Lethal kisses, p.31
Lethal Kisses, page 31
It had been kept in an airless closet with a single bucket used to bring its slops and remove its leavings. When I unlocked the door, I was hit with the stench of gangrene. It had lost both legs and arms; the stumps were tied up with leather thongs. Its dugs were empty sacks, its face a noseless horror black with necrosis. That blind and fish-mouthed face gaping up at me, idiotic in its misery, was all but unrecognisable.
Anastasia drew in her breath with a short, sharp hiss. But she only said, ‘Carry her.’
I picked the body up and discovered that it was almost liquescent. It sloshed like an overripe pear. Anastasia walked us to the sailmaker’s cupboard and from it took needles, canvas and leather. Swiftly, she fashioned a kind of saddle for her onetime body and a harness for me.
‘Strip,’ she commanded.
I obeyed.
Her body stirred slightly. A sort of coughing noise hacked and rattled in its chest and for a horrified instant I thought it was laughing at me. But then in a tiny, mewling voice, it said, ‘I want … I want …’
‘Hush.’ Anastasia’s voice and face were like stone. ‘I know what you want.’ She called upon her powers and was abruptly clothed again, in the good wool of my second-best dress uniform. She hung a gilt-framed mirror in the air and fluffed the jabot so that the lace stood up crisp and white. Her hair she briskly brushed and pulled back into a pony-tail. She dashed on a touch of scent and made certain that the bow was perfectly straight.
Smiling her wrath, she turned upon me.
What at last she was done amusing herself, I was strapped and saddled like a mule. Her body was placed on my back.
Anastasia slapped me on the rump. ‘Move!’
We made our way up on deck. The corpses of my crew were strewn about. I looked upon them and felt nothing. Beyond, the immense insect-ships were breaking up and burning on the sands. Brown as lacquered wood, they kicked and struggled like dying cockroaches, their substance shifting in the golden light, disintegrating, degrading, rotting. The stench was terrible, the stink of elimination pits and extermination camps. So far as I could see, only we two had survived the holocaust.
We passed through the silent battle-grounds.
Gagged, harnessed, and bent over by the weight of Anastasia’s mutilated body, I made my painful way across the sterile plains of Heaven.
How long did we travel? Hours? Days? Centuries? We did not sleep and there were no events to divide the eternal emptiness of the desert sands. I began the trek rabid with humiliation and inwardly raving for revenge. But the unvarying drudgery of passage leached away my passions a breath at a time, until all my past took on the unreality of a story told one time too many and I began to forget even my own name.
Finally, my senses numbed and emotions at zero, we came to a place where the unvarying sands stretched to infinity to all points of the compass. A place where all directions were one.
Anastasia’s body was finally and undeniably dead. She unsaddled it and lowered it to the ground. Then she created a shovel and thrust it in my hands.
‘Dig!’ she commanded.
I delved the hole true and to the square: eight feet long, four feet wide, and six feet deep, with straight edges and crisp corners. Even Anastasia could find no fault with my work.
Her corpse lay alongside the grave. When I was done, she edged a foot underneath and unceremoniously rolled it in. It fell face upward.
Dead blue eyes stared up at me.
In that dizzying, vertiginous instant I remembered everything. All this had happened before, not once but innumerable times. Always to the same weary conclusion.
Exhausted and drained of emotion as I was, I would have made my peace with Anastasia if I could. But after all I had done to her, what overtures of mine would she accept? What words were sweet enough, grovelling enough, true enough? None that human tongue had yet spoken.
Still – the alternative was unthinkable. I had to try.
But as I turned to speak, I saw Anastasia fade away, like smoke, like wind, like darkness.
And when I looked back, there were ships coming across the sands. I saw and, seeing, understood and, understanding, despaired.
The ships skimmed lightly over the golden sands, blowing slight tails in the dunes. A fresh and untouched flotilla, amnesiac, flagged by a schooner whose rails and shrouds were thronged with grotesques who were all aspects of a single woman. One among them, I knew, would love me despite herself – and pay dearly for doing so. The captain stood on the raised quarter-deck, looking-glass tucked under her arm, harshly beautiful, eyes stern beyond all reason. It was Anastasia’s turn again.
