Rupert Thomson - The Five Gates of Hell

Then only the darkness pressing against his ears and the pumping of his heart.

Later he woke, it was still dark, he saw his dreams. His dreams were red and gold. He lay without moving, almost without breathing. The milky oblong of a window. And light from the window catching something that was hanging on the door. A silk gown, a kind of kimono. A vulture embroidered on the back. Feathers of metal, breath flaring from its open beak, breath that was red like fire or blood. Eyes like stones in the white bowls of their sockets, dead grey stones. He lay without moving, almost without breathing.

This was the wave he had to take. This wave.

He slid out of bed and tiptoed to the window. He stared out at the black uneven trees and the dark grey sky. Was that the ocean, between the two, a shiver of silver, the blade of a knife seen sideways on?

It must be. Hundreds of miles of darkness and one pale strip where the moonlight fell. He turned back into the room, felt around the bed for his clothes. Reid’s breathing surfaced, sank again. He had to be so quiet. Or Reid would wake. Or the vulture would come screeching off the back of that kimono. Red Indian feet. Now more than ever. Now.

He couldn’t find his socks. His feet still bare, his arms stretched in front of him, he felt his way through the apartment. It was bigger than he remembered, but then he didn’t really remember, did he? Or maybe it just seemed put together in a different way. Like a puzzle there are two answers to.

He got the wrong door. Thought it was the front door, but it wasn’t. A cupboard. With a skeleton hanging inside. No head, just all the bones from a body. Sewn on to black fabric. A suit of bones. His heart slammed against his ribs, it seemed for a moment they might crack. He closed the cupboard, pretended he’d seen nothing. He found the front door. This time he knew he was right because of the locks. There were four different locks and it was minutes before he could align them correctly. Each time he turned a knob, it clicked and, sooner or later, he felt sure, one of these clicks would reach the bedroom. That kind priest’s voice behind him. That gentle hand on his shoulder. He didn’t know why he was frightened. Yes, he did. That kimono, that suit of bones. Why? They were the first personal things he’d seen, that was why. The first things he’d seen that belonged to Reid. A vulture and a suit of bones.

He saw himself in a mirror outside the elevator. His hair in his eyes, his shirt ripped. He looked as if he’d been attacked. The night porter was dozing. He crept past on bare feet, his shoes in his hand. One last wisp of steam drifted up from the cooling cup of coffee at the porter’s elbow. The clock behind his head said ten to five.

He walked down to the promenade and caught a cab at the all-night taxi-stand outside Belgrano’s. The driver wore a cap and a leather jacket. He wanted to talk. He tried a couple of subjects, but Nathan didn’t say much. He eyed Nathan once or twice in the mirror.

‘You’ve been fucking,’ the driver said, ‘haven’t you?’

Nathan turned and looked at him. ‘What?’

‘You heard me. Listen, I’ve been driving cabs for twenty-four years. I know who’s been fucking and who hasn’t. Know how I know?’

‘How do you know?’

‘It’s five in the fucking morning, that’s how I know. Right? And another thing. You’ve got the look of fucking about you. You’ve got that look people have when they’ve been fucking, know what I mean?’

Nathan smiled faintly.

‘She all right, was she?’ The driver was rubbing his lips.

‘She nice?’

‘Yeah,’ Nathan said, ‘she was great.’

The Towers of Remembrance dated from a time when many of the city’s graveyards were full. A time of panic: suddenly there was nowhere for the dead to go. And then somebody said, ‘Let people be buried high above the ground, not six feet under it; let people be buried closer to heaven.’ It seemed like the perfect solution. The first high-rise cemetery in history. Original, dramatic, space-conscious. And also, unfortunately, doomed.

There had been a sudden reaction against the whole notion of burial on land. It was unhealthy, people said. It slowed the natural decay of the body. Hindered the soul’s transition. Sins collected, fouled the earth. Result? Psychic unrest, evil spirits, disease. And so, after an initial rush of enthusiasm, the Towers were left to rot. Windows were smashed. Graffiti blossomed. Ever since Jed could remember, the place had been a sanctuary for runaways, vultures, junkies. A lost generation. Not gone, but forgotten. He climbed out of his car and locked the door. The South Tower had been his home for three years. His own ghosts were here, among all the others.

It was almost dark now. A wind blew off the ocean. It was a warm wind, but the sound it made as it lunged down the concrete corridors was cold. He stepped into the central plaza. Something landed on the ground next to his left foot. A white frothy medal of spit. He looked up. Two children peered at him from the walkway twenty feet above. A boy with a crewcut and puffy eyes and a girl with heart-shaped sunglasses and white-blonde hair. Project kids.

‘Hey, mister,’ the girl called down, ‘why are you wearing that stupid hat?’

The boy grinned. ‘So we can’t spit on his stupid head.’ Their screechy laughter broke up in a sudden gust of wind.

Jed walked on.

He reached the foot of the South Tower. Steel doors slouched on their hinges, windows were holes with glass teeth round the edge. In the hallway the walls had been sprayed with the usual tangle of graffiti. The elevator was jammed open. He punched the button a couple of times, but nothing happened. He looked inside. Rectangular, for the coffins. A red smear on the dull metal wall. It could’ve been paint or blood. Blood, most likely: this was Mangrove East. He stepped back. Above the elevator was a notice: PLEASE SHOW RESPECT FOR THE DEAD. Bit late for that. He took a breath and started up the stairs.

By the time he reached the thirteenth floor he was winded. He leaned against the door until his heart slowed down, then he knocked. He waited, knocked again. At last he heard footsteps, the shooting of bolts. A woman’s face appeared. She wore her hair tied back in a ponytail. A baby sat in the crook of her arm. Jed just stared.

‘It’s a baby,’ the woman said.

Now Jed stared at her. ‘I’m looking for Silence.’

The woman jerked her head. ‘Come on in.’

He brushed past her. Stood in the corridor while she fastened an assortment of locks and bolts.

‘Not a very high-class neighbourhood,’ she said.

‘I know,’ he said. ‘I used to live here.’

She pushed past him. He followed her down the corridor. Boxes stacked against one wall, almost to the ceiling. He turned his head sideways, read a label. Videos. There must’ve been fifty of them. All the same make. Silence the fence.

He passed through an archway and into what had once been the memory room. This was where the ashes would’ve rested. This was where the family would’ve gathered to pay their respects. Silence rose from a deep leather chair. He was wearing a bright rust-coloured suit with a pale-blue pinstripe. Ten years didn’t seem to have aged him at all. He had the same round cheeks, the same slit eyes.

‘Like the suit,’ Jed said.

Silence smiled. They shook hands. Silence pointed at the sofa. They both sat down again, Jed on the sofa, Silence in his leather chair. Silence was watching a programme on TV.

Jed looked around. Silence had knocked through into the next grave suite, by the look of it, and turned the extra space into a kitchen and bathroom. He’d installed a cooker, fuelled by gas cylinders, and a hot-water heater. The electricity was being supplied by a portable generator. A bit of a change from the old days of fast-food and candlelight.