Personal Darkness

by Lee, Tanith

  GRADUALLY THE TERRACE WAS LOSING the sun. A cool breeze riffled through the garden trees, and Lou and Tray had goldenly sat up. Althene, beneath her sunshade, continued with her book.

  Earlier in the afternoon, Althene had disturbed Lou, and particularly Tray, by hanging up on the sunny wall a gas mask in which grew a clump of yellow and red poppies.

  "That's really gross," said Lou. Tray cowered in her chair, going "Ugh, ooh," as though cold slimy things crawled over her.

  "Not at all," said Althene. She towered above them on her long legs, most of which a slit in her Mocha skirt revealed. "A symbol of peace. After the gas, bayonets and bombs, the battlefield is covered by flowers."

  Later Lou said, "I saw a ring shaped like a gas mask."

  During the afternoon Lou and Tray went on toasting themselves, turning to the sun like sunflowers and pulling their chairs about the terrace.

  Althene, pale as a lily, read under her sunshade.

  Rachaela watched from the shadow below, where the trees massed thickly.

  The Scarabae had vanished. That was, the first

  Scarabae. Only this specimen of the new Scarabae, Al-thene, remained, imperturbable.

  In the morning, about four, the man Kei had gone to Covent Garden. He returned at seven in a car, with meat and vegetables. In the kitchen, a roll of knives and other culinary utensils lay above the sacred mangle. Cheta and Michael deferred to Kei in matters of cuisine. That was his function.

  And Malach was the hunter. He was gone. A fiery tension left the house when he was not in it.

  But Althene, if she was not Malach's, what was her role?

  The book was an English novel. The sunshade was turquoise.

  Now and then Althene would glance across the garden and Rachaela would pretend an interest in her own book. But she had lost the habit of reading, and having chosen the volume at random from the library in the London village, it did not hold her. It was only an excuse,

  Once there had been a rumble of thunder, but it was a planet away.

  Althene mesmerized Rachaela. Not her glamour, which was overwhelming, but some terrible quality of serenity and precision. It had awoken Rachaela to an uncomfortable interest. All these months with the family, indeed, had done so. She did not know now what she felt about Ruth. Perhaps, like the Scarabae—the former Scarabae—she wanted only to put Ruth from her mind and let others see to it. Would the apparition of Malach find Ruth? If so, in what capacity? Was Ruth the vampire and he the vampire hunter? Or was he the predator and Ruth the victim? An innocent white-skinned maiden— who killed.

  She thought of Eric smashing in the face of the TV screen, the face of Ruth.

  There were no answers, only interminable questions.

  The breeze moved over the garden again, and Lou and Tray twittered like sparrows. They would go in in a minute, perhaps searching for Camillo, who also had disappeared.

  They had seen Malach that morning.

  Rachaela had noted them holding their breath as they stared at him from the dining room, where sometimes, about eleven o'clock, they drank orange juice or Fanta.

  If Camillo was the film director, what was Malach in their scheme of things?

  The two wolfhounds had been exercised on the common by Kei, and then they too had gone away, perhaps to the kitchen to consort with him.

  Some kind of delivery had also come. Clothes, seemingly, for Althene. Perhaps this dark brown garment, clinging to the slim, flat-bellied form, the narrow buttocks, and high, quivering breasts.

  Rachaela studied Althene and her body as she descended into the garden.

  "How wise to sit beneath the tree," Althene said, standing over her. "Those two awful little girls with their cooked skin. In ten years they will be withered as raisins, but not so appetizing."

  Rachaela said, "At least, you come out by day."

  "Oh, yes. That is their age, Eric and Sasha and Miranda. To be afraid of sunlight."

  "One of them was consumed by it."

  "Really?" said Althene, dispassionate. "Who?"

  "Miriam."

  "You mean, she caught fire?"

  Rachaela said coldly, "No, that's too dramatic, isn't it? I mean she couldn't stand the sun. She fell down and then she died."

  "Or perhaps it was the shock of the house burning. And of the deaths of the others."

  "Are you like them?" said Rachaela.

  "Yes. No."

  "And you like word games, too."