This time the ships were hers.
This time we would sail to Hell.
AFTERWORD
According to Jack Dann, ‘Ships’ came to life as a literary game on the Genie Information services. ‘Michael Swanwick dropped into my topic some time in 1994 and typed in the first four lines of what was to become our story. Then he challenged me to best what he had written. This was a case of write or be humiliated online. Old-world macho in cyberspace. I couldn’t resist, and we wrote several more parapraphs back and forth on Genie. I thought that was the end of it … until I received the first nine pages in the mail. Michael had done an initial conforming draft of the opening … which I took back to Australia. The rest of the story was written – and brainstormed – on e-mail.’
THE DREADFUL DAY OF JUDGEMENT
by
Ruth Rendall
Ruth Rendell is a major writer of psychological suspense novels. She has won three Edgar Awards from the Mystery Writers of America and four Golden Daggers from England’s Crime Writers’ Association, and is the author of over thirty novels, including Going Wrong, Live Flesh, The Crocodile Bird, Simisola and The Keys to the Street, and as Barbara Vine, A Dark Adapted Eye, A Fatal Inversion, Gallowglass, Anna’s Book and No Night is Too Long. In addition, she has published six collections of short stories.
‘The Dreadful Day of Judgement’ takes place in a setting most readers would prefer to avoid – a cemetery. The story was originally published in Rendell’s collection The Fever Tree.
There were four of them working in the cemetery. They were employed by the city corporation – to do what? Even the foreman was vague about their duties which had not been very precisely specified. Not to clear the central part, certainly, for that would have been a task not for four but for four hundred. And a wild life sanctuary, for which purpose it was designated, must be wild. To tidy it, then, to remove the worst signs of vandalism, to carry away such gravestones as had fallen, to denude certain of the many winding paths of the intrusive bramble and ivy and nettle. When they asked the foreman whether this should be done or that, he would say to use their own judgement, he couldn’t be sure, he would find out. But he never did. Sometimes an official from the corporation came and viewed the work and nodded and disappeared into the hut with the foreman to drink tea. As the winter came on the official appeared less often, and the foreman said it was a hopeless task, they needed more men, but the corporation could no longer afford to spend the money, they must just do the best they could.
The hut was just inside the main gates. The foreman had a plan of the cemetery pinned to the wall next to Gilly’s calendar of the girl in the transparent nightdress. He had a kettle and a spirit stove, but the cups and the teapot had been brought by Marlon who got them from his mother. The hut was always hot and smelly and smoky. The foreman chain-smoked and so did Marlon, although he was so young, and everywhere in the hut were saucers full of ash and cigarette stubs. One day Gilly, who didn’t smoke, brought into the hut a tin can he had found in an open vault. The foreman and Marlon seemed pleased to have a new, clean ashtray, for they never considered emptying he others but let them fill up and spill about the floor.
‘Marlon’d be scared stiff if he knew where that came from,’ said John. ‘He’d die of fright.’
But Gilly only laughed. He found everything about the cemetery funny, even the soldiers’ graves, the only well-tended ones, that the Imperial War Graves Commission still looked after. In the beginning he had amused himself by jumping out on Marlon from behind a monument or a pillared tomb, but the foreman, lethargic as he was, had stopped that because Marlon was not quite as they were, being backward and not able to read or write much.
The main gates hung between what the foreman called stone posts but which John alone knew were Corinthian columns. A high wall surrounded the cemetery, which was of many acres, and the periphery of it, a wide space just inside the wall, had been cleared long before and turfed and planted with trees that were still tiny. This was to be a public park for the townsfolk. It was the centre, the deep heart of the place, once the necropolis for this mercantile city, that was to be left for the birds and such small animals who would venture in and stay.
