She was dragged in through the doorway, across the paved floor, speckled with colour where the red kneeling cushions were laid out in neat rows; up on to the raised altar, and tied to the stone cross. Her back was pressed against the centre pillar, each wrist was lashed to a crosspiece, and her ankles tied firmly to the base.
Torches were lit and placed in wall sconces, a mirror of polished bronze was placed before her so that the entire congregation should be able to see the vileness of the Satan-born. They piled faggots at her feet, and the priests began to chant, and the people responded.
‘Jehovah, created He man.’
‘In His own image,’ the voices behind her shouted.
‘With one head.’
‘And two arms.’
‘Two legs, only two legs.’
One priest with a particularly sonorous voice carried on in solo.
‘And at the bottom of the legs, shall be two feet.’
‘Yea, there shall be two feet.’
‘And at the end of the two arms shall be two hands.’
‘Yea, there shall be two hands.’
The priest raised his voice to a near scream,
‘And what shall there be on the head?’
‘There shall be two ears.’
‘And how shall the ears be shaped?’
‘They will be large, and black, and shall hang down, even to the shoulders.’
‘And what shall be on the face?’
‘There shall be two eyes, one large, one small, and two noses, and twin tusks will grow forth from the cheeks, and the lips shall be black and spread wide, and the teeth shall never be covered. Thus saith the Almighty Jehovah.’
‘And what shall be on the hands?’
‘Two fingers, and they shall have talons, even as the feet hath two toes, and a small tail, not more than twelve inches long, shall hang from the spine, even as Jehovah has decreed.’ Caroline was crying now, not because they had lighted the faggots, but because she could see her reflection in the bronze mirror. She was so ugly—it was good that all this ugliness was about to be burnt. She had no lovely brown wrinkled skin; hers was obscenely white and smooth; her head, instead of being nobly domed and ridged, was covered with a grotesque mop of corn-coloured growth, which covered her horrible small ears; she only had one nose, and her eyes were both the same size, but, and this was worst of all, not delicately addled, but blue, surrounded with white, and fringed by the same hideous growth that marred her head. Each hand had four long fingers and a shorter one that stuck out at an angle, and there were five toes to each foot. Her lips were red, not black, and covered her teeth, which should have been irregular, one behind the other; hers were disgustingly white and even.
‘And the skin shall be wrinkled, and the face pitted, even as the face of Father Moon, and there shall be no furry growth, either on the head or other parts, for this is an abomination in Jehovah’s sight, as it has been, and will be, for evermore.’
‘Cursed be the Satan-Born,’ the priest chanted.
‘May they be cursed for ever.’
Caroline heard Jehovah laugh as the flames licked upwards, and He laughed with a million voices, over a million years, and before merciful oblivion came, she laughed too. In that last revealing moment she understood.
Crowning Glory
(1971)
The woman, who was both rich and middle-aged, walked slowly through St James's Park, looking from right to left with that bored, haggard expression Gore knew so well. The formidable attendant followed her mistress some ten paces behind, carrying a small paper bag from which she dispensed largesse in the way of breadcrumbs to various greedy ducks.
Walking round the duck pond from the opposite direction, Gore approached his victim, being careful not to look at her, but paying smiling attention to the ducks, fully aware that he looked handsome, very young, and, to rich, middle-aged ladies, extremely appealing. His timing was perfect. Eight feet separated him from the woman, when he stumbled, placed a white shapely hand to that part of his anatomy where his heart might well reside, then sank slowly but gracefully to his knees. The woman was only three feet away when he raised his head, gazed at her with eyes in which tears were just beginning to form, and said weakly:
"Madam, if you could assist me."
It was a wonderful performance, the best he had ever given.
The white haggard face was expressionless; the large, still beautiful black eyes stared down at him, then as though a tiresome puddle were in her path she stepped round him, and continued her walk. The grim-faced attendant gave him a blank stare, then followed in her mistress's footsteps. Gore was left crouching on the ground, feeling like a comedian whose best joke has been greeted with, complete silence.
