The Five Gates of Hell

by Rupert Thomson

  ‘It raises a question.’

  He lifted an eyebrow. ‘What question?’

  ‘The question of Rona’s share of the money.’

  ‘That’s all taken care of,’ he said. ‘It’s going to be invested. By the time she’s eighteen, it will’ve doubled.’

  Harriet pushed a sliver of avocado around with her fork. ‘That’s nine years away.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘She needs the money now.’

  ‘She can’t have it now. You know that.’

  Harriet’s fork hit the edge of her plate. ‘You’re going to try and cheat her out of her money, aren’t you? You want to make her suffer, just like you made your father suffer. Christ, Nathan, you’re so selfish.’

  For a moment he couldn’t move. Not his hands, not his face; nothing. It was hard for him to believe that she’d actually said what she’d just said. She could summon her venom with so little effort; it surfaced in such neat, numbing packages.

  He forced himself forwards in his seat. He kept his voice low. ‘Dad left instructions in his will. He said the money was to be invested for her until she was eighteen. It’s the law, Harriet. All we’re doing is obeying it.’

  She drank a delicate amount of mineral water and replaced the glass on the table. ‘You could still release the money,’ she said, ‘if you wanted to.’

  He looked down at his coffee. The dome of froth had collapsed. ‘Why do you think Dad wrote it into the will in the first place?’

  She speared a piece of asparagus. She held the fork just below her lips and waited for him to tell her.

  ‘He didn’t trust you with the money. Same as what you’re accusing me of. That’s pretty funny, isn’t it?’

  She didn’t seem to think so. She placed the asparagus in her mouth and put her fork down. She chewed, she swallowed. She sighed. ‘I’m afraid I’ve talked to Georgia.’

  He stared at her blankly. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I told her what you did to me on the day of the funeral.’

  ‘What I did to you?’

  ‘What you did to me,’ and she paused, ‘against my will.’

  ‘You’re not serious,’ he said, and he began to laugh. But then he looked into her face and his laughter left him and he was cold suddenly. ‘You told Georgia that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  Harriet shrugged. ‘She thinks she knows you. I thought I’d tell her what you’re really like.’

  ‘But it’s a lie.’

  She turned a leaf of lettuce over with the tip of her knife. ‘Who says it’s a lie?’

  He stood up quickly. Her glass slopped over. Water fizzed on the white tablecloth and was absorbed.

  Harriet raised her hand. ‘Waiter?’

  ‘You should be careful,’ Nathan said, and his voice was quiet, uneven at the edges. ‘You should just be careful.’

  On his way out of the restaurant he passed the woman in the lime-green jumpsuit. He heard her chains clink as she turned to watch him go. He stood in the bright sunshine, trembling. He went through his pockets. He had about a dollar-fifty. Just enough for a bus to Central Station. He could walk the rest of the way. He would’ve walked all the way if he’d had to. Anything rather than stay in that place a moment longer.

  It took him five minutes to reach the centre of Torch Bay. He sat down on a bench and waited for a bus. The inside of his head was so tangled, he couldn’t get one straight thought out.

  When the bus drew up, he moved all the way to the back and sat with his eyes fixed and the points of his knees wedged against the seat in front of him. I told her what you did to me. He watched the city pass in the window. Sky and buildings blurred under the swirly tinted glass. A city under the sea. What you did to me. Against my will. The bus lumbered on. It was so hot, he was sitting over the engine, his eyes seemed weighed down, down. Down. It was as if he’d toppled off a ledge and sleep was the drop. A long, sweet drop; a million miles.

  Then somebody was shouting. ‘Central,’ they were shouting, ‘Central Station.’ And somebody knocked against his leg.

  He hauled himself upright, stumbled down out of the bus, his hair sticky with salt, lunchtime seeming like a dream he’d just woken from. But it wasn’t a dream. It was real. Downtown crowded in on him. Sirens, neon, liquor. Every time he saw Georgia’s face he shut the picture off. He didn’t dare imagine. He simply had to get to her. He took the quiet streets and almost ran. At last he reached the building. An old apartment block with a canopy, a doorman, a marble hallway. Georgia, she always landed on her feet.

  ‘I’m here to see Georgia,’ he said. ‘I’m her brother.’

