by Tanith Lee
"No," said Malach.
"That's it," said Ivory. "You have the money. Bloody dog's useless anyway."
Ivory walked along the platform, to the place of exit, which had been carefully unbarred. A dull light shone beyond, less brilliant than the torches and the warning lamps.
Malach looked at the dogs.
The dead one still had its jaws fixed into the man. The other peered up at Malach, half-blinded. It growled.
Malach coughed, and wiped the blood which came off his mouth.
Then he moved quietly out of the exit, after Ivory.
The corridors were all white tiles, like some fundamental latrine. The little dull lights burned high up, and, under them, Ivory was walking quickly now, away.
Not hearing Malach, only sensing him, he glanced back. Then he ran, not for exercise.
Malach only walked.
The white tunnels ebbed upward, and came out in a hall. More posters (Bovril, Guinness), these defaced with old naive graffiti, Kiss me quick, Up the Spurs.
The huge dragon-back escalators, unfurled from the upper gloom, came in motion, ascending.
Ivory had sprinted onto one. He stood, staring behind him, getting watery legs ready to run again.
Malach reached the escalators. He chose another, one which was frozen into time, like the dinosaur.
He raced. He raced up the dead escalator. And when he was above Ivory, had passed him, he vaulted the barrier between and came over on to Ivory's side, onto the moving track.
Ivory tried to go down the rocking up-escalator.
After a moment he tipped over on his knees, and the steps carried him upward again.
With no difficulty, Malach was descending.
Malach reached him.
Malach stood over him, and forced Ivory's head down onto the moving tread, so the ponytail of hair was caught inside. With a screech, Ivory was twisted around onto his side. Lying pinned, his hair in a vise, he pushed his hand up over his throat.
"Don't," he said.
Malach stood over him still, and, leisurely, once more they were carried up to the surface of hell.
When they were almost there, and the steps began to level out, Malach crushed Ivory's head over, and his face, or parts of it, were drawn into the cement with the track.
Presently, the stair mechanism jammed, but too late for Ivory.
The echoes of his anguish died slowly, as if the ancient station was unwilling to let them go.
When Malach went back below, the wounded dog, the only thing left alive, glared up at him again and growled and slavered bloody foam.
In the red and white furnace light the bodies lay, immaterial as debris. Only the other dog, the dead one, had bulk and presence still.
Malach reached out and the live dog bared its shovel of fangs, from which ripped flesh was hanging.
But Malach's hand came down in its rings and blood upon the head of the black dog, and the dog closed its mouth. Its face was ugly with a dreadful wisdom surprised.
Presently he knelt and picked it up. It was heavy and almost inert, and as he stood with it, he caught his breath.
Then he held it against him and the dog looked stonily into his face.
"You," Malach said, "you I can change."
He walked back up from hell, up the broken escalator, over the final body, and out of the little concealed door, into the city that was like all cities, and the time that was like all times, and the agony and tedium and loss that had no end.
CHAPTER 44
FOR ALMOST THREE WEEKS STELLA waited. She thought, afterward, that she had probably done this because she knew and did not want her knowledge confirmed. But then, curiously, hurtfully, she had not known. There had been no sudden wrenching, no sense of severence. No dream, not even that. When he did not phone her that morning, she began to feel slightly sick. And this sickness went on all her waking hours, from the second she woke to the moment she slept. That was all. Nothing else.
Nobbi was reliable. She had always found him so. If he could not see her, and often he could not, he would always call her during the week, once, twice. They were sad little calls, because they were short and there was nothing substantial in them, only voices. But she was grateful for them nevertheless.
And if he said he would call, he would call.
And if he did not, then something had happened.
At first she reasoned. He had found Tracy and Tracy had been in a state, which had occurred before. And Nobbi was understandably taken up with Tracy, and he forgot.
When four days and nights had gone by, Stella suspected something bad, that Tracy was ill or had been harmed.
