The Devil's Staircase

by Helen FitzGerald

  ‘All a girl needs to do is decide she wants sex, then have it. Simple. Do you want to?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then pick someone, and do it, tonight.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said, before scrubbing myself so hard in the shower that I almost bled. Before heading out, I sprayed my room with Fliss’s perfume again and threw out the catering size tub of crunchy peanut butter that Hamish had given me.

  An hour later, a bunch of us shared a taxi to Club Wolf. As the black cab motored along Ladbroke Grove, I began to forget the goings-on in the house and smile at the London sights that whizzed by – the people of different colours, different styles, walking fast along busy streets. I loved London. I loved everyone in the taxi, and the neat queue at the door of the club, the music inside, the way Cheryl-Anne grinned widely as she danced even though she had a child who was 12,000 miles away and even though she had used the phrase: ‘Those bloody Abos’ on more than one occasion. I loved how Fliss nabbed a man who wasn’t Zach ten seconds after arriving. How Zach didn’t seem to give a shit. And I loved my men – all three of whom danced with me for hours: Pete, self-conscious and awkward, thinking about each step and oft-times pointing; Francesco, groovy and outlandish, dancing with me but not with me; and Hamish, cute and comfortable, at home with the beat, always smiling. Although I had planned to lose my virginity to Francesco and Francesco alone, the lights and the music spoke to me clear as day. I could lose my virginity to any one of these men, because at 12 o’clock, when the dancing ended, I loved each of them just the same.

  It was time to huddle in a quiet club corner and look at each other. Cheryl-Anne had tried it on with Pete some time earlier. ‘I think he’s retarded,’ she’d announced after several raunchy dances and an actual quad lick. He’d pulled her up from her licking position and asked if she would like a glass of water. When she said no, he said: ‘Well, I do. Could you get it for me?’ Cheryl-Anne flicked her hair and set about finding a set of biceps that would appreciate the acrobatics of her tongue. Zach ended up on stage with someone else’s guitar. Fliss snogged three men then took one of them outside for a walk.

  ‘What time is it?’ I asked Francesco, whose forehead seemed very shiny. ‘Midnight,’ he said, ‘Can you believe it?’

  I didn’t answer him. Didn’t need to. We all knew that it was unbelievable and amazing for the time to actually be midnight.

  ‘What’s the time?’ I asked Francesco a moment later. ‘Midnight,’ he said.

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘You guys are fucked,’ said Pete from his non-drug-taking position of superiority.

  The staring turned to touching when Francesco stroked my face. I loved Francesco. When I reciprocated the stroke, I noticed his face was moist. Pete’s felt rougher, manly. Hamish’s was a bit weird . . . like polystyrene. Apparently my face was soft and beautiful. All of them agreed on this.

  We took turns ordering drinks. Francesco ordered real champagne. Hamish ordered vodka and lemonade. I ordered red wine and tonic with a splash of Bailey’s for colour and texture. Pete ordered water. Apparently my concoction was the worst drink any of them had ever had.

  ‘I’m a virgin,’ I said as the four of us taxied home. ‘I’ve been trying to give it to Francesco but he won’t take it and his option is running out.’ My head was out the window. London was rushing through my hair. I brought my head back inside the taxi and looked at my boys.

  ‘Why won’t you fuck me, Francesco?

  ‘I’m a slut.’

  ‘But that’s perfect!’

  ‘I’m in slut mode. Wham. Bam. Piss off. I accidentally got to know you. I don’t fuck people I know . . . God, too much responsibility.’

  ‘So have you been with anyone since we met?’

  ‘Let me think . . . yes.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Most nights.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m so dumb. Fliss says I’m dumb. Fliss says I need to wake up and wear more makeup, which could be a song. Fliss says all I need to do is pick someone, then just do it with them, just like that, ’cause I’m a girl. So . . . what about you, Hamish? . . . or Pete . . . and Pete . . . and Francesco. Oh, I can’t choose! I know, I’ll find a place to put each one of you!’

  ‘Shut up,’ Pete said.

  ‘I just want to have a fuck.’

