Dark Angel

by Sally Beauman

  “I’ll write to Stern,” he said. “If he doesn’t reply to the cables by tonight, I’ll cable his office tomorrow.”

  Acland sent his letter, to which he received no reply. The cables, both those to Stern’s house and to his offices, remained unanswered. Neither Jane nor Acland were to see or hear from him again.

  “You can’t do this,” Constance said. “Why are you doing this?”

  “If you would just sign there, Constance, and initial the first page. My secretaries can witness the signature later.”

  “I won’t sign. You don’t want me to sign. I love you. I came back to tell you I loved you. I took the very first boat. I ran into the apartment. It was cruel to do that. To take all your things. I looked for your clothes. All the hangers were empty. They clattered about—”

  “At the bottom of the second page, Constance. I’ve kept the details, brief.”

  “I will not! Constance pressed her small hands flat on her husband’s desk. “You don’t understand. You won’t listen when I explain. Acland is nothing to me! You know what I discovered? He is just as you said. A boring Englishman, with tweeds and a wife and a cradle in the bedroom. There was no other Acland, except in my mind. I invented him. I know I’ve been stupid. Oh, I ran away so fast! Montague—why is your office so big? I hate this office. You look so far away, and so cold, sitting there across your desk. I’m not a client; I’m your wife. You love me—I know you do. And you try to hide it, just as I did. All those foolish games, Montague—can’t you see? They’re over now. Oh, we shall be so happy. Please—look—if I lean across the desk, won’t you kiss me?”

  “Just sign, Constance, if you would be so good. I have another appointment.”

  “Go to hell, then. I won’t sign. Stupid papers. Lawyers’ language. I hate lawyers.”

  “Constance, if you don’t sign the separation agreement, I shall divorce you. It’s as simple as that.”

  “Divorce? You wouldn’t do that.”

  “Yes, I would. And in view of the number of correspondents I could cite, the terms would be a great deal less favorable to you financially than these are. So I suggest you sign.”

  “You’re punishing me—that’s all this is. You’re punishing me for going to England—”

  “Constance, don’t be childish. We once made an agreement. You did not keep to its terms. It is now null and void.”

  “You think I believe that? It’s nonsense. You’re tired of me, that’s all. You want to run off to that little Ursula of yours, with her lovely singing voice. You think I don’t know?”

  “Constance, I told you. Pyrotechnics can become tedious. I find the lies tedious and your lovers tedious. The way you change your mind becomes tedious. This marriage becomes tedious. Please sign.”

  “Acland didn’t kill my father, you know. He wanted to, but he didn’t. That was why I went to England. To ask him that. No other reason. You see—you had no need to be jealous.”

  “That may have been one of the reasons you went to England. I doubt it was the only one. And what you tell me now is something I already knew.”

  Constance’s head jerked up. Her eyes widened.

  “What? You knew Acland was not involved? But you said—”

  “You misinterpreted what I said. Would you sign, please, Constance?”

  “You knew? How did you know?”

  Constance rose to her feet. She stared at her husband. Stern, who had remained seated, looked at her calmly.

  “I told you, Constance. I was there that night. I was a houseguest, if you remember.”

  “You were with Maud. After the party you were with Maud. You told me.”

  “I was with Maud for a while. I did not remain with her. Later—not a great deal later—I was playing billiards. The one diversion gave me a taste for the other, perhaps. I used to be like that.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “You may believe it or not, as you wish. It is true. I played billiards from around one-thirty to past three in the morning. As did a number of other men. They included Acland, and Freddie—who was drunk. They included Boy. So, obviously, I found it odd when you told me that Boy spent the night upstairs in his room, talking to you. Presumably, you mistook the night.”

  “You knew.” Constance’s eyes filled with tears. “All these years, you knew.”

  “My dear.” Stern’s manner became more gentle. “I tried to tell you. In the end—perhaps I thought it was better to let it rest. All I can tell you is that it made no difference then, and it makes none now. It is not something which I would ever discuss.”

  “Montague, please.” Constance leaned forward. “You must see. I need you. If you’re not there—I’ll die. I can’t live with myself. Not alone. It makes me so afraid to be alone. Please.”

