Mythophidia

by Constantine, Storm

  The girl looked out of place in Cynthia’s kitchen, too large somehow, too awkward, yet she was graceful and slim. As Cynthia plugged in the kettle, Felicia Browning said, ‘Can you help me get Emma’s things?’

  Cynthia dared not look at her, fiddling with the on/off switch needlessly. Never a person to lie, she now had the strongest reluctance to confess she’d virtually stolen some of the paintings and the little book. ‘Well, I’m afraid that’s impossible. You see, Emma’s parents took her effects to the dump.’ It sounded sordid now, a foul and spiteful act.

  ‘The stupid bastards!’ Felicia Browning exclaimed vehemently. ‘That was years of work! Years of it!’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m inclined to agree with you,’ Cynthia said, ‘But unfortunately Mrs. Tizard was adamant. She found some things that quite upset her, you see.’

  The girl nodded. ‘Yes, Em was careless. She should have cleared things away. She should have told me earlier. Now, it’s all gone!’

  ‘What do you mean exactly? Was Emma planning on leaving anyway?’

  Felicia looked at Cynthia with a certain unattractive furtiveness, then shrugged. ‘She was making preparations but the timing didn’t quite work out.’

  ‘It certainly didn’t!’ Cynthia said cynically. She poured hot water into the coffee mugs. ‘Have you known Emma long?’

  ‘I suppose so. We used to live together in London.’

  Cynthia looked up sharply. Of course, the name! She must have read it in the papers, or had the police mentioned it? Emma’s erstwhile, disappearing flat-mate.

  Felicia took her mug and sipped, speaking to Cynthia over the rim, confirming her hostess’s suspicions without further prompting. ‘I can see you’ve heard about me. I’ve been away for a while.’

  ‘Away!’

  ‘Don’t worry about it!’ Felicia said, laughing.

  Cynthia felt herself flush. ‘It’s just that... people had assumed...’ She gestured helplessly with one hand.

  Felicia narrowed her eyes, ignoring Cynthia’s lame comments. ‘Emma was going to join me, fucked everything up, which is why I’m here now. Totally disorganised she is, totally! I’m not sure what I’m even supposed to be looking for here. There’s a communication problem at present.’

  Cynthia was beginning to wish this person would go. There was something eerie about her, disturbing. She had spoken of Emma in the present tense.

  As if reading her mind, the girl stood up. ‘I’ll be off now. Thanks for the coffee.’

  ‘Would you like to leave an address? If anything should turn up, I could contact you...’ Cynthia offered vaguely.

  Felicia laughed. ‘That’s not likely!’ She strode out of the house, leaving the door open.

  Cynthia had to sit down and compose herself again. Whatever Emma had been mixed up in, Felicia Browning had been part of it, and she had sat in Cynthia’s kitchen and drunk her coffee! Cynthia quickly picked up the half empty mug and dropped it into the sink, running hot water over it for several minutes. She worried about Felicia having another set of keys to the bungalow. Later, she had better phone the Tizards and tell them. It was their problem, not hers. Felicia Browning, registered missing for two years, turning up here; an unhealthy girl, unnatural. Thank God I was nice to her, Cynthia thought, wondering why she should think that.

  Rodney rang to say he would be late home and not to hold dinner. Cynthia ate early, making herself a mixed grill, and drank two glasses of wine. After eating, she went into the bedroom and fetched Emma’s paintings and Emma’s book. Using ashtrays, mugs and ornaments as weights to stop them rolling up again, she laid the paintings out on the floor and sprawled on the sofa to study them, drinking another glass of wine.

  She had only taken one study of the naked man, one of the less erotic sketches. Now, it seemed to stand out from all the rest, commanding her attention. His eyes stared up at her, knowing somehow, and mocking. It was not unpleasant to look at him though. He was quite beautiful, almost effeminate, slim but with a hint of strength within the litheness. The face was disturbingly familiar. Who? Who?

  Of course! Cynthia realised, wishing she’d thought of it before, the drawing was reminiscent of Emma herself. Did the Tizards have a son? Cynthia shuddered. Good God, was incest, or at the least the thought of it, another of Emma’s dark secrets? No brother had been mentioned though and surely he would have come to the funeral... if he were alive.

