There were girls and women, too, of course. Heading home from work in suits and pumps, in scrubs. Mothers with children. Clusters of adolescent girls with rhinestones on the back pockets of their jeans. But it was the men and boys I watched. I admit I had not done very much thinking about the inner lives of men. I was a girl with a sister. With my boyfriends, I saw now, I had never dug beneath the surface to find them where they hid. Perhaps I didn’t want their pain to compete with my own; perhaps my story, my tragedy, had a forbidding power over men, and I enjoyed that. Or perhaps, knowing that a man, or men, had killed my sister, I was afraid of what I might find if I looked too closely—gentleness that turned over to shame that turned over to rage; ugly, unshakable desires—qualities that might suggest a universal masculine poison I did not want to know about because it would doom me to be alone forever.
Clive continued down the sidewalk. He stopped at a newsstand and purchased a cup of coffee, which he drank as he headed north. A few minutes later, without breaking his stride, he tossed the dregs of the coffee into the street with a quick, dispassionate flick of his wrist.
THE MATERIAL on Alison was endless, so much it seemed I would never get through it. Information on Clive Richardson and Edwin Hastie, by comparison, was thin at best. One day, I told my boss I needed to consult the archives at the New York Public Library to research some details about the Cornish coast in The Girl from Pendeen which she had asked me to confirm, and I spent the afternoon at the main branch, searching the catalog for anything I could find that mentioned Clive and Edwin. My first discovery was an academic text, Dark Travels: Thanatourism, Theory and Practice.
CONTENTS
PART 1: ASPECTS OF THANATOURISM
Mediations: The Living and the Dead in Public Space
Milking the Macabre: Ethical Considerations
Kitschification and Mass-Consumption
Hospitality in Hostile Spaces: Towards a New Model
PART 2: FORMS AND FUNCTIONS
Genocide Tourism
Homicide Tourism
Disaster Tourism
PART 3: FUTURE RESEARCH DIRECTIONS
To my disappointment, the book contained only the briefest relevant passage, from the chapter on “Homicide Tourism”:
… While Genocide Tourism is generally structured by government and nonprofit institutions, Homicide Tourism is often ad hoc, and thus represents an economic opportunity for independent local operators. Examples include Kristján Jóhannsson, who leads tours of Keflavik in southwest Iceland, a site of interest in the Guðmundur and Geirfinnur case; and Desmond Phillips, whose guided tours of the island of Saint X include visits to the houses of Edwin Hastie and Clive Richardson, suspects in the Alison Thomas murder, and a boat ride to the nearby cay where her body was recovered for a fish fry lunch. This essay will focus on the case of the Tyrolean village of Zinn am Alberg, which has rebuilt its local economy, previously dominated by dairy farming and the production of Tyrolean speck, around tourism related to the gruesome 1975 murders of the members of the Krenn family.…
The next few books were no more informative. An encyclopedia of unsolved mysteries. A media studies dissertation on the differing portrayals of black and white female victims of violent crime from 1970 to 2000. I had high hopes for A Handbook History of Saint X, the only book I’d been able to find that focused exclusively on the island. It turned out to be a self-published monograph by a retired customs worker named David Webster, a hundred spiral-bound pages, peripatetic and ambitious in its scope, with five-page chapters on such topics as the history of the salt trade and the entirety of Amerindian civilization on the island.
From Chapter 8, “1950 to the Present Time”:
… The death of Alison Thomas on Faraway Cay (see Chapter 11: Folklore), had effects upon our island as deleterious as any hurricane. It has been speculated that the closing of the Grand Caribbee and three restaurants on Mayfair Road in a single season may be entirely attributable to the aforementioned scandal. This scandal had the additional effect of dividing the island over the question of whether its primary suspects, Misters Hastie and Richardson, were the innocent victims of a scapegoating mission by the American press, or, alternately and, this author believes, accurately, the parties responsible for single-handedly causing an economic downturn that endured for years and bringing international notoriety to our island and its people.…
From Chapter 11, “Folklore”:
… Tales about the woman on Faraway Cay are prevalent. In the most widespread account of her origin, she washed up on Faraway many centuries ago in a hurricane. Nobody knows from where she came, but she can never return because as is well known, dark spirits cannot cross salt water, as a result of which she is trapped on the cay for eternity. She has white skin and long black hair and hooves for feet. Mention must be made of her odd gait, which appears in many versions of the tale, and is widely believed to be what draws people to her, as humans cannot resist that dash of salt in their sweet.