  "All sorts of games," said Althene.

  "I mean, do you claim to have lived hundreds of years? Do you drink blood? You, and Malach."

  "That is," said Althene, "a personal question. Intrusive. Do you mean to offend? What's your purpose?"

  "They evade questions. They wriggle around them."

  "To the family, sometimes, the question of blood, being to do with lovemaking, is considered—impolite."

  "But you're young and liberated. What are you? Thirty? That makes you anything from forty-five to ninety-five, I suppose."

  Althene sat down on the grass in her Mocha skirt. The grass was dry and seemed to receive her with the promise not to taint or stain. She had that casualness they can afford, those to whom the world molds itself obligingly.

  "Let's say," said Althene, "I'm a little older than you. Just a very little. As I am a little taller."

  Rachaela felt herself blush, mildly, almost coolly.

  She thought: Another corruption. One more inch toward the Scarabae.

  She said: "And the blood, Althene?"

  "No," Althene said. She smiled. Her teeth were white, well set, even. But Ruth's had been like that.

  "And Malach?"

  "Is it Malach who intrigues you?"

  "Malach is hunting my daughter."

  "Your daughter. They told me, you didn't want the child. She was imposed on you."

  "Yes." Rachaela let her hands fall on the book.

  "This must take its course," said Althene. She turned her head. Her face was flawless as the still of some film star of 1915. Translucent white, her skin seemed bloodless as that of a pale, young, wondrous child. Like… Ruth's. But Althene was not like Ruth. The coiling of her hair, her brilliant eyes with their azure outer rings recalling those of an Indian woman. Today her lips were coffee as her eyeshadow and her skirt.

  "What am I expected to feel?" said Rachaela.

  "I wonder," said Althene. And then, "Did you have a wicked stepmother who never let you have emotions?"

  "I had a wicked, pathetic mother, ditto."

  "Ah."

  "My father was Ruth's father."

  "I know," said Althene. Her deep hushed voice was restful as the fur of a cat.

  "My mother was used and abandoned. With me. She tried to—regiment me. Whatever I liked was wrong. Of course, I didn't have a father. And then, thirty years after, I found Adamus, playing Prokofiev, looking no older than I did."

  "Adamus was spent," said Althene.

  "I've been made to feel," said Rachaela, "that I helped drive him down into the abyss. That I helped to make Ruth into a monster."

  "And who made you feel this?"

  "I," Rachaela said. "I have."

  "The family thrives on guilt."

  "Scarabae," said Rachaela.

  "Scarabae."

  Up on the terrace the two girls were picking up their toys of nail varnish and magazines, and going into the house.

  "Poor little things," said Althene. "Like pretty little flies. They'll break like sugar."

  Rachaela saw a wing of darkness on the garden. It was the westering sun, nothing more. But she said, "What the family touches is spoiled."

  "Then the family must remain incestuous. It's safer."

  "Don't," said Rachaela. "Don't try to push me toward Malach."

  "Malach?" Althene laughed. Gold brushed her now, she was like a statue that had been given true life. "Malach is for Ruth. Are you sorry?"

  "I know how they think. Continuance. I could still bear children. They mi
ght want to breed him to me."

  "He does as he wishes," said Althene. "You'd better credit that."

  Rachaela felt something relax inside her. It was a flame going out. Yet she was glad.

  Malach was for Ruth.

  But how? The razor or the kiss?

  "It will be a wonderful dinner tonight," said Althene. "Kei is invincible."

  "Pleasures of the flesh."

  Like a rich nunnery—stomach for loins.

  Althene turned to her. How old was she? Old as history, perhaps, in a young white sheath.

  But then how old am I?

  "Little Rachaela," said Althene.

  It was like a caress. Sweet, unthinking, meaning nothing.

  In the hall Lou and Tray were huddled, standing each almost on one leg, like storks.

  The two dogs, of which they were afraid, were in the hall, thumping with their scimitar tails.

  Camillo was petting them.

  Camillo said to Rachaela, "They're his. He always had dogs like this, I remember. These two are the descendants of dogs that ran across Ireland when men wore the Eye painted on their foreheads."

