The Sandman

by Miles Gibson

  The aunt owned a large apartment in a crumbling Victorian mansion on the seafront of a neighbouring town. My room was huge and cold and draughty. The windows rattled behind their curtains and the bed creaked when I moved my head. I hated it I hated the heavy furniture cut from slabs of purple wood, the threadbare carpet and the gloomy etchings on the wall. In protest I cried myself to sleep each night which seemed to satisfy my aunt who thought the tears were dedicated to my father. She would creep to my bedside in the dark and dry my face by pressing it into the folds of her dress. Her body was hot and smelt of talcum powder. I learned to cry loudly and to great effect.

  It was during this strange holiday that I met Dorothy. She was the daughter of the local grocer but seemed to prefer the company of my aunt for she spent every afternoon in the house. She was a few years older than myself and built like a greyhound. My aunt told her to treat me kindly because I had recently discovered my father’s corpse and was suffering from the shock. My aunt confessed this in a loud whisper, shielding her mouth from me with the back of her hand, as if I had caught my father walking around in my mother’s underwear and I would soon need my brains examined. Dorothy was fascinated.

  The next afternoon she arrived with a loaf of stale bread tucked under her arm. She stood and stared at me for some time and then invited me to walk with her to feed the gulls on the beach. I was flattered.

  The sea lay very quiet, a molten depth of grey marble beneath a wrinkled skin. When the skin was stretched the heavy veins rolled translucent in the sun. She faced the sea, screwing up her face against the glare, holding out the loaf and tearing at its crust. She threw a morsel of the bread high into the air where a gull snatched it with a greedy swoop. Then, to my amazement, the sky was full of gulls, wheeling and screaming above our heads. Dorothy broke the loaf into pieces, laughing and tossing them into the sky. The birds swarmed above her, grey rags in the silver light. When the bread was finished she brushed her hands clean of crumbs and stared at me thoughtfully.

  “What did it look like when you found it?” she asked at last.

  “What?”

  “The corpse,” she said eagerly.

  I shrugged. I couldn’t remember anything remarkable about it.

  “It was on the floor,” I said casually.

  “Did it have its eyes open?” she asked as she pulled off her shoes.

  I nodded.

  “Did you close them?”

  I shook my head.

  “Did you cover it with a sheet?” she asked breathlessly.

  “No.”

  “Weren’t you frightened?” she demanded impatiently.

  “No,” I said, “I gave it a biscuit.”

  She shrieked, threw away her shoes and ran into the sea. The water swilled around her calves. Her skin glittered with salt. The edges of her skirt were wet.

  I walked at a distance from the water, holding her shoes in my hand. I held them carefully, letting them dangle by their straps and watched her balance in the waves.

  The wind, scudding at an angle across the water, caught beneath her skirt and lifted it briefly, exposing the backs of her thighs. I called out to her and she turned to face me. Her hair flew into her eyes. She waved and tried to run through the waves towards me, her legs kicking and plunging through the grey foam.

  She was cold and shivering when she returned. Her feet were caked with sand and she tried to smack them clean with her hands, leaning on me for support.

  “When I die, I shall have hundreds of candles,” she said.

  “When are you going to die?” I asked her with considerable interest.

  “Oh, I haven’t made up my mind,” she sighed and her tone of voice suggested that it might happen at any moment.

  We walked home holding hands and I made her promise that if she decided to die while I stayed with my aunt she would come and die in my room.

  Her interest in corpses inspired Dorothy to devise a game which we played in secret whenever my aunt went to visit my mother. Dorothy was always left to guard me on these occasions and we could run wild in the apartment for hours. The game would begin with Dorothy demanding a full description of my father. I was already bored with the story but recited it patiently while she sat on the floor and squirmed. When she was satisfied that I had omitted nothing we could play the game. I was made to lie on the carpet with my eyes closed and assume the role of the corpse while she, dancing on tiptoe around me, had to bring me back from the dead. She tried to work this miracle by a dozen ingenious tortures, each one inflicted upon me suddenly and without warning. She tickled the soles of my feet with a spoon, spat on my face and poked pencils in my ears. I resisted bravely but always came alive again, shouting and spluttering and calling her a cheat.

