by Miles Gibson
‘That’s the church,’ cried Mrs Reynolds and, as they stared, the shell of the broken church seemed to glow with light. Soft, demented sparks of light that trembled over the walls and tower and chased themselves in the tops of trees.
‘Well, what the hell is it?’ demanded Oswald Murdoch, turning around to glare at Tom Crow.
Tom shook his head.
‘Stop!’ hissed Big Lily White suddenly as Mrs Reynolds tried to push past him. ‘It could be dangerous …’ He grabbed hold of her wrist and threatened to throw her to the ground.
‘Perhaps we should come back tomorrow,’ suggested the butcher hopefully.
‘It’s too late,’ snapped Mrs Clancy. She had to know the truth. She snatched the lantern from the landlord and walked away, down through the gulley and over the curve of Beacon Hill as far as the cemetery wall. The smell of the Sheep drifted up through the darkness. An acid-sweet smell of warm, fermenting mud and death.
‘She’s mad,’ seethed Big Lily White. ‘She’ll get killed out there.’
But the rest of the party was already scrambling down the slope towards the lady with the lamp. They were afraid of the jumping, fairy lights but they were also afraid of the dark.
Mrs Clancy crouched beneath the wall and peeped into the burial ground. Nothing moved. An angel stood submerged in nettles, its face eaten by salt and its wings tied to the earth by strings of bindweed. The surrounding tombs had been strangled and suffocated by jungle. The clairvoyant clambered onto the wall, closed her eyes and sank, silently, into the graveyard.
‘Are you all right?’ Mrs Reynolds whispered breathlessly from the safety of the gate.
‘Yes,’ whispered Mrs Clancy. She opened her eyes and groped for the lantern. ‘There’s nothing here.’ And then, without warning, a shower of blue sparks flew up the wall of the ruined church.
‘It’s a fire!’ she whispered, pushing deeper into the undergrowth. A fire! She could see the trembling blades of flame. She could smell the damp and crackling wood. She crawled through a bed of nettles and there, by the light of a bonfire, she saw a narrow, naked girl, veiled in smoke, her skin smeared with ash and her hair knotted with flowers, dancing on the edge of an open tomb.
‘Polly!’ she shouted, scrambling forward to snatch the child. Her head was burning, her face was melting and her legs were nothing but rubbery stalks. She staggered forward, grasping the edge of the tomb for support, scratching the stone with her fingernails. She tried to throw her arms around the girl and pull her into the shelter of the nettles where Mrs Reynolds now sat shrieking. But Polly jumped back in alarm.
‘We’ve come to take you home,’ cried the clairvoyant, stretching out her hands. She stared wildly around at the fire, the graves and the window sockets of the rotting church. Dear God, she must catch the girl and pull her to safety before they were caught and dragged into the flames.
‘He’s mine!’ screeched Polly, wild as a banshee. When the firelight flared against her ribs she looked like a skeleton. Her eyes were red with smoke and her hair was a dusty tangle of curls. ‘He’s mine!’ She sprang away and glared suspiciously at the clairvoyant.
‘Who?’ shouted Mrs Clancy, coughing through the gusts of smoke. Ash swirled from the edge of the fire and blew against her legs.
‘I don’t want to go home,’ screamed Polly.
‘Did he tamper with you?’ called Mrs Reynolds from her hiding place in the nettle bed. ‘Where has he gone, Polly?’
At the sound of her mother’s voice Polly shrank into the grass and tried to cover herself with her arms. ‘You can’t have him,’ she shouted defiantly. ‘He’s mine.’
‘She’s not right in the head!’ bellowed the butcher as he peered over a gravestone. He shook his bayonet at the bonfire.
‘I’ll kill!’ screamed Mrs Reynolds. ‘Find the bastard. I’ll kill him!’
‘Where has he gone, Polly?’ Mrs Clancy called softly. ‘Please. It’s important. We must know the truth.’
The girl pouted and kicked thoughtfully at the grass. Then she wiped her eyes, shuffled to the edge of the open tomb and stared, sulking, into its yawning darkness.
Mrs Clancy crept around the fire and forced herself to look down through the cobwebs into the horror of the pit. She wanted to scream. She opened and closed her mouth as if she were drowning in air.
‘What’s happening?’ yelled Mrs Reynolds in fury.
