the surprise. And there were people who would help him, people who knew. Carol. Mitch. Even Vasco, maybe, when he learned the truth. The boot was on the other foot and, when he kicked with it, it was going to hurt.

  The truth.

  He reached into his jacket pocket and took out the tape. He didn’t need to play it. He knew it word
for word.

  His own voice first: ‘You want me to kill Vasco’s brother?’

  And then Creed’s: ‘That’s right.’

  His own voice again: ‘How?’

  Then Creed’s: ‘Don’t worry about that – it’s taken care of – it’s nice –’

  Jed lay back down again. Blackmail would be his instrument. He would make a demand. For money. But this wasn’t about money. He knew that for certain now. Mario had appeared in his wheelchair. Mario had frightened the fucking daylights out of him. Mario had made things clear. He saw the brown envelope of bills bounce off Creed’s chest and flutter to the ground. This had never been about money. Remember what you came here for. That face on the boat, it was just skin and bone. It could wear fear on it, it could die. It was just skull candy for his sweet tooth.

  His eyes drifted shut.

  Towards three, it began to rain. And suddenly he was back in Adam’s Creek. Waiting in the alley behind the restaurant. Celia was late. A sound that could’ve been paper in the wind and he looked round. She was standing next to him. Her face lit up as if the sun was setting on it. Her blonde hair hung against her collarbone like frayed rope.

  He took the key out of his pocket, unlocked the back door. Through the kitchens, out into the restaurant. It was dark, but he knew the layout blindfold. She followed, one hand on his belt.

  ‘It smells in here,’ she whispered.

  ‘It’s chicken,’ he whispered back. ‘It’s a number 42.’

  When he switched on the lights in the grotto, she was already sitting on a rock with her head thrown back and her arms behind her, supporting her. Her long, coarse hair just touched the backs of her elbows. She was naked from the waist up.

  ‘Hey, Jed,’ she whispered across the restaurant. ‘Do I look like one of those kind of mermaids?’

  He smiled and flicked another switch. There was a distant rumble of thunder. He made his way through the empty tables towards her. When he reached her, it was just beginning to rain for the first time.

  ‘We’re going to get soaked,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah,’ and she tipped her head back, ‘yeah, I know.’

  Each storm lasted five minutes, then the coloured lights came on. Cicadas chattered in the palm trees, wet leaves dripped. After Celia had come for the first time she turned her head and looked out into the restaurant. ‘I’ve sat out there so many times,’ she said, ‘eating that shitty Chinese food.’

  One of her breasts was red, the other one green. Her nipples had darkened, tightened. Her wet hair straggled across a bed of plastic lilies.

  She turned to him. ‘I never thought I’d be lying here like this.’

  ‘Yes, you did,’ he said.

  ‘I wanted to, but I never thought it would happen.’

  Then it began to rain again and she bit her bottom lip and reached for him and whispered, ‘Put it inside me again and let’s pretend we’re somewhere like a desert island.’

  The drizzle on his back as he moved in and out of her. A shiver of lightning against the sky. Her long ribbony cries were lost as thunder unloaded on the roof like rocks. They fucked until they were cold.

  The next evening she waited for him in the alley.

  ‘You know last night?’ she said.

  He grinned at her. ‘I know last night.’

  ‘You know how long we fucked?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘Three thunderstorms,’ she said.

  The storm had moved away. He turned in his motel bed and pulled the cover over him.

  He could hear cars on the highway, like someone sweeping floors. One small block of light edged along the top of the wall and stopped halfway, but he was already sinking back, sinking into sleep.

  Five

  Old Friends

  It was the Friday after the funeral, the day after the Day of the Dead. Nathan was sitting in Tin Pan Alley, an Irish bar downtown. He was waiting for Georgia.

  He had spent most of the past forty-eight hours at Georgia’s apartment. Every time he thought of returning to the house on Mahogany Drive he thought of Harriet, and every time he thought of Harriet he saw her crouching on the floor in the summerhouse, dark eyes drifting in their sockets, a tissue in between her legs. If he was away for long enough, she might just leave, go home. After all, the funeral was over. There was no reason for her to stay.

  He finished his second drink, bought a third.

  Tin Pan Alley. Back of the bar the street sloped down to the harbour. The heart of the old meat-packing district. Cold storage, wasteground, stolen cars. Through the window he could hear the hiss of truck brakes on the hill.

  Georgia had said ten, but he knew it wouldn’t be ten. She was out scoring something fast for them. He let her take care of that end of things. She knew the city better than he did, she knew the routines. No, it wouldn’t be ten. Nowhere near. She’d float in, midnight at the earliest. Flat eyes, numb lips. Head dipping left and right. What had she said once? ‘I’m like a chicken when I go in places.’ He smiled. There was no shortcut through this stretch of time and he wasn’t looking for one. He could wait for days, if need be. Mind on a slow burn, fingers cooled by the sweat of a glass.