  ‘If you don’t shut up I’ll ask the driver to stop.’

  ‘What’s wrong with you boys? I’m offering a hymen-breaking eardrum-rupturing group fuck!’

  Pete asked the driver to stop, opened the door, shoved me out of the car, and then shut it again. The other two boys seemed to be giggling as I stood open-mouthed on the side of the road. I was in the same position when the car stopped fifty metres ahead to let Pete out. He walked towards me and the taxi took off again.

  ‘What is wrong with you?’ I screamed as he approached me. ‘You’re completely mashed, Bronwyn. You don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Fuck you.’

  ‘You just offered yourself to three men, at the same time.’ ‘So?’

  ‘So stop saying the word fuck.’

  I began walking along the dark, littered street as fast as I could, muttering the ‘f’ word over and over till it made no sense. The wave had gone, for now, and I didn’t love everything so much. Bastard, humiliating me like that, ruining my night. He walked two steps behind me and no matter how fast I walked, I couldn’t lose him. After three blocks, I stopped and turned suddenly.

  ‘Why won’t anyone take my virginity? Am I ugly?’

  Pete stopped. ‘No.’

  ‘I’m stupid then.’

  ‘Francesco likes it kinky – in public. He told me that last night he did it in the Ladies’ at Whiteley’s Shopping Centre with some girl from the kebab shop. After that public kiss in the squat, he probably realised you wouldn’t go for that.’

  ‘I am stupid.’

  ‘Sometimes, but mostly sad. I think you’re trying to be happy, but I’m not sure it’s working. What’s going on inside that head?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Have you done something you’re ashamed of?’

  ‘Why? No.’

  ‘Is there something that terrifies you?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘You’ve been stoned since you got here. You’ve seen nothing. You’ve done nothing.’

  ‘I went to Oxford.’

  ‘You went to a pub.’

  ‘Bugger off.’

  ‘Why are you holding back? What are you scared of? Who are you?’

  ‘Who are you, Mr Pete?’ I asked. The wave had returned, that swimming, lovey feeling the second pill gave.

  ‘I’m Peter McGuire, I’m 24 and I’m from a town outside of Adelaide. My mother’s a drunk. My father’s English. I’m in love with you.’

  ‘I’m in love with you too,’ I said, stroking his rough face. ‘No, not drug-induced. I feel like you’re my home.’

  ‘Oh! I think you’re a home too.’

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ Pete was annoyed at me for some reason, maybe because as I said the thing about a home I fell over. He walked off in a huff, the weirdo, and after picking myself up I ended up following his rigid square shoulders as they punched at the night.

  23

  At 2 a.m., all three boys were still awake. Bobby hadn’t come home, and the household was no longer flippant about late arrivals.

  It was five weeks since that Tuesday, when Johnny and Sam had woken to the sound of their Dad’s alarm. Radio 2 it was, cheerful and unimposing. They’d looked across at each other from their parents’ super king-size bed, which is where the boys always ended up.

  ‘Where is she?’ Johnny had asked. He’d woken and stretched out to find her, but she wasn’t there. Wasn’t in the middle of them, warm and smiling, for the morning cuddle after working all night to get them toys and holidays.

  ‘Where is she?’ Johnny had yelled to his Dad, who was brewing the coffee.

  ‘What?’ />
  ‘Mummy? She’s not here.’

  ‘I can’t hear you.’

  ‘Mummy’s not here.’

  ‘Don’t yell,’ Greg had said, two coffees in his hand. ‘I think she’s in the loo.’

  Greg put the coffees on the table beside the bed.

  ‘Ceils!’ he’d said lovingly, knocking on the door of the toilet.

  ‘Ceils!’ he’d said lovingly, peering into the study.

  ‘Ceils!’ he’d said lovingly, checking out the boys’ room and the living room.

  ‘Ceils!’ he’d said, doing all of the above, again.

  ‘Celia!’ he’d said to her voicemail.

  ‘CELIA!’ into the street after he’d phoned work.

  Into Kensington Gardens after he’d phoned the police. The tube.

  Whiteley’s Shopping Centre.

  Her Mum’s.

  Her good friends.

