by Ishbelle Bee
“As you wish, Father.”
“You enjoy your costumes a little too much; I did not pick an actor for a son.”
“What a shame. I thought I was entertaining you.”
“You have no sense of control.”
“I want to destroy things. Break them apart,” and I stared into him.
“I did not raise my son to be chaotic.”
“No, you raised me to be like you. Part of the void, Daddy.”
He poured more champagne for us both. “I saved you from death, Ebeneezer. I gave you a new home, a new life. In future I want you to be more controlled. I do not want to be embarrassed. These silly games you play. You are no longer a child. Kill what you want, who you want, but remember who you are. You are sending a message. I will not have you dressing up in women’s clothes again.”
“I was very convincing.”
“If you embarrass me again I will cut you off without a second thought. Do you understand me?”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Ebeneezer. No more dressing up, no more games, no more chaos. You must have control over what you are, or you will fall into madness.”
“I am already mad, Father.”
He didn’t answer me, and then ate some more of the beef. “Every action you take represents me. You are my assassin and you must behave in a manner I see fitting.”
“What do you want from me?”
“You will leave these London policeman alone. You will concentrate on your work. I am eager to hear your next project.”
“Yes, yes. I was thinking of prostitutes, knives and a doctor’s bag. I thought souvenirs could be taken and eaten.”
Daddy smiled deeply. “I like that very much, very much. How will you kill them?”
“Scissor knife slashing!” And I slice my beef to show him.
“Good. It sends a clear message.” He wiped his lips with his napkin. “If you play childish games again with the policeman you will be on your own. I will not tolerate any more silliness. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Father.”
We began to eat the pudding with custard. Great creamy dollops. Each mouthful a sin.
Part Four
I: September 1888
The Feast — Please help yourself to the buffet
My house, my father’s house, is full of demons. Stuffed full of them. Sweeties in a jam jar.
This simply will not do.
* * *
My name is John Loveheart
and I was not born wicked.
* * *
Loveheart Loveheart Loveheart Loveheart Loveheart
I hold the pistol to Mr Fingers’ brain.
Loveheart Loveheart Loveheart Loveheart Loveheart
You will remember my name.
* * *
I shoot him in the head. His brain explodes all over the wall.
He’s not happy about it.
Whilst his brain reforms, I shoot a few of the monsters in dinner suits. Heads bursting like tomatoes over my beautiful wallpaper.
“YOU WOULD BETRAY ME? YOU STUPID LITTLE BOY!”
I reply as restrained as possible. “Get out of my house or I will use your skull as a vase.”
“I AM YOUR FATHER. HOW DARE YOU SPEAK TO ME LIKE THAT.”
“You’re not my father. You’re an imposter.” I shoot Doctor Cherrytree, who is trying to sneak off like a snivelling coward. He screams and falls dead on the floor.
The sea of monsters grabs me. His vile acquaintances.
“Hold him!” shrieks Mr Fingers, “You’re finished, Loveheart.” And he moves his hand towards my throat.
I look over to Mirror. “I’m so sorry,” I say to her.
A great eagle flies through the window, smashing glass and circles the demons, screeching. It is her protector. A great pounding at the door sounds and it bursts open.
Death walks into the room.
“I am sorry for intruding,” the boy says, softly. His voice has a supernatural quality, and he smells of formaldehyde. Mr Fingers knows who he is. He knows and he is worried. The boy continues, “You appear to be having a party. I rarely get invited to parties. I tend to spoil them.”
“What do you want?” Mr Fingers looks distinctly uncomfortable.
“We had a little discussion, if I recall. You are not going to eat her. You are not going to increase your power.”
“How dare you! What gives you the right to tell me what to do?” cries Mr Fingers.
“Because I am older than Time, I am the great equalizer. You will do what I say or I will EVAPORATE YOU.”
A great muttering among the guests, and I am released.
“No!” Mr Fingers screams, “NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO!”
The boy raises his hands gently in the air and the monsters in dinner jackets start to crumble into dust, one by one like a sea wave. I unlock the cage and carry the woman Mirror in my arms.
“What are you doing?” screams Mr Fingers, “She is my food!”
The eagle circles him, screeching. A great mirror hangs on the wall behind him, and the glass is starting to shift and move like water. She is doing something. The great eagle claws at his face, screeching wildly. She is staring into the mirror and it is opening like a doorway. She raises her hand and he is sucked into it. His scream is like a child. He tries to smash his way out but he’s locked in there.
She looks out at the remaining guests and they start to explode like champagne corks. Heads popping off.
This is all rather fun.
