Suzerain: a ghost story

  SUZERAIN

  an erotic ghost story

  by

  Adrian John Smith

  © Adrian John Smith 2014. All rights reserved.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Published by Creephouse

  Table of Contents

  Ashley Brent (Summer 2004)

  Billy (January 2003)

  Karen (Summer 2004)

  Jay (February 2003)

  Karen (Summer 2004)

  Cine Fernando (May 2003)

  Billy (April 2003)

  Melanie (Summer 2003)

  Frank Tells (May 2003)

  Moira Tells (Summer 2003)

  Frank Tells (May 2003)

  Suzy (Summer 2004)

  Billy (Summer 2003)

  Karen (Summer 2004)

  Caroline (Summer 2003)

  Suzy Out on the Town (Summer 2004)

  Frank Tells (May 2003)

  David Silverstein

  Frank Tells (May 2003)

  Karen (Summer 2004)

  Epilogue Suzy (January 2005)

  By The Same Author

  Ashley Brent (Summer 2004)

  Ashley Brent, LA lawyer to the almost-famous, kicks shut the door of his rented car (a Volvo for Christ-sakes) then crunches his way across the gravel drive toward the oak door of the Costigan residence – a stately enough pile or a pile of shit he’s yet to decide - his brushed aluminium brief-case swinging from one hand, his other hand running self-consciously through his dyed black hair (expensively cut, short enough not to look like one of those ubiquitous hippie-turned-businessmen ass-holes, long enough to look hip - kind of Kurt Russell only not as thick).

  He rings the bell, even though he's already spoken to Moira Costigan on the intercom at the gate. Beneath his suit his shirt sticks to his back. A long hot drive from Heathrow and the roads had been choked to a standstill for what felt like at least four fifths of the journey down to Devon. He’s never been to this corner of England before and he finds the smell of lush vegetation both cleansing and heady.

  Moira opens the door. It's mid-afternoon but she's wearing a house-coat, tied at the waist. She teases up her cropped blonde hair. Yawns.

  "How you been, Moira?" Ashley says, more or less succeeding in ignoring her sexual impact. He lays a light kiss on each cheek, his briefcase bumping against her terry-robed ass.

  "Busy," Moira says. She sniffs. "Nice cologne, but you could use a shower Ash," she observes. "You smell kind of … oily."

  "Gee, thanks," Ashley dead-pans.

  Moira ushers him into the house. He blinks in the gloom of a large lobby with a staircase off to the left. "So," he says, “this is what Frank spent his gore-fest money on. Jesus, I should have guessed he was into the whole Gothic thing. Don't you get depressed looking at all that - what is that? Mahogany?"

  "No, Ashley," Moira says, "I like it that way. And it's English oak, for your information."

  The sound of a woman's voice, muffled by a closed door, drifts across the lobby. Not words. Ashley - an aficionado- recognises it as sex - a sex sound. "Oh my dear," Ashley says, with a not-altogether-artificial campness - "you have visitors."

  "Just a friend," Moira says. "Plus a couple of local kids. You want an introduction?"

  "Sure," Ashley beams, "I'm a friendly kind of guy."

  Moira leads him to a door, opens it. The first thing is, there's a naked woman on a green couch. She's moaning and writhing and lifting her ass, pumping herself against her own hand which is strumming hard at her clitoris. Oblivious. Delirious. Sweating enough to suggest that her fourth or fifth orgasm of the afternoon is already behind her. There are stains on the couch.

  "Suzy," Moira says, "this is Ashley. Ashley, Suzy."

  The woman turns her head, opens her eyes briefly, jerks a smile across her features - the look of concentrated bliss on her face is almost terrifying - then turns her face back toward the ceiling and resumes her business with gusto. Ashley notices a butterfly tattooed on her inner thigh. "Nice tat," he says. "You think she'd mind if I stroked it?"

  "Uh, uh," Moira says, "not this one, Ash. I don't want another total freak-out on my hands."

  "Are you serious? Not even an innocuous little pinkie sliding up her well-lubricated …. well, you know," Ashley says, wagging his middle finger.

  "Put that away, Ashley, you disgusting little gimp. And yes, I am serious. I need this one. I've been grooming her. She's what you might call an enabler," Moira says, but Ashley has already lost interest.

