Clive Barrett looked around
and was dissatisfied. The pool was full of dive-bombing children – his own
among them somewhere – and the animals of the hedgerow watched intently,
freshly snipped. On the air, smoke and charring meat. The sound of satisfied
murmurs and laughter. A bronzing sun glazed the white house with its white
plaster and large white doors, and where guests stood before the mirrored
windows, worlds repeated.
It was
perhaps too hot for his suit, and God knows it was time to re-tailor, or more
likely just buy a whole new wardrobe, but he couldn’t switch off, even if his
suit buttons strained with every bite of the barbecued steak. His wife dabbed a
napkin to his chin, smiling.
“Sweet one
you got here, Clive,” said his long-time associate Mr. James Tunnicliffe.
“Almost makes me pine for the good old days.” James was much slender than
Clive, and it showed in his pale blue shorts, proud chest swirling with coarse,
grey hair. Funny, how he’d ditched his paunch at the same time as ditching his
wife.
Clive
smiled, kissing Marjorie on the lips. “The sweetest.” Six years together, and
she looked even younger than she did when he first started seeing her, back
when he was still married to Ellen. Two children since, and not a stretch mark
or wrinkle in sight. Amazing what money
can buy, he thought.
“What about
you?” she directed to James. “Seeing anyone?” She grabbed a mojito from a
passing waiter and sipped.
“Everyone
and no-one,” he replied. “Work has me busy all hours of the day. This is the
first break I’ve had for five months.”
Clive
unbuttoned his suit. “I can believe that. Missed you on the golf course,
lately.”
“Whoa
there, buster. You sure you wanna let your hair down like that?” joked James.
“Ha, ha.”
For a moment he held his breath, then sighed as his belly bulged out. He could
feel the sweat running down his back, cloying across his shoulders. It was a
reminder of the weight he carried; all this real estate, the ten acres and the
gardener’s pay check, his children’s school and Marjorie’s gym classes; the
yacht and the four holidays a year to the Bahamas. He couldn’t forget all that,
not even for a second.
Marjorie
gave him a goodbye peck, and said; “I’ll leave you boys to catch up.” He
watched as she went over to some friends.
James shuffled
closer; together they leaned along the adobe wall, drinks and food balanced on
the top. They had a view of the party and the guests sunning themselves,
drinking and eating and swimming. “So life’s good, eh?” he asked.
Clive
tossed him a smile, replying; “There’s always something, you know? This bill or
that. Feels like the more we have, the more we have to lose. Sometimes I miss
the old days, just you and I working late in the office, happy with a two-K
trade.”
“Yet here
we are. You could pack it in!”
“And do
what? How long before the money disappears, living like this? Anyway,” he
sipped from his scotch on the rocks, feeling the heat in his throat, as well as
on his brow; “you can talk. What’s all this I’ve heard in the news? One hundred
million dollars to charity? Never took you for the philanthropist sort.”
James’s
demeanour straightened, the sunlight suddenly a hindrance in his eyes. “I never
took me for the philanthropist sort, either. What about you? Are you
charitable?”
“Do my wife
and kids count?”
“I think
not.”
“What about
the ex?”
“Definitely
not.”
“Then I’m
all out of goodwill, here, my friend.”
He nodded.
“Shame.”
Clive
laughed, taking another sip. Don’t go too
crazy with the drink. “Get yourself a new wife and a few kids and then see
how charitable you are!”
James
shuffled even closer and put an arm around Clive’s shoulder. His cologne was
strong, overpowering even the food. “Have you heard of the Ultruistic Order?”
“Altruistic
Order?”
“Yeah, with
a U,” he squeezed.
“With a U? Definitely not.”
James
tilted his head a little closer, whispering. To Clive, he felt like the angel
on his shoulder. Or was that the devil? “Nor had I, until a friend told me
about them.”
“What
friend?”
“That
doesn’t matter.”
“Can I get
a little space?” he tried to shrug him off, but James held tight.
“In a sec.
I was caught, like you, in the net. And then this friend introduced me to the
Order.”
“And they
are?” The cologne was beginning to sting his nostrils, joined by sweat in his
eyes.
“A secret
arm of the Freemasons.”