  Still glancing at the drawing, she opened the little book and tried to read some of it. A hopeless task really. It was not a work written for the uninitiated and she could barely understand a quarter of it. The feeling she got from it, however, was that of power, the lust for power, the desire to transcend the fragile husk of human form. Was this research for Emma’s unearthly paintings, or something darker, more personal? Sighing, Cynthia put the book down. It would not give up its knowledge to her.

  A phrase repeated itself endlessly in her head: There’s a communication problem at present. Virtually without her realising it, Cynthia Peeling chanted herself into a mild trance.

  The light had faded completely from the sky outside and she sat in darkness, drinking and staring through the window at Wren’s Nest. Her eyes were narrow, her gaze strangely vacant. Her breathing had become shallow and misted on the air. Something nagged inside her head; a voice almost heard, but not quite. She felt she knew the answer, had all the pieces to reveal the picture, yet was too close to see it as a whole.

  I must go back. It’s there. Felicia missed it. I must go back.

  The compulsion could not be ignored. It was six o’clock

  Cynthia raised herself jerkily from the sofa, and padded into the kitchen. She put on her shoes, her coat and lifted down the keys to Emma’s bungalow. From the back of her pantry she took a flashlight down off its hook and marched out of her home, with purpose, to the house next door.

  Nothing happened when she tried the light switch in Emma’s hallway. For a moment, Cynthia was afraid of the dark, but the fear had to be ignored. Feeling her way along the wall, she went into the lounge. Here, she turned on the flashlight, illuminating the ghostly clouds of her breath. The incense smell had gone. The Tizards had left all the furniture in the house; most of it was brand-new. Cynthia felt it would be useless – mildewed and rotten – by the time someone else bought the place. She herself would not want to sit or sleep in the furniture of the dead.

  In the kitchen, all the cupboard doors were open. Felicia Browning must have made a thorough search, but all were empty. Cynthia closed them, took a deep breath, and went out into the hall again, pausing before the workroom door.

  It looked much larger now that all Emma’s papers and paintings and rubbish had gone. The desk had been polished, the floor cleaned. Cynthia went inside. There was nothing there. What had she been expecting? Her body gave an involuntary jump, as if responding to a sharp, unheard sound.

  What the hell am I doing here? An empty house, there’s nothing here. Too much wine? Am I obsessed? Get home, you stupid creature, get out of here! Go home, draw the curtains, put on the lights, watch TV.

  But the thoughts were separate from her. She realised she hadn’t the will, nor even the desire to move from the room. Was she afraid? It was hard to tell. She felt electrified, poised, apprehensive, somehow out of control. None of these feelings were familiar to Cynthia Peeling.

  Opposite her, the ornate mirror on the wall had misted over with condensation. Cynthia pulled herself together with rational, organising thoughts. Perhaps she should arrange to have the heating turned on. New residents wouldn’t want to cope with problems caused by damp. The mere invocation of these mundane ideas seemed to change the atmosphere in the room. Cynthia swept the light beam around her, still strangely reluctant to leave. She went to the mirror and wiped it. Her reflection looked ghastly, surprised, in the stark light.

  ‘You’ve gone, Emma, haven’t you?’ she said softly.

  Her breath fogged the glass again and, mistily, it seemed to Cynthia that her re
flection wavered and convulsed, twisting her dimly-seen reflection into something different; more strange yet more familiar. Could that be? It seemed she stood against a background of rock and cloud.

  Cynthia uttered an alarmed mewing sound and abruptly wiped the glass. Relieved, she found her own, familiar image looking back at her. An illusion. I’ve had enough of this place, enough of Emma. Sniffing, Cynthia turned around. This time she meant to leave.

  A tall figure stood in the doorway, caught in the beam of Cynthia’s flashlight. She cried out in alarm. It was a young man, vaguely familiar, arms above his head, resting his hands on the doorframe. There was a certain proprietorial air about the pose.

  The silence lasted only seconds but in that time, Cynthia saw and realised who he was. She recognised the beautiful face, the red hair, the long, white hands. This man had Emma’s face, Emma’s hair, Emma’s eyes, Emma’s cruel smile of the nightmares. She had seen his image in a hundred of Emma’s sketches and paintings. She had seen him naked. Now, she was faced with more than an erotic image; he existed before her.

