The Spaces in Between

by Collin Van Reenan

She stepped off into the other dancers, dragging me with her. One of her hands held mine and the other she slipped inside my shirt and around my waist. Her gloves were damp against my skin and she gripped me so hard that it was painful. I tried, half-heartedly, to pull away, but it did no good. To my acute embarrassment, I found that the closeness of her body had invoked a physical response in me that no bridegroom should feel for another woman – especially on his wedding night. Pressed against me as she was, she could not fail to notice it, and, when she did, she lifted her mask and smiled at me in such a way that I could feel the colour flush in my face.

  The music stopped. The gramophone was re-cranked. I suppose I should have tried to get away from Madame Lili then but I didn’t. I just stood there, by her side, obediently. She, and the House, had broken me. Any self-assertion I might once have possessed had been left at the door, six weeks before.

  The next dance was faster, much faster, and Madame Lili dragged me around and around, whirling through the hot, stuffy loft until the coloured drapes, the dresses and costumes became a kaleidoscope of moving shapes. Gripped so tightly by her gloved arms, I could not escape, nor could I feel my feet nor focus on other people or objects. It seemed to me that the lights were growing dim and, though pleased at first for a respite from the glare, I became daunted at the growing darkness. The overlit room shrank to a tiny dot and then went out completely as the floor rushed up to meet me.

  The floor was hard and the bare planks smelled of dust and decay. An intense blackness enveloped me and the heavy silence was broken only by a sh…sh…sh…sound that I eventually recognised as the noise of the gramophone needle turning in its end-groove.

  My disorientation was complete. Where was I? Where were the wedding guests? And where was my wife, Natalie?

  Lifting my face from the floor, I managed to sit up and strained my eyes to look around. The blackness stared back with just a slight shimmer here and there, edged with a deeper black. Instinctively, I felt there were others in the room; somewhere, beyond the blackness, there was a presence. Something was about to happen and, whatever it might be, I sensed that I was not going to like it. The feeling of expectancy was palpable.

  Softly, the tone of the unseen gramophone changed to a low, almost imperceptible note, followed immediately by another the same and then another, and I realised it sounded like a clock striking. When it reached twelve, it ceased, only to be followed by a slow, weird tune, each note a little clearer than the first, until they formed a slow, soft, eerie refrain. Very slowly, the music continued, gathering in momentum and strength – a weird, haunting melody that, even confused as I was, I recognised as one of the few pieces of classical music I was familiar with: St-Saëns’ ‘Danse macabre’.

  On the floor, in pitch darkness, bewildered and afraid, I felt the music more intensely than anything I had ever heard before, the strange, haunting melody sending shivers up my spine.

  My instinct was to stand up, but my reason told me to stay on the floor. If I managed to stand, what could I do and where could I go in such complete darkness? My heart pounded in my chest and my eyes ached from trying to peer into the blackness that surrounded me.

  The music slowly began to gather momentum and increase in volume, and I found that I was shaking with fear of the unknown.

  Again, I stared into the blackness all about me and, this time, I felt as though I could detect movement – a swirling of the darkness, gradually becoming dark grey and then grey: it was lifting, almost imperceptibly changing into a gloomy, misty dawn.

  I watched, fascinated, as the swirling movements became gradually clearer and slowly came into focus. I gave a sudden start and my heart began to pound as I watched the grey shapes morph into figures, figures of human bones – skeletons dancing slowly all around me.

  The safety valve in my brain must have cut off the adrenaline and replaced it with a burst of logic – these were the guests, my wedding guests, dressed in black with white bones painted…to scare me…of course! But, even as I thought it, doubt broke in. Was it even possible that the ‘motley crew’ of house guests, men and women, all shapes and sizes, in different elaborate costumes, could have changed into this? Again, the cold fingers of disbelief curled around my spine. Who would inflict this upon me on my wedding night?

  Until that time I had only half-believed in the concept of evil, but now my head ached from trying to understand. ‘Madness’ was my ultimate conclusion.