34 /
Then, she kept thinking, he would still have called her. Even if only for an instant. He would have let her know.
And Stella went on feeling sick, the way she had heard happened to some women when they were pregnant. Nausea that never went away. She lived on tea and bananas.
In the second week, she began to see that something had happened to Nobbi himself. She began to face it, gradually. But at the same time she thrust it away. There was an explanation. And, again, she kept saying to herself, she would know. Some spiritual psychic understanding. But she only felt sick.
She wanted to call his home. She had the number— that was easy, he was in the book, his name and the name of his firm.
First of all she was afraid of speaking to Marilyn, afraid of maybe causing trouble. Because what could she say?
But in the end, after nineteen days, she realized that what she could say was simple. She was a customer Nobbi had promised he would do some plastering for—or perhaps not for her, even, but for her mother…
So then, then she phoned.
After three and a half rings the receiver was lifted, and a well-spoken woman's voice gave the number.
Marilyn? Surely not.
"Is that Mrs. Ives?"
"No, it's the cleaning girl. I'm afraid Mrs. Ives can't come to the phone. At least, I don't think so—"
"Well," Stella was brisk and businesslike, "it's Mr. Ives I want really. He said he was going to do some plastering for my mother, and we just haven't heard from him."
"Oh, Lord," said Marilyn's well-spoken cleaning girl. There was a pause.
"He hasn't been in touch," said Stella.
"No, well, he wouldn't have. I'm afraid Mr. Ives died about three weeks ago."
Stella held the phone in her hand. She had one of those moments granted to human things of feeling the utter absurdity of the physical body, all physical objects, senses, space, time, everything.
She heard the words in her head in a sort of verbal slow motion. Mr. Ives died.
Who was this Mr. Ives? Not Nobbi. Nobbi had not died. It was Mr. Ives.
Stella did not speak.
"His wife's very shocked. You can imagine. I think she's going to close the business. So—there's not much chance of your work getting done. I should try someone else."
Stella said, "Yes. Oh, I will. Thank you. Good-bye."
Then she put the phone down.
She stood in the middle of the physical insanity of flesh and things, and she thought, But it isn't Nobbi.
Then she started to cry bitterly and violently.
And she listened to herself and she thought, Then why am I crying?
Two days later, Stella had a call from the library. They wanted to know why she had not come in.
Stella said that she had a bug. Her throat had been so sore she had lost her voice. The doctor said she would need at least a week off work.
They said she had caused them a lot of trouble. No one said they hoped she would getter.
Which was logical, because she never would.
She could not envisage ever going back to work. She could not picture herself ever doing anything at all.
She had felt appalling grief when her mother died, but somehow she had coped. She had gone on. Something in her had always grasped that mothers and cats perished. But obviously something in her had neve
r understood that lovers, too, might die.
She did not dream about him. When she slept for a few hours in the early morning, her sleep was black. It was a death, and she was glad.
It did present itself to her that she could kill herself, but even that seemed too much of an effort.
She seemed to be dying anyway. Living on tea alone now and water from Evian bottles. She had stopped feeling sick.
There was a kind of pain all through her. Indescribable, unshiftable.
Sometimes she visualized the heart attack and then she would start up in panic.
But these mirages grew less and less.
She did not believe in the heart attack.
She had the radio on a lot, although she did not listen to it. The human voice was a weird unconsoling consolation, like a bandage on a cut that would never heal.
Sometimes she heard a London voice that reminded her of Nobbi's. Her tears were soft then, nearly kind.
The following week Mr. Rollinson phoned her from the library.
"This really is too bad, Miss Atkins."
"Go and fuck yourself," said Stella, "if it will reach."
When she put the phone down this time she laughed. Nobbi would have laughed too. He had said to her, "Star, if you want to jack that in, I can—well, you know, I'll see you're all right." He would have kept her and she would not let him. She valued her independence.
Well, that was that. No more library.
