Rupert Thomson - The Five Gates of Hell

He wedged the hat under his arm. ‘Not for sale.’

The woman shrugged. She began to sort one-handed through his clothes. Held a boot up between finger and thumb. ‘Don’t suppose you ever heard of polish, did you?’

‘They’re all black, the clothes,’ he said. ‘You should be able to shift them pretty quick in a town like this.’

‘That may be so, but look at the state of them.’ The woman lifted his frayed jacket and let it drop again. ‘All right,’ she said, ‘you leave your clothes plus fifteen dollars, on account of that coat you got there’s leather,’ and her eye hovered, gleaming, above his hat once more, ‘unless of course —’

He paid the $15 and left. On his way back to the Towers he had to stop in a supermarket and a pharmacy. By the time he reached the thirteenth floor he was drenched in sweat. Silence let him in. He went straight to the kitchen. Silence followed him, stood in the doorway. He began to unpack the bags he was carrying. A block of ice-cream. A tin of minestrone soup. A box of COLOR-U-BLONDE hair dye. A roll of silver foil. And two six-packs of yoghurt (one plain, one assorted-fruit flavours).

He turned. Silence was still watching from the doorway. Silence handed him a card: I WAS WORRIED FOR A MOMENT. I THOUGHT YOU MIGHT’VE FORGOTTEN THE YOGHURT.

Jed had to grin.

WHAT’S WITH THE SOUP? Silence wrote.

‘It’s my throat,’ Jed explained. ‘Yoghurt, ice-cream, minestrone. They’re the only things I can get down.’

Later that evening, when Silence had gone out, he locked himself in the bathroom. He took off his new blue turtleneck and wrapped a towel around his shoulders. He opened the COLOR-U-BLONDE, pulled on a pair of rubber gloves and slowly, meticulously, applied the peroxide solution to his hair. Afterwards he covered his head in silver foil. Almost immediately his scalp began to burn. This reassured him. No change is possible, he thought, without pain. No change is real unless it hurts.

He walked out on to the balcony as the sun set. The city lay in its own haze, buildings dipped in spun sugar, they could melt on your tongue. The sting of peroxide balanced the ache in his throat, almost cancelled it. Tomorrow, he decided. Tomorrow he would make the call.

The evening passed. He stood on the balcony eating fruit yoghurt and watching the planes. A calmness eased into his bones. His blood slowed down. That tortoise, Bob, he was smarter than he looked.

Towards midnight he heard Silence return. He left his bedroom and joined Silence in the lounge. Silence was smoking a joint and watching TV. He offered Jed the joint. Jed turned it down. Silence was staring at him now. Silence put the joint down in the ashtray so he could stare better. Then he wrote on a card and handed it to Jed. Jed read the card and smiled. There was only one word on it:

EERIE.

The next morning he walked into the bathroom and saw a blond stranger in the mirror. ‘Jesus,’ he said. His voice didn’t sound bad. A bit croaky, but OK. He undid the scarf. The ghosts had changed colour. They’d achieved a curious yellow-brown. It reminded him of crème caramel, old banana skins. Or the thin band of pollution that sometimes circled the horizon.

He borrowed one of Silence’s cordless phones and stood on the balcony. The city was making that sound that cities make. Like if you’re told to breathe out slowly through your mouth. He sensed the first drop of rain on his shoulder, he felt it burn into his skin like acid, he heard it telling him that he was special, special. The sound of the rain in that word. The meaning of that word on his skin.

He dialled the Paradise Corporation.

The receptionist put him through to the chairman’s office. A secretary answered. ‘Mr Creed’s at home today. Can I take a message?’

‘No message,’ Jed said, and cut her off.

He dialled the Palace Hotel. ‘Apartment 1412, please.’

‘One moment.’

He could hear the phone ringing in Creed’s apartment now. Then it was picked up. ‘Yes?’

‘Mr Creed, please.’

‘Who’s calling?’

Jed recognised the voice on the other end. It was the Skull. Michael The Skull McGowan. So they were still working together. If that wasn’t loyalty.

‘Who’s calling?’ the Skull said again.

‘It’s Jed Morgan.’ There was a pause, then Creed was on the line. Jed could tell by the silence. He’d know that silence anywhere.

‘Creed?’

‘Spaghetti. How nice. I’ve been expecting your call.’

Jed’s hand tightened round the phone. You could never tell whether Creed was bluffing. ‘What do you mean?’

But Creed just laughed. ‘Your voice sounds terrible.’

‘I’ve had a cold.’

‘It doesn’t sound like a cold. It sounds more like someone tried to strangle you.’

His heart beat hard, the air thickened around him. He gripped the balcony with his free hand. How did Creed know all this? Did he know everything?

‘What do you want, Spaghetti?’ Creed was saying. ‘I’m a busy man. I haven’t got all day.’

He hadn’t thought this out properly. He hadn’t imagined the way it might go. He jumped at some words as they came into his mind. ‘I need some money.’

‘I didn’t think you were interested in money.’

‘I want half a million.’

‘You’ll only start throwing it around. Remember last time.’

‘Half a million. And I want it tomorrow night.’

‘What makes you think you deserve anything?’

‘I’ve got a tape. You want to hear it?’

‘What is it? Violins?’

Jed picked up his pen recorder and pressed PLAY. He held it over the phone. ‘You want me to kill Vasco’s brother? … That’s right … How? … Don’t worry about that … It’s taken care of … It’s nice …’ He pressed STOP. ‘There’s your violins, Creed. Did you like them?’

‘Tape doesn’t stand up in court, Spaghetti.’

‘How about the papers, Creed? Does tape stand up in the papers?’

A silence.

He had him. At last he had him.

‘How would it look on the front page, Creed? I can see the headline now. Funeral baron held on murder charge. Headline like that, you could sell a few papers, I reckon.’

Don’t give him time to think.

‘Midnight tomorrow. The West Pier. Just you and me. You got that?’

Another silence.

‘Jed?’

‘What?’

‘You’re still driving the same car.’

‘So?’

‘Bit risky, isn’t it, driving the same car? I mean, it could be seen as evidence, couldn’t it?’ A pause. ‘You know what they say about evidence. They say destroy it.’

‘What are you talking about, Creed?’

‘I thought I’d do a friend a favour, that’s all.’

‘What the fuck are you talking about?’

‘Why don’t you look out the window?’

‘I am looking out the —’

His car exploded with a dull thump. One hand on the balcony, he felt the building shake. Bits of chrome and glass scattered over the parking-lot. Flames reached arms out of the windows, clawed their way across the roof. The flames sounded like rain, he thought. Like rain. Then a fire alarm jangled and a baby started crying.

He dropped the phone and ran inside. Silence was standing outside his bedroom door in his pyjamas. The explosion must’ve woken him.

‘It’s my car,’ Jed said. ‘They blew up my car.’

He ran down the stairs, all thirteen floors. By the time he reached the ground his car was surrounded by kids from the project. Some were pointing, chattering. Others scoured the concrete, collecting bits of headlamp and mirror. He pushed to the front. You could no longer tell what colour the car had been. You could only just read the numberplate: CREAM 8. He’d had that numberplate since he was sixteen. He’d paid a fucking hundred dollars for that numberplate. He dashed towards it, hands outstretched, but a blast of heat threw him back with no eyebrows.