The eagle circles the room.
Death watches and I am laughing. I sit Mirror on my father’s chair. The blood is filling up the room. I stand on the table of the feast and laugh at the corpses.
All is suddenly quiet. Mirror is stroking the eagle’s head as though they are lovers. It is over. My kingdom has been returned to me. I can hear Mr Fingers behind me, banging on the mirror, and I wave at him. The lady and the eagle move to leave. Mirror approaches Death.
“Thank you,” she says.
“My pleasure,” he replies.
Then she turns to look at me. “Mr Loveheart. You’re a wicked, wonderful hero.” She turns away and strides out of my kingdom.
Goodbye, Lady Mirror. If I stare into you for too long I see my face. I see the colour of my eyes.
“Do come back and visit,” I shout, kicking a severed hand from the table. I stare down at Death, who is surrounded by pieces of corpses.
“Please help yourself to the buffet.”
And he does.
“The jam tarts are excellent,” says Death.
October 1888
Mirror & Goliath
We are back in Cairo with Goliath’s father. We sit drinking coffee in the shade and eating honey cakes, the sun lemon-hot outside.
Goliath’s father has given me a present: a copy of the Brothers Grimm fairy tales with hand-drawn illustrations. They are dark and beautiful. Children hiding in the woods, wolf eyes peering through trees, water flowers drifting lazily on the stream and gingerbread houses. All in my hands. All in my hands.
I feel safe in Egypt. I feel as though I am home. The excavation of the tomb of the princess is now complete. We went to visit it, so many months work, but Goliath’s father has restored and uncovered so much beauty. Above the ceiling of her tomb are tiny stars; the sarcophagus is made of gold with turquoise jewels. I stroke it with my hand; it is cool and familiar. Why do I feel so comfortable in this place? I try to imagine what the princess was like. Was she beautiful? Was she full of deep magic? Goliath’s father tells us she had her own temple and hundreds of priests. He has started to uncover her temple, his new project. I am not allowed to visit this site, as it is too dangerous, beams are holding up parts of the temple and Goliath fears for my safety and the baby, so I must wait. I must wait to see her temple.
A postcard arrives for me. It has a silken embroidery of a big red heart stuck to one side.
* * *
Dear Miss Mirror,
I wanted to say how terribly sorry I am that you were nearly eaten in my house. I have been thinking about you a great deal. Mr Fingers has been thinking about you too – he’s still stuck in the mirror and I’m not letting him out. Bad Daddy! I suppose I am bored without you – if I had any servants I would give them a good thrashing. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
Your devoted servant
Mr Loveheart ♥
* * *
I decide to send Mr Loveheart a photograph of the excavation of the tomb of the princess. I look at the heaps of photographs and sketches Goliath’s father has made. There are sketches of the pots, frogs leaping over water, dragonflies darting over reeds and a crocodile lazily sleeping in the sun. There are photographs of the walls of her tomb; one shows the moon hanging over the Nile while black dogs stare up at it, transfixed and howling. Another shows the red flowers bursting from the princess’s mouth, spewing out like flames. I then examine photographs of the people excavating the tombs, men with shovels and lanterns. Sweat, dust and machinery. One of Goliath’s father with bright, curious eyes and a big beaming smile as he finds the entrance to the tomb. Another shows him deciphering the hieroglyphics on the tomb wall, which depicts frogs leaping into the air and turning into stars. Then at the bottom of the pile I see a picture of the sarcophagus of the princess, and Goliath’s father and another man standing by it. This other man has stark white hair and a face pitted like the moon. In his hands is a little pot. Goliath’s father and he are shaking hands. The name at the bottom reads Tumbletee. This is the photograph I choose to send Mr Loveheart and I am not sure why I have chosen it.
* * *
Dear Mr Loveheart,
I forgive you. Please keep Mr Fingers in the mirror. Wave at him often and send my fondest regards. I send you this picture of the tomb of the princess. There is a man called Tumbletee in the picture, and for some reason I keep thinking you should know him.
I don’t think we will ever meet again, Mr Loveheart, so I hope you find happiness.
Love,
Mirror
* * *
I send it straight away. And I know I will never hear from him again.
The moon this evening is enormous. The three of us sit round the table eating honeyed lamb and drinking wine. Goliath is helping his father excavate the temple of the princess. They are both so excited as they have already found a secret chamber and a sacrificial alter. Goliath touches my face with his great hand and he tells me tomorrow he will take me to see outside the temple and see the artefacts they have retrieved.
“What sort of sacrifices were made in her temple?” I ask.