Clive
laughed again. The Freemasons had tried to recruit him before, but what did he
want with sweat lodges and cigars and ruling the world? He had enough of that
at home. “So secret they told you about it.”
“They saw
my plight and wealth. You see, the Masons of the world, all the various
branches and sects… sure, they do good, or claim to. But it’s not enough. They
need to keep enough back to keep up the lifestyle – to remain a Freemason! No good being poor if you want to be a part
of it! You can’t rely on the world to tax itself out of poverty, and world
hunger – it needs to be incentivised. That’s where the Ultruistic Order comes
in.”
Clive
shrugged again, and this time was successful in removing the devil from his
shoulder. He even unbuttoned his collar, such was the sweat and heat hitting
him now. “Uh-huh.”
“There are
five levels of ascension. And with each ascension, there is a door.”
“A door,
huh? Make sure you don’t hit it on the way out!”
“Listen to
me, Clive. I’m telling you. These doors will change your life. I was sceptical
too, at first. And then I gifted that one-hundred million dollars for access to
door number one.”
“And what
was behind door number one?”
“I can’t
tell you.”
“Of course
not.”
“It’s
different for everyone. The first door shows you what you need to see. There
are four more after that. All I know is the final one shows you what lies
beyond, and no-one has ever returned from it. Ask Ambrose Small.” James gave
him one final squeeze and returned to normal posture, and Clive felt as though
he’d been given a taste of this ‘other world’. “Hit me up some time and I’ll
introduce you to the lodge. Be quick though, I plan on getting to door number
five as soon as I can.”
“Sure.” He
pocketed the information, filing it alongside pig’s heads, greased bareskin
runs around the block, and blindfolded humiliation; all distant memories from
his frat days. In the weeks and months that followed, he gave it no more
thought, not until Marjorie mentioned an Instagram post with James standing
beside a hospital sign with a freshly cut ribbon, the words Tunnicliffe Children’s Ward freshly
mounted. She gave it a heart and
commented to Clive how healthy he looked. Vibrant
was the word she used. Clive took a closer look. Did he look younger?
“Spending
some of that money on himself by the looks of it,” he said.
“Nothing
wrong with that.”
“That a
hint?”
“Not at
all, honey. He can do what he wants with his money. I think it’s beautiful,
giving so much.” She wrote a comment beneath: You are a wonderful soul… God Bless <3 .="" i="">
She
received a reply: Thank you. Tell him you
won’t believe #2.
“Number
two?” she asked. “What’s that mean?”
Clive
leaned across her in their bed, taking the phone away and slipping it beneath
her pillow. “It means let’s keep the light on.”
Not long
after, he was sitting in his corner office high above Manhattan, the street
below painted yellow with the tops of taxi cabs, when Slack pinged on his desktop. To his left was Marjorie’s salad (she
was spending the week with him in New York before flying back home to the kids
on Saturday, so they could take in a show or two. He’d been spending too much
time away from home, lately.) And to his right was Stan’s birthday cake. Every
week was someone’s birthday, it seemed. He slid the plate closer and opened up Slack.
“Hi Clive.
How’s it going?” James is typing…
“Given any more thought?”
“No
pleasantries, straight to it, eh?”
“No time.
I’m almost at the third door. Five hundred million about to turn a village in
Africa into a suburban oasis.”
“How
pleasant. And no.” In truth, he had given it some thought – and then looked at
his children and wondered how much he could leave for them. It was alright for
James – he had no heirs. Or perhaps the children in Africa could be considered
heirs, now.
“Dude, door
number two alone could change your life. Take a weekend break and fly out to
me.”
“I’m busy,
maybe another time.” Maybe never. He
said goodbye and signed off and reclined into his chair with his cake. Sounded
like James had grown a little obsessive there, hopefully he’d grow out of it
before he bankrupted himself. Sure was a way to make friends though, and
probably his fair share of lays. He swallowed a mouthful of cake and glanced
over towards The Project: a 450-metre tall work of inner-city art with 120
floors. The miniature twisted up towards the ceiling. He was too busy to be
funding hospital wings and feeding African children – or his own for that
matter. Gloria, Grace and Thomas smiled at him from his desktop, and he smiled
back, a wave of longing washing over him. I’ll
take more time off. I will.