‘Quick!’ croaked the clairvoyant. ‘Quick!’
‘Have you caught him?’ bawled the butcher.
‘Keep him covered – we’re coming out,’ shouted Big Lily White as they all burst bravely through the nettles.
Mrs Reynolds grabbed her daughter and howled. She wrapped her arms around the child’s head and pressed it hard between her breasts. ‘Polly, are you hurt? Can you talk about it?’ she sobbed as the others gathered around to gawp at the wriggling, naked girl.
‘It’s a boy!’ clicked Charlie. He was peering into the tomb.
Oswald Murdoch ran forward and pushed Charlie away. ‘He’s right!’ he called out in astonishment. ‘We’ve found both of them.’ At the bottom of the pit, wrapped in a blanket covered in bread crusts, Sickly sat and blinked at the lantern light.
They turned to watch as the boy was pulled, alive and kicking, from the grave. There was an uncomfortable silence. Sickly, wearing a pair of crumpled pyjamas, stood by the fire and sneezed. The landlord quietly slipped the sausage knife back into his belt. Tom Crow stared sadly at the sky.
‘It was you!’ screamed Mrs Reynolds. Now she understood everything. She threw Polly off in disgust and tried to slap her face. ‘You kidnapped him …’
‘We’ve run away!’ shouted Polly. ‘You can’t have him!’ Her eyes glittered with anger. The bonfire cracked and blew sparks.
‘You nasty little bitch!’ screamed Mrs Reynolds. ‘Cover yourself.’
‘Leave us alone,’ moaned Polly. She ran into the undergrowth and there was a brief scuffle as the men tried to pull her into their shirts.
‘They’ve gone,’ grieved Tom Crow, staring up at the stars. ‘We’re too late.’
For a time nobody noticed Mrs Clancy as she lay, face-down, among the ashes of the fire. It was old Charlie, still bleary with beer, who found her first and he tried to prod her awake with a stick.
‘What’s wrong?’ he complained. ‘Did she hurt herself?’
Mrs Reynolds turned towards the fire and screamed. The butcher and the landlord ran to the clairvoyant and rolled her gently onto her back.
‘She’s fainted,’ said the butcher as he brushed the hair from her face.
But the landlord touched her wrist. ‘She’s dead!’ he whispered and shook his head.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The doctor was sitting in the silent surgery, waiting for Mrs Clancy to arrive and attack him. He was washed and shaved and waiting nervously for the widow’s declaration of love.
Despite a formidable understanding of the cardiovascular system, and a good working knowledge of the central nervous system, he had no idea how the love potion would take effect. Perhaps he should have asked more questions of the herbalist. Did it work as an hypnotic or an hallucinogenic? Would she wake from a drugged sleep and fall in love with the first man she encountered? No, he thought, it would probably need to be triggered by a seductive atmosphere and suggestive conversation. A spark to light the fire.
He adjusted the lamp on his desk, tilting the light until the room was reduced to a comfortable gloom. He altered the position of the folding screens so that they opened towards the bed. He unlocked the medicine cabinet and helped himself to a glass of wine.
He felt as guilty as a thief. Yet what had he done that was so wrong? Here he had been surrounded by people who saw signs in deformed fish and giant vegetables, who could cure themselves of everything from rheumatoid arthritis to haemorrhoids and bellyache, who drank medicines brewed from gin. They had faith and the faith healed them. Now he had embraced that faith.
It was getting late. He took a
nother glass of wine and tried to drown his disappointment. Perhaps she had grown suspicious and wouldn’t come tonight? What would happen if the herbalist betrayed him? He walked aimlessly about the room, measuring the carpet in footsteps. He tried to rehearse the first few awkward moments of the consultation. Mrs Clancy, behind the screen, rolling down her stockings while he watched her in the washbasin mirror as he stood pretending to scrub his hands. A few words of reassurance when she emerged wearing the gown and was led, by the arm, to the narrow metal bed. After half a bottle of wine he was dreaming, close to sleep, with his head resting among the papers on his desk.
He woke up, startled by a tremendous shout. It was half past midnight. He leapt from the desk and groped his way through the unlit waiting room to the door. The landlord was staggering around in the yard. His shirt was torn and he was sweating like a stallion. When he saw the doctor he lunged forward and grabbed him by the shoulders.
