“Paul,” I say, “what are you doing here?”
But Paul doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t answer. Just keeps going down the stairs. Like I’m not even here. Not even behind him, can you believe this? I’m limping now, stumbling down the stairs trying to catch up to him. “Paul, Paul, Paul. Wait. Please!” No answer. Typical. Toward the end it was always like this. Me no longer traipsing ahead of him in my heart-shaped heels. It was him ahead of me, always ahead of me. And me always behind. Trying to catch up, keep up. Didn’t matter where we were going. The grocery store, the park, a restaurant when we could manage those last-gasp dates. Always he’d be walking ahead. Never looking back. Paul, wait, I’d say feebly, hating the simper in my voice. But he didn’t hear me. Didn’t hear me or didn’t care. Doesn’t hear me now. Even as I’m stumbling down the steep steps to catch up.
Careful. Wouldn’t want to fall again. Wouldn’t want to take a nasty tumble, would we, Ms. Fitch? Not another one. We know how that ended last time. The beginning of so many ends. I look at Paul, now drifting away from me down the stairs. Tired of waiting, I guess. Tired of my limp, my leg of stone, my pained face.
“Paul,” I shout. And I think: If you just look back now, you’ll see. How I’ve changed. How I’m better now. Just look back. Just turn around. Look behind you and see. But he’s gone so far ahead of me now he’s practically blended into the dark. I hear a door slam farther down in the distance. I feel the slam in my chest, reverberating through my bones. And then I see an EXIT sign farther down. Paul! I try to quicken my pace to catch up. And just like that I trip on a stair. Fall. Falling down forever. Hard, sharp stones hitting my flesh, my bones. Neck. Back. Arms. Legs. I’m screaming as I fall, fall, fall. Hit the hard ground at last with an awful crack, my body tumbling through an open door.
* * *
I’m facedown on a carpeted floor. Cheek pressed into the soft carpet, one eye open. Red carpet. Red walls. A crooked electric chandelier hanging from the low ceiling. Dead? Not dead. But bones ache. Back gives. Soft music somewhere. I hear the crackle of a fireplace in the corner, feel the warmth of flames. The quiet click of a pool cue hitting a snooker ball. Darts, it sounds like, being thrown at a board. I hear the needles sinking in. Where am I? The GAMES, MORE sign comes flashing back to me.
“Paul,” I whisper. But I know Paul isn’t here. A trick.
Do you like tricks, Ms. Fitch?
I hear laughter. The soft sound of applause. Three pairs of hands clapping. Three pairs of leather shoes tapping in time. All around me.
“Ouch,” says a soft voice. “Am I right?” Male. Low. Singing. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I look around, but I can’t see them—all I see are red walls, empty tables, a pool table. But I feel the fact of their suited bodies close. Close and looking down at me. All three. Smiling at my body crumpled on the red floor.
“Careful, careful,” says another voice softly. Deeper, broken, muffled, as if being spoken through hands. “Better watch those steps, Ms. Fitch.”
“Wouldn’t want to have another fall.” Low laughter.
“We know how that ends.”
“So many ends.”
Tears fill my eyes. I hear laughter all around me. Soft. Knowing. Knowing my beginnings and ends.
“Here,” says another. “Here, how about a hand?”
And then there’s a hand in front of my face. Gloved. Bright white. Fingers wriggling. Try me, try me.
I take the hand and it grips me, lifts me, gets me to my feet easily. I’m about to say, Thank you. But then I see they’re on the other side of the room, all three. The fat man stands in the far corner, his back against the dartboard, covering his face with his cupped hands. He appears to be shaking with fear. Shaking so violently it seems theatrical. He’s whimpering as he waits to be struck. It’s a bit much. Like he could be laughing, not crying behind his hands. Meanwhile, the tall, slender man is standing before him, his suited back turned away from me so that as usual I see only a sliver of his pale, perfect face, so sharply cut. He’s grinning at the fat man, I see an upward curl to his lip. There are darts in both his gloved, clenched fists.
The middling man’s sitting right on the pool table. Pool stick laid across his thighs. Polishing the tip. A soft, scraping sound. Looking at me with his red-rimmed eyes.
“Ms. Fitch, Ms. Fitch. Welcome back. How is that back, by the way?”
The other two turn and smile. Three smiles. My patrons.