  The man came into the room, leisurely closed the door and, folding his arms, leaned back against it. He said nothing, although he didn’t seem surprised to find Cynthia there. Had he watched her enter the house?

  Cynthia tried to take a step backwards and found she couldn’t. Her shoulders were against the mirror. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ she demanded, aware of the tremor in her voice. She realised she was trapped. Fear paralysed her.

  ‘I might ask the same of you,’ said the man.

  ‘My husband and I look after the place. He’ll be over here soon...’

  The man laughed. It was a melodious, musical sound. ‘You’re a good woman, Cynthia,’ he said. ‘I’m glad you liked my paintings. I’m glad you saved them. You’ve been a good friend to Emma.’

  Cynthia’s mouth had turned to glue. Her jaw ached and she was conscious of a numbness creeping through her limbs, as if presaging a faint. Images of her own comfortable, safe living room flashed before her eyes. A mockery; she was neither comfortable or safe and further away from home than she’d ever been. An image of violence and murder superimposed itself over the fading memory of her familiar setting. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘A friend,’ he answered. ‘Don’t be afraid.’ He unfolded his arms, rubbed his hands together. ‘I’ve been waiting to speak with you. I want you to help me.’

  This apparently reasonable request slightly reassured Cynthia. Perhaps everything would be all right. ‘You had better come over to the house. My husband...’

  ‘Who is still at work...’ The man laughed again. ‘I want you to help me here, Cynthia. It won’t take a moment.’

  Panic slipped back into Cynthia’s mind. He knew her name. Her voice was a squeak. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘It’s quite simple. I want you to turn around, very slowly, and take down the mirror from the wall.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Please do as I say.’

  Cynthia’s mind quickly juggled the thoughts of whether it would be wiser to comply or refuse. She would be helpless with her back turned. Why did he want her to move the mirror? But even as she was still trying to come to a decision, she could feel her body moving by itself, turning round. Her neck felt wrenched; she did not want to take her eyes from the intruder. An urge to scream built up within her, a scream she knew would never escape the constriction in her chest.

  ‘That’s right,’ said the man. ‘Gently now.’

  A weird sound, that of strangled sobbing, whined from Cynthia’s throat as her neck cricked round to face the wall. She watched as if from a distance as her arms moved automatically to ease the glass from its hanging. Its damp surface pressed against her cheek and she staggered under its weight.

  The man didn’t move to help her. ‘I still need it, you see,’ he said. ‘Just for a while, until I know what I’m doing. You can help me, Cynthia, because I don’t think the new residents of this place would want to, do you?’

  Cynthia was draped over the mirror, mouth hanging open, fighting for breath. ‘Who are you?’ she managed to whisper and then the fatal question, the one she didn’t want to ask but couldn’t stop. ‘Did you kill Emma?’

  The man smiled. ‘I suppose I did, in a way, but not in any manner you could imagine or comprehend.’ The smile faded from his lips. ‘I’m disappointed you haven’t worked it out, really. I thought you would. You picked up the right clues.

  He moved quickly towards Cynthia and put his hands on her face, ignoring her cry of horror. ‘Cynthia, please know me! Please! I need your help!’

  Cynthia’s flesh chilled. She wanted to pull away from the warm, slim hands, for she knew their touch. ‘No!’ she said, but it was a weak sound.

  ‘Yes! Yes!’ There was fire in the man’s eyes, a dancing light. ‘Cynthia, I had to do this. I can’t explain why to you, because you wouldn’t understand. It’s something that’s been with me for a long time. I created the image, and put it into the mirror. With my eyes, with my sex.’

  ‘Emma,’ Cynthia said.

  ‘I had to undress myself from the flesh, for the new flesh to become.’

  The man moved away from Cynthia’s tense, crippled stasis. He glanced around the room. ‘Everything’s destroyed. It’s as it should be, but you...’ He turned to her again,. ‘You kept some of it back. You are my gateway, Cynthia. Felicia is my guide, but I’ve missed her somehow...’

  ‘She’s been here,’ Cynthia said. Was it possible to converse outside reality? It seemed absurd.

