Rupert Thomson - The Five Gates of Hell

‘The Palace Hotel?’ Nathan said.

The man nodded. ‘You know it?’

Nathan had to smile. Everybody knew it. It was the most exclusive apartment hotel in the city. ‘Do you live there?’

The man glanced at his shoes. ‘I saw you from my balcony. I thought I’d come down and speak to you. If you were still here, that is.’ He looked up again. ‘I thought we could drink a cup of coffee together.’

It was Nathan’s turn to look away. ‘I don’t know.’

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ the man said. ‘A complete stranger asking you for coffee. But I meant what I said. A cup of coffee. No strings attached.’

‘No strings attached?’ Nathan said.

‘No strings attached,’ the man said, and lifted his gloved hands away from his sides, as if he might’ve been concealing the strings about his person. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Nathan.’

‘My name’s Reid.’

Nathan looked at him. ‘Strange name. Sounds kind of made up.’

‘Does it?’ Reid laughed.

They walked to the Ocean Café. They both ordered black coffee and sat facing the marina. Reid leaned back in his chair, right ankle on his left knee, hands folded in his lap. He seemed very calm and sure. The masts of yachts clicked in the wind.

‘You don’t seem very happy,’ Reid said.

‘Well, it’s strange what you were saying about your father,’ Nathan said. ‘Mine just died.’ He paused and then added, ‘Just when I least expected it.’

‘Isn’t death always unexpected?’

Nathan shook his head. ‘You don’t understand,’ he said, and found himself talking, though he hadn’t intended to.

Reid was the first person who hadn’t said how sorry he was. They’d moved on, beyond the conventional responses, and Nathan was grateful for that. No, more than grateful: refreshed. He felt Reid’s silence stretching under him like a kind of safety net, he felt he could say anything and not be hurt. That was how confession worked, he realised. We’re not important to many people. We rarely feel safe. He thought of India-May. She’d listened to him. The only difference was one of gravity: this man seemed more earnest, more concerned. Something struck him suddenly and he stopped in the middle of a sentence. ‘You’re not a priest, are you?’

‘No, I’m not a priest.’ Reid smiled. ‘But tell me, what is it that I don’t understand?’

Nathan began to explain how he’d grown up with the conviction that his father was about to die, that it could happen any moment. Some nights he’d lie in bed and imagine that it had already happened. It was practising. He’d see his father on the ocean bed. His father would be wearing the same cardigan he always wore, the one with holes in the elbows. His hair would be standing up on end. There’d be fish swimming in and out of his clothes.

Some nights they’d have conversations.

‘Dad?’ he’d whisper.

And Dad would whisper back, ‘Yes. I’m here.’ His voice sounded the same, even though he was underwater.

‘Can I come and visit you?’

There’d be a silence, and there’d be something sad about the silence, and then Dad would whisper, ‘No, I don’t think so.’

‘Why not? We could just sit and drink a beer together and then I could rub your back. Does your back still ache?’

Another silence. Longer, sadder, then the last. ‘It’s better you don’t, Nathan.’

‘Just a beer, Dad. Just one.’

‘I’m sorry.’

When Nathan thought about it now, it seemed to him that he’d been practising for his own death, as well as for Dad’s. If Dad had really been dead, and Nathan had gone and had a beer with him under the sea, it would’ve meant that Nathan would’ve died too. That was why Dad had to say no.

‘Does that make any sense?’ Nathan looked at the man on the other side of the table, the man who wasn’t a priest but listened like one, the man with the gloves.

Reid tasted his coffee. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it makes sense.’

‘It wasn’t always sad,’ Nathan said. ‘Sometimes he’d produce a fish from his breast pocket like a magician. Or he’d do a trick with beer. Tip the glass upside down and nothing would come out. Other times he’d crack a joke. “The air’s much better down here.” Things like that.’ Nathan smiled. ‘In the mornings I’d always be surprised to see him sitting at the breakfast table with his hair all flat and not a fish in sight. He used to wonder why I was staring at him. I couldn’t tell him, of course.’ He looked up and his vision blurred. ‘Now he’s really there I can’t imagine it at all,’ he said. ‘Isn’t that funny?’

Reid leaned forwards. ‘If you need any help,’ he said, ‘any money.’

Nathan shook his head.

He let Reid pay the bill. They rose from their chairs.

‘Can I drop you somewhere?’ Reid said. ‘My car’s just over there.’

‘I’ve got a car too,’ Nathan said.

‘Oh yes.’ Reid smiled. ‘I forgot.’

They stood for a moment, looking in different directions.

‘I’d like it if we could see each other again,’ Reid said.

‘Maybe.’

‘There’s a bar called Necropolis.’

Nathan nodded. ‘I’ve heard of it.’

‘I’ll be there on Wednesday night.’ Reid smiled again and walked away across the grass.

Wednesday night, Nathan thought.

What was today? Monday?

It was no skin off his nose, being thrown out like that. After all, it wasn’t exactly the first time. He didn’t even need the $10 he’d asked for. He’d just asked for it on the spur of the moment, to see what he could get away with, to make Nathan feel guilty. And Nathan had given him all he had. Jed took his eyes off the road and glanced down at the crumpled money in his hand. $8. He tossed it over his shoulder into the back of the car. He didn’t need $8. He thought of the money he’d thrown in Creed’s face. He thought of Mario’s wheelchair stuffed with bills. $8. His laughter hammered at the roof like fists.

In half an hour he was in Rialto. He steered his car into the narrow, unpaved alley that ran behind Mitch’s place. The rumble of the engine seemed louder between these two high walls; the tyres munched on loose dirt and gravel. He parked up against Mitch’s garage. He switched the engine off and opened the door. Nothing moved in the alley. A tree reached its dusty branches over the red-brick wall opposite, as if it had died trying to climb out. Such heat. The sky was almost white. Telegraph poles wavered in the air like ribbon.

He walked up to Mitch’s back door and knocked twice. Some blue paint flaked away under his knuckles. The door opened inwards and Mitch stood in the gap. He had a can of beer in his hand.

‘Surprise, surprise,’ Jed said.

Mitch stared at him. He was wearing the same clothes he always wore: the faded tartan shirt, the jeans that hung off his buttocks. ‘Christ,’ he said. ‘The ice-cream man.’

‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you,’ Jed said.

‘I’ve been busy.’ Mitch turned round, shambled back up the passage. ‘Want a beer?’ he called out, over his shoulder.

Jed followed him into the house.

They sat on two wooden chairs on the back verandah, their feet propped on the railing. Jed cracked his can open, tipped some beer down his throat and sighed. Mitch’s back yard was small. It didn’t see much sun. Just shadow and cracked concrete and truck tyres stacked against the wall. The fig tree had dropped its fruit all over the ground. Ripe figs lay in the dust, exploded, bloody, as if the sky had rained organs.

Mitch looked at him. ‘When did you get back?’

‘Few days ago.’

‘You staying long?’