  ‘Georgia?’ The doorman screwed his face up, as if he was trying to shift the whole of one side of it on to the other side. ‘Reckon she went out.’

  Nathan sagged, his strings cut. ‘When?’

  ‘About an hour ago.’

  ‘Any idea where she went?’

  ‘Sorry, pal.’

  ‘I’ve got to see her,’ Nathan said. ‘I’d better wait.’

  ‘Whatever you say.’

  Nathan sat on the steps. A tall building at the end of the street told him, in beads of golden neon, that it was 2.55. 103°. 2.55. 103°. 2.56. 103°.

  ‘Hottest day for nine years.’

  Nathan looked up to see the doorman standing behind him. ‘Is that right.’

  The doorman had a grey rag in his hand. He dabbed the back of his neck with it. ‘Just said so on the radio.’

  ‘Think it’ll rain?’ Nathan asked him.

  There were clouds in the sky. Scalloped at the edges, like old postcards. Almost brown.

  ‘Too hot to fucking rain.’ The doorman tipped his face at the sky and slit his eyes. Then he shook his head and returned to the lobby.

  No rain came. Only lightning, sheeting above the roof of the Hotel Terminal. As if some kind of press conference was being held in the next street.

  Time went by, measured in golden beads. Dusty yellow curtains slouched in the open windows of the hotel. A lazy neon sign said V CANCIES. Couldn’t even be bothered with the A.

  3.25. 104º.

  Then, looking up once more, he saw a figure that he recognised. The black top hat, the cracked black shoes. Unmistakable.

  ‘Jed?’ he called out. ‘Hey! Jed!’

  Jed stopped in his tracks, his body still facing forwards, and turned his head. Nathan ran across the street. When he reached Jed he didn’t know what to say. He found himself staring at the scarf that Jed was wearing round his neck.

  ‘You sick or something?’ he said.

  Light trickled off the rims of Jed’s spectacles as he tilted his head towards the sky. ‘Sick? Heh.’ His voice creaked like a piece of wood furniture in an old house.

  ‘So how’re you doing?’ Nathan said. ‘Did you find a place?’

  Jed nodded. ‘I found a place.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Round here.’ And Jed nodded again.

  Nathan thought of the time he ran into Tip and Jed on Central Avenue. ‘I remember when you used to live in the Towers.’ He smiled. ‘I went there once. I looked for you.’ He shook his head. ‘Couldn’t find you, though.’

  ‘Must’ve been years ago,’ Jed said.

  ‘The place was like a maze,’ Nathan said.

  ‘By the way.’ Jed reached into his pocket and took out a bill. He smiled down at it for a moment, then he handed it to Nathan. ‘Here’s the money I owe you.’

  Nathan stared at the bill. It was a hundred dollars. A hundred-dollar bill.

  ‘But,’ he said, ‘but I only lent you eight.’

  Jed was still smiling, but the smile had altered. ‘Yeah, well,’ he said. ‘You were so kind, letting me stay and all.’

  Nathan felt the change in that smile like a lowering in the temperature. He almost shivered.

  ‘Well,’ Jed said, ‘better be going.’

  Nathan watched Jed as he walked away. Jed stayed in the shadows, close to the wa
ll, the way blind men do. When he reached the corner he looked back over his shoulder. He didn’t make any sign or gesture, he just looked. Then he was gone.

  Nathan returned to the steps and sat down. He looked at the hundred-dollar bill in his hand, could make no sense of it. Still, he felt easier now. Somehow his faith had been renewed. If Jed could come by, then surely Georgia could come by too. But he waited another hour and all that new faith drained away. It was 6.04. He left a message with the doorman, then he stood on the sidewalk, trying to remember Georgia’s favourite places, trying to think where she might be.

  He worked his way through the neighbourhood. The bars, the cocktail lounges. By the time he’d finished, it was almost nine. Then he suddenly remembered. There was a place she sometimes went when she was depressed. The Starlite Rooms, on the end of the pier. She liked to watch the old people dance.