"Feeling poorly, dear?" a plump matron was bending over him.
''Get lost." Gore rose quickly and strode angrily away.
But it was at the park gates he received his biggest shock.
"You.”
At first he could not believe it was he who was so perfunctorily addressed and he continued to walk towards the Mall.
"You. Young man."
He stopped, turned, and saw the maid — whatever she was — hurrying to catch up with him.
"I called you twice." She spoke faultless English with a slight mid-European accent. 'Madam the Countess says you may call upon her at four o'clock."
"What the...!"
"Please, I must hurry back." She handed him a card. "Do not be late. Madam is not accustomed to being kept waiting."
"Look here...!"
But it was no use, she turned and walked quickly back into the park. Gore looked down at the scrap of pasteboard. He read:
"Countess Helene Landi,"
Underneath had been written in violet ink:
"Suite A. Carlton Ritz."
"Well I'm damned," he said aloud.
Which in his line of business was an unfortunate expression.
The countess received him in the main reception room of her suite, dressed in a long white afternoon gown, while she reclined on a sofa. Her white haggard face was framed by thick auburn curls.
"A wig," Gore decided "It must be."
The countess was brief and brutally frank.
"Mr. Maltravers, that is the name you wish to be known by, I believe," her English, like her servant's, was perfect, and enhanced by the slight mid- European accent "You have been making enquiries about me - the extent of my fortune and so fourth." She raised a slender hand "Do not trouble to deny, I have friends, acquaintances, who inform me of these things. I too have made enquiries.
"You live off women. Ladies like myself who are past their first youth, and are willing to pay you for certain attentions. Is that correct?"
"Really..!" Gore was prepared to bluster, but the countess frowned and broke in quickly.
"Please. There is no need for anger. I find nothing wrong with this arrangement. You are very pretty, Mr. Maltravers, and like money. I am not so pretty any more and have lots of money. I will pay you fifty pounds a day, and all expenses. Are you agreeable?"
"Well."' Gore tried to look reluctant, but again he was not allowed to proceed.
"That is good. You will move into a room on the next floor. You will wait upon me when sent for.. How are you called?”
"I am sorry..."
"What is your assumed birth name?" "Gore," he said sulkily.
"I do not like it. It makes me think of blood. I will call you Chu-Chu. You look Chu-Chu "
"Hmn?," he frowned, clutched the chair arm, then tried to look boyishly charming.
"I think we will...
"You will move in at once.” The countess took up a book. "Greselda my personal maid will make all the arrangements. You may dine with me at six."
"Yes." Gore rose to his full height, and prepared to deliver a much used speech of acceptance, but the countess was now fully engrossed in her book. Greselda touched his arm.
"Come," she said "Let us see about your room.”
&nbs
p; Gore was used to humiliation; it was part of his business, and he usually got his revenge, but during the next few days he was made to drain the bottle, then lick the label.
His duties seemed to lie somewhere between an errand boy and groom of the bedchamber with extra duties.
"Chu-Chu" - the silly nickname irritated him, she could have been addressing a lap-dog - "go down to that store - Harrods. I want some nice gloves. They have some lace ones - black. Greselda, give him some money. You may keep the change.”
Or.
"Chu-Chu, you may paint my nails. I like you to do that. Your hands are so soft. You are so chu-chu." And she actually patted his head. Their love-making bordered on the bizarre. She allowed him the hors d'oeuvre, permitted him to savour the entree, but snatched away the dessert.
"You may go now." She lay back her body gleamed white in the dim light, and she was still desirable, "I am tired, you may go.”
Outraged manhood growled like a frustrated dog, and Gore, wise in such matters, tried to stroke her forehead As his hands touched the thick auburn hair the white face turned savage; the dark eyes flashed their anger the teeth were bared. Her English became ragged.
