Gravity's Chain (16 page)

‘Did you see that?' Mary was on her feet now, gazing first at the bed, then at me, all her hostility melted away. ‘I think you might have been right, I'm sure I saw something move.'

‘Good, good. That is good, isn't it?'

‘I guess so, yes.'

We both waited a while, but nothing more happened. The room started to darken as the afternoon faded. I was due to leave Auckland later in the evening, but how could I just walk out? Any move and Mary might draw a conclusion I didn't want her to draw. Fortunately my dilemma was solved by the appearance of Jo's hapless parents. Mary introduced me, her voice the softest it had been all afternoon. They were impressed that I'd taken the time to visit their daughter. I felt a fraud, but I don't think they noticed. They expressed their gratitude again and again. Their admiration left me in no doubt that they hoped I might lay hands on their daughter and make her well. They didn't know I'd already laid hands on their daughter and made her sick.

After what felt an appropriate time I left. Mary followed.

‘By the way, I've spoken to the police, but I haven't told them anything. They do know, though, that you left with Jo. When they asked if I saw you leave, I said I must have been in the loo. I don't know who told them, but there were plenty of people who would have seen you leave together.'

‘I haven't done anything wrong, Mary.' I crossed my fingers.

‘I hope not.'

‘She'll pull through.'

Mary leant against the corridor wall. ‘I know you want her to live, because I don't think you want the death of two women on your conscience.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘First Caroline, now Jo—two deaths, Jack.'

‘I didn't kill Caroline, you know that, Mary.'

‘I didn't say you did. I just said you wouldn't want a second death on your hands. Causing one is careless—two is irresponsible.'

‘Caroline killed herself and Jo took an overdose. I'm not responsible for either.'

‘I'm sure that's how it is for you, Jack, but is that right? At some time you just have to stop the ride and ask whether it's right.'

I watched her walk away and after a couple of minutes followed, head down as I negotiated the corridors. In the car I sat huddled against the door. I thought of nothing.

T
he simplest way of dealing with Bebe was to lie. I could have said I'd been to see Dad, or gone shopping, but it never entered my head to deceive him. I never lied to Bebe for two reasons. First, when someone knows everything about the worst of your nature, what's left to hide? Second, I accept that he will always find out. I learnt at the very beginning of our relationship that he possessed an unsurpassed nose for detecting bullshit. In his present state of heightened anxiety there was no question he would debrief my driver, so, with a drop of the head, like a boy whose father has found condoms in his sock drawer, I confessed to Bebe that I had visited Jo in hospital.

Bebe passed quickly through the anger barrier and soared to rage. He lectured me on every conceivable reason why I should have stayed clear of the hospital but he saved the best for last. The police, in the shape of Detective Ryan, had already visited Bebe and wanted to interview me before I left Auckland for the Wellington show. The piece of news lanced Bebe's rage boil and I watched him deflate in the same way an imperfectly tied balloon loses air on a party wall until he finally sank to the nearest chair. His chest heaved with the emotion of the moment. We sat in
silence for ten minutes in almost total darkness. I wanted to draw Bebe out of his despair, but I knew deep down that if I sank he'd go down with me, so I let him be until he was ready to resurface. And ready he had to be, because like all the greatest conspiracies it wasn't the crime that sent you down, it was the cover-up and that was where Bebe was in the shit up to his neck. Oh yes, it's always the lie that gets you—that's the lesson of Watergate, of Clinton. The moment they lied they were dead meat: the public can tolerate weakness; what they can't stomach is lying. Bebe knew this simple rule, and that's why he was so angry.

We spent thirty minutes going through the story. It was of vital importance, Bebe said, that I understood completely what needed to be said at the coming police interview. I learnt my script and then we left.

Detective Ryan met us at the front desk and we followed him down polished corridors to an interview room where I was asked to wait while he showed Bebe to another room. There had been a discussion about a lawyer, but Bebe and I had agreed to refuse one because nothing could be added to what needed to be said. This was confirmed to Ryan, who accepted the information politely and chatted to me as he set up for the interview. There was an odd institutional smell in the room, the smell of old plaster and damp metal. The only furniture was a table with two chairs on each side and a tape machine. A second officer entered and sat next to Ryan, who meticulously peeled cellophane from the tape case and precisely placed it in the second deck. I liked Ryan. He'd been polite, courteous and apologetic throughout the whole process. I felt he was on my side, that he was rooting for me and that he knew what an imposition this was. Normally they wouldn't tape a conversation like this, he told me, but because
I was leaving Auckland and then New Zealand they wanted to ensure they covered everything. He smiled as he spoke. The second detective, whose name was Orton, was less forthcoming, but I sensed no hostility from him either.