Many species of bird already nested in the ilexes and the laurels, the elms and the thin, silver-trunked birch trees. Crows with wings like black fans, woodpeckers whose tap-tap-tapping could be heard from the almost impenetrable depths, little birds which even John couldn’t name and which crept rather than hopped over the lichen on the fallen stones. It was silent in there but for the rare rustle of wings or the soft crack of a decayed twig dropping. The city lay below, all round, but in winter it was often masked by fog, and it was hard to believe that thousands lived down there and worked and scurried in glare and noise. Their forbears’ tombs stood in rows or gathered in clusters or jostled each other haphazardly: domed follies, marble slabs, granite crosses, broken columns, draped urns, simple stones, all overgrown and shrouded and half-obscured. Not a famous name among them, not a memorable title, only the obscure dead, forgotten, abandoned, capable now of nothing more than to decree a hush.
The silence was violated by Gilly’s talk. He had one topic of conversation, but that one was inexhaustible and everything recalled him to it. A name on a tomb, a scrap of verse on a gravestone, a pair of sparrows, the decorously robed statue of an angel. ‘Bit of all right, that one,’ he would say, stroking the stone flesh of a weeping muse, his hands so coarse and calloused that John wondered how any real woman could bear them to touch her. Or, lifting the ivy from a grave where lay a matron who had married three times, ‘Couldn’t get enough of it, could she?’ And these reflections led him into endless reminiscences of the women he had had, those he now possessed, and anticipations of those awaiting him in the future.
Nothing stayed him. Not the engraved sorrow of parents mourning a daughter dead at seventeen, not the stone evocations of the sufferings of those dead in childbirth. Some of the vaults had been despoiled and left open, and he would penetrate them, descending subterranean stairs, shouting up to John and Marlon from the depths that here was a good place to bring a girl. ‘Be OK in the summer. There’s shelves here, make a good bed, they would. Proper little boudoir.’
John often regretted the thing he had done which made Gilly admire him. It had been on his first day there. He knew, even before he had done it, that this was to show them he was different from them, to make it clear from the start that he was a labourer only because there was no other work obtainable for such as he. He wanted them to know he had been to a university and was a qualified teacher. The shame and humiliation of being forced to take this unskilled work ate into his soul. They must understand his education had fitted him for something higher. But it had been a foolish vanity.
There had been nothing in the deep cavity any more but stones and dead leaves. But he had jumped in and held up a big pitted stone and cried ringingly: ‘That skull had a tongue in it and could sing once. How the knave jowls it to the ground, as if ’twere Cain’s jawbone that did the first murder!’
Gilly stared. ‘You make that up yourself?’
‘Shakespeare,’ he said. ‘Hamlet,’ and the awe on Gilly’s unformed pug-nosed face made him go on, excited with succcess, a braggart in a squalid pit. ‘Prithee, Horatio, tell me one thing. Dost thou think Alexander looked o’ this fashion i’ the earth? And smelt so? pah!’
Marlon had gone white, his face peaked between the falls of thin yellow hair. He wore a heavy blue garment, a kind of anorak, but it gave him a medieval look standing there against the chapel wall, an El Greco sky flowing above its tower, purple and black and rushing in scuds above this northern Toledo. But Gilly was laughing, begging John to go on, and John went on, playing to the groundlings, holding the stone aloft, ‘Alas, poor Yorick …’ until at last he flung it from him with the ham actor’s flourish, and up on the path again was being clapped on the back by Gilly and told what a brain he’d got. And Gilly was showing what he was and what all that had meant to him by demanding to have that bit again, the bit about the lips that I have kissed I know not how oft.
Marlon hadn’t laughed or congratulated him. Bewildered, frightened by the daring of it and the incomprehensibility, he fumbled to light a fresh cigarette, another of the sixty he would smoke that day. Cigarettes were all he had, a tenuous hold on that real world in which his mother, sixteen years before, had named him after a famous actor. The smoke flowed from his loose lips. In a way, but for that cigarette, he might have been an actor in a miracle play perhaps or in a chorus of madmen. On that day as on all the others that followed, he walked behind them as they made their way back through the shaded aisles, under the leather-leaved ilexes, between the little houses of the dead.
In the hut there was tea to be drunk, and then home, the foreman off to his semidetached and his comfortable wife, Marlon to his mother and stuffy rooms and television commercials, John to his bedsit, Gilly (as John, the favoured, was not privileged to be told) to the arms of a casino owner’s wife whose husband lacked a gravedigger’s virility.
