Alan Goodwin - Gravity's Chain

‘But you never returned to the party?’

‘No, I got to my room and looked at my notes, felt they weren’t ready to talk about, then just crashed out. I felt really tired. It’s not unusual for me to crash out after a show, especially if we’ve been travelling. I mean, I hadn’t shaken off the jet lag.’

‘And you never left your room?’

‘No.’

‘Never went to their room?’

‘No.’

‘Ryan paused again, flicked his notes and glanced at Orton. ‘And that’s the truth, Mr Mitchell? You know that lying to the police is an offence?’

‘Yes, it’s the truth and yes, I know that lying to the police is an offence. I wish I could help more, Detective, and I know it seems strange, but that’s how it happened.’ There—sunk without trace, head covered and the last bubbles of breath on the quicksand’s surface.

‘Thank you, Mr Mitchell, that terminates the interview,’ Ryan checked his watch, ‘at 8.15 pm.’ He pushed the tape button. ‘You’re free to leave. Hope you have a good flight. Detective Orton will show you out.’ Without further comment Ryan picked up his file and left the room.

I didn’t like Ryan any more. He knew I was lying. He knew I knew he knew I was lying. The real question was how far he’d go to prove the point.

Orton reunited me with Bebe and we returned to the hotel in silence. In the lobby I collected a fat envelope from the desk, then went to the room where I collected my travel bag before driving to the airport. We were late, but made the gate just in time. I settled back to yet another plane trip, yet another ride on the knife-edge of extinction.

Dear Jack,

I suppose I always knew you wouldn’t meet me. Why should you? You know nothing of me. I feel that perhaps I should have told you more, then you would have come, but it’s too late now. If there’s one thing I’ve learnt in my life, if there’s one rule I live by, it’s never to regret what’s happened. Understand by all means, but never regret—it’s such a devouring pastime and one that leads nowhere.

Why did I want to meet you? That’s such a complicated question, yet at the same time so simple.

I think in the end it was more for you than me, although I admit there’s much about seeing you that will calm me. It’s for you, though, Jack, that I worry more. I know there’s pain, and all I want to do is ease that pain. Perhaps when you’ve read this you’ll still find the time to come, although I admit time, money and patience are wearing thin. At least with this letter I will have given you an answer, one that I hope will remove your worries.

I wanted to tell you a story. Here it is.

Have you ever been to Marrakech? It’s a wonderful place. I was once told that you don’t talk about Marrakech, you have to experience it. Never was a truer word spoken. But of course I must try to tell you of the golden stone walls at sunset, the ochre buildings profiled against a clear blue sky, the palm tree oasis leading the eye to the snow-capped Atlas Mountains in the distance. In the square I would watch snake charmers and jugglers perform for the tourists, while the storytellers attracted the true citizens.

In the Café de France I met Edward. He never really told me what he did in the city—‘something in carpets’ he’d say as if that explained everything. To escape a Europe on the verge of imploding, he had gone to Morocco in 1968 with two friends on a hippie excursion and when they grew bored he stayed on. Edward might have traded his mane of long hair for a neat short back and sides with a precise parting and replaced the kaftan with a white linen suit, but his business was only semi-legitimate, he’d explain with a twinkle in his eye. There was mystery aplenty to draw me to him and next day he helped me take my bags from the Hotel Ichbilia to his tiny one-room apartment on the Rue Souq al-Kebir. It was my first and last holiday romance. At least I have that experience, if precious few others.

He insisted on taking me to the desert. It would be his privilege, and besides, he told me, he’d spent years by himself and it was nice to have someone else around for a while. He left me in no doubt that ours was a temporary liaison. He was answerable to no one and could do whatever he wanted when he wanted; Edward’s life centred only on Edward.

Once we were back in Marrakech, Edward invited me to accompany him to one final destination, one he assured me I would enjoy, and we drove northeast to the Cascades d’Ouzard.

The falls were broken into ten or so streams of water that dropped nearly a hundred metres to pools below like so many sparkling ribbons. Above them a patch of rainbow formed in the spray and the sound of water thundered in the gorge. A dusty path led down to the river and I somewhat reluctantly left the cool sanctuary of an olive tree’s shade and descended in the fierce midday heat to the water below.

We rested a while before clambering across the rocks to a more secluded area. Edward took the lead. He skirted one pool, then started to climb a boulder as tall as himself, his feet slipping on the slimy sides. At the tip he surveyed the area as though he was a king and pointed to one side. ‘There’s a beautiful spot over there. Let’s take a look.’ I followed him up the boulder and when he offered his hand I accepted. There was a moment when I felt my feet give way and I thought I might fall. Instantly his grip tightened and he pulled me to safety. His strength was surprising.

We entered a little grove where we were completely hidden from the falls and any other tourists. There was a small pool, no more than two metres across, crystal clear and still. I leant over the rock edge. Perfectly reflected in the water I saw the rocky sides of the gorge with the bushes clinging to them, and the sky above. I even thought I saw the dunes of the desert and the crazy throngs of Marrakech, as though everything wonderful I’d experienced was entwined and visible in that pellucid water. Without moving, I called Edward over and asked him what he saw.

Do you know what he said, Jack? Do you know what he saw in that magical pool?

‘One handsome guy called Edward,’ he replied. ‘You need to look beyond yourself,’ I said, but he had already turned his back and begun to climb out of the grove.

You could be his son, Jack. Like Edward you see only yourself. Don’t turn your back. That’s what I wanted to say to you. I wanted to tell you to look beyond yourself.

If you change your mind I’m at 26 Whittly Place, Avondale. However, my time here is short.

If I could have turned the plane around I would have done so, taken a taxi and settled my disquiet by meeting this person. I was no longer afraid of her; it was my curiosity that needed calming. Now I wanted to keep my appointment, now I wanted to talk to her. But it was too late and there was nothing I could do. We landed in Wellington that night, took in some interviews the following morning, a sound check in the afternoon and my show in the evening. After a brief reception I was to leave that night for America.

I thought when I arrived in New Zealand that I would be anxious to leave and in some ways I was—sour thoughts of my past and the interview with Ryan had done little to make the stay enjoyable—but a part of me was now screaming to stay.

You’d think I had enough on my plate as I set out across the Pacific. However, life sometimes just keeps digging the shit. Bebe casually passed me the latest copy of New Scientist , picked up in Wellington Airport. Perhaps he hoped that the casualness of the moment might somehow take away the bite of the contents. It didn’t. The front cover boasted a multicoloured pattern revolving around a diagonal axis. Above the graphic was the headline, ‘The Patterns of Life’, and below it the promise of an article and interview with Frank Driesler. Oh, I could hardly wait.