Once the system was set, Ryan opened a folder he'd brought with him. He was a big man in his mid-forties. Once his frame would have been impressive, definitely a rugby player, a flanker probably, given his height. The athleticism of his younger days had lost the battle with age, though, as muscle had turned to fat and he looked as if much of his body had slipped from its frame. His face was marked with a large birthmark on his left cheek. Red spider veins spread from either side of his nose like small river tributaries as seen from space.

‘This is Detective Ryan, with me is Detective Orton, we are interviewing Mr Jack Mitchell. He has declined a lawyer. Mr Mitchell, I would like to ask you some questions about an incident concerning Jo Thompson last night at the Hilton Hotel. Can you confirm whether you know Ms Thompson?'

‘Yes, I know her.'

‘How do you know her, Mr Mitchell?'

‘We went to school together.'

‘Did you see her the night before last?'

‘Yes, yes I did. After the show I was doing at the Aotea Centre I returned to the Hilton Hotel where I'm staying. There was an end of show party being held there and Jo came along.'

‘How did she know about the party?'

‘The night before I'd been to a school reunion dinner. I met Jo there and I invited her to come along to the Hilton party.'

‘This dinner would have been at a restaurant in Mission Bay, would it?'

‘That's right, yes.'

‘Did you leave the dinner with Ms Thompson?'

‘We did leave together.'

‘And can you tell us what happened?'

‘My assistant, Bebe, and my driver collected us from outside the restaurant and we dropped her off in the middle of town, by Borders bookshop.' Did Ryan detect the shake of my voice as I told the first lie? I couldn't help but think of the driver as we talked. Bebe would be rock solid with this if asked, but the driver? ‘You can ask Bebe and the driver if you want to check.'

‘We've been told you two looked…close when you left the restaurant. Why did you drop her off? Why didn't you go on somewhere?'

‘Go on somewhere? Look, it was never like that, Detective Ryan. Sure, we were having a laugh, but there was never any question of sex or anything like that if that's what you're suggesting. We were just old friends. She had something to go on to and so I dropped her off. Then I went back to the hotel.'

‘Where was she going?'

‘A club, she said, but I don't think she said which one, she just asked to be dropped off.'

‘What time did you drop her off?'

‘Midnight.' I felt a trickle of sweat on my back. Every question was deepening the lie and now I was lying to every question.

‘And the next night she came to the party?'

‘Yes.' I felt the warm relief of being able to answer truthfully.

‘At what time?'

‘Look, I really don't know. There were a hundred plus people there and I had to talk to all of them—that's what I have to do at those bloody things.' Ryan nodded as though he spent many
of his free evenings at celebrity parties. ‘I'd been talking to this Russian woman and when I turned back to the party I saw Jo already there and that's the first time I saw her, I mean noticed her.'

Ryan paused and flicked through some notes in the folder. He glanced at Orton. They didn't speak, but there was a hidden conversation between them. ‘And this Russian, do you know her name?'

Until now the interview had gone as anticipated by Bebe and I'd run to script, but for the first time I sensed a loss of control. Keep to the story, I heard Bebe say, whatever they throw at you, just keep to the story, don't deviate for any reason. ‘Sorry, I really don't think I asked her name.' I kicked myself—a simple no would have done. Keep to the script.

‘Really?'

‘I meet hundreds of people at these parties. I can't remember their names so I make no attempt to know them.'

‘Could it have been Claudia?'

‘I really don't know.'

‘That's her professional name—her real name is Olga Petrova, though I doubt she introduced herself to you that way.'

The shift of control was becoming a slide. How did they know her name? My God, we'd never reckoned on this. ‘It may have been, but like I said I never asked and I don't think she ever told me.'

‘Unusual to never introduce yourself at a party.'

‘It happens.'

‘Do you know her profession?'