She had another bath. Like the tea and the Evian, this was her only nourishment; two or three baths a day. Perhaps a form of mental drowning in fluids.
The plastic duck, Charlie, sat on the water over her breasts, and she thought of Nobbi, and masturbated in the bath, and came, and wept.
/ suppose it'll stop sometime.
She thought of all the widows she had known. Cheery in their black, or not in black.
No, this would never stop.
A month after the girl told her of Nobbi's death, when he was presumably long buried—she found it hard to believe in any of that either, the funeral service, the burial—a candy-pink Daimler pulled up in the street below her window.
It was such a foolish, unlikely sight, it actually interested her for half a moment.
She was turning from the window when a youngish man got out of the Daimler, and crossed over the grass toward the flats.
Under the bleak sky, he was clad in a ghastly sort of acme of elegance, a pearly suit, a shirt of faintest primrose, and a tie one shade darker.
As he disappeared into the building, Stella knew. And when, quite soon, her doorbell rang, she went to open it in a dazed, limp fury.
Nobbi had had dealings with people like this. He had never really told her, but made no secret either.
What did this one want? To bump her off? Welcome.
"Yes?" Stella said. She was a sight. Life's playful opposite to him. Elderly jeans, jumper with a tea stain, unwashed hair, the Mask of Tragedy.
And he. A tan in winter. A silver wedding ring.
"You don't know me, Miss Atkins. My name's Luke. Used to be a friend of Norman's—Nobbi's."
"Come in," she said, "if it won't spoil your clothes."
Luke laughed charmingly. "Stella—may I?"
He entered, and, when she did not offer him a chair, sat down beautifully and crossed his legs. Hand-stitched shoes of pearl-gray suede. Pearly socks.
"Would you like a glass of water?" Stella said "That's all I've got. I haven't been shopping."
"No, please don't trouble."
"It's no trouble. It comes out of the tap."
A ghost of distaste crossed Luke's countenance Maybe he always got the nasty tasks.
"I'm not going to beat about the bush, Stella Nobbi's dead. That was a rotten bit of luck."
"Wasn't it just?"
"He'll be missed. But I have to tell you, we do know that you were Nobbi's friend. His close friend."
"His bit on the side," said Stella.
"We know that he cared for you. I'm afraid we like to know what we can about—our associates."
"You're from the amorphous Mr. Glass," said Stella.
"Mr. Glass. That's right."
"He must be cut up."
Luke smiled. "Ha. Yes. Well. The reason I'm here. We wouldn't like there to be a lot of fuss, you see. Upset poor Marilyn. I'm sure you don't feel any animosity there."
"Are you?"
"You're a woman of the world, Stella. Sophisticated. No, poor old Marilyn's just gone to pieces."
Stella turned her back on Luke and his tan and his pearl gray, and looked down at his Daimler through the window. Maybe someone would come and scratch the paintwork or let down the tires.
"The thing is, Stella, Nobbi left Marilyn all the proper stuff—the house, and a large sum of money. But he also made sure he took care of you. I have to tell you, you're a lucky lady. We were able to make some investments for Nobbi, you see. I won't bore you with details, although I expect the solicitor will want to. There's a lot of money coming to you, Stella. I do mean a lot. You won't have to worry ever again."
I'm so lucky. No worries. Nobbi in the ground and money coming.
"How much?" she said. She did not know why. So she could see its paltry quality perhaps, there in the wilderness.
Luke told her.
Stella looked at the Daimler. A dog was sniffing at it. But no one else had come to damage it. Probably it was invulnerable.
"Yes, that's a lot."
"I hope you're pleased, Stella. I know you must feel lousy. But at least—you'll have that."
"Will I?"
"Yes. Now that's what I want to arrange with you. When you go and see the solicitor." Luke undid his exquisite briefcase. Inside was a Filofax, a mobile phone, and a peculiar bulky package. "And there's this. It's rather silly."
"What is it?"