As the stories go, she lures people to cure her loneliness. She leads them across the cay and they give chase, desperate to touch some of her wildness. At last, she escorts them to the waterfall at the island’s center. She allows them to draw near, but when they reach out to grasp her, she slips away into the mist. They try to follow after her and are drowned. A popular version has it that a new goat appears on Faraway Cay for every person who vanishes there. It is said that you can see the humanness in their eyes.…
I shut the book in disgust. A woman with hooves for feet. Humans turned to goats. Had my sister’s body been dumped in that waterfall as some kind of sick joke? Look, the woman on Faraway Cay did it! Hahaha.
It wasn’t until that moment that I realized that, from the time I was a small child, I’d found some solace in the fact that Alison had been found somewhere so beautiful. How many small, unconscious coping mechanisms, how many pretty notions, would be taken from me before I uncovered the truth?
I opened Google Maps on my laptop, a self-punishing impulse—to lay eyes on it, to force myself to picture her there, her body beneath all that water for days. But Faraway Cay did not even appear on Google Maps. Where I knew the cay must be, there was only blue.
I FOLLOWED Clive for many nights and many miles. In all that time, excepting the evening when I called his name and he responded with such terror, I never heard his voice. His nights were composed of enormous stretches of silence, and this silence was now mine, too. I would return home near midnight and realize I hadn’t uttered a word since leaving work at five-thirty. Sometimes I would speak—“Hello, hello, hello,” “My name is Emily,” “Today is Tuesday”—just to prove to myself that I was still real. I did not hear him speak, nor did I observe any other evidence to suggest that his life connected meaningfully with anyone else’s. Clive Richardson was a man hiding in plain sight, drawing no attention and leaving no trace upon the minds of others. He was an island, isolated and impenetrable.
IT WENT on like this. And something began to happen. At the beginning of each walk, I would be filled with the fear I described earlier, with a sense of the danger posed by Clive and the risk that I was taking in following him. But after thirty minutes, an hour, the experience shifted. It happened without my noticing, like slipping from waking to dreaming. It no longer felt like I was following him, but like we were on this walk together, linked. Eventually, even this we faded away; it was no longer the two of us traveling these dark streets, but a single mind, a memory, endeavoring through the step, step, step of these constitutionals to travel beyond some perimeter it could never seem to reach. If we kept walking long enough, I would be seized by the certainty that we were not alone; we were being watched, trailed by figures who flickered on the periphery, shrouded in darkness. A hand reaching out, beckoning. The pounding of hooves. A flare of laughter, rising from the streets like steam, then gone. Shh. Don’t tell.
ON HALLOWEEN, the old woman in my building sat on the front stoop in her white sneakers distributing Good & Ple
nty to crestfallen fairies and firefighters. I had been invited to a party at the apartment of a college friend on Pineapple Street and decided that I would go. I’d fallen into arrears with my friends, ignoring messages and invitations; attending seemed an efficient means of digging myself out. The party was an annual thing, and in prior years I’d spent quite a bit of time and effort thinking up and executing my costume—the year before, if memory serves, I’d gone as Frida Kahlo. But this year I had neither the time nor the inclination, and so I put on brown pants and a brown sweater, picked up a few twigs from the tree outside my apartment, and declared myself a tree. My non-costume turned out to be a hit, and at first I was having a pretty good time, sliding into the social rhythm I hadn’t realized I’d missed. Gin and tonic in a Solo cup. Jackie squealing, “Where have you been, girl?” as she petted my shoulder. Laden chitchat with a guy I’d hooked up with a few months earlier. A group of us climbing the ladder to the peach-soft roof to pass around a joint—smoke and cold air and the stark sounds of our laughter against the glitter of Manhattan across the water.