  The music was reaching its crescendo, the dead swirling around me, drawing the circle closer and closer…

  Then, abruptly, it stopped. Darkness returned, only to be followed within seconds by a single white floodlight, and there, caught in its beam, my bride, resplendent in her white bridal gown, blonde hair hanging down her slender back and face hidden behind her veil… Natalya…

  Fighting off my giddiness and the malaise that gripped me still, I crawled towards her, perspiring from the effort and concentrating on every move.

  ‘Natalie!’

  I heard my voice, a trembling, croaking, disembodied sound.

  ‘Natalie!’

  Staggering to my feet, I reached out to her, the light dazzling. I seized her arm and lifted up her veil with the other hand.

  And there, in place of that beautiful pale and delicate face, grey-blue eyes and classic features, was a skull. Black, empty eye-sockets and fleshless, snarling mouth, the teeth clenched in a terrifying rictus.

  I jumped back and her arm, its skeletal hand in mine, came with me. The skeleton tilted towards me, its fleshless face pressed close to mine, and then seemed to explode into fragments of sharp bone and clouds of filthy, choking dust.

  I could hear myself shrieking and tried frantically to get away but, as I stepped back, I came up against something solid, something living, and with it the cloying, oppressive perfume of Madame Lili. I remember looking down to see the remains of my wife fall in a broken heap and explosion of dust on the floor. As I tried to back away, I felt the strong arms of Serge encircle me from behind. Another gust of perfume, a sting in my arm and then the sensation of falling…falling, head-first, into a dark, deep well.

  ‘…and lo, the bones were very dry. And the Lord said to me: “Son of Man, can these bones live?” And I answered: “Oh Lord God, Thou Knowest”.’

  EZEKIEL 37:2–3

  CHAPTER 12

  The Betrayal

  ‘Just because you don’t believe in it, it doesn’t mean you’re safe.’

  ANYA

  I don’t know what woke me. Perhaps it was the unwonted coming and going past my door or the distant mumble of voices in a house usually so quiet and still.

  Giddiness hit me as soon as I sat up, and I had to wait a few moments before I could even attempt to stand.

  Horrific memories of the night burst into my mind; I had no defences. To try to blot them out, I concentrated on standing up. My legs shook, feeling as though at any moment they would let me down and send me crashing to the floor.

  I must have slept clothed. There were small splashes of blood on my shirt, and my hands were cut and sore. The metal of the bed frame supported me, and I clung to it until my knuckles showed white.

  Far, far away in the House, I could hear voices, and footsteps going to and fro. There were other noises too, of things – furniture – being moved, and bumps and squeaks, and always the constant murmur of voices.

  A step away from my trusty support left me swaying alarmingly, but I stayed upright and tentatively moved towards the door. Triumphantly, I grasped the handle and pulled, only to discover that it was locked and there was no longer a key in the keyhole. A lurch to the right propelled me into my tiny sitting room, and from there I tottered into the schoolroom. Here, the door was also locked and no key to be found. Why was I locked in? What was happening that necessitated my being kept prisoner in my own rooms?

  Feeling slightly stronger, I made it across to the big front window. Looking down on to the driveway below, I could see the roofs of two large remov
al vans and, though I could not see anyone, I could hear voices coming from near the front door. The windows would not open and I sank on to the nearest chair with the realisation that I had been deliberately isolated from whatever momentous events were taking place.

  Anger welled up inside me, a feeling of abuse and betrayal that was long overdue. This House, these people, were deliberately humiliating me; they had been all along, and I had known it but, for so many reasons, allowed it to happen. A long, slow, carefully plotted betrayal.

  With a sudden clarity, I understood what I must long have known and yet subconsciously suppressed. I was a rat in an experiment, the willing victim of some sort of vicious parlour game, taken to extreme lengths and, presumably, satisfying someone’s sadistic, sick idea of pleasure. Vague notions of vengeance and retribution swept around my muddled brain, but how, and against whom? One thought overrode everything: where was Natalie? What had they done to her? Surely she could never be part of this evil game?

