Black Light

by Bedford, K. A.

  I sat Julia down by the fireplace. It was time to talk about Father William. Somehow she had acquired a cup of tea, which she sipped as we spoke.

  She said, “He was in very poor shape when I met him, Ruth.”

  “He was an old man … ”

  “No. He was … he was not himself. Something was taking over his … It was quite distressing to see, I must confess. I had a difficult time simply looking at him.” Her hands shook a little as she remembered the occasion.

  “How did you get him to come here in the first place?”

  “We arrived at about the same time. He was on the tram with me.”

  I remembered the tram. “Everyone arrives on the tram?”

  “Most of the time, yes. There are special cases, unique circumstances.”

  “And you spoke to him, or he spoke to you, or …?” There was so much to learn; it got in the way of finding things out quickly. Would I know, would I be able to feel it, somehow, if Brown’s people decided to leave me here? It gave me a queasy feeling to go with the headache. As gorgeous as this part of the deadworld looked, it struck me as perhaps too gorgeous, too tempting. I did not want to stay here. “All right. You’re both on the tram, along with lots of other people. What then?”

  “I knew his identity immediately. I remembered that note you showed me. There was that same feeling burning off him, like a dreadful illumination — ”

  “And naturally you felt inclined to have afternoon tea with him?”

  “I wanted to know about him. The demon he sent that night. I knew it was his creature, dear. I knew it in my marrow. It stank of this man, if you’ll pardon me saying so. His creature killed me the way you might screw up a page of bad writing and toss it in the bin. I presented that much of a challenge to the poor thing. I was lying there, his hands crushing my throat, and I was unable to breathe or even scream. He had too much power for such a simple job. It was like using a mallet to kill a fly, if you will, dear. There was a terrible sense of desolation about him, too, which surprised me. Even though he was killing me, I did not feel much real fear. I knew the deadworld was nothing to worry about, after all, so I found myself feeling for the creature sent to hurt me — well, clearly he was the killer I saw in my prophetic dreams. If you had been at home that night, Ruth, I am sure it would have been you who died — ”

  “Julia, I am so sorry, I — ”

  “Shhh. It is quite all right. I do not blame you. I am, however, struck by a certain bitter irony, that I should have gone to all this trouble to warn you, only to fall victim myself. But it’s quite all right.”

  “How can you be so, so … at ease about having been murdered by a demon, for God’s sake?”

  She finished the last of her tea and set the cup down on its fine porcelain saucer. Looking at me, she said, “I was not afraid. Surprised, of course. Disappointed I would not be able to say goodbye before I left that world, and sorry that I would not soon see Mr Duncombe again — I’m so sorry you two have had your falling out. That’s terrible. If you get back there, you must promise me you will make every effort to repair the breach. Is that clear, Ruth? Do you promise?”

  I did not see how I might set about repairing the friendship, but I promised her that I would try, for what it was worth. Gordon and I had been friends for a long time, after all. He understood and accepted me, because he was a kindred spirit, and another runaway from the constrictions of the old country.

  I brought the conversation around to Father William again. “You say you wanted to get to know him better, to see just what he had against me, that kind of thing?”

  “More or less. I intended to give him a piece of my mind, I must say. Giving you all that trouble and going to such unwholesome lengths to cause you pain. That is not right. It is absolutely unacceptable, particularly coming from a man of the cloth!” Julia was much more exercised about this than I would have suspected. She went on: “I remembered him from the Mass I went along to that Sunday, so I made my way to where he was sitting, near the front of the tram. He was looking miserable and lost. I told him I knew him from his service and so forth, and pretended I was a simple new chum glad to have found a familiar face in the crowd, as it were.”

  “You say he seemed miserable? I would have thought he’d have been jumping for joy, having dropped me into such trouble with the constabulary.”

  “He was devastated, Ruth. Riddled with the most terrible guilt. And here — ”

  “Guilt? He was full of guilt?” I could not believe my ears.

  “Indeed. And here such things come out. They manifest themselves and start to take over one’s body. That’s why, by the time I brought him out here, he was already well on the way through the manifestation process. It was guilt, and it was making a monster of him, the poor beggar.”

  This silenced me. I sat and thought for a moment. Mr Brown, when he told me about what Father William had been up to, that he had taken my father’s soul as well as his confession, he had said that my father at that point had been consumed with guilt, which was eating at him like cancer. I had not realised that he meant this literally, that such profound feelings could manifest like this. It was difficult to accept. “Was he … was he in pain, with all the …?”

  Julia nodded. Somehow she had acquired another cup of tea. “He was. He said it was killing him, though he was of course already dead.”

  “So you and he talked?” I tried to imagine the two of them sitting here, sipping tea, all very civilised. It made me think again about Julia’s inner strength, that there must be more to her than her bubbly, chatty appearance suggested. It embarrassed me to realise I had not noticed this before.

  “We did. I did not tell him that I was your aunt, dear. He had no notion of our connection.”

  “And what did he tell you?”

