Bloody Baudelaire

by R. B. Russell

  Bloody Baudelaire

  by

  R.B. Russell

  Published by

  Tartarus Press

  Contents

  Part 1

  Part 2

  BLOODY BAUDELAIRE

  Part 1

  Lucian Miller always cherished his memory of the short time that he spent at Cliffe House. Almost immediately afterwards he became scared of forgetting the detail of what had happened so he wrote it down and returned to his account time and again over the years. Nostalgia was a vice with a grip on him that he refused to relinquish.

  Above all it was Miranda Honeyman who he wanted to remember. He needed to permanently fix her in his mind as she had appeared to him on the night of the arguments, on the night when it all went so horribly wrong. He didn’t want to lose the image of her as always elegant, and wearing one of her habitual tight dresses that fitted close, all the way down her skinny arms to her wrists. He needed to be able to see her wonderful red hair in his memory.

  Of course, describing the Miranda of Cliffe House meant describing Gerald Kent, her partner, and he did this with reluctance. Gerald was tall, with black hair and round glasses that were affected as a pose. Lucian disliked him from the start, before any jealousy played a part.

  ‘The green shadows in the moist evenings of summer . . .’ Gerald had intoned.

  ‘Fucking shut up!’ Miranda replied, bored.

  They all looked over to where the couple stood under the tall elm tree. They posed in the shadows, forming an artistic tableau.

  ‘I don’t know whether to be amused or frightened by them,’ Lucian’s girlfriend, Elizabeth, whispered in his ear.

  Adrian, his school friend, overheard her: ‘Neither, only embarrassed.’

  As Miranda was Adrian’s sister, her brother’s embarrassment was reasonable, and the fact that Elizabeth could not understand them did not surprise Lucian. But he was impressed by both of them.

  ‘The green shadows in the moist evenings of summer,’ Gerald repeated theatrically.

  Miranda saw them staring and walked slowly over to where the three sat out on the terrace:

  ‘Baudelaire, he’s always quoting bloody Baudelaire.’

  Lucian felt she was right to suggest that Gerald was becoming tedious.

  Elizabeth nudged Lucian. When he turned to her she frowned as if to ask just where had he persuaded her to come for the weekend?

  At the same time, across the table Adrian looked down at his shoes and mumbled, almost inaudibly:

  ‘You really shouldn’t have come.’

  ‘You invited us,’ Lucian replied quietly.

  Miranda now stood there, one hand on her hip, and drew deeply on her thin cigarette. Lucian marvelled that it was hard to tell it apart from her long white fingers. Was her red hair dyed or natural? Either way it made her face look pale. She was five years older than him and she appeared to have a sophistication towards which he could never hope to aspire.

  ‘Did the moist green shadows remind you of that quote?’ Lucian was bold enough to call across the garden to Gerald. ‘Or did the quote create them?’

  ‘Lucian!’ Adrian complained wearily.

  ‘The green shadows in the moist evenings of summer,’ Gerald corrected Lucian and, aware that he was too far away to properly command his audience, he impatiently followed the red-headed woman over to the terrace.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Lucian apologised.

  ‘Gerald isn’t,’ Miranda pronounced. ‘It gave him a chance to say it again. He’s a bore.’

  ‘Oh, you do embarrass me with your compliments,’ he replied as he walked over. Once he reached them he drew close to her, trying to kiss her neck. She turned and slapped him, the sound echoing sharply off the red brick walls of the house. He pretended to stagger backwards, as if dealt a mortal blow.

  ‘Well, I don’t recall you ever attempting to compliment me,’ she said. ‘You’re too self obsessed.’

  Metal abruptly grated on stone as Adrian pushed his chair back and stood up. He glared at Miranda for several seconds, his brows screwed up contemptuously as if he was about to start shouting at his sister. Instead he turned and stormed into the house.

  ‘It’s the height of bad manners,’ she called after him, ‘to leave your guests to entertain themselves.’ Her words had trailed away as it became obvious that her attempt at humour had failed.