  My one need now was to get out of these locked rooms and confront my tormentors, rescue Natalie and get away from this House. And then I remembered the ‘secret’ stairway that led down to the mezzanine of the library.

  I jumped up and promptly hit the floor again. Carefully this time, I got to my feet and slowly moved towards the schoolroom cupboard, tottering like a child learning to walk. Once inside the cupboard, I pushed the wall and gasped with relief when it swung open on to the narrow stair. This was much easier to deal with than walking, as there were rails either side to hold on to and little room to fall.

  At the mezzanine balcony, I moved slowly along to the top of the small spiral stairway leading to the ground floor. From there, I could look down into the library, as I had done so many weeks before, spying on Madame Lili.

  My eyes were still not focusing properly, but I could see through the open library doors into the great hall, where tremendous comings and goings were taking place. The front doors of the House were both open and I could see the side of a large van parked on the gravel drive. A man I did not recognise was shutting the back doors and talking to another man who looked a lot like Serge except that he was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. There were voices on the grand staircase, and two women came into view as they descended into the hall. One was a tall, slender blonde, and the other, only slightly shorter, had short brown hair.

  I concentrated my eyes on them and steadily they both came into focus. The brunette was Madame Lili and the blonde Natalya! Both wore jeans and T-shirts.

  I must have let out some sort of groan, or at least an expression of surprise, because both looked up as if they had heard something. Fortunately, they didn’t look in my direction, and I was able to get on to the spiral stair. Gripping the rails as tightly as I could in my weakened state, I crept slowly downwards. Steadying myself on the last step, I lurched into the library, supporting myself against the billiard table, and swung towards the open doors leading to the hall. Anger and dismay drove me on as I made it to the doorway, and it was only then that the two women looked up.

  They seemed so shocked to see me that, for a moment, they did not react.

  I tried to call out to Natalie but managed only a hoarse croak. The look on their faces turned from surprise to dismay. I had almost reached them now and summoned one final lurch that brought me close enough to touch them.

  Then, suddenly, Serge appeared beside me and, before I could react, I felt a heavy blow to the right side of my head. It poleaxed me and, once again, I was flat out on the floor. Madame Lili said something in German and, out of focus, I saw Serge’s feet retreat towards the front door. Now she was shouting to Natalie and I heard my wife’s light footfall moving away.

  I smelled rather than saw the ever-fragrant Madame Lili beside me. She pulled me over on to my front and then knelt with all her weight on the back of my right arm, high up near the shoulder, pinning me to the floor and sending stabs of pain up to my neck. She said nothing. After a few moments, I saw Natalie’s feet approaching, level with my line of sight. I sensed her hand something to Madame Lili. Again they spoke in German, and Natalie, somewhat reluctantly it seemed, knelt on my left side, holding my arm to the floor as Madame Lili thrust a needle into my shoulder, swearing softly in German and making no attempt to be gentle.

  Whatever she gave me, it seemed to take an age to go in, and I felt every drop of it. Nor did it render me immediately unconscious; after they both got off me, I was able to roll over on to my back. I knew, though, that I could not get up.

  Slowly, very slowly, I started to feel my limbs grow weaker. There was no feeling of drowsiness or loss of consciousness, at least not at first, and although paralysed I was able to watch the events of the House drawing to a close. The men outside finished closing the van doors and called to the women to join them. Madame Lili loomed over me, a cold, dispassionate face, devoid of any sign of pity and bordering on disgust.

  ‘Farewell, Nicolai Feodorovitch!’ she mocked. ‘You’ve had your five minutes of fame. As you say in English – “Every dog has his day”!’ And she went out of view, laughing at her own joke.

  I felt now that my betrayal was almost complete and lost all will to fight or resist.

  Natalie appeared, kneeling beside me; she had been crying and her face was streaked with tears.

  ‘Nico,’ she sobbed. ‘I know you will never be able to forgive me for what we’ve…I’ve, done to you. But you need to know that…’ her voice cracked ‘…that I really did love you. It wasn’t meant to be like this.’

