Rupert Thomson - The Five Gates of Hell

It was still early, just after eight. There was a liquor lounge next to the motel. He walked in, sat down at the bar. There were only two other guys in there. Just old guys from the neighbourhood, drinking beer and shots, watching the service of remembrance on TV. Jed said it was his first day back in the city after being away. He said he’d like to buy them both a drink. The barman too.

Jed turned his eyes to the TV. The first boats were just reaching Angel Meadows. He raised his glass.

‘One day it’ll be us,’ he said, ‘but not yet.’

‘I’ll drink to that,’ one of the guys said.

They all drank to it.

‘So here we are,’ the TV presenter said, the sun setting behind him, the breeze toying with his fringe, ‘coming to you live from Moon Beach —’

‘Live,’ the barman said. ‘That’s a joke.’

They all chuckled.

The boats were dropping anchor. They’d reached the Angels of Memory, the most famous of the cemetery gateways. Two white angels watched over the cemetery. They were both standing on pedestals, their wings spread wide against the sky, their hands folded modestly in prayer.

An aerial view.

From the helicopter the fleet of boats was a loose collection of lights on a great dark surface. They had gathered round the two floodlit angels. The service was about to begin.

Then the cameras swooped down. Closed in on the bridge of one of the larger boats. Froze on a man in a dark suit. Still face, still hair.

‘— Mr Neville Creed,’ the presenter’s voice was hushed and reverential, ‘chairman of the Paradise Corporation —’

Jed’s hand jerked and his whisky spilled.

‘Something wrong?’ the barman asked.

Jed shook his head.

Later that night he lay on his back in bed and watched small blocks of light move along the top of the wall above the window. It worried him and then he worked it out: it was just cars passing. It was late now, past midnight, but there was a highway outside. Those small blocks of light would cross the wall all night.

He closed his eyes, but couldn’t stop the image forming. That still face on the boat. That still face slowly turned towards him. Those still lips began to speak.

Here I am.

It was as if Creed had known that he’d be watching. As if Creed knew everything. As if Creed was some kind of god.

Jed switched the light on. He hauled himself upright, leaned against the headboard. Remember what you came here for. He lifted his wrist and checked his tattoo, the way you might check a watch, and it reminded him, as time does, that he was locked in a process that was irreversible, inescapable. He wouldn’t be used again. He wouldn’t be outwitted, or double-crossed. This time the boot was on the other foot. He had the power now. He had the initiative, the surprise. And there were people who would help him, people who knew. Carol. Mitch. Even Vasco, maybe, when he learned the truth. The boot was on the other foot and, when he kicked with it, it was going to hurt.

The truth.

He reached into his jacket pocket and took out the tape. He didn’t need to play it. He knew it word for word.

His own voice first: ‘You want me to kill Vasco’s brother?’

And then Creed’s: ‘That’s right.’

His own voice again: ‘How?’

Then Creed’s: ‘Don’t worry about that — it’s taken care of — it’s nice —’

Jed lay back down again. Blackmail would be his instrument. He would make a demand. For money. But this wasn’t about money. He knew that for certain now. Mario had appeared in his wheelchair. Mario had frightened the fucking daylights out of him. Mario had made things clear. He saw the brown envelope of bills bounce off Creed’s chest and flutter to the ground. This had never been about money. Remember what you came here for. That face on the boat, it was just skin and bone. It could wear fear on it, it could die. It was just skull candy for his sweet tooth.

His eyes drifted shut.

Towards three, it began to rain. And suddenly he was back in Adam’s Creek. Waiting in the alley behind the restaurant. Celia was late. A sound that could’ve been paper in the wind and he looked round. She was standing next to him. Her face lit up as if the sun was setting on it. Her blonde hair hung against her collarbone like frayed rope.

He took the key out of his pocket, unlocked the back door. Through the kitchens, out into the restaurant. It was dark, but he knew the layout blindfold. She followed, one hand on his belt.

‘It smells in here,’ she whispered.

‘It’s chicken,’ he whispered back. ‘It’s a number 42.’

When he switched on the lights in the grotto, she was already sitting on a rock with her head thrown back and her arms behind her, supporting her. Her long, coarse hair just touched the backs of her elbows. She was naked from the waist up.

‘Hey, Jed,’ she whispered across the restaurant. ‘Do I look like one of those kind of mermaids?’

He smiled and flicked another switch. There was a distant rumble of thunder. He made his way through the empty tables towards her. When he reached her, it was just beginning to rain for the first time.

‘We’re going to get soaked,’ he said.

‘Yeah,’ and she tipped her head back, ‘yeah, I know.’

Each storm lasted five minutes, then the coloured lights came on. Cicadas chattered in the palm trees, wet leaves dripped. After Celia had come for the first time she turned her head and looked out into the restaurant. ‘I’ve sat out there so many times,’ she said, ‘eating that shitty Chinese food.’

One of her breasts was red, the other one green. Her nipples had darkened, tightened. Her wet hair straggled across a bed of plastic lilies.

She turned to him. ‘I never thought I’d be lying here like this.’

‘Yes, you did,’ he said.

‘I wanted to, but I never thought it would happen.’

Then it began to rain again and she bit her bottom lip and reached for him and whispered, ‘Put it inside me again and let’s pretend we’re somewhere like a desert island.’

The drizzle on his back as he moved in and out of her. A shiver of lightning against the sky. Her long ribbony cries were lost as thunder unloaded on the roof like rocks. They fucked until they were cold.

The next evening she waited for him in the alley.

‘You know last night?’ she said.

He grinned at her. ‘I know last night.’

‘You know how long we fucked?’

He shrugged.

‘Three thunderstorms,’ she said.

The storm had moved away. He turned in his motel bed and pulled the cover over him.

He could hear cars on the highway, like someone sweeping floors. One small block of light edged along the top of the wall and stopped halfway, but he was already sinking back, sinking into sleep.

It was the Friday after the funeral, the day after the Day of the Dead. Nathan was sitting in Tin Pan Alley, an Irish bar downtown. He was waiting for Georgia.

He had spent most of the past forty-eight hours at Georgia’s apartment. Every time he thought of returning to the house on Mahogany Drive he thought of Harriet, and every time he thought of Harriet he saw her crouching on the floor in the summerhouse, dark eyes drifting in their sockets, a tissue in between her legs. If he was away for long enough, she might just leave, go home. After all, the funeral was over. There was no reason for her to stay.

He finished his second drink, bought a third.

Tin Pan Alley. Back of the bar the street sloped down to the harbour. The heart of the old meat-packing district. Cold storage, wasteground, stolen cars. Through the window he could hear the hiss of truck brakes on the hill.