by Clive Barker
Rachel picked her way through the numerous drawers which had been pulled out and lain on the floor to be searched, and went to the bathroom door. Her heart began to hammer again as she reached for the handle. She disregarded its din, and opened the door.
It was a big room, all pink marble and gold; the tub—which Margie had loved to lounge in—enormous. “I feel like a million-dollar hooker when I’m in that tub,” Margie had liked to boast.
There were still countless reminders of her presence littered about. Perfume bottles and ashtrays, a photograph of her brother Sam tucked into the frame of the Venetian mirror, another photograph (this one of Margie in lacy underwear, taken by a society photographer who’d specialized in aesthetically sleazy portraits), hanging beside the door to the shower. Again, there was also ample evidence that the police had been here. In several places the black marble surface had been dusted for fingerprints, and a layer of dust remained. The congealed remains of a pizza—presumably consumed while the investigators were at work—sat in a greasy box beside the bath. And the contents of the drawers had been sorted through; a selection of questionable items set on the counter. A plethora of pill bottles; a small square mirror, along with a razor (kept for sentiment’s sake, presumably; Margie had stopped using recreational cocaine years ago) and a collection of sexual items: a small pink vibrator, a jar of cherry-flavored body lubricant, some condoms.
The sight of all this distressed Rachel. She couldn’t help but imagine the officers smirking as they dug through the drawers; making tasteless jokes at Margie’s expense. Not that she would have given a damn.
Rachel had seen enough. She wasn’t going to be haunted by this place; any power it might have had over her had been trampled away. At least so she thought until she went to switch off the light. There on the wall was a dark spatter. She told herself to look away, but her eye went no further than the next dried drop, which was larger. She touched it. The drop came away on her fingertip, like cracked paint. It was Margie’s blood. And there was more of it, a lot more of it, invisible on the speckled marble until now.
Suddenly it didn’t matter that the police had defiled the room with their pizza and their sticky fingers. Margie had died here. Oh, God in Heaven, Margie had died here. This was her lifeblood, spilled on the wall: a smear close to Rachel’s shoulder, where she’d fallen back or reached out in the hope of keeping herself from falling, a larger clot on the floor between Rachel’s feet, almost as dark as the marble.
She looked away, revolted, but the defenses she’d put up to keep herself from picturing what had happened here had collapsed. Suddenly she had the scene before her, in horrid detail. The sound of the shots echoing off the marble, off the mirrors; the look of disbelief on Margie’s face as she retreated from her husband; the blood running out between her fingers, slapping on the floor.
What had Garrison done when the shots were fired? Dropped the gun and fallen to his knees beside her? Or stumbled to the phone to call for an ambulance? More likely he’d called Mitchell, or a lawyer; put off the moment when help could come for as long as possible, to be certain that the life had gone from Margie. Every last breath.
Rachel covered her face with her hands, but the image refused to be banished so easily. It pulsed before her: Margie’s face, openmouthed; her hands, fluttering, her body, robbed of motion, or the prospect of motion, darkening as the blood spread over it.
“Stop this,” Rachel said to herself.
She wanted to get out of the bathroom without looking at it again, but she knew that was the worst thing she could do. She had to uncover her eyes and confront what she’d seen. There was nothing here that could hurt her, except for her own superstition.
She reluctantly let her hands drop from her face and forced herself to study the scene afresh. First the sink and its surrounds; then the mirror and the tub. Finally, the blood on the floor. Only when she’d taken it all in did she turn to leave the bathroom.
Where now? The bedroom lay before her, with all the drawers laid out. She could waste an hour going through the room, but it was a fool’s errand. If the letters were here, then they were so well hidden the police had failed to find them, and so, more than likely, would she.
Instead she picked her way back across the littered floor to the landing and crossed to Margie’s sitting room. She glanced at her watch as she did so. She’d been in the house twelve minutes already. There was no time for further delay.
She opened the sitting room door, and immediately retreated, pursued out onto the landing by Didi, Margie’s pug, who yapped with all the ferocity of a dog three times his size.
“Hush, hush—” She dropped down to her knees so he could sniff her hands. “It’s only me.”
He ceased his din on the instant, and instead began a round of grateful mewlings, dancing around in circles before her. She’d never much cared for the animal, but her heart went out to it now. It was doubtless wondering where its mistress had disappeared to, and took Rachel’s presence as a sign of her return.
“You come with me,” she said to the animal. It duly trotted after her into the sitting room, where a plate of uneaten food and an excrement-caked newspaper testified to its sorry state. The rest of the room was in a far tidier condition than either the bedroom or the bathroom. Either the police had neglected to examine it thoroughly, or else the officer who’d done so was a woman.