  Her not-so-good friends.

  Kensington Gardens again.

  ‘CELIA, CELIA, CELIA!’

  Hell was not knowing. Greg had experienced the feeling in miniature – waiting for Celia to say yes, she would marry him; for the doctor to say no, the foetus did not have Down’s Syndrome. But not knowing where she was, what she was doing, if she was alive – this level of not knowing was hot, burning, crazy hell.

  He could split it into sections, how it had eaten him alive. First was that strange calm. It felt like when Sam was three and had disappeared in the supermarket. Greg’s heart didn’t race for a while, as if it had made a pact with its owner – beat fast and you admit the worst is possible. Sam had emerged after sixty seconds with a half-eaten doughnut from the bakery section. Greg had smiled.

  For a few hours after Celia’s failure to arrive home, Greg’s heart beat as normal. She’s just late, she’s just stopped off at the garage. She’s with a colleague, having coffee, breakfast, gone all-night-grocery shopping. No need to panic. No need to worry.

  But the clock had ticked on, and the phone calls had shed no light, and his heart had no choice but to tell him the truth. She’d had an accident. He could hear it beating, giving him the energy to take action, to find her, help her – because at this stage, it could still be done. Greg’s fingers tapped numbers into handsets, his legs carried him along the canal, Ladbroke Grove, the well-lit route she took each week. His mouth spoke assertively to hospital staff and police officers who checked records – no hit and runs, no sightings. No accident.

  So she’d obviously run away. His anxiety decreased a bit. Maybe she’d decided to have some space, get away for a night or two. She’d never done anything like this before, but it was possible, wasn’t it?

  ‘Has your wife ever had an affair?’ asked the female detective in charge of the hunt. She was around forty, of Chinese origin, with a thick cockney accent and a wandering eye. Her name was Vera Oh and she told Greg more personal information than he needed – that she lived alone, that her twenty-year-old son had left home just after his father had. To mark her new life without men, she said, she had given up smoking and taken up pottery and French.

  Her left eye’s individual approach to seeing was disconcerting. Greg didn’t know what she was looking at. Was she looking at him? At something over his shoulder? It made him awkward, nervous. Greg didn’t realise this was why she’d never had the operation. A wandering eye was more useful for police work than a gun. It disarmed people, made her seem approachable, and caught them unawares.

  ‘Not that I know of,’ Greg answered, suddenly less confident of his wife’s fidelity.

  Still, Vera and her team questioned friends and neighbours. At first, it itched: anger, suspicion, self-questioning. Were we happy? Had she flirted with Dr Tavendale when he’d collected her at A&E that time? Whose number was 07960055911? Why would she have taken her Mini ISA book? The questions were endless, spurred by frenzied attacks on underwear drawers (when had she bought that red silk teddy?), medicine cabinets (why did she use feminine wipes?) and email accounts:

  Hey,

  Do you eat lamb?

  Ceils x

  Hey – a flirty intro, yes? And a kiss at the end? Ceils? The email was to Dr Tavendale, who was invited to dinner the following Friday with his wife.

  A friend told the police she’d lost weight and dressed better recently. Had she? He hadn’t noticed. Was he the kind of husband who didn’t notice these sure signs of infidelity? Another friend from school told police Celia had complained that Greg never did the dishes and that sex had become less exciting. And a neighbour had heard an argument at 6.30 one night. Celia had used the word arsehole in front of the children.

  The police noticed the older boy, Sam, seemed angry at his mother. ‘That’s true,’ the older boy told Vera Oh. ‘She did say arsehole. She doesn’t want to come home. She doesn’t love us. I’m not stupid!’

  None of the happy moments seemed to be relevant anymore. Moments, like ‘family story-time’ each night, or cooking sausages at the campsite in France, or buying back their old toys at the school fête, or getting too many sweeties at the movies, or the time Johnny told the Bank of Scotland teller that he was FAT HUGE ENORMOUS! Or when the four of them had walked in Kensington Gardens playing I-spy. These moments, and millions of others, seemed to have melted just as Johnny’s oversized chocolate ice cream had. A happy, perfect family life, now a sticky puddle on the grass.