"You will not touch. Hear me, you will not touch. Nobody, touch my head."
"All right" (he almost said, "keep your hair on") "calm down."
"Do not be insolent, you miserable little poof. I pay you money, good money - you do as you are told. I say, you not touch my head - ever. You understand?"
Gore nodded; there was something revolting about that white, drawn face and glaring, mad eyes, and he scrambled hurriedly into his clothes.
One morning Greselda barred his way into the suite.
"Madame is unwell,” she informed him. "She will not require you today."
"I am sorry." He turned the full blast of his smile upon the maid who was, as usual, completely unimpressed. "Anything serious?"
"No she will be up in a few days. You will receive your money."
The door was slammed.
For two days Gore enjoyed his liberty; then curiosity, plus a nagging worry, got the better of him. He tapped the grapevine.
"No doctor has been asked for," volunteered the floor manager.
"Not allowed into her bedroom," said the chambermaid. "Gawd knows the state it's in."
Gore became more worried by the hour. Was Madam tiring of his company; could in fact a rival have been smuggled in without his, or the hotel staff's knowledge? It was not impossible.
The chambermaid tucked a bank note into her apron pocket.
"Get the pass key back before morning," she warned, "and if you get caught. I'll say you pinched it."
It was a little after two o'clock in the morning when he inserted the pass key into the front door and silently entered the suite. The main reception room was lit by a single table lamp, but there was a ribbon of light under the bottom of the countess's bedroom door.
He knelt down and applied his eye to the keyhole, a form of exercise with which he was well acquainted. The countess was lying on her bed face down; he could see her naked feet moving restlessly, doing a kind of tap dance; and Greselda was bending over her, hiding her head and shoulders. She said something, which Gore could not understand, then her right arm jerked, and a low moan rose up and became a muffled scream. The feet threshed wildly, the body twisted as though in great agony, then was still. Greselda's right hand came back and took up a lint dressing that was lying in readiness on a bedside table; later she fumbled for a rolled bandage.
The man at the keyhole was sickened, and puzzled. What on earth was wrong with her? Boils? Eruptions that had to be lanced? If so, what loathsome disease infected that dead white body? He wiped a dam forehead, then put his eye back to the keyhole.
Greselda was walking towards the door carrying a kidney-shaped enamel dish; Gore fled across the room and flung himself down behind the sofa. The maid opened the bedroom door and walked quickly towards the bathroom. The young man peeped over the sofa back and watched her empty something into the lavatory pan, then pull the chain. She rinsed the dish in the wash basin, walked back into the reception room, turned out the table lamp, then went into the countess's bedroom and closed the door.
A very disturbed young man let himself out of the suite.
The countess made an appearance a week later, her face more gaunt, the splendid eyes sunken, and she had aged.
"Chu-Chu, you have missed me?"
"More than I can explain," he said, and willed himself to kiss the chalk- white cheek; the auburn wig fitted snugly over her head, but as she jerked her face to one side a curl moved and he had a glimpse of flesh-coloured sticking plaster.
"You are a beautiful liar, arid do not touch my head. I have told you before."
"Sorry." He straightened up.
"Today,” she said simply, "we move down to the seaside. Eastbourne. You will like it. Assist Greselda to pack."
"Yes, Madam," he stressed the title with art ironic undertone, but the countess did not seem to notice.
"There's a good Chu-Chu. Run along."
The hired Rolls-Bentley ran them down to the coast, and Gore, who hated solitude, glared at the red-brick house with distaste. It was situated someway from the town, squatting like a broody hen in the centre of a large overgrown lawn, and there was no other residence in sight, only poppy-spotted fields, and an endless expanse of sea bathing the white feet of towering cliffs.
Their life, in this quiet, peaceful place, assumed a kind of brooding calm, and Gore found himself relaxing, letting the quietness take hold of him, and lure him into a sense of security.
The countess made no physical demands on him now, being content that he should sit at her feet, usually in the garden for the weather was glorious, while she talked.