‘There’s been a terrible accident!’ he bellowed miserably. ‘She’s dead! We were out on Beacon Hill and she fell down dead!’
‘For God’s sake, calm down and explain what happened,’ shouted the frightened doctor, staring into the darkness.
‘It wasn’t my fault,’ moaned Big Lily White. ‘I told them it wasn’t any work for women.’ And he shook the doctor until he rattled.
At that moment the funeral procession came marching forward with the corpse of the clairvoyant held aloft on the shoulders of the strongest men. Her arms trailed loose and her dark skirts fluttered like prayer flags. Mrs Reynolds was wailing. Charlie Bloater was singing. Tom Crow was dragging a pair of dirty, bewildered children behind him.
The doctor watched the circus fill the yard and lay the corpse at his feet. And as he watched he felt the sky pushing down, the moon crushing him, the stars screaming as they rushed past his ears. He fell to his knees and cradled the widow’s head in his hands. Stupid with shock, demented by the sight of that lovely, lifeless face, he bent forward and pressed his mouth against her teeth.
Mrs Clancy gasped for breath, coughed and opened her eyes. Her head hurt and she felt very cold. When she saw the doctor she gave a little groan and slipped back into her stupor.
‘He’s brought her back,’ sobbed Mrs Reynolds. She was astonished. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
‘It’s impossible,’ declared Tom Crow and shook his head.
‘She’s alive again,’ burbled Charlie Bloater happily and fell against the wall as the landlord tried to kick him to death.
‘Do you want us to move her inside?’ Oswald Murdoch asked helpfully. He pushed his way through the crowd and began to pull at Mrs Clancy’s feet.
‘Leave her alone!’ snarled the doctor. ‘Haven’t you done enough damage?’ He turned and elbowed the butcher away.
‘I was only trying to help,’ complained the butcher as he lay sprawled on the cobbles. He was going to jump up and defend himself but the doctor looked so fierce he decided to remain where he’d fallen and nurse his bruises.
‘This woman was under medical supervision!’ roared the doctor. ‘She was supposed to have kept an appointment here tonight. It’s a miracle she survived.’
‘She found the children,’ bleated Big Lily White. ‘They were on the hill …’
‘I don’t care if she found the Ark!’ the doctor roared. He managed to raise the clairvoyant until she was sitting propped against the door. Her shoes fell off and her mouth popped open.
‘They’ve been living rough,’ explained Mrs Reynolds, who suspected that Polly was harbouring vermin. ‘We thought you might want to have a look at them.’
‘I never want to see them again!’ he shouted. He hooked his hands through the widow’s armpits and bounced her over the doorstep to safety.
‘What shall we do with them?’ called Tom Crow nervously. He held a child in each hand and they wriggled.
‘Drown them!’ he bellowed and slammed the door.
‘We didn’t know she was sick,’ shouted Oswald Murdoch, banging his bayonet on the door.
‘I told them it wasn’t woman’s work,’ moaned Big Lily White.
But the doctor had turned the key in the door and ignored them. He stared at Mrs Clancy, more dead than alive, stretched out on the floor. There was no time to waste. He ran to fetch a pillow, tucked it beneath her head, and dragged her to the surgery by her ankles.
Her eyes fluttered, she sighed softly and her head sank lifeless on her shoulders. He called her name. He slapped her face. He pulled open her dress and pushed his head between her breasts. Her heart was feeble and her skin was cold.
‘Don’t die,’ he whispered. ‘I didn’t mean any harm. I was desperate. Don’t die. I love you.’ He was crying. His face was wet.
‘I waited,’ she breathed. ‘They said you were drowned. But I waited.’ She tried to raise her head, sighed and slipped back into sleep.
‘Yes,’ said the doctor. ‘Yes.’ He didn’t know what she was talking about. He ransacked the medicine cabinet, searching for something that might help revive her again. But he couldn’t risk a stimulant or emetic – he didn’t know what poison the herbalist had managed to mix from her weeds. He could only wait and pray that the widow was strong enough to survive it. He lay down on the threadbare carpet and nursed her gently in his arms, wrapping a blanket around them for warmth.
At last, when he had almost given up hope, he felt her shiver and slowly come back to life. ‘What happened to me?’ she yawned.
‘You fell down,’ he said softly, as he tightened his embrace.
‘I’m cold. I want to go home,’ she complained.
‘You shouldn’t move – you’re still very weak.’
