“I told you he would.”
“He doesn’t mean it. It’s not real.”
He chuckles and shuts a door in the background. “Is anything?”
“Malachi.”
“Hannah.”
“Stop being an asshole. I need …” What do I need? Another drink. I pick up the bottle and glug, trying to ease the pain that’s now beginning to form in my shoulder. “Answers.”
“And I told you, you wouldn’t get them like that.”
I snarl at that and drink some more, body falling onto the couch and my hand reaching into my bag for my magical pills stash. He said I shouldn’t take any away from his place. Said I wasn’t allowed to use them out here in the world. Screw that. Faith didn’t. I sink two colours, enjoying the swallow and hoping it might get rid of what just happened.
“Why don’t you just tell me what his problem is?”
“It’s not my story to tell. And he’s my friend. You’ve always known that.” Quiet.
Frustrating.
I end the call and tap the side of the bottle, trying to find my rhythm. Maybe I should just let it all go, move on and forget. I can still feel him, though. I need to understand that problem, find solutions to it. Me. Maybe I’m the problem. I snort and drink again, eyes hardening as I look at a painting Rick bought leant up against the wall. Why is that still here?
My legs crawl me to it, gaze searching the hazy summer scene. He liked summer. Bright light and beaches. My engagement ring was like that – bright and glittery. Where is that? And my wedding band. Gone. Left it somewhere. Put them down, having ripped them off my finger. Doesn’t matter. Nothing’s bright where he is now. It’s dark and dead, soil covering the coffin he’s in.
Gravestones. I need them.
Scrambling up, I walk to the bedroom, pull on some clothes, and leave, a new bottle of wine in my hand. Maybe this will help. I’ll remember then. Get some hardening up going on. I am more than this, than him.
The elevator ride passes in a blur, the sidewalks outside just as much. I wait by the kerbside, watching as the bellboy hails a cab for me, and then slip into the dark confines of the interior. Better. Darker. My eyes flit around, waiting for the colours to flash and the calm to come flood me so I’m ready for Rick the prick and everything I need to say to him.
I don’t even know why I had him buried here. Why did I do that? I should have taken him home, put him in the space near his mother and father. New York is nothing to us. A wasteland of people and avenues, all of them barely bystanders in my life. Although – I drink some more and watch as roads pass me by, sinking another pill for good measure – he doesn’t deserve any thought from me, let alone care. Maybe Deborah the slut will be able to go grieve over him now, comfort herself with his decomposing body.
“Pricks, most of us are.”
Hmm.
The sight of the gates looming up on me a while later, of the wrought iron intricacy, makes me think of castles and rooms of opulence, of a life outside of this. Colours begin swirling behind them. All the colours of the rainbow. Can’t be real. It’s night-time. Dark out here. Like it was at Malachi’s home. Not the home here in Manhattan, the home there in the mountains. Tucked away. Hidden from the world and prying eyes. I was settled there, content to dwell in opulence, and now I’ve come back to find out the truths of a man who discards me like dirt.
My chin lifts, grabbed dollars thrown at the driver, and I step out into the night air. Cold. I shiver again, as the cab pulls off, remembering wind across my skin, snow under my feet. Maybe that’s where my life is now. I could go back, live there and enjoy the emptiness of nothing, evolve some more. Malachi said I could. Offered that. I don’t know why, but he did.
He’s my friend now.
The thought makes me stall at the gates, unsure why I’m even here. What am I going to do? Cry on a grave? Shout at it? Lay down on it and try to understand where I’m at in my life because of the place Rick’s left me in? A sigh falls from me and I look up into the stars, watching them twinkle and trying to glow above me behind the clouds and breaking storm. Not clear. No connection or focus point. Not like at the castle. No sense here. No calm or enjoyment. No freedom either. I’m strangled here. Locked tight and unable to breathe properly.
My hand reaches into my pocket to pull my cell out, and I dial the only friend I’ve got. He picks up on the third ring again.