The chapel was built of yellowish-grey stones. It had an octagonal nave, and on its floor thin, hair-like grass grew up between the flags. To one of its sides was attached a square tower, surmounted at each angle by a thin ornamented spire. The four spires, weather-worn, corroded, stained, were like four needles encrusted with rust. The workmen used the chapel as a repository for pieces of broken stone and iron rails. Even Gilly’s bullying could not make Marlon go inside. He was afraid of Gilly and the foreman, but not so afraid as he was of the echoing chapel and of the dust beneath his feet.
Gilly said, ‘What’d you do, Marl, if you turned round now and it wasn’t me here but a skeleton in a shroud, Marl?’
‘Leave him alone,’ said John, and when they were alone in the nave, ‘You know he’s a bit retarded.’
‘Big words you use, John. I call him cracked. D’you know what he said to me yesterday? All of them graves are going to open up and the dead bodies come out. On some special day that’s going to be. What day’s that then? I said. But he only wobbled his head.’
‘The dreadful Day of Judgement,’ said John, ‘When the secrets of all hearts shall be revealed.’
‘Wouldn’t suit me, that. Some of them old skulls’d blush a bit if I told them what I’d been getting up to last night. The secrets of all hearts? Open some of them up and I’d have a good many blokes on my track, not to mention that old git, you-know-who. Break his bloody roulette wheel, he would.’
‘Over your head, no doubt,’ said John.
‘A short life and a randy one, that’s what I say.’ They came out into the cold, pale sunlight. ‘Here, have a shufty at this. Angelina Clara Bowyer, 1816 to 1839. Same age as what you are, mate, and she’d had five kids! Must have worn her old man out.’
‘It wore her out,’ said John and he seemed to see her with her piled plaited hair and her long straight dress and the consumption in her face. He saw the young husband mourning among those five bread-and-butter-fed children, the crêpe on his hat, the black coat. Under a sky like this, the sun a white puddle in layered cloud, he came with the clergyman and the mourners and the coffin-bearers to lay her in the earth. The flowers withered in the biting wind – or did they bring flowers to funerals then? He didn’t know, and not knowing broke the vision and brought him back to the clink of spade against granite, the smell of Marlon’s cigarette, Gilly talking, talking, as boringly as an old woman of her aches and pains only he was talking of sex.
They always stopped work at four now the dusk came early. ‘Nights are drawing in,’ said the foreman, brewing tea, filling up with dog ends the can Gilly had found in the grave.
‘When’ll we get it over with?’ Marlon faltered, coming close to the stove, coughing a little.
Depends on what we’ve got to get over,’ said the foreman. ‘Digging a bit here, clearing a bit there. My guess is that council fellow’ll come round one of these days and say, That’s it, lads, now you can leave it to the squirrels.’
Gilly was looking at his calendar, turning over the November nightdress girl to the December Santa Claus girl. ‘If I had my way they’d level it all over, the centre bit, and put grass down, make the whole place a park. That’s healthy, that is. Somewhere a young kid could take his girl. Lover’s Lane Park, that’d be a good name. I’d like to see real birds there, not them bloody crows.’
‘You can’t do that,’ said Marlon. ‘There’s the dead people in there.’
‘So what? There was dead people round the edges, but they took them up. They done something – what they call it, John?’
‘They deconsecrated the ground.’
‘Hear what John says? He’s educated, he knows.’
Marlon got up, the cigarette clinging to his lip. ‘You mean they dug them up? There was others and they dug them up?’
“Course they did. You didn’t think they was under there, did you?’
‘Then where’ll they be when the Day comes? How’ll they lift up the stones and come out?’
‘Here, for Christ’s sake,’ said the foreman, ‘that’s enough of that, young Marlon. I don’t reckon your mum’d better take you to church no more if that’s what you come out with.’
‘They must come out, they must come and judge,’ Marlon cried, and then the foreman told him sharply to shut up, for even he could be shaken by this sort of thing, with the darkness crowding in on the hut, and the heart of the cemetery a black mound horned by the spires of the chapel.