  “Constance, you won’t die. You are one of nature’s survivors. You have a great deal of natural resilience. Now, please dry your eyes. If you would just sign, then the matter will be settled. There need be no more painful scenes. You see—if you look at the first page—the house will be sold, but you will be well provided for. I have added one clause. Maud’s paintings should be returned to her, I think. They were a gift—no doubt one of my vulgar gifts, but still—”

  “Montague, I beg you. Don’t do this. You’ll suffer, too—I know you will. You’re not as hard as you pretend—”

  “And you’ll see, on the second page—the capital sum is a large one. You will be able to buy an apartment, of course. I thought you might consider starting a business of your own. Instead of advising your friends on their houses for nothing, why not charge them? You have a great deal of energy, Constance. Instead of wasting it all on love affairs, why not put it to practical use? You might find you liked to work. Work has its consolations.”

  “Kiss me.” Constance crossed to him. “I defy you to kiss me and then make me sign. You can’t. You’d have to admit then—this is a lie, all of this, the paper, the way you speak, everything. I am your wife. You—almost—love me.”

  Stern had risen as Constance spoke. She stepped forward and linked her arms about his waist. She tilted her face up to his. Stern looked down at her gravely.

  “Oh, Montague. You see me. You always did. Please tell me what you see.”

  “You look very lovely, Constance,” Stern said. “To me, you always did. I thought once … I wish …”

  He bent his head and kissed her. He kissed first her lips, then her closed eyes. He wiped the tears from her cheeks and then kissed her once more. Constance, with a cry, bent her head against his chest. Stern stroked her hair, then the nape of her neck. He let his hand rest against her delicate throat until he had recovered his composure; then, after some minutes, he drew back.

  Constance lifted her face to look at him. She made a small sound, perhaps of distress. In an impulsive way she pressed her hand against his cheek and then drew back.

  “Ah, I see. I see what I’ve done. I can read it in your face. How I hate myself. Such regret.”

  She reached across the desk and picked up the separation document.

  “Self-preservation, Montague?”

  Stern glanced away. “Something like that.”

  “It’s all right. I understand. I’ll sign then. I’ll sign because I … care for you. I care very much. There! You see?” Picking up the pen, Constance signed her name. She gave her husband a sideways glance. “How noble I am! It is a far far better thing I do now than I have ever done.” She smiled. “Initial here? There. It is done.” She slid the paper away from her, recapped the pen.

  “We are alike?” she said, head bent.

  “Oh, very alike.”

  “Montague …”

  “Yes, my dear?”

  “If we are not to see each other again, as you said—if I promise you to leave this room the minute you reply, may I ask you a question?”

  “You’ll keep this promise?”

  “Absolutely. I can, you know.”

  “Very well. Ask.”

 
“Must I ask? You know what the question is.”

  “Do I?”

  “Yes. There was only ever one.”

  “I suppose there was.” Stern hesitated.

  “Is it so hard? I said it to you.”

  “The habits of a lifetime …” He shrugged.

  “Oh, Montague, break them. Just for once.”

  “Very well. I love you, Constance. I have always loved you, very much.”

  There was a silence. Constance looked down at the floor.

  “Despite what I am? What you know me to be? Even so?”

  “Even so.” Stern paused. “As I’m sure you know—rational considerations have nothing to do with it.”

  “Oh, I wish I were different.” Constance gave a small, helpless gesture. “I wish I could unmake myself and begin again. I wish I could erase the past. Not all of it. There were times … Ah, well, I gave you my promise. It’s very hard to keep it, now—but I will. Look the other way, Montague. Face the window. You see—such a gray day. Do you see the rain falling?”

  Stern looked toward the window. Clouds moved in a slow sky. He heard no footfall, no sound of a door, but when he looked back, Constance had gone.

  She had gone back, I think, to the past, to those black notebooks of hers, and to her final entry. It is undated, but I think it was written later that day, very shortly afterward. Constance’s last attempt to square the past.

  I read it very late at night, alone by a still-silent telephone, the fire burning low and the room growing cold around me.