“I need …” I sniff, unsure why the tears are threatening, and then laugh sporadically as the colours keep blurring in front of me, blending. “Malachi?” No answer.
A sob bursts out of me, legs buckling under pressure I can’t contend with. Everything’s such a mess again. I’m heaving in breaths, unable to concentrate or think of ways forward. Maybe backwards would be better.
Or down.
Down, down, down.
Tap, tap, tap.
I dig in my pocket, grabbing out another few pills to swallow them down.
Down, down, down.
“He threw me out. Why? So horrible, Malachi. Harsh. Cold. Angry with me. I didn’t do anything to deserve that.” Still no answer. “And now I don’t know what to do anymore.”
My fingers tumble over rocks and pebbles, as a sigh comes back at me.
“Where are you, Hannah?”
I scratch the dirt with my fingers, letting them bounce on the gravel and grit. No rhythm. No tune. No thuds or taps. It’s all gone. All of it. I’m just here and nothing makes any sense and life is bleak and austere again. No heat. No heart. Dead. Like Rick.
“Hannah?”
“I don’t know,” mumbles out of me. “Don’t know where I am anymore.” Another sniff falters out of me, my cheek resting on the gravel and my fingers tapping. “Do any of us know where we are? I’m here, Malachi. There. No, not there. I’m just here. Thinking about dead men and dead feelings and death. Coffins.” The bottle of wine gets pulled to my mouth, sips pulled in as I keep staring at the floor. Dead. Like Rick. “I want to go home now, though.” I do. All the way home.
Planes and snow, cold and warmth.
Another pill gets pulled from my pocket. One more. I look at it. The red one this time. What harm can it do? Everything will make sense then. That’s what Faith said.
She said it’ll make it all go away.
It’ll blend and blur, distort and change.
Tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap.
“I’ve taken some pills. They’ll take me home, won’t they? I like the colour red.”
Maybe Gray will be there then. Maybe he’ll hold me and whisper words, lean his weight over me and keep the connection going rather than deny it. I’ll hear it then – the thud. It’ll come back, join with me. Shadows creeping across my skin. Warm shadows. Shadows that consume and captivate.
Lovely.
The bleeps from my cell signal the end of the call. I look at it, muddled, and realise the battery’s dead. Another sniff. Another laboured tap on the bottle, and I pull up tight into a ball. I’ll stay here for a while. Think. Maybe sleep. Die.
What does it matter anymore?
***
Heat slowly seeps into me. I snuggle up to it and breathe deeply, letting the warmth soothe and comfort my tired bones. I’m in a car, lights racing by outside the window. My eyes blink, mind trying to work out why I’m here. I was there, not here. I remember a voice – Gray’s voice. Sharp. Distinct. Saying my name. He said it over and over again.
Strong arms, spice, and his stubble.
And then it was gone.
And now I’m leaning on someone. I don’t know the smell, or recognise the sound of the muffled voice.
My head lifts weakly, an ache coming in my neck the second I do, and I twist my face to look at who I’m leant against. Blurred. Blond, though. He doesn’t smile at me. No kindness or sympathy. Just stares forwards and talks into a phone. “Yes, Sir,” he says. “We’re on route now.” Quiet for a few seconds, just the rumble of the car beneath us and the commotion of other traffic around us. “Yes, Sir. She’s
fine. Cold, but fine. Seems it anyway.”
Fine. I’m not fine. I’m anything but fine. I feel lost again, as if the world has gone mad around me and the only thing that makes any sense is a castle surrounded by snow-capped mountains. The image of them makes me pull away from the body holding me softly and gaze into the night, fingers splayed out on the glass. I want to go home, back to that place and that time and arms that held me tightly, severely. And I want the bed and warmth, whispered words and comfort.
Weight on me.
Gray.
It’s only after I’ve thought about him clearly that I begin to recognise the car we’re in.
“Of course, Sir. I won’t leave the room.”
“Where are we going?” I mumble.
He doesn’t answer me. Barely even acknowledges the question when I turn listlessly to look back at him. I remember him then. Jackson.