But when I climbed back down into the hot, raucous party everything was wrong. I looked around—there was a girl dressed as a Warhol painting, her face covered in red dots; Jackie was a “sexy farmer,” a canny critique of the Sexy Halloween Costume that nevertheless allowed her to show off her midriff. My gaze pinged from face to face in the semidarkness. What was I doing here? Clive was out there, and I was not with him. I tried to get myself to stay, to enjoy myself, but I was startled to find that I could no longer tolerate a night away from him. I slipped out early without saying goodbye.
Looking back, I can see that my pursuit of Clive Richardson was beginning to be about something more than gathering clues, that I was falling under the grip of something I could not control. But I did not allow myself to see this then. Maybe if I had, it all could have ended differently.
I got a lot of flak for publishing my memoir. People said it was a shameless cash grab. I got called a hanger-on, a fame whore, a starfucker. I don’t think any of those people actually bothered to read my book, because if they had they would have seen that I wrote every word of it straight from my heart.
After I found the girl, I went to therapy. I worked with a life coach. I embraced a vegan diet. I tried Xanax, Zoloft, microdosing. I got into reiki and did a four-day silent meditation retreat. I even followed this guru for a while. Her hugs were supposed to cure you, it didn’t matter what was wrong with you. During her North American tour, I went to see her at the Sheraton near LAX. I waited in line for three hours. When it was my turn, I approached the dais and the guru wrapped me in an embrace so powerful it felt like it originated at the center of my soul. I swear I could feel it wiping everything away. A new beginning. Or so I thought. But on my drive back to Santa Monica, I was stopped in traffic on the 405 and it happened again—the girl appeared in my mind. That bloated white arm, reaching out to me.
My therapist said that intrusive thoughts and images are an extremely common neurological phenomenon. To stop them, I simply needed to retrain my mind; he told me that it is not only possible to rewire the brain’s neural pathways, it is easy. Plasticity is exactly what our brains are designed for. Whenever the image of the girl intruded, I was supposed to imagine that I was in the checkout at the grocery store. On the belt were different grocery items and each item was a thought, and the girl was just one of these thoughts, and I knew which items were healthy and which were not, and I could choose which ones I picked up and which ones I put down, and I could watch these unhealthy thoughts travel away down the checkout belt of my mind. I just had to put her down and pick up something else. I spent hours putting down the girl and picking up yogurt, avocados, blueberries. But the longer I spent there, the more I tried not to see her, the more I saw her. The light blue polish on her nails. Her hair swirling upward in the water.
Eventually, I decided my only choice was to accept her into my life. I still see her, but when I do, I just … say hi to her. I call her by her name. Hey there, Ali. I tell her I like her nail polish. It is not okay, and I don’t think it ever will be. But I have found that this way, I can turn her from a body into a girl. And I feel damned proud that I was able to find my own solution when all these supposed experts couldn’t help me.
I’ve been thinking about going back to school to become a licensed mental health counselor. Wouldn’t that be a second act nobody expected from me? But actually, I’ve always wanted to help people. You want to know the real thing the men I dated had in common? It wasn’t that they were celebrities. It was that they were broken, broken dudes. He was the most broken of them all. Ironic, isn’t it? I made him go to that waterfall because I thought it would heal him, but instead I think it’s the thing that broke him for good.
GHOSTS
IT HAS HAPPENED BEFORE. Clive has experienced several periods like this since he arrived in New York nearly two decades ago, seasons of paranoia when the girl is in the wind, when even the hiss of the radiator is full of her fury. It lasts a few days, sometimes as long as several weeks, but eventually things go back to normal. Each time it passes he thinks it will be the last time. It is over, dealt with. But it never is, is it? The old fears, the old voices—we have found you, we know, everybody knows—stay dormant for months, years, and then, sure as the tides, they come back.