  "But you hide from Malach," she said.

  "Wouldn't you?" Camillo grinned. More than ever he looked like a boy. The warm light of evening ironed out the lines, the runneled skin. Changing… a butterfly. "Horsy," said Camillo, "keep your tail up. Keep the sun out of my eyes."

  CHAPTER 18

  THUNDER LIKE AN EGYPTIAN CROCODILE circled the sky. But the storm had not, did not break. Perhaps it never would.

  Ruth had gone to a Bernie Inn, where happy families had congregated. Amid the chatter and the laughs, alone, she ate her meal. Steak and a jacket potato with sour cream, a salad, carrots, peas and onion rings. Afterwards she had an ice cream. There was a sparkler in it showering golden stars. This for a moment drew attention to her. In that moment, Ruth was afraid.

  But fear was a passing thing to Ruth, like a shortlived digestive pain, foreboding nothing.

  She had drunk orange juice with her meal. She did not consume alcohol unless it was offered her, freely available. This was partly the instinct of survival, for she still looked young, might be only sixteen.

  When she came out of the restaurant, the day was bleeding away, mocked by the formless thunder.

  Red sky at night, shepherds' delight.

  Ruth walked along the street. Red as the dying sky, the streetlamps were blinking on.

  Traffic passed monotonously, at intervals.

  A silver car detached itself from the stream and drove slowly in toward the curb. It crawled there, as if searching for a particular address among the line of shops and stacked flats.

  At the traffic lights, Ruth turned into the side road. She was moving back in the direction of the Reeves' house on the estate.

  The silver Mercedes waited until the lights gave it way, then turned into the road after her.

  The Merc pulled up just in front of Ruth.

  She took no notice.

  A man got out of the car. He was thin and wiry in a box-shaped pastel suit and silk tie. His hair was slicked back with gel. He had a face of bones and very flat bright eyes.

  As Ruth approached him, he skipped forward and took hold of her without a word.

  No one else was on the street. On either side the houses lay well back behind high screens of privet and old trees. From the few lit windows nobody looked.

  The back door of the car stood open.

  Ruth fought. The thin man spoke then. "Don't, babe. Or I'll break your arm."

  Ruth stopped fighting, and the man inserted her into the backseat of the car. He slammed the door and jumped into the passenger seat beside the driver. Before his door had closed, the Merc took flight, going fast now, a silver rocket, out into the main lane of southbound traffic.

  Lorlo Mulley looked at the fabulous bimbo that had just been propelled into his car.

  Pure chance that he had seen her, known her. She was the one all right. The one the police wanted, and then said they had got, dead in a wood. But obviously they were mistaken there, the way the bill did get mistaken now and then.

  "Relax," said Lorlo Mulley to the black-haired girl. "You're safe now. Your good luck I saw you. Got you out of a bit of bother. Lot of law around here. But I'll see you're okay."

  Ruth gazed back at him.

  What a looker. They thought they had a body in a wood—but he had it here, and what a body.

  "I know," said Lorlo kindly, "your spot of trouble. They're after you, ain't they? No problem. You're okay with me."

  Just once or twice you got a girl like this. The shape, and the hair, and a face to go with it. She could make him a bit of money. And her eyes. Was she stoned? No. She was only freaked out. A bit crazy, perhaps. Well, he could handle that. Teach her to handle it.

  "Like a drink, doll?" He opened the drinks cabinet of the car. Brandy, vodka, liqueurs.

  Through the glass partition, Honey and Frankie faced forward, Frankie manipulating the car effortlessly through the busy evening traffic. Good driver, Frankie. And Honey was first class, the way he had done it, just scooping her off the pavement. Even if he was a pain in the arse. "Have a Cointreau. You'll like that. It tastes of oranges."

  "All right," said Ruth.

  He poured a friendly measure, but not too much. He did not mean to make her sick.

  Ruth drank the Cointreau without pleasure or reluctance, straight down.

  "Steady, steady," said Lorlo. "You like a drink, don't you?"

  His new girl did not reply to this. She said, "I'd like to get out now."