  "Ok," he says, "so who are these crazy kids?"

  "The guy," Moira says, "is Anthony. Say hello to Ashley, Anthony …" (Anthony, sitting in an armchair, opens his eyes, looks puzzled, lifts an arm half-heartedly in greeting, says: Man-U. Three fucking nil! He punches the air, then lets his arm fall as he collapses totally back into himself and shuts his eyes. One of his ears looks as if it has been cut off and sewn back on, a crease of scar tissue running down his neck.) "……and the girl sucking his cock, her name is … oh, who gives a shit what her name is…"

  "Nice breasts?" Ashley inquires, because mostly what he can see of whatever-her-name-is is a bare ass (which looks like it's been subjected to a playfully savage whipping) and the back of her blonde head bobbing up and down on Anthony's cock.

  "She's young," Moira shrugs.

  "Quite," Ashley says. "Soooh, what about them? Are they off-limits too?"

  "Still into boys Ashley?" Moira says. "What about your wedding vows?"

  "Well, now that you mention it, I have had to curb myself a little. Pool guy; cute. Wife; not laissez-faire. Actually, I was thinking about taking them both - Anthony and whatever-her-name-is - to my extremely comfortable bed-chamber, which I just know will have been aired and cleaned and will be replete with crisp sheets, fresh-cut flowers, and a chilled bottle of something inordinately expensive. Maybe you could join us. I'd like that. I really would."

  "You're my lawyer, you asshole."

  "Since when has that made a difference?"

  "Back then, you dummy, you were Frank's lawyer. That's since when."

  "What are they on, anyhow?"

  Moira shrugs. "Blues and reds. It's been a long afternoon."

  "Blues and reds. You are a well-connected little princess, Widow Costigan. Do I get some of the good stuff too? Look at me, I'm shaking with anticipation and desire."

  "How was your flight, Ash?"

  "She says, not-so-fucking-slickly changing the subject. Adequate. Actually - compared to the drive? - it was fucking bliss. Jesus, I hate those fucking stick-shifts. They. Are. Fucking. Work. I hate Volvos even more. What kind of fucking sadist would rent a Volvo?"

  Suzy lets out a long shriek of a climax….

  ("Jesus," Ashley says. "I almost felt that.")

  …. Which sets Anthony chanting: "Three nil, three-ee-ee nil," until he comes.

  "Hey," Moira says, "let's leave these crazy kids alone. You want tea? Coffee?"

  "Tea would be nice. Green tea even better. What's with the lash marks on her ass?"

  "Those?" Moira says. "Those are yesterday's."

  In Frank's study. Photographs of Frank still on the wall. Here's one in profile - Frank squinting down the view-finder of a movie camera. Here's another, Frank in a faded green fishing vest, Frank holding a large rainbow trout, Frank alive and smiling near Clamath, Washington State, a waterfall in the background. Hi Frank, Ashley says. Long
time no see.

  He sets his case on Frank's desk, thumbs the combination locks, unsnaps the catches. He takes out a thin booklet of expensive, watermarked paper and lays it on the desk. He turns the pages, skim-reading as he goes, until he reaches the final page.

  "You know," he says, "nice as it is to see you and all, we could have dealt with this business without me dragging my gym-toned, occasionally-indulged ass all the way over here."

  "I didn't - don't - want any fuck-ups Ash. This has got to be water-tight."

  "Jesus Moira, it's a simple will. You could have got some local half-wit - what do they call them here?"

  "Solicitors."

  "Right - some local half-wit solicitor to deal with this. I've had guys staring down the barrel of a murder rap approach me with less urgency than you did over this. What is it, you think you're going to drop down dead in the next day or two? You look fine to me."

  "I'm sorry to have dragged your not-so-gym-toned and much-violated ass away from your frigid wife and your cute pool-guy at such short notice Ashley, but you're my lawyer. And these local nit-wits fleeced us enough over the house purchase. So why don't you stop bitching and do your job and accept your big fat fucking fee with a little more grace. Okay?"

  "Okay. Alright. So. What we have here - I did specify my fee?"