  The man nodded. ‘I know. She’s waiting for me, somewhere. Once the image was fuelled, it could act, it became. I know this all sounds bizarre to you, but there are wondrous things in the world, things you can be, and do, if you only admit the possibility. I’m here now, Cynthia. This is me as I want to be.’

  ‘You killed yourself,’ Cynthia said. Her instincts hadn’t lied to her the day Michael Homey had turned up. Emma had been fine, more than fine. Cynthia wanted to sit down; her skull felt as if it was about to crack with the weight of the unbearable knowledge it now contained.

  The man smiled at her gently. ‘Do I look dead? You have touched me, haven’t you?’

  ‘What is the mirror for?’ Cynthia asked.

  ‘I’m not fully out of it,’ replied the man. ‘Not yet.’ He shivered. ‘It’s yours now, Cynthia. You must put it on your bedroom wall.’

  ‘No,’ Cynthia said, uselessly.

  ‘Come on, it’s cold in here. Let’s go home.’

  Back in her own house, the mirror propped up against the wall, Cynthia curled up in an armchair, and drank a large tumbler of Scotch. She was alone. The back door had been left open and all the rooms were in darkness. She hugged herself tightly, cold. Cars passed the house, lights from the other houses glowed into the dark. Behind other doors, husbands talked about their day to wives, and children splashed in steaming, bedtime baths. Dreams would settle, and when the new residents of Wren’s Nest moved in, memories would fade. Life would go on.

  Cynthia, sitting somewhat apart from this world of cosy domesticity, gazed into the mirror and drank her Scotch. The moment when the unseen becomes seen changes life forever. There is a sense of loss, when ignorance dies. Emma Tizard seemed such a nice girl.

  The Oracle Lips

  Sheila met the woman she should have been in the ladies wash-room at Euston station. It was very early in the morning, two o’clock; a time of day when memories of Old London seem very near to this reality, perhaps seeping up from the drains. People like Sheila were like bright flames to these fleeting ghosts. She didn’t want to be there; the empty, echoing chamber, with its weirdly dull strip lights, felt like an abattoir or an operating theatre. Sheila saw blood on the tiles in some places. Ghost blood.

  She had seen ghosts all her life; one of her many unusual talents. She read cards for her mother’s friends; that sort of thing. Sheila felt it was only her abilities that made her interesting to other people. Nobody
would want to know her otherwise. She was like a ghost herself.

  She wasn’t used to being out so late; the night often unnerved her. It was when the whispers were loudest and it was hard to shut them out. She had washed her hands and gone to the mirror to comb her hair, which was so wispy, it needed to be brushed every half hour; an inconvenient task that Sheila rarely had time to attend to.

  Shadows wanted to manifest, but she fought them. She was exhausted, having been awake for nearly twenty hours. Perhaps she should have stayed overnight in London with her sister. Her mother would have approved. But Tess gave Sheila a head-ache - too energetic, too noisy. The trip had been meant to be a treat - Mother had paid - but to Sheila, outwardly grateful, it had been nothing but a trial. Her craving for the solace of her bed-room, which had begun virtually the moment she’d stepped off the train that morning, had become more painful as the day progressed. In the end, she had fled, mumbling about an appointment she had in the morning. Dentist. A good excuse. Tess would not have believed anything more exciting.

  Hard to retain control now. Too weary. At the corner of her vision, a tired shadow woman mopped the floor in endless silence. What kind of life had she led only to end up haunting this joyless place? But the shadows weren’t only of the dead. Flickering images of other, busy lives hovered round, buzzing from cubicles to hand basins to mirror. Their energy made Sheila dizzy.

  Then, behind her, she heard a lavatory flush and, in the mirror, saw a tall figure march out of one of the cubicles. A real woman, not a shadow or a memory of a thought. Flesh and blood. At once, the shadows disappeared and Sheila felt a weight lift from her body. She and this singular other were alone.

  The woman wore a beautiful long dress of soft moss-coloured fabric, quite severe in cut, which described eloquently the perfect lines of her body. Over her arm, a mass of black velvet coat hung. Ignoring Sheila, this vision stalked up to the mirror and placed a large shoulder bag on the shelf before her. For a moment, her hands lay long upon the leather, and she flared her nostrils at her reflection. Then, with business-like economy of movement, she opened the bag and withdrew a lipstick. Thoughtfully, almost reverently, she removed its cap.