  ‘Has your wife ever harmed herself?’ Vera Oh asked.

  ‘No,’ Greg said.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  Was Greg sure of anything anymore? ‘She’s happy. We’re happy.’ As if he had to convince himself.

  They trawled the canal and other suicide hotspots.

  ‘I told you,’ Greg said when the nets, bridges and Samaritans’ records drew a blank.

  Not long after her failure to arrive home, they found CCTV footage at the garage on her route. She had bought crisps and a Dr Who magazine at 4.58 a.m. She had smiled at the checkout person and walked out.

  Had she ever arrived at the flat? Greg scoured the five rooms for clues. Had she opened any doors? Put the loo seat down? Dropped her keys and bag in the hall? Turned on a light? It didn’t look like she’d arrived. So something had happened between the fifteen minutes or so that it would have taken her to walk from the all-night garage to Queensway Terrace.

  Then there was the last option, the one none of them had wanted to embrace till all the others were crossed from the board. She’d been kidnapped, maybe raped, maybe killed, maybe taken somewhere, maybe all of the above.

  The other alternatives wandered in and out of the investigation over those five weeks – an accident, a health problem that had caught her unawares, a love affair that made her feel guilty, a sudden depression that she had to bring to an end. But these options were ghost-like, weakening as time wore on.

  Greg’s heart seemed only to beat fast now when the telephone or the doorbell rang. And then, the dried hard apricot that it had become would fill with blood so fast that it pained him. Even more so when the call was just his Mum, or it was only his friend at the door, and his heart emptied just as fast as it had filled.

  Hell was not knowing.

  The cat had not come home. And as much as Bobby liked to gallivant, he always came home in the end. The boys lay either side of their Dad in bed. The light in the hall was on, and it shone brightly into the tidy bedroom. Each noise made Sam get up to check the cat flap at the front door. But by 2 a.m. there was no sign, and Johnny was crying so loudly that Greg lost his cool and slapped him on the arm.

  ‘I’m so sorry. Come here.’ He cradled five-year-old Johnny under the covers and tried to stop his own tears. This wasn’t the father he wanted to be. The one who hit the child for crying over his missing cat and mother. He couldn’t hold the tears in. He cried as loudly as his little boy.

  Seven-year-old Sam sighed and got out of bed. Did he always have to be the sensible one? Ever since his Mum had ruined their lives by deciding not to come home, he’d had to hold the
fort. He’d had to be the one who answered the phone and opened the baked beans and now he was the only one to notice that the Australians across the road were arriving home.

  ‘Let’s go and ask them,’ Sam said to his crying father and brother.

  24

  I was sober again. Who were all these people, all these men? What the hell was I doing here?

  I stopped at a payphone on Queensway Terrace. Ursula accepted the charges. Her voice felt like a bullbar smashing into me. I’m not sure how the conversation went, exactly, or if it could even be called a conversation, but the gist of it was that I am not an idiot, apparently, but a wonderful girl who may not be ill after all and even if I was, I would cope . . . Probably better if I faced up to it . . . In fact, the hospital had called earlier in the week. She hadn’t been told anything, don’t worry. When I begged her to stop talking about all that, she said okay, that a bit of fun and laughter till I was ready was just fine, as long as that’s what I was doing and not feeling awful all the time.

  I asked her to come to London but she was just finishing her final exams. One to go, she said, then she’d be a doctor. ‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘Why would I want to go to England? It’s too tame and too green for me. I’ve got 5,000 bucks saved. When I’m done, I’m going to get a V-dub and drive to Katherine Gorge.’

  Dad got on the phone and said pretty much all of the above but in a deeper voice. ‘Ring me any time,’ he said. ‘I love you. We both love you. And we’re glad you’re having fun. We miss you Bronny, my lovely girl. Please check your email. You are bloody hopeless with email.’

  Pete appeared behind the booth. He put his arm around me and helped me to the house. He took me to my room and lay me on my mattress, then sat beside me as my story exploded. ‘Huntington’s Disease . . .’ Pete repeated.

  I hated hearing the name of it.