  When I was restored to life it was Dorothy who became the corpse. She seemed to prefer this pan of the game for she swore and snorted impatiently if I remained dead for more than five minutes. She would take off her dress, to save creasing it, and throw herself down dressed in nothing but her blue cotton knickers. The sight of her sprawled on the floor at my feet, with her eyes closed and her long greyhound legs thrown apart, gave me a strange feeling of warm wax melting and moving in my stomach. I stared at her without daring to shake her awake. Her sharp knees developed a faint blue blush from the draughts. Her nipples darkened and grew by some diabolical magic I did not understand. I would squat beside her and peer at the body with a delicious blend of horror and delight while the warm wax burned inside me.

  I usually managed to break through the trance and inflict a number of small cruelties on her arms and legs. But nothing I devised could bring her back from the dead. She lay there with her eyes screwed shut, her breath reduced to short, panting rasps, and refused to be saved. Finally I would grow bored and wander away. The wax cooled and hardened. I forgot about her and left the room. Then she would throw a tantrum, chase me up and down the stairs and demand that the game begin again.

  One afternoon, when I was bruised and bored by being dragged back from death by Dorothy, she invented a variation of the game in an attempt to revive my interest. The corpse, she whispered dramatically, would go and hide somewhere in the apartment and need to be hunted before it could be trapped and brought back to life. I had reservations about this graveyard hide-and-seek but Dorothy was thrilled by the notion and volunteered to be the first to creep away and die.

  I stood in the parlour with my hands over my face and counted slowly and loudly to fifty. The silence, when I had finished my count, was formidable. I bravely trotted from room to room, poking under tables and reaching behind cupboards, but the corpse had vanished.

  It was several anxious minutes before I discovered the first clue to Dorothy’s chosen burial ground. Her dress was hanging limply from my aunt’s bedroom door. I sneaked into the bedroom and dropped onto my hands and knees, scampering across the carpet to peer under the bed. But the room was empty. The great feather mattress lay undisturbed. The black Victorian dressing-table had not been touched. The long velvet curtains concealed nothing but dust. I looked around nervously. My aunt’s bedroom had always been closed to me. I retreated to the safety of the door when I saw the second clue in front of the wardrobe.

  Now the wardrobe was especially fearsome, the size of a gothic chapel, the whole decorated with carved wooden monkeys and oak leaves and vines, it stood on massive panther feet and cast a giant shadow across the room. The door of the wardrobe held a mottled, oblong mirror and reflected in the mirror I caught sight of a pair of blue cotton knickers crumpled in a heap on the carpet. The wardrobe had obviously eaten Dorothy.

  I shuffled towards it and prised back the great door, inch by groaning inch. There, made blue by the gloom of coats and dresses, lay the naked greyhound, slumped in a corner with her arms wrapped over her head. She had died in such a manner that very little of the corpse was available to my inquisitive fingers. I stepped into the creaking tomb and allowed the door to swing shut behind me.

  Wedging myself in the
opposite corner I stretched out my arms through the shifting screens of silk and fur until I had grasped as much as I could of the rigid Dorothy. I groped and strained until I was in full possession of her leg. It was only one of her legs, true, but it was complete from the sharp blade of the ankle to the heat of her hip. I needed both hands to hold it steady, to stop it shrugging free and shrinking back again into the darkness. The only weapon available was my tongue. I flicked it out and ran it experimentally along the edge of her knee. The skin was rough but she gave a little shudder that encouraged me. And so, hidden in the mothballed darkness, beneath the rustling of my aunt’s frocks, kneeling on a leather handbag, I began to lick the leg into life. It was a great success.

  Dorothy, much to my surprise, began to whimper, softly at first, but then long and loudly. Encouraged by her protests, and seeking softer pastures for my grazed mouth, I moved higher, darting and dribbling over the brow of her hip. She thrashed around and tried to kick out but I held onto the leg and fought to pull it harder against me. She twisted suddenly and fell on her back so that my head was catapulted forward into her lap. My mouth was filled for a moment with unexpected beard. I was electrified. My tongue curled up in fright.

