Fragile Crystal: Rubies and Rivalries (The Crystal Fragments Trilogy)

by M. J. Lawless

  She felt sick as she neared the level streets that led to the square. Perhaps she should go home, she thought to herself. Avoid people. But tonight she was driven on, the woman in the crowd, forced to seek company not because she desired other people but because she was becoming genuinely frightened as to what she would do to herself if she remained alone any longer.

  There were knots and threads of people making their way towards Rossio Square, and she could hear music playing faintly, bursts coming through more clearly as the wind shifted from time to time. It was not a Fado performance, and for that at least she was thankful. Sentimental songs of lost love would have reduced her completely to a wreck. She had a vague recollection of some pop or rock group having been booked for the evening, and there were to be dancers on a giant stage in the square. She could drown herself out in loud music and in the crowd: that would be her consolation tonight. The cup was a bitter one, but she would drink it.

  As she made her way into the square, the silhouette of Dom Pedro IV inky against the sky, a few people looked at her strangely while she followed the crowds towards the stage. She ignored them, watching with dull lights the blinking lights on the frame raised above the podium where a band was playing. She had no idea of who they were, but the young men sang with a gusto that did not feel faked, even if she had no real joy in sharing it.

  At the front of the stage, other young men and women went through carefully choreographed movements, their muscled bodies sweeping against and almost through each other. In other circumstances, Kris would have been impressed, but at one point when she saw a broad pair of shoulders lifting up a woman easily, the taut chest glistening in the red and blue lights that flickered across it, she had a painful memory of Daniel and turned her eyes away.

  Still, there was a kind of comfort in the anonymity of the crowds. They would stay here for a while, conversation drowned in music and the closeness of their bodies. She did not need to speak or think for a while, and when they broke up and moved away she would haunt the gay groups of people as they made their way pleasantly through the city, a single ghost at their banquets.

  When there was a break in the music, she glanced sideways and saw a man looking at her. He was perhaps the age her father would have been had he still lived, and when he saw her glance in his direction he did not look away but, instead, smiled at her.

  “Felize ano novo,” he said to her. She mouthed the words back to him, but did not listen to herself. He, however, refused to be discouraged.

  “And a hard year, too, by the look of things,” he said.

  For a second she glared at him. She wanted to shout something brutal, coarse and rude at him, to tell him to fuck off and mind his own business. But his grey hair and his kind eyes deserved more respect than that. Her problems were not his fault, so she held her tongue and said nothing.

  He sighed. “It’s been a hard year for us all. This music,” he gestured dismissively towards the stage, “it’s not really my thing. But sometimes you just need to be around others, you know?”

  She nodded, barely hearing him.

  “Such a hard year, and when will it get better? Where is the light?” He was warming to his theme, mistaking her silence for interest. “I used to be a teacher, was due to retire this year but... they could no longer afford so many schools, so many teachers, especially us old ones.” He shrugged. “Will I see my pension? I don’t know. My sons and my daughter, they don’t see a future here. They’ve left, all abroad now. One is living in Brazil, one in America hoping to get a visa, the other in Germany. I want them here but, what can you do?” He shrugged.

  Kris couldn’t care less about his sons and daughters, nor whether he received a pension or not. She felt vaguely guilty about this, but again he mistook her silence for attention. He told her how much he had enjoyed teaching, his worries not so much for his own future as for that of his children. Then a thought occurred to her.

  “Your wife—where’s she?”

  A look of pain passed across his face and he sighed. “She died, ten months ago. Cancer—very sad. I spent the last of our savings trying to care for her, to keep her going as long as possible, in as much comfort as I could afford. But...” he raised his hands and gave a sad smile. “Thirty years—thirty years we were married, and for five long, slow months I saw her fade away in front of me.” He shrugged.

  For the first time Kris felt a pang in her heart that was not simply that of self pity. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “For your loss, I’m sorry.”

  He reached across and squeezed her wrist. “Thank you, my dear, and God bless you. It has been a hard year, but we endure. Remember that.”

  She watched the dancers and musicians again impassively, but at least she watched, and when the fireworks were released she turned her head to the sky, watching the gigantic flowers blossom in all their fiery colours against the darkness. They were so brief, so evanescent, and all their promises faded away so quickly, yet she smiled as the crowd around her let out cries of pleasure and surprise.

  She could no longer hold herself to the dire promise that she would pursue the crowds like a lost soul, but when the hour of twelve was struck she joined in the greetings and benedictions, even hugging other people, before heading home. She was tired, so very tired, and she hoped that tonight at least she would sleep. Her stomach churned, but the hunger was mixed with such a sickness that she was not sure she would be able to keep anything down.

  When she opened the door to her flat, she wondered whether she had done the right thing. The light in her hallway was bright and artificial, harsh on her tired eyes. She wanted so much to sleep but rest seemed even further away than ever before.

  She poured herself a glass of wine, looking over the empty bottles in the sink. Sometimes she drank so much that, on her weakened stomach, she would vomit and retch before returning to another bottle. She realised how self-pitying and pathetic she was, but she had no control over herself.