‘No, we must go home,’ she insisted. She managed to stand up and stared in confusion at her torn and dusty clothes. ‘I fell down,’ she repeated to herself as she brushed vaguely at her sleeves. ‘Where are my shoes?’
‘You lost them,’ the doctor said as he helped her walk across the room. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll look for them tomorrow.’
‘I’m very tired,’ she said, pushing hard against his shoulder. Her hair smelt of gravestones and nettles.
He took the somnambulist by the hand and led her into the empty yard.
‘It’s beautiful,’ she said, smiling at him. Her eyes were open but he could not guess what fabulous, sparkling worlds she saw as they walked the empty streets.
When they reached the house in Regent Terrace he propped her against the wall and fumbled in her pockets for keys.
‘Is it raining?’ she whispered, cocking her head at the sound of the sea as it washed against the esplanade.
The doctor unlocked the apartment, turned her through the door and switched on the light.
‘I kept everything,’ she sang as she tottered away to the bedroom. ‘Nothing’s changed.’ She lit a candle beside the bed and waited, smiling, for the doctor to appear.
As he stepped through the door his eyes were drawn to a corner cabinet full of glass paperweights, a hundred fat bubbles sparkling in the candlelight. He blinked. The air in the room was spiced with perfume. The bed was huge and soft, a silk raft inflated with feathers.
‘Help me with my clothes,’ called the clairvoyant, struggling to pull the dress over her head.
He stepped forward and pulled at the buttons and hooks. The dress came apart in his hands and he stood, astonished, as Mrs Clancy cast off her underwear and rolled naked into the bed. She closed her eyes and settled down to sleep.
The doctor stood and watched her for a few minutes and then, satisfied that she was no longer in danger, tiptoed away to hang the dress in the wardrobe. But when he snapped open the wardrobe doors he was puzzled to find heavy brogues and blunt Oxfords staring back at him. Impossible! When he lifted his face he was confronted by a man’s overcoat, several suits, shirts and waistcoats. So here lay the mortal remains of Captain Turnpike Clancy! The doctor stepped carefully into the wardrobe, intrigued by the odour of leather and tweed, and measured himself
against the overcoat.
‘Where are you?’ the clairvoyant called gently.
‘I’m here. Don’t be afraid,’ he whispered from the wardrobe.
‘Come to bed.’
‘Go to sleep.’
‘I’m cold,’ she complained. ‘Come and warm me.’
He kicked off his shoes and undressed. He stepped from the wardrobe and crept towards the bed. Sleep, Mrs Clancy, sleep and surrender yourself to the spirit of the night.
He raised his knee and pushed it slowly under the sheets. In the same moment the widow stirred and brushed her hand across her face. The doctor flinched, waiting for her to sit up and scream, lash out with her fists, seize his belly in her strong white teeth. But Mrs Clancy was silent. Her lips were parted and her breath was hot.
He pressed forward gradually, introducing the full weight of his body through the raised knee, watching the mattress sink around him. He stretched out his arms and pressed his fingers into the bed, head thrust forward, one leg bent, a sprinter crouched and ready for flight. Now he was leaning over the drowsing beauty so that he might easily reach down and kiss her throat. But he remained hanging over her pillow, afraid that she would yet revive and discover him.
Finally, unable to restrain himself for another moment, the incubus swung himself into bed. The sheets gave a slither, the mattress wheezed and he was home.
Cautiously he opened one eye. He stared at the foaming chestnut hair on the pillow beside him. A plump shoulder had risen, pale and luminous, above the sheets. He tried to stretch out and embrace his fat-thighed Circe but found himself afraid to reach out across the last few inches of darkness that separated them. He spread his fingers in a fan and slid the hand towards her rump. When she turned again she would roll upon the hand, the trap would be sprung and he would have her in his grasp. The hand lay motionless, soft fingers sprouting from the mattress, waiting to fondle where she cared to bury them.
Mrs Clancy sighed, drew her knees sharply against her belly and let her head roll among the pillows. Hair tumbled against her face. The doctor groaned and stared at her through the last flare of the guttering candle. He waited but she would not turn towards him. The candle hissed and was gone. He stretched out his arm and traced the curve of her rump, invaded her belly with artful, quivering fingers. He felt a small, moist blossom of heat and coaxed it to swell and swallow his thumb.