  Dorothy moaned horribly, as if she were about to die for a second time, and fled into the daylight. I scrambled after her, frightened by the noises she made and trying to nurse my tongue in my hand. By the time I had gathered my wits the corpse had pulled itself back into its clothes and was busy trying to tidy the wardrobe.

  She did not, as I feared, appear angry or hurt. Instead, she made me swear to tell no one of our game and then, in the same breath, made me promise to play it again the next day. I nodded and sucked my tongue in silence. I had a lot to think about. But we never played the game again. My aunt returned that afternoon and told me I was going home. My relief at escaping from the antics of the wild and snapping greyhound was mixed with a peculiar sense of disappointment.

  When I returned to the hotel late the next morning I found that my father was still reported missing in Bolivia and Uncle Eno was sitting at the kitchen table nursing a mug of Bovril. As soon as he saw me he fished in his pocket for chocolate but my mother swept me into her arms and carried me to the attic. She looked very old. I studied her carefully while she helped me unpack my little cardboard suitcase. She was dressed, I noticed, in a new black cardigan and my father’s best trousers. Her freckles had turned as grey as pepper and her nostrils were raw and peeling. Her eyes, when she returned my concentrated stare, were milky as glass buttons. She reminded me of my rag doll harem in the last hours of its decay.

  Uncle Eno did everything he could to charm and please the poor woman. He offered her bottles of Guinness and little bars of Yardley soap wrapped in cellophane. I did not see him rub her belly again but he often patted her baggy trousered bottom in a comforting manner. I was happy that he tried to help but, on one occasion, however, he went too far and shocked me. I distinctly saw him pull out his pocket handkerchief and allow my mother to blow her nose in it. To my horror she gave several wet snorts, bunched up the sodden rag and stuffed it back into Uncle Eno’s jacket pocket. I could hardly believe my own eyes. It was the most disgusting act I had ever witnessed and made me shiver for a week at the memory of it.

  But despite the kind attentions of Uncle Eno, my mother’s health did not improve and her pains seemed too deep now to be penetrated by his supple fingers. The evening of his departure he bent his big, sad face against mine and breathed over me. His melancholy seemed to have navigated new depths of despair. For some minutes he could not even speak but merely wagged his head from side to side forlornly.

  “You’re a queer fish, young Mackerel,” he said at last.

  “Yes, uncle.”

  He wagged his head again and sucked on a tooth. “I want you to take some advice.”

  “Yes, uncle.”

  “Never trust anyone – take my advice – never trust anyone and you’ll live to be ninety. Do I make myself understood?”

  “Yes, uncle.”

  He ruffled my hair with his hand and smiled sadly. “You must look after your mother for me, Mackerel,” he said in farewell. “Remember, you’re the man of the house.”

  I was not impressed with my promotion to the adult world. My opinion of men and women had not improved with my father’s death.

  *

  The new man of the house stood in the bathroom and watched the blood flow down his neck. He was bleeding from both nostrils, fat scarlet worms that moved warmly against his chin and were creeping gradually towards his chest. A young man who breathed through his mouth, my mother warned, was prone to bleed from the nose. She did not offer any explanation. She had made it sound like some peculiar ritual the body must perform to turn the boy into man. For this reason I felt as proud and frightened as a ripe girl at the sight of her own blood. The second flow in a week. I watched the blood shine in the mirror and wondered if I would bleed to death. But the worms stopped moving, wrinkled darkly and failed to make their escape. I splashed water over the worms, hoping to revive them, watching them melt and stain my skin.

