Ghosted - A Novel Part 20

She was shaking so much. He spilled the whisky as he poured. He did a line and went to the closet.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

He unfolded the suit he'd worn to Warren's funeral.

"I'm taking you out."

When he was dressed he lifted her onto his back. It was a long, steep way down and w.i.l.l.y wasn't light. "Reach out," he said. "Hold onto the railing with me." They started the descent.

Almost halfway, his body began to shake. His legs were burning.

You're going to lose her.

You're both going down.

His heels slipped and he grabbed at the railing, wrenching his shoulder as they dropped-but thank G.o.d, backwards-just two stairs down, thudding onto the landing.

They sat there, crumpled, catching their breath. Mason felt trapped-it was down to the bottom, or all the way back up.

You can't do either.

He muttered apologies and they started the second flight on their b.u.t.ts-one stair, two stairs-a gutless midnight descent.

You haven't changed a bit.

You coward.

Then, just like that, he was up with w.i.l.l.y in his arms and barrelling down the stairs. She yelled with surprise and terror-much better than fear. They burst through the door and onto the sidewalk.

"Oh, my G.o.d," gasped w.i.l.l.y. "What the h.e.l.l was that?"

He felt good all of a sudden. Powerful. And it wasn't just being high.

He sat w.i.l.l.y down in the alley then collected her chair and a bottle of Dewar's from the Dogmobile. He put the bottle in her lap and buckled her in.

"You plan on racing?" she said, and then they were off-flying down the street.

What the h.e.l.l was that?

It had almost got him, but he'd dug in his heels and leapt.

You're going to crash.

It was true. He'd been up for two days. But now he was flying. And feeling all right ... At a steady run they were there in twenty minutes: up the ramp, across the rotunda, to the sparkling entrance of the Sheraton Plaza Hotel.

He nodded to the doorman, who had on a red coat with faux gold b.u.t.tons, and the doors slid open. In the lobby he waved a quick h.e.l.lo to the desk then headed for the elevators. He pressed the up b.u.t.ton, and a moment later they were in.

He pressed the b.u.t.ton marked R.

"What does R mean?"

"Rooftop," he said, and they began to rise.

43.

w.i.l.l.y floated naked beneath the night sky, thirty-one storeys above the ground. Mason held her head and stroked her left side. The water was warm, the air cool, stars pulsing above them.

"What if someone comes out here?"

"We'll offer them a drink."

Mason felt at peace. He looked at w.i.l.l.y's body, laid out in the blue sheen, an alien landscape. Her right half, the one that felt nothing, was lush and pulsing and strong. Her left side was not withered, but utterly pa.s.sive, moved by the s.h.i.+fting water. It was difficult to fathom, that everything she felt was inside of there.

"How do you feel?"

"Good."

Mason kissed her. She tasted like cantaloupe.

He pushed her gently to the side of the pool, then held her as they smoked some heroin, a cigarette. They sipped more whisky.

"This is the first time I've done it," said Mason.

"What? Swimming with a cripple?"

"Heroin," he said.

"Careful. It hits you harder if you smoke it. And I'll probably need help getting out of here."

"What happened to you, w.i.l.l.y?"

"What do you mean?" she said. And he didn't ask again.

He held her head as the water lapped against his chest. "I'll tell you something I don't tell anyone," he said.

"Why?"

He felt like he was close to flying, but not in a blissful way. More like he was rising through air, pulled by the sky-and at the same time in water, tugged gently downward by tides.

He thought he was going to tell her about Warren and Sissy and the awful things he'd done for money, but then he was talking about the swallows instead. He described it all-stomping down with his boot heels in the morning. And then the afternoon: "I stayed angry long after they got back from the lake. I helped set up for Aunt Jo's birthday party and I just got angrier. At dinner I sat at the kids' table. Everybody thought I was being sweet, but really they were the only ones I could bear to look at. My cousin Sarah sat with me-she was eighteen at the time-and we kept sending one of my nephews over for bottles of wine. I drank a lot-kept looking up at those f.u.c.king nests: the six of them left. n.o.body even noticed-I'd killed them all for nothing. Anyway, I'd been drinking all day. Sarah was drinking too...." Mason felt himself slipping, the stars reflected in the water. "Have you seen The Man from Snowy River?" The Man from Snowy River?"

"Yes," said w.i.l.l.y. "I love that movie." Her voice seemed far away.

"You know that scene?"

"With the horse, of course ..."

"Down the cliff ..."

"Of course ..."

"Down ..."

The cliff.

"Mason!"

The stars were shaking above him.

You've let go of her.

He felt himself falling.

You've let go of w.i.l.l.y!

It was only a few seconds, but by the time he had her in his arms again he was crying. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry...."

She was gasping. He held her, crying.

They caught their breath.

"It's okay," she sputtered.

"I don't know what happened ..."

w.i.l.l.y said nothing.

"I can't believe I let go of you. I'm so f.u.c.king sorry ..."

"Forget it."

There was silence, then the rippling of water. "I'd like another hit," she said.

Mason pushed her slowly to the poolside and rested her swaying against his belly in the water. He reached his arms out, dried his hands on his black suit, scooped her pipe into the ziplock, and lit it.

"You're good at that," said w.i.l.l.y, then took a long drag. "You could probably shoot me up sometime." The smoke trailed from her lips and he kissed her.

And now she was kissing him back. Her arm was out and so was his, pulling them along the side of the pool, all the way to the shallow end.