‘We didn't talk for long. She told me she'd come from Russia about three years ago and did marketing or something like that.'

‘Did you know she was a prostitute?'

I looked at the table for what felt the longest five seconds of my life. Perhaps they knew everything. Somehow, in just a day, the boys in blue had unravelled the whole damn sordid night. Was it worth keeping up the pretence? Was it really worth digging my pit deeper and adding shiny sides to make escape ever more impossible? Then I saw Bebe's face, urging me on. ‘I suppose it's possible, but I certainly didn't talk about anything that indicated she was one. The only thing she offered me was…'

‘What?'

‘I don't want to get her into any trouble.'

‘Truth is always the best option, Mr Mitchell.'

I felt the interview swing back on track. ‘Coke. She offered me some coke.'

‘Didn't know her name but she offered you coke?'

‘I guess she was looking for a good time. I'm famous, it happens a lot, some girls want me as a kind of prize.'

‘Did you accept her offer?'

I laughed nervously. I could feel Bebe breathing down my neck. ‘No, no I didn't take her up on the offer.'

‘So, Mr Mitchell, you were standing with this Russian lady, whose name you didn't know, discussing the use of recreational drugs, when Jo Thompson arrived. Did you go straight to Ms Thompson, or did you wait while someone else spoke to her?'

‘As soon as I saw her I went over.'

‘Was the Russian woman still with you?'

It crossed my mind to drop the script. If they knew who she was perhaps they had already spoken to her and knew what I was about to say was crap.

‘Yes, she walked over to Jo with me.' Neither policeman
revealed a flicker of emotion. ‘I spoke to Jo first, then introduced them to each other.'

‘How did you manage that?' asked Ryan, suddenly holding me with his most intense stare of the evening. ‘How did you introduce the Russian to Jo if you didn't know her name?'

‘I didn't, I just introduced Jo to her.' Shit, Bebe was good, he'd thought of everything, except for them knowing who Claudia was, of course.

‘And then what happened?'

‘The three of us talked for a while. Bebe came over; I talked to him about some Taikon company people I needed to meet and when I rejoined the conversation, the two of them, Jo and the Russian, were talking about…talking about doing some drugs.'

‘Coke?'

‘Yes.'

‘Even though they'd just met?'

‘I know, but that's what they discussed. They asked if I wanted to join them. I declined. They left. I went with them because I wanted to get something from my room.' This was the part of the script I felt most uncomfortable with. I told Bebe I should stay away from saying we left, but he said anyone could have seen us leave together and that had to be covered. It had sounded weak in the bedroom. In the harsh surroundings of the interview room it sounded insipid.

‘What did you need from your room?'

‘Some notes I wanted to talk to a Taikon executive about.'

‘Go on.'

The bloody quicksand of lies: I was sinking faster and deeper and now I could almost feel it on my chin. ‘We got into the lift together. They were talking, pretty much ignoring me. They got
out of the lift on the fifth floor, I think, yes, the fifth floor, and that was the last time I saw either of them.'

‘But you never returned to the party?'

‘No, I got to my room and looked at my notes, felt they weren't ready to talk about, then just crashed out. I felt really tired. It's not unusual for me to crash out after a show, especially if we've been travelling. I mean, I hadn't shaken off the jet lag.'

‘And you never left your room?'

‘No.'

‘Never went to their room?'

‘No.'

‘Ryan paused again, flicked his notes and glanced at Orton. ‘And that's the truth, Mr Mitchell? You know that lying to the police is an offence?'

‘Yes, it's the truth and yes, I know that lying to the police is an offence. I wish I could help more, Detective, and I know it seems strange, but that's how it happened.' There—sunk without trace, head covered and the last bubbles of breath on the quicksand's surface.

‘Thank you, Mr Mitchell, that terminates the interview,' Ryan checked his watch, ‘at 8.15 pm.' He pushed the tape button. ‘You're free to leave. Hope you have a good flight. Detective Orton will show you out.' Without further comment Ryan picked up his file and left the room.

I didn't like Ryan any more. He knew I was lying. He knew I knew he knew I was lying. The real question was how far he'd go to prove the point.

