Carson Kelly's final tour

Then

We have plenty of time, Carson said, with that crocodile smile, as he pulled me through the door of his hotel suite and into his tight sandalwood and brylcreem embrace. His lecture notes, the printed slide deck and my  first chapter which he’d promised to read, spilled from the manila folder I was carrying and scattered over the deep-pile carpet.

Leave it, he urged, hurrying me onto the bed with its pristine gleam of sharply cornered sheets and festoon of puffed-up pillows and velvet throws. After, I pulled the tangled sheet around me and observed him, lying on his side, one arm thrown over his face, the gentle hiss of his breath through his open mouth. The early morning sun, pouring through the gauze curtain, highlighted the drooping chin, the slackness of his skin and the sparse sprigs of white chest-hair. He was twenty-two years older than me and had a wife called Barb though she rarely came up in conversation. Was it love? Would we make it? He made me laugh and maybe that was enough.

Downstairs, the reception room was already thronged. Carson smiled and sucked in his gut as ladies of a certain age, click-clacked in high heels across the shiny marble foyer arms outstretched to pay proper homage to him, the man who wrote those books. Carson Kelly, they exclaimed, grabbing his arm and fluttering around him, eyes never leaving his. The occasional folded up note was entrusted to him too with some final whispered words.  A love letter maybe or a phone number, I mused, from my position at the back of the room.

Carson read from his newly-released memoir sipping occasionally from the amber whisky in the crystal glass. It was an extract from his early life and he slowed the pace right down, his voice, thick as molasses, and  the guests, perched on the gilted foyer chairs sighed softly at his recital. There was the buzz and click of photographs, the scratch of his pen inscribing his name on new books until finally he moved through the foyer, smiling and blowing kisses as he went. I followed discreetly, lugging a box of  unsold books, the manila folder and his half-drunk bottle of water.

We pulled out from the underground hotel car park for the last leg of the book tour into an afternoon snarl of traffic. Around us, red-faced drivers honked their horns and the dirty sky lay low and flat as a saucepan lid over the city. Cocooned in the car, we laughed at the soft burr of the Sat Nav presenter. I told Carson it sounded just like my Irish Grandmother when she got mad at us for some childhood transgression. Lying by omission was the ultimate sin.

Want me to drive, if you’re tired?  I asked.

His hand squeezed my knee. Why don’t you  catch up on your beauty sleep? he said, winking at me. 

When  I woke we were deep in the countryside and the car was stalled in a narrow road, its light mere pinpricks against the thick and silent dark.  Beside me, Carson hunched over the wheel, sipping from his hip flask.

I hit something,  he said, staring at me wild-eyed.

Maybe it’s a deer?

He looked at me again and shook his head. We both opened our doors and stepped out into the dark.

Now

There had been another newspaper article. They’d used  the same photo from ten years ago. It showed a dark haired young man with laughing eyes, holding the hand of a little blonde girl who’s wearing fairy wings and smiling up at him.  She’d just turned eighteen, the article noted, and agreed to be interviewed.

Somebody must know something, she said. Please come forward. I have to know what happened to my Dad.

It was a sad story.  He’d been a student at the university where I now teach creative writing. People often ask me if I’d met him. Of course I answer no, he was before my time teaching there.

I was  skimming through the edits of my latest novel. It was my first standalone after the series and I wanted it to be just as successful.

When the phone rang I knew it would be Carson.

 Did you read it? He asked. No preamble.

Yes, I said. You obviously did too?

There’s an intake of breath. Yip he said and the slow deliberate drawl is slurred. I could hear, too, the insistent tell-tale quiver in his voice, a sure sign he wanted to spill,  to salve his conscience.

You know what we agreed! It came out harsher than I intended. He sighed in response.

Let’s meet, talk in person, I said. The usual place, 8:30?

Ok, he was silent for a moment, I have to…

I know, we’ll talk tomorrow.

I returned to my edits, biro in hand and made a few cursory corrections. Finally, I bookmarked the page, and placed it back on the shelf. This needs to be done, once and for all, I thought to myself. I didn't mean the edits.

Carson was already sitting on the cliff walk bench when I arrived. He raised a hand in greeting. He’d lost weight, his coat was hanging off him, his cheekbones sharply angled. It almost made me feel sorry for him.

Let’s walk I said. We trailed down the narrow path, keeping close to the rock face. It had lashed rain all night and the sea below was white-foam flecked and rollicking against the sharp-edged rocks. The damp  mist made me shiver through my many layers.

Carson turned to me. I have to do it. I have to let them know…. He raised his voice to be heard over the roar of the waves. We should never have done it.

We? I scream back at him. I begged you,  I literally begged you to bring him to the hospital, to get a doctor, anything.

You know why I couldn’t. I’d been drinking. It would have ruined everything.

So now you want to own up and ruin my career too? I was so angry I was trembling. I helped you. You’ve never once thought about what that meant for me.

Carson stopped and stared at me. For one pure moment, I thought he understood.

I got you that job. Your career is because of me.

I turned and gazed at the waves battering down on the jagged rocks below. The wind whipped up again and I picked my way carefully up the path staying close to the rock face all the way. At the bench, I pulled out the pre-paid  phone and called the Guards to let them know I’d just seen a man fall of the cliff walk.

In the warm fug of the car, I silently incanted: Goodbye Carson. We were never going to make it.