“Where are you taking me?”
No answer again. I don’t suppose it matters where I’m going, as long as I’m not going back to that apartment full of memories. I thought Malachi was coming for me, though. Jackson isn’t Malachi’s. He’s Gray’s. And Gray threw me out. So angry.
So cold.
I stare out of the window, occasionally tracing patterns in my breath on it, and watch as the roads change. Smaller roads. Roads that twist and wind. Pretty darkness. Only fog and mist staining my view. My finger taps, heart searching for thuds out there. So tired. Exhausted. I should sleep some more. Find solace in that until morning breaks and sense comes back.
The car slows down and the lights from the freeway dulls to barely anything at all. I don’t know what that means. Better, though. Darker skies and darker views. Rabbit holes. I smile faintly at it all. It makes more sense to me. Silent and dark. Indistinct.
Tap, tap, tap.
A maze. It’s like a maze with no colours or edges, no timelines or trails to follow. I trace more patterns in the mist on the window, watching as the drips fall down in small streams.
Down, down, down.
Eventually lights start on the horizon. Low lights. Dim and flickering. I stare at them, cheek pressed against the cool glass, and then fall back into the confines of the car. Frightening. Scary. Lights mean people, conversing. I’m not ready for that. Don’t want it. Unless it’s the castle. Is it?
I scramble back to Jackson, using him as an anchor to something. Anything. Can’t be the castle. No planes. I don’t think there have been anyway. My thoughts scatter around, hand tapping my head. Might have been a plane. Can’t remember.
“It’s alright, Mam,” he says. Is it? How is it alright?
A sense of fear permeates, filling me with panic and fright. If Gray’s not there it can’t be alright. Maybe it’s Malachi. No. Gray’s car. Jackson. My head shakes, body pulling rigid and then sinking into as small a shape as I can manage.
The car seems to stop before I know what’s happened and a man opens the door. He’s old. Dressed like a doorman. “Mrs Tanner,” he says.
How does he know me?
My gaze flits around him, taking in the huge place and the bright lights. I shrink back into Jackson again, only to feel him push on my back and help me out of the car whether I want to go or not. My feet scuff the floor, as I’m part dragged towards the door. Fight. I should fight. Get away. This isn’t right. I could run. I’m good at that. Used to run a lot. Keep fit. Stay fit for Rick. I don’t know here, though.
Still, my feet brace, arms yanking to get me away, but the second I try, the very moment I attempt attack, or flight, or fight, I’m lifted from the ground and carried over the threshold.
Rooms blur by me, lots of them, colours and furniture lost in a haze of panic and fear, swirling carousels of images and things. And then a woman is beside us before I can understand what’s going on, a mask covering her mouth and glasses resting on her nose. Something pricks my arm. Painful. I try screaming, try moving, but everything’s gone limp, useless. No running anymore.
The last thing I see is her dropping the mask to smile at me.
“It’s alright, Hannah.”
Black.
Chapter 9
Gray
I weave roads quickly, fuelling myself on to get through downtown traffic and ignoring reds as they come at me. I don’t have the time or care for them, and I’m too fucking wound up to give a damn what havoc me driving like a mad man might cause.
The eventual sight of the townhouse dominating the avenue makes me slam on the brakes and park directly outside it, the door crashing behind me as I get out. The main entrance looms just as large as the old building does, black on black, the knockers and letters sunk in with metallic hues to highlight the oil that bought it.
It opens as I’m approaching, the swing of it only guarded by a lone man in a suit.
“Good evening, Mr Rothburg,” he says. Good?
No, it isn’t.
I keep walking passed him, swerving corners and rooms to find Malachi. He knew. He knew she was still taking the damn pills and didn’t tell me. It’s bad enough that he didn’t screen her before she left his fucking castle, but to have not checked if she’d managed to hide any?
Stupidity.
“MALACHI!” bellows out of me.
Nothing. Not even the sound of his damn wife snickering at me. I take the stairs up to the top floor, rounding the myriad of steps three at a time to get to the observation deck. They’ll be up there, probably toasting their little game with champagne and caviar.