  The handwriting was jagged, uneven with emotion. Constance’s confession must have been written at speed. As I read I pitied her.

  Look, look, look, it begins, the words jabbed down with such force that some have ripped the paper. Look, look, look. Listen, Montague. Constance will tell you how it happened.

  How it happened.

  It was the rabbit that made Constance decide. If the rabbit hadn’t died like that, she would never have done it. But the snare was wound so tight. It was cutting into the fur and into the flesh, so it made the rabbit bleed while it choked him. That was a wicked thing to do: wicked, wicked, wicked.

  She never saw her mother die, but when the rabbit died, it twitched. Its eyes went dull. It hurts to die, Constance thought—yes, it hurts, I know how it feels—and she picked up a big stick and she whirled all round the clearing.

  When she saw the trap, she thought—there it is; it’s waiting. She could see that it was hungry. Give me something to eat, said the trap, and it had a metal voice, like rust mixed with syrup. Such a big mouth. It gaped; it wanted filling.

  Constance was bad then. She buried the rabbit first, and she loved the rabbit, but she was bad all the time she buried him, because she knew she wanted to look, and peep, and spy, and the trap said, do it.

  So, when the rabbit was safe, she ran back to the house, so fast, so fast. No one saw. It made her pant, all that running. She wasn’t allowed in that part of the house, but she went anyway. Up the stairs, open the door, into the dressing room. It was red in there—the curtains were red, and the curtains were closed. She could hear them in there, the other side of the curtains. She could hear what they were doing.

  Not the first time she’d heard it. She heard it in London, with the nurse, while she lay next door in her bed. Groans and gruntings and pantings. She knew it was a secret. She knew it was dirty. Should she look? She’d never looked before—kissing, yes; she’d spied on the kissing, but then she’d run away. This time, she thought, I shall take a look, just a little look, round the corner of that dark red curtain.

  Her father did it to Gwen. Gwen was all trussed up, like a lovely white bird. And Papa did it to her, all those special things he did to Constance, the things that made him say he loved her.

  Just the same. There was his bone in his hand, and he touched it. He rubbed his hands on it, so it got bigger and bigger, so it stood up, jutted out, Papa’s big stick, her stick, the one he used to love her and to chastise her.

  Constance thought—maybe he won’t put it in. Maybe he only did that with me, because I am special, special. But he did put it in. He turned his back, then he put it in. Gwen screamed, but that didn’t stop him. In and out. In and out. Jab, jab, jab. Just the same. No difference at all. Constance’s mind went scratch, scratch, scratch. The curtains started screaming.

  Such a wicked thing to do. Constance felt dead—deader than the rabbit. She couldn’t move her feet, or her hands or her tongue or her eyes. She watched Gwen cry. She felt sorry for Gwen. It never stopped him, crying. Then Papa told Gwen he loved her. He used the very same voice he used to Constance, and the very same words. He wanted to do it again with Gwen. That very night. In the woods. After the comet.

  Constance ran away then. She hid in a closet. It was dark in there, and no one could find her, not even Steenie. Then she went down to tea, and when he saw her, Papa said that horrible thing, the thing he’d promised her and promised her he wouldn’t say, ever again, not in front of other people. He said she was an albatross, a great dead lump round his neck, weighing him down, choking him, the way the snare choked the rabbit.

  When he said that, Constance thought: I will kill him. Lots of time to plan—all a spring evening. All his fault, said the wardrobe and the bed. The door said, he had it coming.

  How Constance crept about. Easy, easy, easy. Up and down, in and out, all the secret places in the secret house. She was very cunning. She fetched Gwen. She told Gwen that Steenie was ill. She knew Gwen wouldn’t leave the house, not then. She’d stay, the way she did before, when Steenie was ill, because she loved him.

  There is a little place just outside the conservatory door. A big bush, with a hollow place inside it. Constance hid there. She waited, very, very patiently. She wasn’t cold; she had thought of everything. She had a coat and a scarf and a pair of boots. She crouched down. It was exciting, waiting.