"Well, it was with his things, you see. And around its neck was a note that said Tor Miss Atkins.' Luckily, I and one of the lads went through Nobbi's office—an old arrangement, in the event of—and so Marilyn never saw."
"You mean he left me something?"
"Well, he's left you a hell of a lot," said Luke, clearly irritated for once.
He held out the package.
Stella took it. It felt soft. She put it against her chest. She would not open it while this disgusting, tanned pearl rat was here.
He made the appointment for her meeting with the solicitor—the solicitor Mr. Glass had chosen for Nobbi. It was all to be done so there was no scandal, apparently. No bother with Marilyn. Well, that was fine.
When the appointment—would she really go?—was made, Luke uncrossed his legs.
"Wait a moment," said Stella.
"Yes, Stella?" He was still attempting to look happy to serve.
"I want to know what happened."
"How do you mean, Stella?"
"What happened to—Nobbi."
"But surely… He had a heart attack, Stella."
"No he didn't," Stella said. She felt something come into her, like new blood, or alcohol.
"But he did, Stella. Poor old Nobbi. Just working too hard for a man his age."
"And screwing too hard? There was nothing wrong with him. He was strong."
"Yes, of course, Stella. But—he was overweight. He ate the wrong food. He worked at jobs he should have left to Sandy and the boys. And those cigars."
"He didn't die of a heart attack. Marilyn may think he did. Perhaps you sent him back there in a closed box. But I know—I know where he was going."
"Oh, yes?" said Luke. He waited.
"After Tracy," Stella said.
"Yes?"
"A house," Stella said, "a family. Dangerous people."
Luke looked down.
Stella moved back to the window. The dog had not urinated up against the Daimler, but it had shat on the pavement.
"You see, he told me all about it."
"All what, Stella?"
"The house, the people. Where."
"Where, Stella?"
Stella told him. What Nobbi had told her.
The last time on earth she had heard him speak.
There was quiet, and when Stella looked around, Luke had not produced a gun or a stiletto. He looked merely pensive.
"Mr. Glass," said Luke, "a very perceptive man, said it was likely Nobbi might have told you. You being so close."
Stella gazed at Luke. "I need to know," she said. She thought, He's not human.
"All right, Stella. But sit down. It's bad."
Stella, not because she needed to, but because she needed words, sat.
"You may have heard," Luke said, with an odd casual coolness, "the police were looking for a girl. About seventeen. They nicknamed her The Vixen. She got into people's houses and cut their throats, then burned the place down. A sweetie."
Stella had not heard, or if she had, forgotten, but she nodded, meaning, Go on.
"Well, she's a daughter of the family Nobbi, unluckily, went to visit. Seems she didn't like him. She killed him, Stella."
"This girl—she cut Nobbi's—she cut his throat—"
"A neck wound. Carotid. Death's very quick. Not much you can do, if any of them tried. She's crazy. Long black hair, body like a dream, and mad as they come. And we… can't do a thing, Stella. Not a thing."
"Yes," she said.
"He should have left well alone, Stella. Mr. Glass— we warned Nobbi."
Stella got up, holding the parcel Luke had given her. She walked to the window.
"I'd like you to go now."
"Of course, Stella. Just make the solicitor's, all right?"
"Yes."
He went. She watched. She saw him come out on the grass, huffy at his brush with a moron who had not appreciated his glamour. As he opened the candy Daimler and got in, he trod exactly in the dog shit.
"Thank you, God," said Stella. "You are a monster, but you do exist."
She thought of the pearl-gray hand-stitched suede shoes beyond cleaning, and the stink in the car.
She did not think that, maybe, perhaps, Mr. Glass had instructed Luke, what he might say, if pressed, to this high-strung, bereaved woman. The thing the Corporation might not do. But Stella was different, a hysterical female alone.
Stella, not hysterical, opened the parcel.
She held out the stuffed lion before her, then drew it in.