  Taking the glass through, holding it weakly, she paused by the door to her studio. The room was cursed, and sometimes she felt that it was haunted by the presence of Maria Gosselin. The thought of the blonde witch made her stomach heave, and her face twitched in a murderous snarl.

  But there was nothing she could do. Her passions were ineffectual, beating against the air and harming no one other than herself. She pushed open the door and switched on the light.

  On the wall were her drawings, sketches of birdmen and scenes of Lisbon, watercolours and charcoals, while about the floor were oils stacked up against each other. To the one side was the table where she had mixed her paints and prepared her materials. It was a mess, she realised, an utter chaos out of which nothing good could come. She noticed with a wry, black humour that she had not even cleaned up the spilled turps and paint on the floor, embedded with glass from where she had smashed the jar into Maria Gosselin’s face. The memory of that brought a flare of satisfaction but it faded all too quickly. She had got rid of her rival, but the price she had paid was far too high.

  Moving her eyes around the room, she alighted on a sketch, one of the earliest she had done that remained in this place. She had not drawn it here, however. Rather it was a dark shape with a smaller, feminine figure curled up in winged arms both threatening and protective. When she saw it, a memory of Comrie flashed into her mind and a sob burst from her chest, hurting her as it escaped.

  It was no good. It was too much. It was over, over. Letting the wine glass fall from her hand, treading into the broken glass but uncaring as it slashed her bare feet, blood red wine spilling across the floor, she went across to the wall and tore the picture from it. Holding it in her hands, looking at it for the last time, her heart felt as though it would burst in grief as she took hold of each edge and tore it in two, folding those scraps together and tearing again and again until all that remained of the paper was ragged confetti.

  She went along, alternating between rage and grief, yanking down images and ripping and tearing. She tri
ed to tear the canvases but she was too weak, so instead she kicked at them with her bare feet, smearing them with blood, and when that didn’t work she took up one of her palette knives and stabbed the unforgiving surfaces relentlessly.

  The carnage took her more than an hour. She attacked the table where she had worked, so carefully and joyously mixing her paints, sweeping her arms across the jars and palettes, the brushes and knives, smashing them to the floor. Once, when she stood down hard on broken glass, she lifted her foot and gasped in agony, but as she saw what she had done she placed her foot down with grim determination and ground the glass into her heel.

  Her sobs were stifled as she tore and wrecked, until, at last, nothing but chaos remained around her. Her eyes were red and glittering, but the tears would not come. She felt strangled rather than relieved, furious that her catharsis was not complete, that she could not forget everything. Would she have to burn everything? Destroy the entire building to give herself peace?

  And then she saw it, amidst the chaos of the jars and broken brushes. A small wooden sculpture, inset with amethyst. One of the brass tines in the tear-shaped space had broken, and there were some dents in the wood as well as smears across its surface. Her heart kicked inside her when she viewed it. No! It was enough for her to destroy her own work, not her father’s.

  She bent down and retrieved it, lifting it carefully. It was damaged but not broken, and the wood felt smooth and warm in her skin. She could get rid of everything else that Daniel Stone had ever given her, but not this. For a second, she had the painful memory of the wilful, destructive girl tied to her bed, screaming at her father as he attempted to discipline her, but this immediately gave way to a kinder figure, sitting in his workshop as she rested on his lap, helping him score and polish wood and stone. It is hard, but we endure.

  As she slid down the wall, she cradled the sculpture to her chest, the baby she would never have, a child still contained in its egg, waiting to be born. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” she sobbed, tears flowing down her face freely now. “I love you, I love you!” The words burst out, but she could not tell who they were for. Yet the object in her hands, smooth and strangely feminine, was warmer and more comforting than she could ever have imagined.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  She could not face the chaos she had created in her studio the next day, nor the day after that, but she felt a little calmer. She made a desultory effort to clean the rest of her flat, throwing out the empty bottles and even bathing herself. Her hair hurt, however, when she tried to wash it so she gave up on the task. She had no intention of going anywhere or being seen by anyone, so what did it matter?

  The knock on her door on the third morning was persistent and annoying. She was at last enjoying some kind of fitful sleep and now one of her neighbours had taken it upon himself to disturb her. She could even hear his muffled shouting echoing faintly.

  Looking at her clock, she saw that it was after nine and cursed him, whoever he was. Sleep had been sweet and blissfully dreamless, and now she was woken to another empty day. She pulled on a dirty T-shirt and left her legs bare, determined to show him how little she cared for any of his complaints.

  Yet when she entered the hallway, something made her shudder. Evidently he had heard her footsteps because the banging stopped. Yet she did not move again, but stood there, suddenly frightened.

  “Kris!” the voice called out. “Kris! Are you there?”

  Her heart stopped when she heard him. She recognised that voice instantly, but still she called out: “Who is it?”

  “Daniel!” he shouted back. “Please, Kris. Open the door. Please!”

  “Go away,” she cried out. No! a voice inside her screamed. Open it. Let him in. “Go away and leave me alone. I don’t want to see you!”

  There was silence on the other side of the door. “You must. Please!”