  He came out at twelve. Smoking a cigar. She could see the red end glowing. Acland saw him leave too. She could see Acland, but he couldn’t see her. There he was, on the terrace, in the shadows, watching. Acland knew. She knew. No one else did.

  She watched Acland for a bit. She counted to fifty. Then she followed her father. Through the bushes, down to the wood. The same path. Sneaking through the trees. The red cigar glowing. The comet had gone. It was dark in the wood. It was exciting, and frightening.

  He sat down in the clearing. He leaned up against a tree. His foot was very near the rabbit grave. Constance crept up on him. He looked at his watch. Then he looked at the sky. Then he shut his eyes. Constance waited. Then she understood. He was sleeping.

  She crept up very close then, so close she could have touched him. She thought he might wake up, because the branches snapped, and the trap talked, but he didn’t seem to hear them. Constance watched him breathe. His chest lifted, then fell. His mouth was open. When she leaned over, his breath puffed in her face, sweet port smell, like wine and honey.

  Constance thought—I don’t have to do it. I don’t. She thought—I could say I loved him. She was afraid to do that. His eyes might hate her. He might hit her. He might bring out the bone and make her stroke it. She hated the bone, and she loved the bone. It made her head ache, all that love and hate mixed up. Constance thought: fire and brimstone.

  Such a long time to wait. She crept away again. She hid in the bushes, just the other side of the trap. The bushes were damp. The leaves washed her clean, so her soul shone through her skin. The trap talked. Louder and louder, on and on in that metal jammy voice: hungry, hungry, hungry. One big mouth, and her father liked mouths. Swallow me up, he said to Constance once, swallow me up.

  He woke up finally. He looked at his watch. He muttered a bit. Constance thought: Papa is drunk. She could see now, when he walked, he wasn’t very steady. Weaving about. Weaving about. He peed against the tree. He peed on the tree, and the grass, and the rabbit’s grave. That was a mistake. The trap didn’t like it.

 
; Suppose she told him—about the rabbit? Constance knew what he would say, Flip, flip, flip—one of his jokes. His jokes were like razor blades. Stupid Constance, that’s what he’d say. You should have brought it home—made a pie of it. Stupid Constance. Ugly Constance. Papa said she smelled nasty. He said she tasted sour. He said she was small, her fault she was bleeding. Stupid little bitch, he said, your hands are clumsy.

  I’ll show him how stupid I am, Constance said to herself, and she called to him.

  Eddie, she called. Eddie, I’m over here. This way. The voice was as right as right. He liked that voice, much more than he ever liked hers, and he went to it. Slipping about in the bracken. He swore. My, but he was clumsy. She called one more time. Only one more time. Then the trap got him.

  Swallow, swallow, swallow, Constance said. She danced about, the way she does when she is angry. Swallow, swallow, swallow, black, black, black. The trap snapped. Its teeth ground. All that bone and all that blood. The trap smacked its lips. It gurgled. It said he was juicy.

  She ran away then. Fast, then faster still. All she could hear was the wind in her ears. Just the wind. No screaming.

  No screaming then. The screams waited. They came at night. When her eyes closed, out they came. How Constance ached with those screams, but the albatross said: No, they are lovely things. They lift me up. Watch, Constance. He smothered all the pain with his soft white feathers, and then he soared on the pain, up and up, higher and higher, far beyond the reach of men, which was wise, for the albatross had so many enemies. On and on he flew, to the ends of the earth and back again; then one night, when he returned, he said to Constance: Be at peace. It wasn’t you; it was Acland.

  Look in his eyes, the albatross said. He knew you wanted it. And Constance did look. She saw it at once, all that clean black hate, as deep as the very deepest water, the very mirror of her own. She loved him at once. Acland loved her in return, instantly. You are my twin, Constance used to say to him. If you look very deep in my eyes, Acland, you can drown in them.

  They went inside the glass then, and in its circle they were close. One day they would be closer still. Constance tried to tell him. She said: Look, we will lie down at the end of the world, Acland. Our mouths will match. There will be such symmetry. Don’t you see, both of us, Acland and Constance, bloody from head to foot, the most perfect jointure of all—a man and a woman, you and I, lovers and murderers.