  It was years since he’d been along the pier at night. So much junk on sale. Coffin-shaped ice-creams, T-shirts that said things like MOON BEACH – THE CITY THAT PUTS THE FUN BACK INTO FUNERALS, midnight cruises to the ocean cemeteries. There was even a DATE-OF-YOUR-DEATH machine. You put 50 cents in the slot, then you placed your hand in the machine and it told you how much longer you were going to live. ‘You’ll die tomorrow. Have a nice day.’ He kept walking. Up ahead he could see the pale dome of the Starlite Rooms. A white neon sign glowed above the entrance: DANCING NITELY. He could hear music now. An electric organ, a drum machine. A man’s voice singing. Something about turning off the sunshine. It sounded blurred and he thought he knew why. It was all the old folks singing along. Late on their cues and out of tune. It was as if the music was a ship and it was leaving a wake behind it in the air.

  The doorman had a pencil moustache and a wide fierce nose. ‘Evening, sir,’ he said. ‘You dancing tonight?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Nathan said. ‘I’m looking for my sister.’

  The doorman sucked some air in past his teeth. ‘How old is she, this sister of yours?’

  ‘Twenty-three.’

  ‘Ah, well. You won’t find her in there.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘No one under fifty in there.’

  A waltz started up inside. The doorman’s arms lifted away from his sides and curved to hold an invisible woman. He twirled her round the entrance hall. ‘Never could resist a waltz,’ he said, grinning over his shoulder.

  ‘I think I’ll just have a look, if you don’t mind,’ Nathan told him, and pushed through the mirror doors.

  The place was lit like the inside of a fridge. A stage with a backdrop of spangled gold drapes. A horseshoe dance-floor. Hundreds of tables, all occupied. Nathan scanned the room, but the doorman was right. No one under fifty. Still, there was a chance she might turn up. It was only just after nine. He bought a drink and sat at a table with three old ladies in sleevelesss frocks. The waltz ended.

  The man who was playing the organ tucked his chin into his right shoulder in a kind of shorthand bow. ‘Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. I must say it’s a great pleasure to be here in the famous Starlite Rooms tonight …’

  Maroon suit, green skin. Hair as slick and black as liquorice.

  ‘… my name’s Maxie Carlo … I play, you sway …’

  The three old ladies tittered, winked.

  The organ had a built-in drum machine. Maxie Carlo twisted a couple of dials and a new rhythm began.

  ‘… good to see a bit of spirit here tonight … I stick to lemonade, myself …’

  Halfway through his second drink Nathan thought he’d try calling Georgia again. He found a phone near the men’s room. He dialled Georgia’s apartment, but there was still no reply. On the way back to his table, he bought another drink. He sat down again. The music had stopped.

  ‘Nathan, what a pleasant surprise.’ The voice was rich and cool, and came from his right shoulder.

  He looked round. It was Maxie Carlo. Black hairs bristled in his nostrils. A damp top lip. No neck.

  ‘I would never have expected to see you here,’ Maxie said. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Fine.’ Nathan could feel the blankness on his face.

  ‘I’m sorry, Nathan,’ Maxie said, ‘you don’t remember me, do you? I guess you were kind of preoccupied last night.’ Only his top row of teeth showed when he smiled. One of them was edged in gold, like a page from the Bible. ‘I met you in that bar on the promenade. You were with Neville.’

  ‘Neville?’

  ‘Oh dear.’ Maxie laughed. It didn’t make a sound. ‘Maybe you know him as Reid. That’s what he calls himself when he doesn’t call himself Neville. Except sometimes he calls himself Vince or Len. Or Eric. Once,’ and he ran the tip of his little finger round the curve of his nostril, ‘once he called himself Irv.’ That soundless laugh again. That gilded tooth.

  Nathan didn’t say anything. He didn’t like this man leaning over him as if he owned him.

  ‘They’re anagrams,’ Maxie explained.

  ‘Anagrams?’

  ‘You know. Words you get out of another word.’ Maxie looked down at Nathan and affected great concern. ‘Dear, oh dear,’ he said. ‘I can see you’ve fallen for the whole thing.’

  There was a slow turning in Nathan’s stomach, a sense of unease that was massive and inexplicable, like the movement of galaxies. He felt slightly sick.

  ‘Well,’ and Maxie took his hand off Nathan’s shoulder and held it out, palm up, ‘the organ calls.’ And with another soundless laugh he slid away between the tables as if he’d been greased.

  One of the old women reached across and touched Nathan’s arm. ‘You know Mr Carlo, do you?’

  ‘Not really,’ Nathan said.

