Rupert Thomson - The Five Gates of Hell

‘Hey, Tip,’ Nathan called out. ‘What’s all this about?’

Tip spoke over his shoulder. ‘I’ll tell you Saturday. I’ve got to go now.’

Nathan was left standing with his bicycle.

He watched Tip and Jed slouch off into the night. As they passed through the streedamp’s pyramid of light, he saw the word WOMB painted across the back of Jed’s cheap leather jacket. It was no surprise to learn that Jed was part of the gang.

He watched them move beyond the light and vanish into the darkness where the road was. It was as if they’d both been switched off, as if they’d never been there at all. If only. A fine rain began to fall. He climbed on to his bicycle. He rode fast, but he was still soaked by the time he reached home.

Summer rose from the river like a sack of dead air. Jed had been living in the house on Mangrove Heights for almost six months now and nobody had even seemed to notice, let alone object. Mario treated him as if he’d always been there. He looked at Jed in the same way that he listened to the money on the far side of the river; Jed was as real as all his other hallucinations. Rita was never in the house long enough to suspect that Jed might actually be living there; she just thought he stayed over a lot. Reg was no problem either. He rarely left his room. You heard him sometimes — a creak on the stairs, the click of a door — but you never saw him. And there hadn’t been a sound from Muriel. It was as if Jed had moved from one dimension to another. His original dimension hadn’t reported him missing, and his new dimension didn’t acknowledge his presence. Maybe what he’d really done was end up somewhere between the two. Some days he almost felt invisible.

One morning in July, while everyone was still asleep, he left the house. The moment he stepped on to the platform in Mangrove East, a train pulled in. It took him across the river to Baker Park. There was a Sweetwater bus waiting at the stop when he walked out of the station. Everything seemed preordained, blessed. If someone had tried to assassinate him that morning, the bullet would’ve missed his head by a quarter of an inch.

It was still only seven-forty-five when he turned the corner into Mackerel Street. His mother left for work at around nine. Used to, anyway. There’d be enough time; more than enough. He wondered what she’d say when she saw him. He wondered if he’d grown.

He worked his way round to the back of the house. The kitchen door was open, and sunlight spilled into the room. She was standing by the fridge, peeling the silver foil off the top of a yoghurt. Maybe she sensed the light change behind her because she turned suddenly and saw him, and her left hand jerked sideways, knocking a carton of orange juice on to the floor. She fell to her knees with a cloth. One of his hands wandered away from his body, out into the air. It’s only juice, he wanted to say. But it was better to say nothing. He knew her. It was already too late. He always seemed to make her break things. He didn’t even have to touch anything. It was like those women with high voices, except he didn’t even have to sing. He stayed where he was, on the doorstep. The kitchen floor looked dangerous, somehow. He might step on it and fall right through.

She wrung the cloth out in the sink, her face holy and still, as if they were her own tears that she was wringing out of the cloth, her own tears splattering on to the bright metal.

And then, without turning, ‘Where’ve you been, Jed?’

That break in her voice. As if his absence was a hangnail and it had caught on every day that had passed since he had gone. It sounded so convincing that he almost believed her.

‘Why?’ he said. ‘Have you been worried?’

‘Worried?’ She was facing him now, arms folded. ‘Of course I’ve been worried.’

‘Did you think something bad had happened?’

‘For Christ’s sake, Jed, it’s been months. Where’ve you been?’

‘What did you do? Did you call the police?’

‘You told me not to.’

He looked at her. That wasn’t the reason. ‘You didn’t call anyone, did you?’

‘I called school. I called your friends —’

‘I’ve been staying with a friend. I don’t remember you calling.’

‘Which friend’s that?’

She was sly, but he wasn’t falling for her tricks.

‘Did you leave a message?’ he said. ‘If you did, I never got it.’

Of course she hadn’t left a message. But he had this knife and he had to twist it. It was the same old duel.

‘You don’t change,’ she said, ‘do you?’

He didn’t say anything. He tried the floor with one foot, as if it was water. It held.

‘You’re only thirteen, Jed. I’ve a right to know where you —’

‘Fourteen.’

‘What?’

‘I’m fourteen now. You didn’t even know.’

‘It was a mistake.’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It was, wasn’t it?’

He’d forgotten his birthday too. It had happened a couple of months back, and he’d completely forgotten. It hadn’t hurt him to forget. It only hurt him now, now he’d found out that she’d forgotten too. That’s what birthdays were. Days when you found out where you stood. Who was on your side and who wasn’t. Nothing to do with how old you were.

The sun was in his eyes. He shifted.

‘You seen Pop?’ he asked.

‘Not for a while.’

He nodded. ‘Well, anyway,’ he said, ‘I just thought I’d come and see how you were.’

And now you’ve seen. And now you’ve remembered.

‘You’re not coming in?’ Her voice had softened.

He shook his head. ‘I should get going.’

‘Come and sit down, Jed. I’ll make you a cup of coffee.’

‘I’ve got to go.’

‘So you’re not going to tell me anything.’

He stepped back into the yard.

‘I’m your mother, Jed. I’m supposed to know. Legally.’

‘Since when did you care about legally?’

‘I’ll call the police.’

He shrugged. ‘Call them.’ He had nothing in common with her. It was as if even the blood in their veins had been changed.

He tried to think of something.

‘How’s Adrian?’ he said.

She looked blank. ‘Who?’

It was lucky that Dad went to bed so early.

Nathan waited twenty minutes, then he opened the french windows and stepped out into the garden. There was no light showing behind Dad’s bedroom curtains. He must be asleep already. Back indoors, Nathan changed into the clothes he’d hidden under the stairs: a black sweater, old jeans, sneakers. He let himself out of the house, leaving the door key on the porch, in the third cactus from the left, then he rode down to the subway station, locked his bicycle to the railings, and caught one of the silver trains that went over the bridge into the city.

He got out at Mangrove Central. Tip was already waiting at the barrier. The clock in the ticket office said ten-thirty.

‘You’re late,’ Tip said.

‘Yeah, well,’ and Nathan grimaced, ‘had to wait for my old man to go to bed, didn’t I?’

Blackwater Bay lay at the east end of the harbour, but from Mangrove Central it was inland, due north. It was an area that he’d been taught to avoid, and he moved on light feet, as if the streets could open up and swallow him. He didn’t know where he was, and said as much to Tip. Tip just nodded, his eyes swivelling in their swollen lids. He was chewing a huge knot of gum. There was no place left for talk. Nathan felt a tightening in his belly now. He felt he was walking towards his own slaughter. No, not walking towards it. Being led.

‘This shark run,’ he said, as casually as he could manage, ‘anyone done it before?’