Another landing, the length of the main hall crossed, and I break out onto the stone flagged gardens and fountains. The back end of it’s illuminated, framed by the city around it, and there, part hidden by the foliage and sculptures, steam and mist rippling the air, are both of them in the pool.
The hard clack of my shoes slams down heavy on the ground, finally coming to a stop by their side. Faith pushes off backwards, arms swirling the water around her as she floats.
“So angry, Gray,” she says. “Delicious.”
No words from Malachi, just his tan, top half out of the water and his eyes watching me carefully.
“What the hell are you playing at?” I grate out. “Letting her carry on out here? You’re fucking insane, Malachi. We made rules about this.”
He starts to get out, shaking his head, as he walks forward. “And you thought coming here to shout at me was more useful than looking after her?” He takes a sip of his champagne, reaching for a towel. “That really is cruel, Gray. She’ll need you. Where have you taken her?”
“That’s none of your damn business.”
My body carries on around the pool, about ready to get the last of this anger out on something physically until I’m feet away from him. “You didn’t check her? Make sure she didn’t have any? Ease her off them before-"
“I did, but then it seemed counter intuitive with you and her.” He chuckles and finishes off the rest of his champagne, pouring another immediately, and looks my tense frame over. “Please don’t tell me you’ve come here to fight. You’ll lose. You know that.”
I’m in his face before he can get away from me, one hard right fist sent at his jaw to show my contempt. He barely moves other than his head slowly turning, but the fucking thought has at least landed on his skin. Another might any damn minute. “Anything could have happened to her. You’re a fucking asshole to have played like that.”
“Says the man who invented the fun in the first place,” he snarls, rubbing his jaw.
“It was reckless of you.”
“And you fucking her in your apartment wasn’t?” He laughs, then sneers, dismissing the punch as if barely felt. “I think you know that something has already happened to her. You. And that is not my fault. It’s yours.”
“What happens in the confines of my own damn home is none-.”
“Everything’s my business. And you tipping her over the edge for the rest of us to play with definitely is. Poor little Hannah and those red pills.” A giggle comes from Faith, water splas
hing around. “If you don’t want her out here, maybe I should continue playing rather than helping.”
“I told you to leave her alone.”
He sighs and looks over at his wife, a smile on his face about something. “The problem is, Gray, I’ve got several complications with that statement. One, why? Two, she doesn’t want me to. In fact, she wants me to take her home with me if the phone call is to be believed. And three, you don’t want me to.”
My feet inch closer, fists tightening again and mouth opening to retaliate.
“Try it again and I’ll react. Don’t push your luck,” he growls in warning. Another step moves me closer again. I don’t give a fuck for warnings. Not this time. “Stop it, Gray. You can’t tell me you didn’t like her in your apartment, or, presumably, that you won’t like seeing her in that monstrosity of a place you own in the country,” he says. “Assuming that’s where you’ve taken her for whatever rehabilitation you’re choosing.” Rage starts building in me at his ability to read me so well. A rage so profound I’m barely keeping it contained. More games. More playing with me. “I did call you, Gray. I could have just taken her and you wouldn’t have known a thing about it. I thought you might prefer to deal with the disorder you’ve created yourself.”
“You’ve made all this happen.”
“No I didn’t. You brought her to me in the first place. You can keep your blame and reprimand yourself for it. Not me. I was a spectator.”
My teeth grit. “I meant all this now.”
“Well, that, yes.”
“And you gave her a damn key-card to carry it on.”
“Yes.”
“Knowing what I would do when she arrived.”
He chuckles again and sits on a lounger, nodding. “Was she good? I expect she would be when tempting you. And then she tried killing herself at the cemetery she buried her husband in. I’m impressed. Almost concerned.”
The sound of Faith getting out makes me glare at her naked body, part ready to throw her over the damn ledge. “A few pointers from me and I thought she was ready to go,” she says.
A Sorrow of Truths Page 6