  ‘Well,’ Gerald shrugged, ‘I’m glad Lucian and Elizabeth are only guests. I’d hate to think of them as permanent fixtures – rutting away like that in the spare bedroom.’

  Lucian was mortified by his comment, but then even more horrified at what Elizabeth’s reaction would be. He didn’t dare look at her, but he had heard her intake of breath. He decided that he should act unconcerned and said, rather precisely:

  ‘I apologise if we made too much noise last night.’

  Elizabeth stood up sharply and he turned and saw that her appalled expression was directed at him rather than Gerald. She fled inside, not hesitating as Adrian had done.

  ‘You bastard,’ Miranda turned to Gerald with disgust. He, however, simply shrugged and walked back out on to the dark lawn, lighting another cigarette.

  Lucian didn’t know what he should do. He thought that there ought to be a way to retrieve the situation but the alcohol that they had been consuming all day slowed his thoughts.

  ‘Ignore him,’ Miranda insisted, leaning over the table conspiratorially and stubbing out her own cigarette in the ashtray.

  ‘Perhaps we should leave?’ he proposed.

  ‘Why? Surely Elizabeth appreciates that Gerald was trying to upset her? She shouldn’t let him succeed.’

  ‘Adrian obviously regrets that he invited us.’

  ‘Forget him. He’s always like that. He’s got nothing to complain about. I’m the one who should complain about him.’

  ‘Why? What’s he done wrong?’

  ‘Oh, nothing. It’s just that he’s always here, getting in the way.’

  ‘I understand. I’ve got two sisters.’

  ‘No, you don’t understand. He’s not even my real brother.’

  ‘Oh, then I don’t understand,’ Lucian said, stupidly.

  ‘He’s my step-brother, marooned here by my stepfather when he left, after my mother died.’

  It was obviously a subject that annoyed her. She sat down opposite him on the edge of a reclining chair.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, deciding to try to disentangle her explanation later.

  ‘What, sorry that I’ve been lumbered with a step-brother I don’t want?’

  ‘No,’ he floundered, ‘for your parents dying.’ There was an uncomfortable silence. He felt a fool. He could not believe what he was saying.

  ‘Really, don’t worry about Adrian’s little tantrum,’ she forced a wide smile. ‘He’ll get over it. All we need to do is reassure Elizabeth that Gerald isn’t worth worrying about, and then we’ll get on with the weekend.

  ‘I hope she isn’t upstairs packing her bags.’

  ‘She seems a bit highly-strung?’

  ‘Yes,’ he admitted. Persuading Elizabeth to come to Cliffe House had not been easy, but until that moment the weekend had been everything he had hoped for.

  ‘What’s the problem between you two?’

  ‘There’s no problem.’

  ‘Of course there is. I’m not stupid.’

  ‘I’m off to University next weekend. I’m going to study Engineering.’

  ‘And you’re leaving her behind.’

  He nodded.

  ‘Oh,’ she said simply as she filled her wineglass from the remains of two opened bottles on the table. She lay back in the chair, kicking off her shoes. She closed her eyes and Lucian watched her face as it relaxed. He
r cheekbones had been the first feature that he had noticed when he had met Miranda; they were strong but softly moulded. Her lips, too, were slightly exaggerated, large and rather bitten-looking. He tried to imagine how they would look if she wore lipstick. Her eyes were lost in the shadow of a rather eccentric burgundy hat that had now tipped forward.

  ‘What does she think?’ Miranda asked.

  ‘She wants me to stay here.’

  ‘But you’re not going to.’

  ‘No.’

  The orange streetlamps flickered through the trees from the town below: a breeze had risen ominously as though the summer’s fine weather was preparing to break. It was late, and only now did it seem a little too cool in the shadows that seemed to creep out from under the eaves and the close-pressed trees. A chill had poured out from the dark vegetation at the edge of the lawn and over the dark, mossy grass. As if liberated by the night the ivy seemed to encroach over the terrace and the walls of Cliffe House. The building had not been properly maintained for years and he could almost hear its soft, crumbling decay. The overgrown garden seemed to want to reclaim the hillside

  Gerald flicked his cigarette into the black shadows and walked back over to them.