The corner was long and sloping, like a submerged wheelchair ramp. w.i.l.l.y lay against it, legs in the pool, hips at the waterline, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s like the moon's reflections. Water shed from Mason as he rose, out of the pool and into w.i.l.l.y. He thought he might die, the pleasure was so great. She held him with all her strength-the side that felt nothing pulling him in deeper to the one that felt all. And then they were gone together.

"I don't think you're ready," said w.i.l.l.y.

"For what?"

"To tell whatever story you were trying to tell."

He gave a laugh. w.i.l.l.y smiled. They smoked some more at the edge of the pool, drinking whisky too, until w.i.l.l.y began to talk.

"It was 1985. I was six years old ..."

Above twelve hundred hotel rooms, beneath twelve million suns, w.i.l.l.y floated in the dark as she told her story. Her voice, the heroin, letting her go, being inside her-Mason was focused like never before. And as she spoke he could see it happening.

It is 1985. She is six years old, in her daddy's apartment in Scarborough. She is sleeping-then suddenly awake...There's something wrong. Her stuffed monkey, Randolph, is slipping off the itchy orange couch and she pulls him back under the sheet-soft with a Bay blanket on top ... Something else is wrong. The lights are on. It's bright, but not just from the lights ... There's a fire-right where she's looking-through the door into the bedroom. His bed is on fire."Daddy!" she screams. And there he is, rus.h.i.+ng through the door, right in front of the couch, across the room and back again. But it's like he can't hear her. There is music playing. She can hear it now, and it sounds like the xylophones in music cla.s.s-she's never heard them in a real song-with a weird voice yelling: "It's gone. Daddy. Gone-the love is gone ..." It is the Violent Femmes. (She knows that now, but didn't then.)"Daddy!" she shouts, as loud as she can-and he turns and leaps towards her, picking her up into his arms. She's holding Randolph and they're whoos.h.i.+ng across the room. The breath is gone from her. She is relieved to be in his arms. They're whoos.h.i.+ng back across the room the other way, and in front of them the whole bedroom is on fire. She sees flames like tentacles, reaching through the door, and her daddy isn't saying anything. He's turning again, back across the floor and there's just the weird voice singing: "Tell by the way that you switch and walk. I can see by the way that you baby talk ..."The xylophones are even louder now-and when she starts to scream it comes out like coughing. We have to get outside! She holds Randolph with one arm, banging on her daddy's shoulder with the other."It's gone, Daddy, gone. The love is gone. It's gone, Daddy, gone. The love is gone. It's gone, Daddy, gone. The love is gone away ... Gone away ..."The fire is spreading. w.i.l.l.y is yelling and coughing in her daddy's arms. He stops and turns, not towards the door to the hall but past the couch instead, to the rickety screen door out onto the balcony, which screeches as he pulls it open.w.i.l.l.y gasps. They're finally outside, seven storeys above the ground. The night air rushes into her lungs and suddenly, instead of a scream, she's got a question. Her daddy clutches her tighter-then lunges forward, over the railing.

"I don't know if he was trying to kill or save me."

Mason held her tight.

Notes on the Novel in ProgressYou can explain it all later, for f.u.c.k's sake.If things are moving, don't slow them down.

44.

He drove his fedora slowly. He wanted to be going fast, but the Dogmobile wasn't meant for highways. He turned down the country road. The cart bounced. He checked the time and switched on the radio. Stevie Nicks was singing about a white-winged dove. He lit a cigarette, trying to calm his nerves. Whatever was happening, he was p.i.s.sed off at Soon. His first sleep in days and he'd woken up to this: To: [email protected]: : Soon rather than later Cocaine's not as good the next day, is it?

Now's the time, I know.I'll meet you on the Jackson.

Twilight cut through the winds.h.i.+eld as he approached the bridge. There was no one to be seen. Ahead was a parked rental car and a camcorder, like toys plunked down by a giant hand.

He stopped and got out. Clouds moved fast overhead. He bit hard on the end of his cigarette. There was a Post-it note stuck to the tripod.

If you find this camera please don't touch it. If your curiosity is too great for that, I ask you to make the footage public. If you are Mr. D, then hats off to you.I'll see you, Soon.

Mason didn't like this one bit.

The camcorder's battery was dead. He checked that the digital card was still in it, then stepped to the railing and looked down. Hundreds of feet below, white waves were churning and he could see something purple snagged among the rocks: Soon's gypsy leather coat. That had been Mason's idea: unb.u.t.ton as you turn, so they can't see the harness. When you dive, the coat is a flourish behind you. It's a cape! It is wings! unb.u.t.ton as you turn, so they can't see the harness. When you dive, the coat is a flourish behind you. It's a cape! It is wings!

By the looks of it, he'd done it well: unharnessed on his own then left the coat behind. Towelled off. Changed his clothes-the wet ones in a backpack with the bungee-then walked to Fort Jackson to take the Greyhound who-knows-where. The act of disappearing.

When Mason got home, w.i.l.l.y was asleep. He plugged in the camcorder, connected it to his laptop, poured a drink and pressed Play.

The screen is dark then flashes to light. No voice, but the sound of birds. Images come into focus, turning: the top of a railing, parts of a bridge, another railing, a vista of far-off trees and open sky, the roof of a nondescript car, 360 degrees. The bridge appears desolate.

A kitcha kitcha kitcha kitcha sound. Fingers. Then the camera is steady. Bootsteps, a chest. A man walking backwards away from the camera, flashes of light over his shoulder, his face ... sound. Fingers. Then the camera is steady. Bootsteps, a chest. A man walking backwards away from the camera, flashes of light over his shoulder, his face ...

And now Soon is standing in the middle of the screen. We see him from the knees up, a deep purple coat, his back to the railing, behind him sky.