The littlest thing can set it off. A girl rolling her eyes at her mother in the backseat of his taxi. A whiff of artificial strawberry. During that terrible episode with Sachin, all those years ago, the trigger was nothing more than the hostility with which Sachin looked at him, which made Clive certain that, somehow, Sachin knew. This time, it is even smaller than that, a silly mistake. He thought he heard the name that is no longer his, and now she is everywhere. She haunts him, a ghost skulking at the edges of his vision. She shape-shifts, appearing in the form of other people. She is a girl in an NYU sweatshirt on a delayed subway train, beautifully bored. She is on his block in a pleated charter-school skirt, bathing in the adoration of the boys around her, thrusting out her chin just so. She flashes out from their eyes and catches him in her gaze.
During these intervals, nothing can quell her presence, not his walks, not prayer, for she is inside of him, too, a second self; she feels the freezing floors of his apartment beneath his socked feet, hears a customer berate him over the traffic on the FDR, sees him urinating into a Dasani bottle mid-shift. She reaps pleasure from each small indignity. It seems to him that this life is her doing. She has strung it together, just so. And he feels an anger at her that will never, ever be spent. Then he wonders what it says about him that he has made her into such a vindictive, punishing ghost.
At night she peers into his dreams. He is with Edwin, surrounded by everyone they know; the people shout and leer and hiss. We have found you, we know, everybody knows. Alison looks on from the edge of the crowd, strokes her scar, and smiles.
Old memories come unburied: Dancing with her, kissing her. The twisted string of blue fabric with which her shirt was tied around her neck. The first day he saw her walking down the beach, her stride so nonchalant he knew straightaway she’d be trouble.
Like any ghost, she radiates. She is not content to remain within her own moment. She inhabits them all—not only her aftermath, but also the time before he even knew she existed, until every memory, no matter how sweet, turns bitter on his tongue.
IT WAS no secret that Clive only had eyes for Sara Lycott. She was not one of the girls most of the boys were stuck on—Daphne Nelsen with her long sprinter’s legs, or Saffy Lester with her silky hair and cashew skin, or Joy Vernon who had breasts by the time they were eleven. Sara Lycott’s eyes were small and black, and they seemed to cast off bright flares of hostility. She had remained adamantly flat-chested, as if purposefully to deny any boy who looked. She and her mother had come to the island from Saint Kitts when she was a baby. Sara’s mother, Miss Agatha, claimed to be the widow of a government minister who was killed in an automobile ac
cident just before Sara was born. Clive’s grandmother had declared this a “likely story.” Sara didn’t talk like the rest of them. She spoke properly, like a teacher, even when she was with her friends, and though she was teased for this, she didn’t stop.
His devotion to her had been sealed at the Horatio Byrd Primary Christmas Pageant when they were ten. The pageant was the culmination of a week of festivities that included calypso shows and street jams and the lighting of the mahogany trees along Investiture Boulevard. Clive was an ox. His grandmother had dyed cotton batting with tea and sewn it to an old nightshirt of his grandfather’s. (Though his grandfather had been dead for years, she still kept his clothes in a wooden bureau in the corner of her bedroom. It was the one soft thing about her, and it would be many years before he understood that this one thing was really an uncountable number of things, that it was merely the material evidence of an entire unseen world that resided within the grandmother he thought he knew completely.) Sara Lycott was Mary. She wore a flowing blue silk gown and a crown of white flowers. Her performance left him spellbound. Not because it was beautiful or heartfelt or pure, for it was none of these things. Rather, she commanded his attention with her magnificent vacancy. She spoke as if she cared not a whit that she was onstage in front of the entire town, playing the role of the Virgin Mary. How could she dare to give so little, to be so utterly elsewhere? When a fourth-grade boy dropped the porcelain dish that was supposed to be myrrh and the pageant fell for a moment into disarray as the wise men stooped to gather the shards, Sara Lycott reached into her dressing gown and pulled forth a square of coconut candy. There, in the middle of the stage, she bit. He could hear the candy crack against her teeth. Then she released the faintest of smiles, a secret smile at a secret pleasure. Was he the only one who had seen it? The other boys barely gave Sara a thought; if they did, it was only to joke and tease—where did such a funny-looking girl get off being so haughty? But in that moment, her prickly exterior had parted to reveal the truth of her. From then on, all he wanted was to be let back in.
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