  ‘I ought to go and see if Elizabeth’s alright,’ Lucian said to Miranda quickly, hoping to make his escape.

  ‘Of course she is,’ Gerald had heard him and waved Lucian to sit back down in the chair. The younger guest hesitated and his host came up to the table. Lucian assumed that he had something else to say, but Gerald offered nothing and simply attempted to fill his glass from the nearest bottle. Only a small amount of wine dribbled out and he put it down in disgust.

  ‘Well,’ Lucian considered, and then stood, resolute, ‘it’s time to retire anyway.’

  He mentally flinched, expecting another attack, but Gerald looked serious:

  ‘Ah, sleep, every evening’s sinister adventure,’ he mused. ‘It may be observed that men go gaily to their beds with an audacity which would be beyond comprehension did we not know that it is the result of their ignorance of danger.’

  ‘More Baudelaire?’ Lucian asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It sounded more like H.P. Lovecraft,’ Miranda suggested, opening her eyes, but there was no smile this time. She leant forward and took a cigarette from the packet.

  ‘It would to you,’ considered Gerald, following her example. In later years Lucian would realise how pretentious they both were, how affected, but at the time he could only admire their apparent sophistication.

  ‘I’ll go on up to Elizabeth,’ he said decisively.

  ‘Ignorance of danger!’ Gerald repeated, laughing, and Lucian wished that he had the inspiration to say something clever in return.

  ***

  Lucian and Elizabeth had arrived the evening before, ostensibly as guests of Adrian. They had been treated to a long, civilised meal during which they all discussed Gerald Kent’s paintings. Lucian had liked the man’s arguments, but when they were later shown some of his work he was not convinced that his fine theories had been translated onto the canvas. The trouble seemed to be that the pictures were too cold and lifeless.

  Finally, some time after midnight, they were able to go up to bed. Lucian and Elizabeth had been given a large room, with white walls, a blue rug on stripped pine boards, and a double bed was the only piece of furniture. Like the rest of the house, the room was dusty and badly in need of repair and redecoration, but they did not notice this until the next morning. The room was still hot from the scorching day, and opening the window had failed to relieve the heat.

  It was the first time that either of them had made love, and they were able to take their time without fear of disturbance. And waking in the cool of the clear Saturday morning with Elizabeth, naked, smiling by his side, Lucian considered would always be a precious memory.

  But now, when he entered that room that following evening, it was dark. The curtains were drawn against the night and they moved in the breeze from the open window. He could hear the first few drops of rain being blown against the glass.

  ‘Go away,’ she said sulkily from the bed.

  He walked over slowly and put his hand out in her direction, touching her shoulder. She was still dressed. He tried to stroke her hair but she pushed him away, telling him to leave.

  ‘Elizabeth,’ he started to explain, faltering, not knowing what he should say, but trying to assume the right tone.

  ‘Go away,’ she said with more determination, and he stood up, with a sinking feeling in his stomach. He recognised the determination with which she had argued so many times before.

  He walked slowly to the door and waited there, annoyed with Gerald for having precipitated this mood. Just how annoyed was Elizabeth, though, at his reaction to Gerald’s stupid comment? He was finally reassured:

  ‘Give me a while,’ she said quietly. ‘Let me get ready on my own.’

  His despair of a moment before was gone and he rejoiced that all was not lost. Excited, he imagined how it would be to come back to the room when she had composed herself. Of course, the atmosphere at breakfast on Sunday morning might be awkward, but there was still the night to pass first.

  He shut the door softly behind him and decided that he would give her twenty minutes.

  ***

  Down in the living room an old standard lamp was glowing in one corner, throwing odd shadows around a room that was draped with scarlet material and cluttered with heavy furniture. It looked much better by artificial light than it did during the day. The effect that they sought was Eastern, with material gathered up to the centre of the ceiling like a sheik’s tent. The colours looked rich, deepened by the shadows, although by daylight it had all looked rather faded, stained and old. Miranda walked in a moment after Lucian and asked after Elizabeth.