  “He was, first of all, a terribly confused old man. This is not the afterlife he was expecting. He fully expected to be cast down to a literal Hell, and he had been bracing himself for all that it offered. On finding himself here, so much like home but also not at all like home … Let me just say that he was terribly pleased to have found a friendly face.” She smiled thinly and sipped tea, pleased with her scheming.

  “So did you ask him what he had done that had given him all this terrible guilt?”

  “He could not easily speak of it. He tried. I think he wanted to tell someone. But in the end, he could not bring himself to speak of it. He said he had done monstrous things, engaged in the most terrible practices, broken his vows to such an extent, that to speak of the things he had done … Well, I think you can see what he was like. I have rarely seen such shame in a man.”

  I was not prepared for this. Since learning the name of my enemy, I had imagined him a gloating, malign, larger-than-life sort of figure, much in the way, during the War, it had been common to depict the Germans as diabolical monsters, every one of them, down to the smallest child. They were the very Enemy of the World, an insult to all that was decent and right and just and good. They were Villains in the most melodramatic, even cartoon-like sense. I had refused to accept this propaganda. I could not see how an entire population could be like this, and it was a view that made me few friends. But here I found myself realising that I had imagined “my enemy” in the same simplistic manner, as a mad genius bent on my destruction, so much consumed with that tremendous anger of his that he had no sense of remorse or concern that he had gone too far. That it might be otherwise had simply never occurred to me. Which led me to this point, learning, reluctantly, that my enemy was a small man concerned that he had gone too far. Indeed, who knew he had done the greatest wrongs, and was already confined to a monstrous Hell of his own making.

  “So you planned,” I said to Aunt Julia, “that if I could contact you while you had him here, that he might confess everything?”

  “I do not think you could characterise this with so precise a term as a ‘plan’, dear. I thought I might possibly persuade him to explain why he had done everything … �
�

  “But somehow, he realised what you were up to, and left.”

  “That’s correct, dear.” She looked miffed.

  “Do you think he realised who you were?”

  “I’m very doubtful. He was not thinking clearly, I’m afraid.”

  “Did you see which way he — ”

  Something was happening around us. Things were shifting in the air.

  “I say … ” Julia said, looking around, setting down her tea.

  Figures of men were unfolding out of thin air.

  Men with guns. I got to my feet. “Julia — come on. We have to go.” I tried to grab her arm, but she would not budge from her seat. She was glancing about at what was happening. “What’s …?”

  The figures resolved themselves. There were five of them. They looked like commandos of the occult. Their black uniforms bore faintly legible mystic symbols. None of them had eyes; their sockets were empty. Two were focused on Julia, and had her covered from different angles. The other three were looking around, and spread through the room, and into the rest of the house. “Where is she?” one, I guessed the leader, asked.

  I was standing right there, heart in my throat, and I almost spoke up and said, “I’m right here, idiot,” but I kept my tongue. I soon realised they truly couldn’t see me. The searchers returned. “Nothing,” one said, and they all turned back to Julia. “Where is she?”

  Julia, no fool, said, with perfect, well-bred poise, “Where is who, dear?”

  “We’re looking for a Mrs Ruth Black. Newly arrived. She was last seen with you, Miss Templesmith.”

  “And may I ask your names, and see some identification, perhaps?”

  One of the men said, “She’s plainly not here.”

  Another said, “She can’t have gone far. Spread out.”

  Then Julia got to her feet. “I really must insist on seeing some identification. I will not have armed thugs bursting uninvited into my home.”

  I was all set to cheer, when the leader of the team shot her. Just like that. He raised his gun and fired two shots, which both hit her in the chest. The sound was shocking. The thick, hot smell of gunsmoke in the air. Julia sank to the floor, and glanced my way. Wide-eyed, wanting to scream, I saw her mouth the words, “Run, dear!” Even as she said it, she was starting to dissolve into pale mist.

  I ran. As I opened the door, the men turned their guns and came after me. One yelled out, “Suppression field!”

  “Re-tune to level four,” the leader said, as they came swarming after me.

  Outside, vaulting over the gate, I hit the pavement and ran, hurtling down the tree-lined street, trying to remember to breathe, my heart exploding — and having no idea where to go. Here I was in an unfamiliar city, where it was perfectly possible to die all over again. What would happen then, I wondered, as I ran, leaping through hedges, vaulting fences, racing across beautifully kept lawns, aware, fleetingly, of the smells of roses, and the sight of confused children. I ran for all I was worth, and was sorry that in this new existence I seemed no more fit than I had been in my former life, which was to say, not very. I was starting to flag. I ran into the flow of traffic, dodging in amongst and around motorcars and horses, trying not to slip on stinking smears of horse-dung, then pelting down another street towards the entrance to a huge and very beautiful park, where I hoped I might hide. Behind me, not far, I could hear running footsteps. Once or twice I heard warning shots fired overhead, as chilling and heart-stopping a sound as you’re ever likely to hear in any life, but I kept running, sure they would shoot me as I ran, shoot me in the back, just to stop me — but they never did. Pain stinging me under my ribs on the right side, I lurched through the park, scanning everywhere, trying not to trip over nannies with babies in strollers, people enjoying afternoon tea on benches — but there was nowhere a woman dressed like me, and as tall as I was, might conceal herself. Worse, I was hearing sirens from all around. Black-clad police and more of these commando figures were massing at the other park entrances, and starting to close in. “Mrs Black,” someone called through a megaphone, “it’s hopeless. We are tracking your movements. Give yourself up peacefully. We don’t want to hurt you.” I was hiding amongst some hedges near a statue of a dead general, my breathing ragged, my heart thumping in my throat, that pain in my side nigh on unbearable, perspiration soaking my hair and running down my face and neck. My choices appeared stark: give myself up, or get myself killed. I had not asked Mr Brown, or that nurse in the lock-up, what might happen to me if I were to die again while here. Was there a further level of afterlife beyond even this one, or was this it? Was there nothing beyond this bonus life but the friction of entropy stripping my soul of its energy and meaning? One thing I was sure of: if I died here, if I died again, I couldn’t see any way of coming back to my own world.