  That made her grind her teeth. “I must? I must? Fuck you, Daniel! You made it quite clear what you thought of me. Go to hell, and take that French bitch with you!”

  Again there was silence, but the following noise disturbed her. Was that... laughter? Was he laughing at her? In a fit of fury she ran to the door and pulled it open.

  He was indeed laughing, but she also saw immediately that tears were streaming down his face, his scars burned white against the redness of his cheeks, the edges of his eyes scored and raw. And when he saw her, a panoply of emotions ran across his features, wonder but also amazement and horror.

  “What’s... what’s happened to you? Are you okay?”

  “What do you fucking think? What do you fucking care, Daniel?” She made to slam the door in his face, even as her body was aching to reach out and touch him, to grab him, kiss him, push him to the floor and fuck him violently. Just before she could close it completely on him, he thrust his hand between the edge of the door, catching it. She yanked it back, slamming it against his hand again and he yelled in pain.

  “Fucking hell! Shit! What are you doing, Kris? Please, open the door!”

  Grim but relenting, she opened it slowly, her face burning as she looked at him. She could be as malevolent as any crow, and the state of her as the door drew back, revealing her tangled hair and gaunt features, was obviously a frightening sight to Daniel. He drew back slightly, but not before placing the tip of his foot in the doorway so that she would not be able to slam it shut again. He was nursing his hand, pressing it beneath his armpit and rubbing it with the other.

  “That hurt.”

  “No more than you deserve.”

  He paused and looked away from her red, angry eyes. “No, I guess not. Can I come in?”

  “Why? Can’t find someone to fuck? Why not try Maria Gosselin again? She’s gagging for you?”

  His eyes flashed angrily at this, but he calmed himself immediately. He shook his head and lowered his gaze. “Can I come in?” he asked once more, quietly this time.

  She stood to one side. She hated herself at that moment. Her body was stiff, resolute, cloaked in an invisible armour from head to toe, but still she wanted to jump on him, to wrap her slender legs around him, to taste his mouth on hers, to squeeze his cock hard and feel his fingers inside her. As he walked past, still not looking at her, she almost fell because of the trembling in her legs.

  He finally raised his head and looked around. “Nice,” he said, inanely. “I can see what you mean about it being a home.” She was looking at him though he did not return her gaze, did not dare to. Although not in the same state as her, it was clear that he had not shaved for several days, his stubble beginning to come through. For a painful, pitiful moment, she thought of Daniel Logan and Comrie. Immediately, however, she closed down the shutters of her mind, blocking out the thought.

  As he glanced across the hallway, he saw the door half open onto her studio. He began to walk across and she lifted one hand uncertainly. No, don’t go in there! But she lowered it again. Let him see—what did she care?

  He nodded slowly, standing in the doorway, filling it with his large frame. Without looking back at her, he entered and knelt down, resting on his haunches as he reached out to pick up some tattered piece of paper, a broken canvas.

  He seemed lost in meditation, looking at the shards of her art, and was so silent that finally she felt she could do nothing but move behind him.

  “I’m sorry,” he told her quietly. “I’m so sorry.”

  His voice was as broken as the canvas he held in his hands, and as she looked down at him she realised that tears were streaming down his face. In his hands was a torn painting of a man with wings, his body scarred and battered, everything ruined where she had slashed and hacked at the surface. Despite herself, she placed a hand on his shoulder and he immediately raised his own, grasping her wrist tightly. His sobs were loud, as grief-stricken as her own had been. “What did I do? What did I do?”

  Her heart could be as stone no longer. She had not forgiven him, but even had he been a total stranger she could not have ignored suc
h raw pain. Self-pity it may have been, but mingled with it was such despair that her own heart began to grow tender once more. It is hard, but we endure.

  Kneeling beside him, she placed her arms around his shoulders and he pressed his head into her neck. She rocked backwards and forwards, consoling him slightly. Inside, she wanted to hurt him for the pain he had caused her to suffer, but she also wanted to heal.

  When his head came up, blind and fumbling, his lips searching for her own, warm and wet, she opened her mouth and took him inside herself. His hand was clambering up her body, pushing past the smooth thigh, seeking the warmth of her torso and her breast. That was too much—and she pulled away from him, pushing him back.

  “No,” she said simply and stood up. Her gaze as she looked down on him, however, was firm rather than angry, and he nodded. When his own eyes fell back down again, he noticed her feet.

  “Christ!” he muttered. “What have you done to your feet?”

  She had cleaned them in the bath, but it was clear that the wounds inflicted by the glass were not healing well, the skin splitting and showing bright red gashes, crusted with blood. This shocked him out of self-pity and he reached a hand across to her, touching her gently. She winced as his fingers made contact and his eyes shot up to hers, determined and clear.

  “Come on,” he said. “We need to get you to a hospital.”

  She sighed. “Yes,” she said at last. “I guess I’ve been pretty stupid for the past few days. Dying from a foot infection wasn’t my idea of a romantic exit from this world, however.”

  He laughed at this and slowly raised himself to his feet, pressing down on his thighs with his hands. His eyes were still red, but there was a warmth in them now, mingled with a hope as he looked down on her tenderly.