  "Yes Ashley. It had a lot of fucking noughts in it."

  "Good. I like a round number. So what we have here - hey, I'm curious: did Frank ever find out about the two of us?"

  "What do you care?"

  "Reputation?"

  "You want the truth? Okay. Yes. He was going to kill you."

  "Oh. Not so good. Have you noticed the way his eyes follow you in that picture? The one with the trout?"

  "I had to beg. I had to say: Please don't kill that filthy, fucked-up little faggot, Frank. He couldn't even make me come with that little cocktail wiener of his."

  "Yeah, well, I faked my orgasms too. Did he take that trout on a mayfly or what?"

  "Jesus, what do you need, a fucking Ritalin or something? Can we wrap this up? Now? Do you think?"

  "We can do that. So, you want your house, Blackwood house, this house, plus all of your very considerable funds (assuming you won't have blown it on an education programme for under-nourished African kids) - you want the whole shebang-"

  "Which you lawyers - the good ones - call an estate."

  "Right. You want your entire estate bequeathed to one Dr Karen Moor. Address etc supplied. Correct?"

  "Correct."

  "Is that an MD?"

  "Literature."

  "Nice. Well. Lucky Dr Moor. She must be a very special friend."

  "You're curious. Okay, open the top drawer."

  Ashley opens the top drawer of Frank's desk and lifts out a thin pack of colour photographs. He thumbs through them. Two women standing on a sea-front balcony, looking relaxed, the taller of the two taking a sip from a wine glass. Here they are again launching a leaky-looking boat from a beach in front of the same property.

  "Well, one of them I recognise," Ashley says. "Isn't that Little-Miss-Chaste, relaxing, as we speak, in the other room?"

  "Correct."

  "So that's the delicious Dr Moor. Do I get to meet her?"

  "I wouldn't let you near her even if you had an AIDS test first."

  "Ouch. You know, there's a - can you hear it? - familiar ring to all of this. Except - apart from you've lost weight and there are bags under your eyes (you're losing your tan by the way) - excepting that, you're not the wreck that Frank was when he had me change his will."

  "I prefer 'amended'."

  "Amended? You could say that. He amended his own kids right out of the fucking picture."

  "Fuck em."

  "It was only a hundred grand. Why would he do that?"

  "Who gives a shit? You know how much a place like this costs to run?"

  "They're bound to contest at some point."

  "I can handle Frank's whelps. Now, where do I sign?"

  Ashley turns the pen end to end in his fingers but doesn't hand it over. "Why did Frank kill himself?" he says.

  "Impotent rage at the world's wrongs? Post-millennium angst? Environmental anguish? Again, who gives a shit?"

  "Moira, as your lawyer, I feel bound to tell you that, for a novelist, you are one insensitive cunt."

  "And you, Ashley, are a lawyer. Now, will you give me that fucking pen? Or do I have to lose my temper?"

  "Did he jump? Or was he pushed?"

  "The pen, Ash."

  Ashley smiles. He hands over the pen, turns the paper on the desk. "Okay. Sign here Moira. Or is that Martha?"

  "Careful, Ashley."

  "Yeah. You're right. Why complicate things? You know, I'm a little fatigued. I'm not sure I can handle both of them tonight. I think I'll flip. Boy or girl."

  Billy (January 2003)

  That he'd been an able man in a boat. That he'd quit fishing for the right reasons and the wrong ones. That if you broke him like a stick of rock he'd have the word "vicious" written all the way through him. That he would be found in the harbour with his throat cut. This was Billy.

  It was a January afternoon in Loxham and the Captain Baxter was more or less empty. There had been no boats in today and there had been a rare frost last night with ice on the pontoons and today a keen wind which had kept even the hardiest of out-of-season visitors off the coast - and whatever visitors there might have been would have been dissuaded from entering the Baxter by the broken door glass which Dell had boarded but had not yet fixed. Billy leaned into the long bar and took a deep breath. He was impatient to get on with it. He'd been studying the kid for twenty minutes, nursing a neat rum and smoking two cigarettes close to the filter. He knew by the way the kid kept glancing at him out of the corner of his eye that he was making the kid nervous.