Rachel didn’t linger. She immediately started to go round the room, opening every cupboard and drawer. There were plenty of plausible hiding places—rows of books (mostly airport romances), heaps of Broadway playbills, even a collection of letters (all of them from charitable organizations begging Margie’s support)—but there was no sign of anything vaguely incriminating. Didi stayed close by throughout the search, plainly determined not to lose his companion now he had her. Once only did he leave her side, wadding to the door as though he’d heard somebody in the house. Rachel paused and ventured out onto the landing, listening as intently as the dog, but it seemed to be a false alarm. Back to her search she went, checking on the time as she did so. She’d spent almost half an hour in the sitting room; she couldn’t afford to stay in the house much longer. But if she left empty-handed, would she have the courage to return? Certainly she’d used up every cent of enthusiasm she had for the venture. It wouldn’t be easy to persuade herself to repeat the process; not now that she had specifics to dwell on: the blood, the murk, the disarray.
When she returned into the sitting room Didi was not at her heel. She called to him, but he didn’t come. She called again, and this time heard a lapping sound from the far side of the room. There was another door, which led into a small bathroom, with room for only a sink and a toilet. Didi had somehow scrambled up onto the toilet seat and was drinking from the bowl, the sight both sad and absurd. She told him to get down. He looked up, water dripping from his chops, and gave her a quizzical look She told him again to get down, this time coming to pluck him off his perch. He was off the seat before she could get to him however, and scampered off between her legs.
She glanced around the tiny room: there was nowhere here to hide anything, except for the plain cabinet that boxed the sink. She bent down and opened it up. It smelt of disinfectant. There was a small store of bathroom cleansers and spare toilet tissue. She pulled them out and peered into the shadows. The pipes coming from the sink were wet; when she reached up to touch them her fingers came away covered in mold. She peered in again. There was something else in beneath the sink beside pipes; something wrapped up in paper. She reached a second time, and this time took hold of the object, which was wedged between the pipe and the damp-sodden plaster. It wouldn’t move. She cursed, which sent Didi, who’d returned to see what was going on, scurrying from her side. Suddenly, the object shifted, and her cold fingers weren’t quick enough to catch it before it dropped to the ground. There was the muffled sound of a breaking bottle, and then the smell of brandy wafted up out of the cabinet. Clearly what she’d found was liquor Margie
had stashed away during some long-surrendered attempt at drying out. Did was back again, sniffing after the brandy, the smell of which was giddying.
“Get out of there!” Rachel said, catching hold of him to haul him from the muck He squealed like a piglet. She told him to stop complaining and unceremoniously threw him in the direction of the door. Then she proceeded to put the bleach and disinfectant and toilet tissue back Hopefully if she closed the cabinet door tight nobody would catch the smell of liquor. And even if they did, she reasoned, what were they going to find? Just a broken bottle. As she slid the last of the disinfectants into the cabinet she caught sight of something else, lying beside the brandy. Not one but two envelopes, both bulky. Either Danny wrote very long letters, she thought, or else he’d miscalculated the number of photographs he’d taken. She pulled the envelopes out into the light. They had both been in contact with the wall; there were flecks of decayed plaster adhering to them. Otherwise, they’d survived their hiding place intact. One of them was considerably heavier than the other however. It didn’t contain letters or photographs, she thought; more like a small, thick book.
This wasn’t the place to examine the contents; she could do that at home. She finished putting the disinfectants into the cabinet, firmly closed the door, and bidding Didi a quick farewell headed out of the sitting room onto the landing.
If Garrison came in now, she thought, she wouldn’t be able to tell a lie worth a damn. The pleasure at her discovery was written all over her face. She tucked the envelopes into her coat and hurried down the stairs, keeping her eye on the front door as she descended; but the good fortune which had delivered the envelopes into her hands held. She opened the door a few inches, checking to see if there were any photographers out there, and finding that the rain was still pelting down and the sidewalk deserted, slipped out and down the steps, thoroughly pleased with herself.
VIII
i
I have to make room here for the briefest of digressions on the inevitable and probably inexhaustible subject of my invert sister. The last I wrote of her she’d come into my room flushed with success, having read Sister Mary-Elizabeth’s poem to her beloved, and had her proposal of marriage accepted. A few hours ago she came back with details of the arrangements.
“No excuses,” she said to me. “You have to be there.”
“I’ve never been to a lesbian wedding,” I said, “I wouldn’t know what to do.”
“Be happy for me.”
“I am.”
“I want you to dance and get drunk and make a sentimental speech about our childhood.”
“On what? You and Daddy in the dressing room?”
She gave me a fierce look. Maybe it’s some remnant of an atavistic power lodged in her, but when she gets fierce she looks rabid.
“Has Alice ever seen you angry?” I asked her.
“Once or twice.”
“No. I mean really angry. Crazy-angry. I-could-tear-your-heart-out-and-eat-it angry.”
“Hm . . . no.”
“Shouldn’t she be warned, before you tie the knot? I mean, you can be a terror.”
“So can she. She’s the only girl in a family of eight.”
“She has seven brothers?”
