Rupert Thomson - The Five Gates of Hell

And then marooned on her black flesh, two circles round her throat, and her chin pointing at the ceiling like the toe of a boot on a corpse, one arm bent backwards, nothing on except the slacks around her ankles, but no way in, at least none that he could find, and the cheap carpet burning his elbows and his knees, and sleep beginning to ooze from her ridged lips.

He woke on top of her, she might’ve been a beach, he might’ve been abandoned there by waves. He rolled away from her and she woke too. One absent-minded hand moved up to scratch a breast.

‘Did we do it?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I don’t think so.’

She yawned. A mouth like ice-cream. Strawberry and chocolate. ‘Want to try again?’

‘When?’

‘How about now? Morning after’s always good.’ She reached for him with one blind hand.

He moved away, sat up. ‘Not now. Maybe tonight.’

Her eyes opened. She looked at him across her cheeks. ‘What’s wrong? Don’t you like me?’

‘It’s not that.’

‘You don’t like my body.’ She handled one of her breasts sorrowfully, the way you might handle a bird with a broken wing. ‘It doesn’t do anything for you.’

‘It’s not that. It’s just I’ve got things to do.’

It wasn’t true. He had the whole day off. It was just that everything seemed too close, like staring at a light bulb. He was looking down at her, and seeing green and purple on her skin.

‘I can’t figure you out.’

He buttoned his pants. ‘Where did I leave my car?’

She was lying on the carpet, the lips of her cunt, soft and blunt, pushing up through a mound of black curls. She shrugged at him, and he looked away. She was still lying on the carpet five minutes later when he left the apartment. He saw her knees and calves through the half-open door.

‘Well?’ she asked him, when he showed up again that night. ‘Did you find it?’

He scowled. ‘In the end.’

It had taken half an hour, the inside of his head fitting loosely, like a drawer in an old chest. He’d searched the streets around her house that morning. Streets scratchy with children, broken glass and weeds. He’d even searched the vacant lots. A trunk with burst locks. A drunk in a yellow armchair. Those things shouldn’t’ve been there, for some reason they’d infuriated him. The night before he’d driven drunk. OK, so he’d lost his virginity (well, almost). But he’d risked losing everything else too. His licence, his job. His entire future. When he found his car he sat behind the wheel, gripping it so tight he could’ve snapped it.

‘I can’t stay long,’ he told her.

‘You better get those pants off then.’

‘What’s that round your neck?’ He’d noticed it the night before. A small leather pouch on a string. It was the only thing she’d been wearing that hadn’t come away when they undressed.

‘It’s nothing you need know about.’

His anger was still there, and he used it to break into her. He liked the way her eyes widened in alarm, as if he was forcing a lock, as if he was breaking and entering. It was the first time he’d ever slept with a woman and it felt like burglary.

That night, back in the Palace, the phone rang. He switched the light on. It was after two. He thought it must be Creed and said, ‘Yes, sir?’

‘Christ, you even crawl in your sleep.’

‘Who’s this?’

‘Who do you think?’

‘Vasco. Where are you?’

‘I don’t think I should tell you that.’

‘Creed’s been looking for you.’

‘How about that.’ Vasco’s laughter sounded tight. ‘Listen, you’ve got to meet me tomorrow.’

‘I can’t do that. You know what my schedule’s like.’

‘Do this for me, Jed.’

‘I can’t.’

Vasco hung up.

Towards morning Jed dreamed he was waiting at a bus-stop. When the bus pulled in, hundreds of people pushed towards the door. He managed to force his way on. As the bus pulled away, he saw Vasco through the window. Vasco was trapped on the sidewalk. Vasco had been left behind.

That night the phone rang again. He didn’t want to answer it, thinking that it might be Vasco again, but he couldn’t afford not to. So he picked up the receiver and waited.

‘Spaghetti?’

It was Creed.

‘Yes, sir?’

‘I want you to pick me up.’

‘Where are you?’

‘A place called the Box. It’s a club. You know it?’

The line was cluttered with background noise, and Jed had to ask Creed to repeat the address several times. At last he had it. 75 V Street. ‘I’ll be outside in half an hour.’

‘Don’t wait outside. Park the car and come in.’

‘Half an hour,’ Jed said, and hung up.

Ever since that story broke in the papers, Creed seemed to be testing loyalties. Pushing those around him to the brink and saying jump. Jed thought he understood. It was like when his radios were thrown away. You could shrug your shoulders, put on a face that said you didn’t care, but you did and nothing could ever be secure again. The next time security appeared as a possibility, you smashed it yourself. And went on smashing it. That, he was sure, was how Creed felt. And the people round him weren’t jumping. Trotter had been away for two weeks. Something to do with that twisted arm of his. Meatball’s sense of humour was fraying. He still told jokes, but they were the jokes of a man who couldn’t see anything funny any more, the jokes of a man with one eye on the door. Vasco was nowhere. A voice on the phone at three in the morning. A dream in your head. Only McGowan had lasted. If Jed waited long enough, surely his moment would come. The days of liquorice were over. He’d started buying Iceberg Mints. They were clear and cool. They were how his thinking had to be.

He switched the light on and looked at the clock. Two-twenty. The smell of sex rose in a gust as he left the bed. Sharon didn’t wake. He thought he’d heard of the Box. It was down by the old meat-packing warehouses. It was one of the hard-core gay clubs.

75 V Street was a black door with a small glass panel at head height where you could see your own face reflected. A two-way mirror, presumably. The knocker was a nude male torso in brass. Jed took hold of the cold metal and knocked twice. The buttocks hammered at the door as if they were fucking it.

The door opened about six inches. A strong man with a beard stared down at him.

‘I’m with Mr Creed,’ Jed said.

The gap widened and he passed through. He paused inside, adjusted his top hat.

The strong man was still staring. ‘Like the outfit.’

Jed stared back. One thing he’d learned how to do. Learned early on and never forgotten. ‘I’m a chauffeur.’

‘That’s what they all say.’ The strong man lit a cigarette. It looked too frail for his hand. They looked like King Kong and Fay Wray, that hand, that cigarette. There was a movie going on right under his nose and he didn’t even know. The guy had about one brain cell and he was doing time in it.

‘Where is he?’ Jed said.

‘In the back.’

Creed was sitting in a booth. McGowan on one side of him, a young blond guy with cheekbones on the other. Creed told Jed to sit down. ‘This is Ollie.’ He meant the blond guy. ‘He’s a tourist. You know McGowan, of course.’

Jed looked at the tourist.

‘I’m pleased,’ the tourist said, ‘wery pleased.’

Jed was still looking. Weird stuff.

‘Sit down,’ McGowan said. ‘Have a drink.’

‘I’m driving,’ Jed said, ‘remember?’

‘Have some of this instead,’ and McGowan passed Jed a brown vial. ‘We’ll get home quicker.’

Jed took the bottle. ‘What is it?’ Though he already knew, of course. That little bottle with the plastic spoon attached, it had just taken him back about five years.