  Even if I had been able to reply, I had nothing left to say to her. Blackness was circling the edge of my vision and I watched her walk out of my view as through a telescope; the hole that was my vision became smaller and smaller and finally closed on blackness. Even then, I could still hear the sound of the vans driving away, crunching on the gravel of the narrow driveway.

  Then all was silence, and the fear of Death.

  I was frightened; more scared than words are able to express. I was paralysed and trapped in my body, unable even to call out, and it terrified me – a waking nightmare.

  I must have been unconscious for a long time, because it was pitch black when I awoke but I sensed that I was still where I had fallen, in the great hall.

  Although it was a warm summer’s night, I felt cold; the chill of the tiled floor seeped up through my thin shirt into my back, but I was unable even to shiver.

  The darkness of the hall was absolute. Had I been able to move enough to see behind me, there might have been a vestige of grey around the huge windows, but the blackness seemed to close in on me like an almost palpable fog.

  Perhaps I was dead! Perhaps that is what Death is – trapped in a body no longer able to function, unable to move, unable to see through the blackness, yet with a mind that continues to function or, at least, continues to think and perceive. The thought appalled me.

  I closed my eyes and then opened them again. Darkness has no boundary; it was drowning me.

  I have always been afraid of the dark. Living in Paris, it didn’t matter; the streets and shops were lit all night. Electric light is the death of ghosts. Out in the countryside in England where I was born, we were taught to be wary of the dark and respectful of places where instinctively we felt uncomfortable at night and where you couldn’t take a horse, even in daytime.

  Now, here in this House, I was very afraid; so afraid and so helpless that my only salvation lay in sleep. When I was unconscious, knowing and feeling nothing, I was safe. The danger was in my mind. Now I prayed for sleep, my only escape from an unbearable situation. There was no way to know whether my paralysis was permanent or even if the drug would kill me, but just a faint hope that I could escape into sleep and perhaps, if it was meant to be, wake up back in my old viable body.

  But, to torment me further, sleep refused to come. Perhaps it was the chill in my bones or the fear in my mind. I remained stubbornly conscious.

  Then, I heard it. I could not, at first, be sure.
Then it came once more and I could no longer pretend that I was mistaken.

  I was not alone. Way off in the depths of the House, something stirred.

  I lay straining to identify those strange sounds – sounds that I sensed more than heard.

  Now it came on, clearer and more regular: a slow, shuffling movement that I gradually realised was a faint, light footfall. Paralysis notwithstanding, I felt the hair bristle on my neck.

  Slowly, but inexorably, it moved towards me up the long corridor from the back of the House. A pause, a faint sound that could have been a sigh, and then the footfall resumed, less hesitant than before, as if it now knew that I was there.

  Instinctively, the ‘fight or flight’ mechanism kicked in, and adrenaline flooded through me, but my body had no response. I tried desperately to encourage the fear in the hope that I might faint, but remained alert with no escape.

  The footfall was louder now and I guessed that whatever it was had left the carpeted corridor and was now moving along the tiled floor towards me.

  Eventually it stopped. The feet wearing those shoes must have been level with my head but I saw nothing – nothing but the blackness that seemed to swirl around me.

  Then suddenly everything changed as the movement close to me stirred the air and, on it, the unmistakable fragrance of Jasmin de Corse. The paralysis of my body focused my senses to such a degree that the perfume seemed almost overwhelming and with it came almost total relief – for this person next to me, still unseen in the darkness, was Tatiana Nicolaevna Romanova.

  Even though she spoke in a whisper, her voice startled me.

  ‘Oh, Nicolai, what have they done to you?’

  The air moved again around my face and I sensed that she was closer, kneeling behind my head. A cool, soft hand touched my face with infinite tenderness, her fingers gently exploring the swelling that must have been on my cheek. With great care, she lifted my head and placed something soft beneath it. I could not, of course, answer her question, and wondered how she could see me in the darkness. The soft voice came again.