Orton reunited me with Bebe and we returned to the hotel in silence. In the lobby I collected a fat envelope from the desk, then went to the room where I collected my travel bag before
driving to the airport. We were late, but made the gate just in time. I settled back to yet another plane trip, yet another ride on the knife-edge of extinction.

Dear Jack,

I suppose I always knew you wouldn't meet me. Why should you? You know nothing of me. I feel that perhaps I should have told you more, then you would have come, but it's too late now. If there's one thing I've learnt in my life, if there's one rule I live by, it's never to regret what's happened. Understand by all means, but never regret—it's such a devouring pastime and one that leads nowhere.

Why did I want to meet you? That's such a complicated question, yet at the same time so simple.

I think in the end it was more for you than me, although I admit there's much about seeing you that will calm me. It's for you, though, Jack, that I worry more. I know there's pain, and all I want to do is ease that pain. Perhaps when you've read this you'll still find the time to come, although I admit time, money and patience are wearing thin. At least with this letter I will have given you an answer, one that I hope will remove your worries.

I wanted to tell you a story. Here it is.

Have you ever been to Marrakech? It's a wonderful place. I was once told that you don't talk
about Marrakech, you have to experience it. Never was a truer word spoken. But of course I must try to tell you of the golden stone walls at sunset, the ochre buildings profiled against a clear blue sky, the palm tree oasis leading the eye to the snow-capped Atlas Mountains in the distance. In the square I would watch snake charmers and jugglers perform for the tourists, while the storytellers attracted the true citizens.

In the Café de France I met Edward. He never really told me what he did in the city—‘something in carpets' he'd say as if that explained everything. To escape a Europe on the verge of imploding, he had gone to Morocco in 1968 with two friends on a hippie excursion and when they grew bored he stayed on. Edward might have traded his mane of long hair for a neat short back and sides with a precise parting and replaced the kaftan with a white linen suit, but his business was only semi-legitimate, he'd explain with a twinkle in his eye. There was mystery aplenty to draw me to him and next day he helped me take my bags from the Hotel Ichbilia to his tiny one-room apartment on the Rue Souq al-Kebir. It was my first and last holiday romance. At least I have that experience, if precious few others.

He insisted on taking me to the desert. It would be his privilege, and besides, he told me, he'd spent years by himself and it was nice to have someone else around for a while. He left me in no doubt that ours was a temporary liaison. He was answerable to
no one and could do whatever he wanted when he wanted; Edward's life centred only on Edward.

Once we were back in Marrakech, Edward invited me to accompany him to one final destination, one he assured me I would enjoy, and we drove northeast to the Cascades d'Ouzard.

The falls were broken into ten or so streams of water that dropped nearly a hundred metres to pools below like so many sparkling ribbons. Above them a patch of rainbow formed in the spray and the sound of water thundered in the gorge. A dusty path led down to the river and I somewhat reluctantly left the cool sanctuary of an olive tree's shade and descended in the fierce midday heat to the water below.

We rested a while before clambering across the rocks to a more secluded area. Edward took the lead. He skirted one pool, then started to climb a boulder as tall as himself, his feet slipping on the slimy sides. At the tip he surveyed the area as though he was a king and pointed to one side. ‘There's a beautiful spot over there. Let's take a look.' I followed him up the boulder and when he offered his hand I accepted. There was a moment when I felt my feet give way and I thought I might fall. Instantly his grip tightened and he pulled me to safety. His strength was surprising.

We entered a little grove where we were completely hidden from the falls and any other tourists. There was a small pool, no more than two
metres across, crystal clear and still. I leant over the rock edge. Perfectly reflected in the water I saw the rocky sides of the gorge with the bushes clinging to them, and the sky above. I even thought I saw the dunes of the desert and the crazy throngs of Marrakech, as though everything wonderful I'd experienced was entwined and visible in that pellucid water. Without moving, I called Edward over and asked him what he saw.

Do you know what he said, Jack? Do you know what he saw in that magical pool?

‘One handsome guy called Edward,' he replied. ‘You need to look beyond yourself,' I said, but he had already turned his back and begun to climb out of the grove.

You could be his son, Jack. Like Edward you see only yourself. Don't turn your back. That's what I wanted to say to you. I wanted to tell you to look beyond yourself.

If you change your mind I'm at 26 Whittly Place, Avondale. However, my time here is short.