  He’d been there an hour when this guy pushed through the door. Tall, thin figure in black. Limbs you could fold away. Sort of creaky-looking. Just this one glance at him and something happened in Nathan’s mind, it was the same as when you put money in a pool table and all the balls come tumbling into the lip.

  Nathan stared, but he couldn’t be sure. Someone he knew, or someone who looked like someone he knew? The tight black pants; the black jacket, too short in the arms; the black top hat. Like a drainpipe and a chimney-stack combined. The guy had Moon Beach tattooed all over him. Wrong end of the alphabet. Nathan watched as he ordered a beer, pushed small money around on his palm, lifted one curling finger to his ear and scratched. When the beer was set down in front of him, his lips reached out greedily for the rim of the glass. He gulped, sighed, wiped his mouth on his wrist. He’d been dying for that beer. Fingering those tiny coins all day. But then he must have sensed somebody watching him. His head veered round, he swivelled. Cold eyes, glasses, face as pale as ice. Now Nathan knew. And couldn’t believe it. All those years. Even the name came back to him. Jed Morgan.

  ‘Been a while,’ Jed said, ‘hasn’t it?’

  ‘I didn’t recognise you,’ Nathan said.

  ‘Maybe I changed or something.’ Jed sipped his beer. ‘You still swimming?’

  Nathan smiled. The reference wasn’t lost on him. ‘I’ve been working up and down the coast. As a lifeguard, mostly.’

  ‘So what brings you back?’

  ‘Somebody died.’

  Jed’s head reared and twisted on his stringy neck. ‘You shouldn’t joke about that.’

  ‘I’m not joking.’

  ‘Who was it?’

  ‘My father.’

  ‘Sorry to hear it.’ Jed wasn’t sorry, not even remotely.

  ‘The number of times I’ve heard that recently,’ Nathan said.

  Jed shrugged. ‘Somebody dies, that’s what happens.’

  ‘What about you?’ Nathan asked.

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘You been away too?’

  ‘You could say that.’ Jed’s lips seemed to be travelling towards a grin, but they never got there. His eyes were motionless, behind glass, like something in the reptile house. ‘It’s a long story, you know?’

  ‘Not yet I don’t.’

  Jed jerked a thumb in Nathan’s direction and told the barman, ‘We’ve got a sense of humour here.’

  The barman was grinning. Nathan was grinning.

  Grins all round.

  Nathan thought it strange that he was talking to Jed like this. He’d never liked Jed in the past, and he wasn’t sure he liked him now. Those eyes, that skin. Other times it would’ve put him off, but right now he was in too big a mood. It was going to be a long night. He was waiting for Georgia. The moment she pushed throu
gh those swing doors he’d lift like a jet at the end of a runway.

  And so he could turn to Jed and look him right in the face and say, ‘You going to tell me or what?’

  Jed reached a finger down, scratched the inch of white skin between his sock and the leg of his pants. It was his way of cocking the trigger on his story. Then he eased off his stool and used the same finger to point at the bench opposite Nathan.

  ‘Sure,’ Nathan said. ‘Sit down.’

  Jed leaned both arms on the table and his eyes moved out into the bar. ‘I used to work for one of the parlours.’ His eyes flicked back, checking Nathan for a reaction. There wasn’t one. ‘I used to work for a guy called Creed. Maybe you heard of him.’

  Nathan shook his head.

  ‘It was Vasco got me the job. Remember Vasco?’

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘Some guy killed his brother.’ Jed sucked down some more beer. ‘Last I heard, he went nuts.’

  ‘Christ.’

  ‘He was kind of nuts already. That family, they were all nuts. His uncles. One of them, he used to lock himself in his room all day. I lived there more than a year, never saw him once. The other one –’ and Jed stopped suddenly. He dropped his head down to his beer and gulped.

  ‘This guy Creed, though,’ and he leaned closer, lowered his voice as if it was suddenly a church they were in. ‘It was six, seven years ago. Back in those days there was this loyalty thing. We were all locked into it, it made us feel valuable. It was like being gold. Everyone wanted a piece of us. We used to cruise the city in a stretch hearse, the ones where the front goes round a corner and the back goes round about five minutes later. I was the driver. Black top hat, red velvet cushion to sit on like a king, pair of dark-green lenses for the glare. We cruised the city, this whole gang of us. We put the fear of Christ Jesus into people.’

  He was talking from the deep past now, his voice rose up from the quarry of his memories. It felt much later than it was.