  I was sixteen years old. The face that stared back at me from the mirror was neither ugly nor handsome. The eyes that admired the blood stains on my chin were neither kindly nor cruel: they were green. The nose was straight, the mouth full and hanging open. The teeth were slightly crooked. The hair was limp and badly cut around the ears. I had freckles and a moustache too soft to shave. It was an ordinary face that could be seen once and immediately forgotten. I helped my mother in the hotel and no one raised an eyebrow in admiration or disgust. No one noticed when I passed through a door or stood behind their chair. It was an ordinary face. The perfect face of murder. I cannot remember the ambitions that clawed impatiently between the ears of this pale young man. He worked hard and said nothing. Life presented itself as a long, straight and virtually deserted street along which he expected to stroll at a slow and dignified pace. He rarely laughed, yet, equally, he rarely woke in the night and screamed. He was polite to guests and clean in his habits. He had an altogether mild and gentle temperament. The perfect temper for murder.

  The worms were dead. I tried several brisk snorts to open my nostrils but they were firmly plugged with blood. Reluctantly I had to declare the bleeding complete and continue with the morning’s work. My duties began at dawn and rarely finished until midnight. My mother needed help to crack eggs, toast bread and open marmalade. I served at the tables, swept the floors, scrubbed the kitchen and fed the boiler. I balanced the books, weighed the laundry and measured the sugar into the bowls.

  A girl arrived late in the morning to make the beds and wash the dishes. Her name was Wendy Figg. She was the size of a sofa and had a dainty Victorian porcelain face on which she liked to paint expressions of innocent surprise. Her eyebrows were drawn into arches and her cheeks were flushed. Her mouth was puckered as if she was nursing a grape between her lips and her teeth. She rarely painted her lips but they were always red. She kept her hair in neat yellow bunches, tied with ribbons. This prim and dainty effect was made spectacular by the rest of her body which had all the broad, slack, comfortable qualities of parlour furniture. She liked to dress in frocks cut from heavy velvet that reminded me of cushion covers, but when she worked she favoured a thin nylon coat through which I could see the struggle of her underwear. Her hands were pale and fat and she wore an engagement ring on one spiky finger. A little cauliflower of diamond grit and glass.

  My favourite duty of the day was watching Figg make the beds. My mother did not trust Figg to work alone in the rooms and insisted that I follow her from bed to bed and discourage her from stealing the soap. My mother, bad health forbidding her to work at anything but the lightest tasks as I grew old enough to manage the heaviest, had taken out a subscription to a romantic book club. Her brains were quickly addled with tales of fainting virgins, brutal pirates and servants who peered through keyholes and stole family fortunes. Poor Figg was my mother’s
idea of a servant. She was convinced that the girl’s pockets were crammed with slivers of soap. Every Sunday I was sent upstairs to count the soap and record my findings in a small notebook. I did nothing to defend Figg’s honesty. Watching her work gave me so much pleasure that I did not want to lose my excuse for squatting in corners and trying to squint up her skirts. I don’t believe Figg ever knew of my mother’s mad suspicions and, anyway, she seemed glad of my company.

  I dried my chin on the edge of a towel and joined Figg in the bedroom.

  “Have you stopped bleeding, Mr Burton?” she asked over her shoulder. I liked the way she called me Mr Burton. It was foolish. Perhaps, after all, my mother was correct and Figg was a natural servant.

  “Yes, thank you,” I said and sat down beneath the window. Figg was bending over the bed, chopping at the sheets with her hands to smooth out the wrinkles. The front of her coat fell open and I feasted for a moment on the heaving shadows.

  “It looked horrible,” she said happily.

  “You can die from a nose bleed,” I said darkly.

  “It would take a long time,” she laughed and gave the mattress a friendly slap. Her engagement ring sparkled in the dust.

  “Is Percy coming to meet you today?” I asked her casually. Figg nodded and blushed. She dragged a blanket into place and then tucked it vigorously in.

  I loved to make Figg blush. I hated Percy. He was the man who had bought her the ring and he usually loitered outside in the street, whistling and picking his nose, until Figg had finished her work. There was no doubt that they loved each other but the sight of them together made me jealous. Figg dropped the pillow and stooped to retrieve it. A button fell from her coat and rolled under the bed. I peeped into her shadows again and saw they had cleared to reveal a big breast nesting in a stiff cotton cup. I swallowed hard and found myself blushing. Figg swung the pillow onto the bed and tweaked its corners with her fingers.