Goliath’s father replies very animatedly, “It looks as though it was human sacrifice. Mirrors were used. We found fragments of them with black obsidian handles. Very beautiful. Her priests wore long robes with masks that looked like insects.”
“Insects?” I say.
“Yes. They looked like ladybirds.”
October 1888
Icabod Tiddle
It is the most beautiful day, and I am sitting in my garden with my pipe and my notebook, writing a new fairy story. The papers are still full of tales of Jack the Ripper, how he might be dressing up as a sailor, a soldier, a doctor. Costumes, games, riddle-like letters to the police, missing livers, missing hearts. There’s a real fairy tale villain. There’s a real monster.
Horace and the Magic Foot was, thank heavens, burnt on the fire. I feel I can write what I want now, whether the publisher wants it or not.
I’m not writing shit any more. I won’t do it.
October 1888
Detective Sergeant White & Constable Walnut
I’m in Brighton, sitting on the beach, enjoying a cup of tea. Sitting about twenty yards from me is a jewel thief called Perkins, whom I’ve followed from London. It’s taken weeks to track him but it should soon all be worthwhile. Patience is a virtue. Constable Walnut brings over a couple of ice creams.
“Is he doing anything, Sir?”
“No, he’s waiting like us.”
“Chocolate or vanilla?” says Walnut.
“Vanilla please,” and he hands it to me, melting round my fingers.
“Well, it’s a lovely day for catching criminals,” says Walnut.
And then we see another figure walking across the sands. He’s wearing a purple velvet jacket covered in red love hearts.
“Here comes trouble,” sighs Walnut.
Mr Loveheart approaches Perkins, who’s sitting dipping his toes in the sea. He takes out a long silver sword and with one swoop Perkins’ head flies off into the ocean.
“Oh for God’s sake,” I cry.
Mr Loveheart comes running over, smiling, and hands me a bag full of stolen emeralds.
“Believe me, Detective Sergeant White, he deserved to die. Nasty piece of work that one. Strangled his grandmother.”
“Why are you here, Mr Loveheart?”
“Well, it’s about that little favour you said you would do for me.”
“Go on,” I say, and lick the remainder of my ice cream.
“You must let me kill Tumbletee. No police interference. He is mine to play with.”
Mr Fingers
I am trapped in an eight foot tall mirror. It may as well be a coffin. I scream, I lick my tongue up and down the glass, and my boy watches me and laughs.
It may as well be a coffin.
Aunt Eva
I have been thinking again about that boy who broke my heart when I was seventeen. I have been questioning myself, questioning whether my actions were fair. I murdered him and ate his heart as an act of vengeance. Why do I always end up thinking about him? Why do I go back to the same memories, interrogate myself?
Because I loved him. Because I loved him. Because I loved him.
November 1888
Mr Tumbletee
I am dressed up as a doctor with my bag of knives.
Slice and dice.
Slice and dice
slice and dice
slice and dice.
I’m afraid Daddy disowned me after the last girl. I was beginning to embarrass him. I made rather a lot of mess. But I saved him the heart.
I’m bored now of this game. Want to play another.
A gentleman strolls past me and looks at me oddly.
I scream, “I will see your head in a bucket!”
I think I have become madness. I have melted into it like cream into hot chocolate, far too easily. The man has disappeared. I walk back to my lodgings, the fog thick and soupy. I walk across London Bridge; I can hear the clinking of blades in my black bag. Shiny crocodile teeth.
There’s a man standing on the other side of the bridge. He’s wearing funny-looking clothing. He’s dressed in black like me, but with red love hearts all over him like a disease. He has a long blade in his hands, silver like the moon. I walk towards him, step closer to this strange creature until I can see his face. He has black eyes, like me, and he is grinning.
“Hello, brother,” he says.
“Loveheart, it’s been such a very long time. I have missed you, baby brother,” and I draw my long knife out of my black bag. It glints like a celebrity. “Every star has its counterpoint, every wormhole in space its twin. And you are mine.”
“I’m going to stick your head on a pole outside Loveheart Manor,” he replies.
“Oh, really! I shall slice you up like a Battenberg. It’s such a shame – we are so similar, Loveheart. Why kill me?”
“Because I have standards,” he says.
Mr Loveheart
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Death
Time for the ending. I like the happy ones the best.
* * *
THE END
ANGRY ROBOT
An imprint of Watkins Media Ltd
* * *
Lace Market House,
54-56 High Pavement,
Nottingham,
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UK
* * *
angryrobotbooks.com
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Lions & tigers & bears oh my
* * *
An Angry Robot paperback original 2015