  ‘He’s very good, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, he is.’ Nathan looked towards the dance-floor. A man of about sixty stood in the spotlight, alone and blinking. He wore old brown chinos and a mustard-coloured cardigan.

  ‘Clive’s going to sing for us now,’ Maxie said, ‘aren’t you, Clive?’

  Clive ducked his head.

  ‘What are you going to sing for us, Clive?’

  Clive mumbled something.

  ‘Clive’s going to sing an old music-hall number for us.’ Maxie raised an eyebrow at the audience. ‘I can hardly wait.’

  The drum machine started up, the organ came in. Clive shifted, crouched, found the position. Legs apart, eyes closed, one hand splayed, waist-level, in the air. He had the gestures down. The only trouble was, he couldn’t sing. It would’ve made a great comic act, Clive in his mustard cardigan, eyes closed, hand splayed, fucking terrible voice.

  As Nathan walked back down the pier he heard a few whistles, some brittle applause. Clive must have finished his song. The ocean sighed and shifted under his feet. He’d only had three or four drinks, but his mouth felt loose and he was talking to himself.

  He leaned on a railing. ‘It’s an anagram,’ he said. ‘An anagram.’ He laughed. ‘You know.’

  He stared down at the tilting black sheets of water. ‘Once he was Irv,’ he said, and laughed again. When he stopped laughing he took a deep breath and called out, ‘George?’

  He passed the gardens on the promenade. The strips of neat mown grass. The tight, bright symmetries of flowers. He walked on. There was a strange hollow rattling sound. A white car cruised by with a skeleton tied to its rear fender. The bones jumped and twitched on the road, as if possessed by fever. Then he was looking up at the façade of the Palace Hotel. He suddenly felt like talking to that man. Like being listened to. That man who acted like a priest. That man with all the names. He certainly didn’t want to go home. He saw a phone-booth on the corner of the street. He’d try Georgia one last time.

  As he walked towards the phone-booth, the phone started ringing. He stopped, looked around. But there was nobody in sight. The phone was still ringing. He ducked into the booth and picked up the receiver. He didn’t say anything. He just listened.

  ‘You took your time.’

  ‘Who’s this?’ Nath
an said.

  ‘One guess.’

  Still holding the receiver, Nathan turned and looked up at the hotel. ‘Is that you?’

  ‘I saw you passing. Thought I’d give you a call.’

  Nathan smiled. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Where do you think?’

  ‘It’s funny, but I wanted to come and see you. It’s just I didn’t know how.’

  ‘You don’t remember?’

  ‘No.’

  A laugh. ‘I’m not surprised. It’s the fourteenth floor. Apartment 1412. Got that?’

  ‘I’ve got it.’ Nathan hung up. He left the booth and walked towards the hotel, the ocean crackling behind him like a policeman’s radio, like the scene of a crime.

  Yoghurt, Ice-Cream, Minestrone

  Jed couldn’t even swallow his own saliva. He had to keep a bowl beside the bed. He lay on his back all day, he saw the sun rise and fall in the window, he felt such anger that he hit the wall with his fist and burned the skin off his knuckles. He had to make that phone-call, and he had to make it soon, but he couldn’t do anything till he had his voice back.

  At about midday somebody knocked on the door. Jed quickly wrapped the scarf around his neck. Silence stood in the doorway, wearing a pair of pyjamas and his suit jacket. He handed Jed one of his cards: ARE YOU ALL RIGHT?

  Jed nodded. ‘It’s just a really bad cold.’ He couldn’t speak so he just mouthed the words. Not that it made any difference to Silence.

  Silence produced another card: DO YOU NEED ANYTHING?

  Jed shook his head. ‘I’ll be OK.’

  One more card: YOU SURE?

  Jed nodded. ‘I’m sure.’ Then he thought of something. ‘If you go out, could you get me some yoghurt?’

  Silence looked puzzled. Maybe he hadn’t understood. Maybe the word was hard to read.

  ‘Yoghurt,’ Jed whispered. ‘Yog-hurt.’

  After Silence had left the room, Jed lay back. He was curiously touched. Silence had prepared those three cards in advance. That was a lot of words for Silence. Maybe even a whole day’s worth.

  He turned his thoughts back to Creed and, reaching into his jacket, took out his wallet. Inside the wallet was a newspaper article. He unfolded it and laid it flat on the pillow. And though he knew the article by heart he began to read it through once more: