Rupert Thomson - The Five Gates of Hell

He saw the whole thing as a plot. The clothes Dad liked, the hair Dad liked. It had been so easy. A short skirt, a fringe, no make-up, and she was in. Then she could set to work. Wearing him down, wearing him out. Wearing him away to nothing. She was that dream of his come true, she was the planes made human. He imagined her standing in Dad’s bedroom at night, Dad asleep behind her. He watched her looking in the mirror. He saw her face begin to change. The whine of the engines, the slow turning on that one front wheel.

Upstairs Dad was still shouting. ‘Stop it, stop it, stop it.’ He said it thirteen times, Nathan was counting, and then he couldn’t listen any more. He ran into the kitchen and pulled the cupboard open. He was doing everything as loudly as possible. He didn’t want to hear anything else from upstairs. Inside the cupboard was a stack of new light bulbs in their cardboard jackets. He stacked them in his arms and took them out into the yard. One by one he stripped their jackets off and hurled them against the outside wall of the house. A flat pop each time one exploded. Then a faint tinkling as the fragments of glass showered to the asphalt. Dad never said anything about the missing light bulbs. He simply put them on the shopping list the next Friday. ‘8 light bulbs,’ he wrote, ‘40-watt.’ Previously he’d always bought 100-watt bulbs, but 40-watt bulbs were cheaper and it didn’t matter how bright the bulbs burned if they were just going to be hurled at a wall.

They were still living in a sort of 40-watt half-light when Nathan followed Dad into the sitting-room one day and asked if he could speak to him alone. It was after lunch. He waited while Dad took his usual array of pills: first the flat white ones, then the round bronze ones, then the lozenges, half red, half black.

‘Have one of these,’ and Dad handed him a dark-green capsule the size of a pea. ‘It’s good for you.’

Nathan smiled and swallowed it.

‘So what is it?’ Dad said finally. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘I’m going to stay with Yvonne for a few weeks.’

‘How long will you be gone?’

‘I don’t know. I think maybe after staying at Yvonne’s I’ll move on up the coast.’

‘Where to?’

‘I don’t know yet.’

Dad took off his half-moon spectacles. He leaned his head back and stared up into the corner of the room where the two walls joined the ceiling. ‘This is your home too, you know. I don’t like to think that you’re being driven out.’

‘I’m not. It’s just something I want to do.’

He was lying, of course, and they both knew it. Sometimes he thought of all the lies stored in his head. Or not so much lies, perhaps, as the truth held prisoner.

Dad brought his eyes down from the corner of the room. ‘I’ll miss you,’ he said in a low voice, and quickly looked away.

Nathan broke off. He wasn’t crying exactly. It was just that there were tears dropping from his eyes.

India-May put her hand on his. ‘It’s all right, Nathan,’ she said. ‘It’s all right.’ She went to the sideboard and poured a brandy. ‘I know you’re clean and all that, but I think maybe you could make an exception tonight.’

He drank the brandy down without a word.

Later he said, ‘You know, when I worked in Moon Beach, we used to make bets with each other, bets on who could get through the spring tides.’ He stared at the glass in his hand. ‘Those waves are high, you try and get through, but they’re hitting the beach and chewing it up, you dive, you come up, you dive again, you come up again, you’re getting nowhere, it’s hard water, it keeps knocking you down and pounding on you, but you can’t stop, if you stop, you’ve lost it, it rolls you right back to the shore, it throws you out on the sand like an old tin can, you’ve got to keep diving, that’s where your fitness counts, you dive, you come up, and those waves keep pounding on you, and then, finally, you come to the big one, you get under it, and you’re safe, you’re on the other side of the water.’ He laughed softly and said, ‘The other side of the water,’ and shook his head. ‘Next thing is, you see a nice wave and you think fuck it, I’m going to take that wave, and you take it all the way in, and you get out, and you hold out your hand, someone owes you, and everyone’s watching because the red flags are up and there’s nobody in that surf, nobody.’ He turned the empty glass in his hands. ‘Sometimes you come out of that water and you lie down on the sand and you’re so tired you just fall right off to sleep.’

A silence as she imagined it.

‘If you won the bet,’ she said finally, ‘what did you win?’

He laughed. ‘Oh, nothing. A hamburger, maybe.’

And they were both laughing. Laughing and laughing. More tears, of a different kind.

Afterwards she said, ‘You know, you’re lucky having all that. I think it’s wonderful.’

‘I wish Dad thought so.’

‘Doesn’t he?’

He shook his head. ‘He wants me to do something worthwhile.’

‘What could be more worthwhile than saving people’s lives?’ ‘He doesn’t see it like that.’

‘Well, I think it’s wonderful. The ocean, the beach, it’s like your own kingdom. Worthwhile,’ and she snorted through her nose, ‘that Dad of yours, he must be soft in the head.’

It was almost as if he’d had an ear to the ground. As if he’d picked up that tremble in the earth, that hushed drumroll: the hooves of the enemy. Still far away, but moving in his direction. When he came home after work the next day he found a letter waiting just inside the door. It was postmarked Moon Beach, but he didn’t recognise the handwriting. He took the letter upstairs and lay down on his bed and tore it open.

‘By the time you read this letter,’ it began, ‘I will have left your father.’ There followed three pages of bitterness and accusation, which ended with the words, ‘It will be your father who suffers, not me.’ Signed simply, ‘Harriet Christie.’

His own name thrown in his face like acid.

He let the letter slip to the floor. He tried to laugh, but his laughter sounded forced in that small room.

There are times when your life seems to jump tracks. Slow train to fast, local to express. You have the sense that, from now on, you’ll be travelling on a different line, you’ll be seeing different views through the window.

It was November and Jed had just turned twenty-two. Creed opened the glass panel one morning as they were returning from the airport and said, ‘Where do you live, Spaghetti?’

‘Mangrove East.’

Creed shook his head. ‘I need you closer.’

It was exactly what Jed had been waiting to hear, but he kept his voice level. ‘Where’ve you got in mind, sir?’

‘The Palace.’

Jed’s heart lifted in his ribs. The Palace was where Creed lived, in a penthouse suite on the fourteenth floor, so the idea made perfect sense. But the Palace was also the most exclusive apartment hotel in the city. It was located on Ocean Drive, between C and D; it took up the entire block. With its two twin towers of baroque grey stone, it was just about the only building in Moon Beach that wasn’t either white or pale-blue. Its lobby was the size of a railway station, all peach marble and glass and gilded metal. The central chandelier was gold-plated and weighed, it was rumoured, something in the region of half a ton. Everyone had stayed at the Palace. Heads of state, movie-stars, tycoons. Just to be able to give it as your address!

‘You’ll be in the basement,’ Creed said, ‘but it should be adequate.’ He allowed himself a smile. ‘It can hardly fail to be an improvement on Mangrove East, in any case.’