Alan Goodwin - Gravity's Chain

‘You knew about what George was going to say, didn’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Had you discussed it with him?’

‘Yes.’

‘Was it your idea?’

‘No Jack, this is the company—it’s about them now, not you. If they can protect themselves as well as you then they’ll do that, but if they have to sacrifice you, they will. They won’t and can’t let Jo’s death touch them. You know that.’

‘Do you agree with what they’re asking me to do?’

‘Oh God yes, Jack. It’s a chance for you to give up all this shit.’ He waved at the crowded room.

Two women dressed as slave girls came to where we stood. In the distance there were women in full Cleopatra costume. In a room to one side I heard music and laughter, from a room on the other side, the splashing of guests already in a swimming pool. Several of the slave girls bared their breasts, their nipples covered with glitter. On their trays they had drinks and little gold caskets of coke as they slipped discreetly among the guests. George was absent, but two of his cohorts were there. One of them took coke from a black slave girl and retreated to a corner. What hypocrites they all were. Just hours before they sat blandly whilst their boss chastised me for the very excess in which they now indulged. But, of course, none of them inhabited planet fame, so they were all safe.

The pool room was humid and steamy. There were several naked people in the water already and others on the side were close to stripping and joining them. When I entered, at least five girls looked at me with a professional eye, willing and able to offer themselves completely and obey my every command, however outlandish. I could feel Bebe behind me, ready as always to ensure that my wishes were carried out. Usually I would lose myself in a situation like this by taking everything on offer. Not tonight, though. I turned, walked past Bebe, quickened my pace and, with head bowed, glided through the first room we had entered and left the hotel.

The night was warm and alive with the electric buzz of neon and the treats of the city. Everyone seemed to be smiling and laughing and I hated all of them. As I walked toward coloured fountains, the noise of the water drowning out the babble of the crowds, I felt people mass around me. I wished they would just dissolve into the pavement. I hated them all.

‘Are you all right, Jack?’

For the first time I noticed the two bodyguards who had left the party with me. They looked at Bebe for instruction; he inclined his head gently and they receded two steps.

‘There’s something I want you to do for me, Bebe. Think of it as a last favour.’

‘What, Jack?’

‘I need to go back to New Zealand, no I have to go back to New Zealand, and I want you to arrange it for me.’

‘Once you’ve gone back to England and sorted these things out, I’m sure you can make a trip.’

‘No Bebe, I think you’ve missed the point. I want to go back now. I want you to arrange for me to go to New Zealand instead of to England.’

‘I can’t do that, Jack. Please don’t ask me to do something that I just can’t do. The company have made it quite clear what has to happen. If you go off against their wishes you’ll be finished.’

‘Not if you can get them to agree. All I need is a week. Tell them you know me better than I do myself. If I have a week to sort out things there, I’ll return to the UK and do anything that’s required. I’ll go to any clinic and attend any course. Please Bebe, please try. I have to go back there. All the rehab in the world will be useless if I don’t go back and sort out what I’ve left.’

‘You’re asking so much, Jack.’

‘I know, Bebe, but once I’ve done this and been back home, things will change.’

‘Will they?’

‘Yes, I promise.’

‘I’ll try, Jack. I’ll try and get to see George now. The man likes you and he wants to do right by you. I know you think he only cares about the company, but that’s not true.’

‘I’ll be in your debt, Bebe.’

‘You already are.’

I touched his shoulder and he smiled thinly.

I was sure that the act of returning alone would convince Mary to talk to me. I was wrong. I should have realised this the first time I called, on the number kindly supplied by Mike, who’d the decency to refrain from asking why I needed it. Far from welcoming me, Mary grunted responses as though woken from the deepest sleep even though I rang mid-afternoon. She listened impatiently to my increasingly desperate pleas to meet me and left me staring at the receiver long after she’d hung up with the firmest of rejections. I tried again, a few times actually, but her response was the same and her voice harsher each time until by the end of the fourth call she screamed at me to leave her alone. Briefly I toyed with the idea of visiting her at school, that information also provided by Mike in the mistaken hope that he was helping to repair our damaged relationship. I even got as far as the car, key in ignition, before I realised just how pointless such an attempt was. Mary did not want to see me and did not want to speak to me. She thought Caroline’s death was my fault, but she refused to explain, so all I could do was try to strike the thought from my mind. I knew, though, that it was going to haunt me on lonely cold nights and ferociously empty mornings when only the bottle accompanied me.

As I sought Mary, Detective Sergeant Ryan sought me. Bebe could have withheld the information that I’d returned, but he owed me nothing more. Somehow he persuaded the powers that be, namely George Mason, that my request should be allowed. I asked him how he’d achieved the impossible, but he refused to say. It struck me then at what cost to him my fleeting freedom must have been purchased. Bebe simply placed a finger over his moist lips and promised that one day I’d know. I knew that to be true, although I suspected it might not come from those wet lips. However, we both knew I owed him everything and I would have to pay. I don’t think I realised the payback would start immediately, but it did: Bebe told Ryan where I was. Ryan wanted me back at the station. I said I’d call to arrange a time. He rang twice more. Once Mary made her position clear, I turned off the phone, sure in the knowledge I wouldn’t miss her call and would miss Ryan’s.

While there had been hope of meeting Mary, I hadn’t given England a second thought, but now there was only a paper-thin wall separating me from my fate there. I knew if I was to keep my rocket on planet fame I had to pass through the house of the head fuckers. When Mason first told me about the company’s requirement that I attend a clinic I wasn’t particularly shocked but now my pathological hate of going to such a place was in full flight. I would be a prized specimen for the men in the white coats, slicked-back hair and pebble glasses. They would rub their hands in glee. Think of the battery of questions, tests and psychobabble they could amuse themselves with. Think of the endless evenings of earnest discussion they could dine out on. It would all be very comfortable of course—first-class accommodation, expensive suits and spa pools to make the whole thing feel like a resort—yet behind the façade lurks a veritable host of syndromes and psychoses, people diagnosed with emotional fuck-ups that have names like Welsh villages. And they’d invent a whole lexicon of new descriptions to describe my phobias and needs.

My letter-writing stalker became the focus of my attention: I got into the car and headed for Avondale, where I sat for nearly twenty minutes, then took a stroll down the street, located number 26 and returned to the car to wait again. A light rain started and spattered the windscreen. There had been little rain over the past week and the shower brought the smell of the ground to my nose. I took this as a sign that the waiting was over. In the time it took to cross the road the rain grew harder. I glanced at the sky, which was surprisingly light, apart from a smudge of dark grey above me. As quickly as the rain came it vanished, as though God had turned off his hose. The steps to the front door were uneven and badly cracked with weeds growing to well above my ankles. The house, painted a pale salmon, was thankfully mostly hidden from view by an enormous banana tree, its huge leaves drooping under their weight and their ends brown and curled.