“Seven brothers. And they treat her very respectfully.”
“Rich family?”
“White trash. Two of the brothers are in jail. The father’s an alcoholic. Beer for breakfast.”
“Are you sure she’s not just after you for your money?” I said. Marietta glowered. “Jesus, I’m just asking. I don’t want to see you hurt.”
“If you’re so suspicious, then you come and meet her. Meet them all.”
“You know I can’t do that.”
“Why not? And don’t tell me you’re working.”
“But that’s the truth. I am. Morning, noon and night.”
“This is a damn sight more important than your book This is the woman I love and adore and idolize.”
“Hm. Love, adore and idolize, huh? She must be good in bed.”
“She’s the best, Eddie. I mean, the very best. She eats me out like she’d just invented it. I scream so loud the trailer shakes.”
“She lives in a trailer? Are you sure you’re doing the right thing?”
Marietta picked at her front tooth, which she always does when she’s uneasy. “Most of the time,” she replied.
“But . . . ?”
“But what?”
“No. You tell me. Most of the time’s enough?”
“Okay, smartass. When you met Chiyojo were you absolutely certain—not even a breath of doubt—that she was the one?”
“Absolutely.”
“You had an affair with her brother,” she reminded me lightly.
“So?”
“So how certain could you be about marrying a woman when you were screwing her brother?”
“That was different. He was . . .”
“A transvestite.”
“No. He was an actor.” She rolled her eyes. “How did we get into this?” I said.
“You were trying to talk me out of marrying Alice.”
“No I wasn’t. I really wasn’t. I was observing that . . . I don’t know what I was observing. Never mind.”
Marietta came over to me and took hold of my hand. “You know, you’re very good for me,” she said.
“I am?”
“You make me question things. You make me think twice.”
“I don’t know if that’s such a good thing. Sometimes I wish I hadn’t thought twice so many times, if you see what I mean. I might have done more with my life.”
“I think Alice is the one, Eddie.”
“Then marry her, for God’s sake.”
She squeezed my hand hard. “I really want you to meet her first. I want your opinion. It means a lot to me.”
“So maybe you should bring her here,” I said. Marietta looked doubtful. “She’s going to see this place eventually. And I think we’d both have a better idea of whether it was going to work out once we saw how she responded.”
“You mean: tell her everything?”
“Not everything. Nobody could handle everything. Just enough to see whether she’s ready for the truth.”
“Hm. Would you help me?”
“Like how?”
“Keep Cesaria from scaring her.”
“I can’t stop her if she wants to do something. Nobody could. Not even Dad.”
“But you’d do your best.”
“Yes. I’ll be the voice of reason, if that makes any difference.”
“You’d tell Cesaria you suggested it?”
I sighed. “If I must,” I said.
“Then that’s settled. I’ll go talk to Alice now.”
“Just give me a little warning. So I can organize myself.”
“I’m excited.”
“Oh Lord. I don’t like the sound of that.”
Of course I’m regretting it. Who wouldn’t? The best it can be is a fiasco. But what else was I going to do? This obviously isn’t some overnight romance. Marietta feels something profound for this woman. I can see it in her eyes. I can hear it in her voice. And it would be hypocritical of me to be writing with such enthusiasm about the grand—if stymied—passion between Rachel and Galilee and at the same time turn a blind eye to something that’s happening right in front of me.
Anyway, I’ve agreed. The woman will come to us and we’ll see what we’ll see.
Meanwhile, I have a story to tell.
ii
The Central Park apartment was deserted when Rachel got back from her expedition to the Trump Tower. Even so, she didn’t sit down at the dining room table and open the two envelopes she’d found, just in case somebody were to walk in on her. She went to her bedroom, where she locked the door and drew the drapes. Only then did she sit cross-legged on the bed to examine her booty.
In the less bulky of the two envelopes she found the letters and the photographs. Danny was quite the eroticist
, to judge by what he’d written. His concern that if these letters had fallen into the wrong hands they might be used to besmirch Margie were well founded. There were dates and times and locations here; there were heated reminiscences of deeds done and boastful promises of how much more intricate it was going to get next time. Nor was any of this put in a roundabout way. “We’re going to have to start fucking in a soundproof room,” he said in one of the letters, “the way you like to shout. I’m sitting here hard as a rock thinking about you yelling your head off and me just sliding in and out, long strokes, the way you like. There isn’t a thing I wouldn’t do for you, you know that? When we’re together I feel as though the rest of the world can just go to hell—we don’t need anybody but each other. I wish I could have been a baby, sometimes, and drunk the milk from your beautiful tits. Or been born out of you. Fuck, I know that sounds twisted, but you said we shouldn’t be afraid of any of the things we feel, right? I’d like to fuck you so deep I get lost inside you, and you ‘d carry me around for a while, like I was your baby. Then when you wanted me out and giving you the nasty you’d just open your legs and out I’d come, all ready to service you.”