  ‘She’s alright,’ he reported casually. ‘I’ll go back up to her in a while.’

  Miranda sat down heavily in an overstuffed armchair by the window. She took a book from the floor beside her. Immediately afterwards Gerald Kent attempted to make a more dramatic entrance:

  ‘Well, what great entertainments have we planned for this evening?’ he bellowed in a stage voice. ‘I’m pleased to see that you’re not going to bed yet.’

  ‘Shortly,’ Lucian insisted.

  ‘Of course,’ he agreed. ‘But not before we have consumed vast quantities of alcohol.’

  ‘No. We’ve been drinking all day,’ he replied.

  ‘We’ve really hardly started,’ replied the man as he poured out three large glasses of whisky. ‘I propose a game of cards?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Lucian said, but he wanted to placate the man. ‘Five minutes,’ he offered. ‘Then I’m going up.’

  Gerald passed a glass to Miranda, who took it without comment, and put another down in front of Lucian. Then he proceeded to hunt through a sideboard, presumably for cards. After some cursing he eventually found a battered cardboard packet and placed it on the table. He pulled out a chair, turned it around and sat on it backwards.

  ‘What are we playing for?’ he asked.

  ‘I didn’t realize that we were playing for anything?’ Lucian said, deciding to take a sip of the whisky but immediately regretting it.

  ‘Of course you are,’ replied Miranda, not looking up. ‘But I warn you, all Gerald can play is poker. He doesn’t do anything unless he can make money at it. His motives are always mercenary.’

  The man laughed heartily but unconvincingly.

  ‘What about his ‘art’?’ Lucian asked.

  ‘His reason for painting me is that it turns him on,’ she replied. ‘You see, it also turns other people on and they pay him vast amounts of money for the pornography that I’ve posed for.’

  ‘Why do you pose for him?’

  ‘Because it turns her on as well,’ the artist replied.

  ‘It’s quite a convenient arrangement, really,’ she decided.

  Gerald leant back in his chair and picked up a pad
of paper from a table. He ripped off a piece and looked around the room.

  ‘Don’t you have a pen in this house?’ he asked Miranda, but she ignored him. He got up angrily and started to look through the sideboard again.

  ‘Deal the cards,’ he told Lucian.

  ‘Treat him nicely!’ Miranda insisted

  ‘I can treat him how I like,’ Gerald considered. ‘He comes here, eats our food, drinks our wine, enjoys our company. We give him a bed so that he can screw his little girlfriend.’

  ‘If you want us to leave’ Lucian offered once again, not quite confident in front of Miranda, although annoyed enough now not to want to take any more abuse from Gerald.

  ‘He’s like your so-called brother, Miranda, another parasite. And he’s like you in many respects. For aren’t all the lovers of great men but parasites?’

  Miranda looked up and frowned. Lucian pretended to look at his cards but like Gerald, who appeared to be looking for a pencil, both watched as she got up out of her chair. She stretched and took measured steps to a small table where she put down the book that she was holding and put the cigarette between her lips. She picked up the half-full bottle of port from the table. Still frowning she looked over at Gerald and back at the bottle that she now weighed in her hand. When she looked up again she and the artist smiled at each other.

  Miranda brought the bottle up to her shoulder and threw it at Gerald with all her strength. She was slow, though, giving him plenty of time to react. All he needed to do was lean back against the sideboard. It flew from her hand, hit the table and then followed through to the bottom of the curtains where it broke in a less than dramatic fashion on the floor. There was a crash a second later as glass in the French window fell out.

  ‘Shall we leave?’ Lucian asked Miranda, almost desperately.

  ‘Stop offering to leave!’ she rounded on him, talking with the cigarette in the corner of her mouth and looking levelly into his eyes. He looked down at his cards and tried to concentrate on the fact that he had a king and an ace of the same suit.