  And that decided me. I got up, raised my hands, and moved out into the open, swearing and weeping.

  37

  I woke later, unaware that I had been asleep, to find myself, cold and trying not to shiver, in a small, white-tiled room, aware of an antiseptic smell, and strapped to a hospital stretcher, wearing only a flimsy cotton gown. I could not move, save to wriggle my fingers and toes. I didn’t even know if I was still in the deadworld, or if I were back in my world. This room, from what I could see as I lay strapped to the stretcher, was lined with racks of stainless steel instruments, trolleys containing diabolical-looking white and chrome machinery, and wall charts illustrating things to do with the brain and nervous system, only the nervous system depicted looked far more complex and strange than anything I was familiar with. The tight restraints bit at my flesh, constricting circulation; I could not even move my head. An ageing nurse appeared; she looked very tired, as nurses usually looked, and took my pulse, respiration and blood pressure; staring at a dial that I could not see, she squeezed the black rubber bulb; the cuff on my arm grew very tight. I could feel my racing pulse under the cuff.

  The nurse released the valve on the squeeze-bulb; the cuff loosened; she watched the mercury fall on the dial. Once she was done, she packed up the machine, smiled at me in a perfunctory manner. “There you go,” she said. “I’ll just get Doctor.” She went to leave.

  “Wait!” I managed to say, though my whole mouth felt not quite right.

  The nurse stopped at the door. I could hardly see her. “Yes, Mrs Black?”

  What to say, what to say?

  “What am I doing here?”

  “Doctor will be along shortly,” she said, and I heard the door swing shut.

  Some time later, I heard the door open. I assumed it was “Doctor”.

  “What is the meaning of this, Doctor?” I said in the imperious tone I normally reserved for upbraiding the likes of Ryan for some foolish mistake.

  “‘Meaning’, Mrs Black?” It was an old, wet voice, the sound of a man dying of emphysema, or, I remembered, the men who’d been exposed to poison gas during the War, whose lungs were never the same afterwards. And there was a smell now, a disgusting, biological stink.

  “Who the hell are you?” I said, only too aware, as I struggled to free myself, there was nothing I could do.

  “Who am I? Well, who am I? That’s a good question. I’m surprised you don’t recognise me, madam.”

  “I demand to know what exactly is going on here. As a citizen of Great Britain, I have certain inalienable rights!”

  “Ah, but you are dead now — yes, properly dead, not just here on holiday anymore. Your time long ago expired. You’re here with the rest of us, a citizen of Thanatos at last, so it behooves you to make the best of it.”

  Thanatos? I thought. Freud’s death impulse? The land of the dead? Well, that was lovely. I think I preferred the term “deadworld”. But, of more concern: “My time’s up? I had …I had — ”

  “It took too long to revive you,” the wet, stinking voice said, and dissolved into a horrible coughing spasm. “Excuse me. Yes, the police, when they arrested you in the park, took their assignme
nt a trifle too seriously. Terribly sorry for the inconvenience. You’ll get used to it. We all get used to it. It’s not so bad, living here, if you could call it living, of course.”

  So I was dead now, with no way back, was I? There was no way to tell if this were true or not. The pain in my joints, the pain in my head, the way the leather straps bit into my wrists and ankles certainly felt real, or at least convincing. “I’m sorry, but I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced,” I said, straining after that performance of poise, but I could hear in my voice that it was more strain and less poise. My unseen (though not unsmelled) interlocutor coughed again. “Oh, I see. Yes, quite. How rude of us.” Still coughing, he shuffled around into my field of view. The smell, up close, made me sick. Though he no longer looked in any way as he had in life, though he looked as if his entire body had become cancerous, and as if the cancer was as much without as within, I recognised the bearing of the man. I remembered that posture only too well. “You’re looking well,” I said.

  He shrugged, and coughed again, his mangled hand over his wet mouth. “It’s been too long,” he said.

  “I hear you met up with my father.”

  He nodded, and sagged visibly. “A poor lost soul. Thanatos is not kind to a man carrying that sort of guilt, Mrs Black. Not kind at all.”

  “So I gather. Nice of you to offer him absolution for his sins.”

  “You heard about that.”

  “I met Variel. Lovely chap.”

  Nodding again. “He was once a very good man, Variel.”