Gore gave the appearance of being a good listener, for that was part of his stock in trade, but in fact he paid little heed to what she said. She had lived a pretty full life, he gathered, but there was no mention of a husband, although lovers and casual affairs seemed to form an army that stretched back over some thirty years. Once she aroused him from a light doze by snapping suddenly:
"Do you ever experiment, Chu-Chu?"
"Hmm," he sat up, suddenly mindful of his fifty pounds a day. "No. Why?"
"Don't."
There was a long silence, and Gore allowed his eyelids to droop. Then she was talking again, and her voice was like the hum of a distant bee.
He never did remember or understand what she was talking about; there was some reference to ancient rites celebrated in a deserted grotto, and he supposed she was recalling some drag session, but was too bored to question her. The days and evenings passed, and Gore began to put on weight.
One night he was disturbed by the sound of an angry voice, and after he had shaken sleep from his dulled brain, realised it was Greselda's. She was in the countess's room and seemed to be arguing with rising heat. She spoke rapidly in a language Gore supposed was Greek, and the other woman broke in with a vehement "No" several times, then both their voices rose in verbal battle, intermingling, one harsh, demanding, the other fearful, protesting.
Greselda came out on to the landing, still talking in that swift, savage tone, and Gore leapt from his bed when he heard the key being turned in his bedroom door. The maid said:
"Stay where you are. Do not try to come out, this is none of your business."
He heard her go into the bathroom, there was a rattle of metal, as though a knife had tapped on a plate, then the footsteps crossed the landing and entered the countess's bedroom.
"No - no," the countess's voice was high-pitched; Greselda spoke softly now, coaxing, soothing, and her efforts seemed to be rewarded, for the other woman after a while ceased to protest.
A sudden silence fell upon the little house, save for the perpetual murmur of the nearby sea, and the wild beating of his heart. Then like a thunderclap it came. An ear-splitting scream, the pounding of naked feet, a dull thud, and the crash of a metal dish striking
the landing wall. The scream sank to a moan, and emerged into a repeated "No - no - no," with Greselda providing a background of pleading, angry demands.
Gore wrenched at his door, the handle came off; then he rushed to the fireplace, took up a poker and jammed its point between the door and frame. The wood splintered, then the door flew open, and he was out on the landing.
The first object that caught his eye was a kidney-shaped enamel dish; it lay in the centre of the carpet and nearby was an open, blood-stained, cut-throat razor. Gore remembered the scene he had witnessed in the hotel, and felt the familiar sickening disgust, only now there was an unexpected element of pity. Greselda came out of the countess's bedroom carrying a rolled napkin in one hand, her face was marred by a darkening bruise under one eye, and her usually prim, tightly bound hair hung down to her shoulders. She glared at Gore, who said angrily, "Why don't you fetch a doctor?”
"Mind your business, and get back to your room."
"It is my business. Do you want to kill her? If you don't fetch a doctor, I will."
The woman's face tightened, the eyes became black slits of gleaming darkness, and her lips parted into a ferocious grin.
"Listen, pretty boy. Do you think Madam would not have a doctor, if there was anything he could do? Aye? Do you think she let old Greselda play with throat-cut razor if there was any other way? Ask her.” She pointed to the open bedroom door, "why not you ask her? I ask her.” She raised her voice. "You want your young man fetch doctor?"
"No!" The scream of denial made Gore retreat a few steps. "No, go back. Do not come in. Go. "
Greselda giggled; a horrible little titter.
"Go back to bed, pretty boy, and tomorrow when Madam is better, you play with her. She fondle your hair and feed you cream cakes. No one help her now, she no want doctor, no want Greselda — she no want help anymore." She nodded slowly, looking like an old she-wolf. "So be it. Go now."
Gore looked at the open bedroom door, the enamel dish on the carpet, the blood-stained cut-throat razor, then went back to his bed.
Collected Stories (4.1) Page 3