  Kid? Well, Billy supposed he was about twenty-two - though the American grockle, Frank Costigan, had said younger - and twenty-two was kid enough from Billy's vantage point. He hadn't got his own boat by the time he was thirty and he hadn't got it by the time he was thirty-four. And now that he was thirty-eight and had turned his back on the sea he knew and no longer cared that that was not to be his future. Future? Billy's got his hands full with the present.

  The kid ordered a tequila. Dell briskly set it on the bar along with a plate holding a cut lemon and a small hill of salt. The kid pushed the plate away, cracked an obvious joke about salt and work and then drank down the tequila in one quick jerk like something he'd seen in a movie. The kid didn't know it yet, but he was going to need that tequila. What was about to happen to him was also the kind of thing he might have seen in a movie. Billy knew his kind. Some kind of romantic. Some kind of poet. He didn't fish for money, and he didn't fish - as Billy had - because of an obligation to time and place and tradition. To drowned fore-fathers. Neither did he fish, also as Billy had, for lack of other legitimate options. No. He fished so that he could see dolphins and porpoise and pilot whales. So that he could tell women with his soft brown eyes how the dolphins sported at the prow of the boat. He guessed that was the kind of word a romantic would use. Sport.

  Dell went upstairs, probably to make a private phone call to one of the lost and ageing souls that he would parade around the Baxter once or twice a month. Dell would put up with any drunken slut so long as he got a fuck out of it. Billy gave it thirty seconds or so to make sure that Dell had committed himself and then he said to the kid: "Have we been out together?"

  The kid turned, almost relieved that Billy had finally spoken to him. He shrugged. "I don't think so," he said. "I've been on a lot of boats, but I can't place you."

  "Well," Billy said, "you look familiar. Are you sure?" He knew things about the kid of course. He reckoned five, maybe six trips.

  "I'm sure," the kid said.

  "Only," Billy said, "I remember some long-haired twat back last year, couldn't get up for his watch. Got fouled in the net. Couldn't keep the deck beneath his feet. Shit himself wh
en a storm blew in. Not even a storm. Bit choppy. That's all. You know the kind of thing. This would be a trip up north I'm talking about. Crabs. Shell-fish."

  "No," the kid said. "Not me."

  "Well you look like him. I'd even put money on it," Billy said. He drained his glass.

  "You'd lose," the kid said. He picked up his pack of Camels, opened it, pulled a face, dropped it back onto the bar.

  "You change you mind?"

  "I just put one out.”

  Billy smacked the rum from his lips and set down the glass. "You scared of cancer?" he said.

  "It's not something I want."

  "Then maybe you should quit. Either quit or quit worrying."

  The kid sighed. "And maybe," he said with resignation, "you should mind your own fucking business."

  "I haven't had a conversation all day," Billy told him, with false equanimity. "All winter come to that. This place is full of half-wits. What the sea starts the drink finishes. Conversationally challenged you might say."

  "You might. I don't make those kind of judgements."

  "That's because you're not allowed. I can say it. You can't. Where are you from?"

  "Oxford."

  Billy smiled. "I hear they have books for breakfast in Oxford."

  The kid let out a bitter laugh. "And in Devon the cream teas grow on trees and all the people are friendly. Shouldn't believe everything you hear."

  "I still say you're him," Billy said.

  The kid's eyes had gone back to the safety zone of the bar. His territory marked in loose change, his beer glass, cigarettes, house keys, the empty shot glass, a Zippo lighter. There would be a notebook on his person, maybe in the pocket of his lumber shirt, but the kid had more sense than to get it out in here. There'd been dolphins washed up on the beaches recently and the press were interested. When Billy said the last the kid turned again. He was pissed off and starting to show it and that was good because if Billy couldn't get the kid to land the first one then this day's project was a non-starter. Dell had installed CCTV in the Baxter and sometimes the police - who blew in every night at ten to eleven; a two-man squall of eager contempt and suppressed violence - would ask to see it. Billy would have preferred to have taken the kid in an ally in the dark, but the American grockle had told him that it had to be public; that the kid had to be humiliated. Well, there weren't too many witnesses in here but he considered that to be not his problem. He'd chosen a public place and that's all he'd agreed to do for his two grand. Besides, word would get around.