The next he
saw of James was when he landed on The Project’s helipad, the night of the
grand opening. There was no secrecy behind this door; clear, solarised glass
allowed a view out of the penthouse,
and to the landing helicopter. James stepped out in a dervish of whipping
material, two women holding their hair down on his flanks.
Clive let
James find him, which he inevitably did towards the end of the evening.
Marjorie had been correct; he did look younger, walking around like an
airbrushed version of himself. “Evening,” he said. “You look radiant,
Marjorie.” James pecked both her cheeks, and then hooked his arm around Clive’s
shoulder. “Mind if I steal him away a moment?”
“Not at
all,” Marjorie smiled. “Perhaps show him a thing or two about learning how to
relax while you’re at it.”
“I can do
more than that!” he beamed back at her. “Come.”
“How was
Africa?” Clive asked as he was being lead towards a corner.
James
laughed, shaking his head. “Nothing compared to this place. How much did it
cost? How much did you make out of it? And how do I get in? This is one
impressive feat, my friend.” His eyes dilated as he made eye contact: contract, expand, contract, expand.
Clive
frowned, blinking to rid the illusion. He felt an electric thread lightning
through his brain. He imagined fingers rifling through his thoughts.
“As I
thought,” James said. “Amazing. There are sooo many doors. Sooo many opportunities
for the likes of us. You must let me in on the action. Just a little more and
I’ll have enough for the fourth door.”
“I thought
you liked to keep business and pleasure separated?”
“These
days, they’re the same.”
“And who’s
your cosmetic surgeon, by the way? I’m sure Marjorie would love to know.” He
swallowed and felt his tie tighten across his neck.
“Join us
and find out!”
“I have too
much on my plate, and a family to support, to start swanning off to far-flung
countries splashing my cash.” He gave brief thought to answering James’s
original questions, but decided they were rhetorical. “Why don’t you let off
about this Order of yours?”
James was
silent while he stared intently again – contract,
expand, contract, expand – long enough for the moment to grow uneasy. That
heady buzz flitting through Clive’s mind once more.
“Okay,”
nodded James. “I can see I’m not going to be able to change your mind.
Honestly, though, it’s the biggest mistake you’ll never know you made.” His
face took on a serious expression, and before turning to return to the room, he
looked Clive up and down and then squeezed his shoulder, almost sorrowful.
Clive never
spoke to him again. Between work, more work, and family, the weeks blew by
while the weekends were tiny blips on the calendar. Even when he went home, the
travel time ate into those weekend hours; lost hours where his children evolved
out of sight, placing him in an almost perpetual state of surprise. I should stop, he often thought. I can’t, at other times. The Project is just the beginning, a taste of the success to come. He
commissioned a photographer to capture The Project at dawn, with the sun rising
from the spire, and had this mounted in the new boardroom beside his new
office, even grander than before. New York was full of tired estate prime for
redevelopment. He couldn’t give up the opportunity to stake his name on the
city.
Marjorie
often commented on James’s social media posts – Clive’s own patience for
anything social growing thin – the occasional pillowtalk swinging towards James’s
easy lifestyle, funded no doubt by a portfolio longer than the lobby of The
Project. How he could donate so much, while still growing richer, befuddled
Clive, especially when the old friend seemed to spend his time between Monaco,
the Bahamas, Aspen, and places he’d never heard of before. Perhaps there was
something to these doors. The Ultruistic
Order. He had Googled them once, returning zero results.
“Look at
him,” said Marjorie, rolling over and pressing the phone to his face. “A man
like that, as fit and healthy and travelled as he is, while still raking in the
money. He has to delegate. Can’t you learn to delegate?”
Delegate? The very concept turned his
stomach. “A man who delegates does not get his hands dirty. Cannot be said to
have truly built anything.” He looked
closely at the photograph. James was meditating in his red Speedos, legs
crossed and fingers an O, floating
above the sand by about a foot, the azure ocean calm behind him. Clive had seen
enough over the shoulders of his designers over the years to know what could be
done with a little photo magic.
She sighed
and rolled back over. “Strange. This one is just of a door.”