  "No, no. Not just yet. The bill'd have you. You come with me. I'll show you my place. You'll like it. I can help you, you know. Help you make something of yourself."

  Ruth did not protest again.

  To reward her, for it seemed she could cope with it, he gave her another drink.

  "I've got some stuff at my place. Make you feel good. Just relax, you're safe now."

  He told Ruth she could call him "Lorlo." It was a privilege he awarded his best girls. The trash still called him "Mr. Mulley."

  He asked her name. She said she was named Ruth. He liked that. It had a bit of class.

  The Merc bypassed the West End, going at steep angles through brick-walled alleys and down long side roads under railway arches.

  They came out into Lorlo's territory, through dereliction, to the great warehouse. On every side was wreckage, the skulls of buildings eyeless with broken glass. But the warehouse was pristine, with eyebrows of white paint, and not a scrap of paper even on the cement forecourt that stood above the narrow channel of the river.

  On the concrete, Frankie parked the Mercedes. And in the holes about, maybe the rats peeked out to see. But no one would touch this car. They knew better.

  In the warehouse foyer, Chas came from his cubby, and grinned with joy when he saw Lorlo. Chas loved Lorlo.

  "Evenin', Mr. Mulley." He glanced at Ruth and chuckled.

  Honey and Frankie ignored Chas, who was beneath them. An ex-boxer, just a touch punchy, Chas had no vices but Havana cigars and fizzy lemonade. He spent the days in his room beside the lift, among his boxing cups, smoking, and looking through the papers. From a box of dressmaker's pins with colored heads, he would select a couple now and then, and stick them through the nipples of the pictured topless girls. Then he laughed. Women made Chas laugh.

  Under the battered kettle leaned an axe, the type a lumberjack would use. Chas was handy with the axe, and still with his fists.

  "Hi, Chas. Got your lemonade?"

  "Sure, Mr. Mulley. I got it."

  Over the fire extinguisher was a sawn-off shotgun.

  Honey was already summoning the lift. It came with a leisurely dinosaur rattle. The massive doors opened slowly.

  Lorlo Mulley put his hand under Ruth's elbow and guided her into the big elevator, large as a room, being careful not to touch the sides or doors with his ash-brown suit.

  They rose. The lift ju
ddered.

  "This outfit needs oiling," said Lorlo. "Frankie, see to it."

  Frankie nodded. "Yes, Mr. Mulley."

  The lift came to a halt, and the doors cracked and began to draw back.

  A white carpet appeared, a plain of it, unmarked, like arctic bear fur.

  "You'll like this, Ruth," said Lorlo.

  He led her out. On the snow plain were scattered furnishings of black leather. On one wall stood a bank of office equipment, a photocopier, a filing system full of the names and statistics of girls and boys from thirteen to twenty-three. A fax machine sat by the telephone which was an old black model from the '50s.

  Across the carpet were a black TV with video and a music center. A door stood open on a bathroom, shower and lavatory.

  Over the walls were grainy photographs of cars, Bugattis, Studebakers, statically preening in forests, like Lorlo's girls.

  Honey and Frankie split aside.

  "Go in the kitchen," said Lorlo. "Do the chicken."

  Honey went across to another door and into a white kitchen that gleamed from underuse. From the fridge, Honey lifted out a thawing chicken on a plate. Otherwise the fridge had cans of Swedish lager, two bottles of Dom Perignon, a jar of caviar, and a Walther PPK.

  Setting the chicken down beside the coffee percolator, Honey rolled up his laundered sleeves. He thrust his right hand into the cavity of the chicken and drew out a tinfoil package.

  Lorlo had got Ruth across the upper floor of the warehouse, the acres of white carpet, and opened the final door.

  The carpet went on being white, and the furniture black. But there was a wide bed, king size, covered by a spread of leopardskins. The skins were real, catching the wall lights on a harsh wild nap.

  "Come in," said Lorlo. "Come into my parlor."

  Ruth moved into the room.

  She had a terrific way of moving.

  She was a find.

  Just get her under control. That would be simple.

  Above the bed were two prize black-and-white photos; Bette Davis, Joan Crawford. They had it then, those women. But this one had it too. Something special.

  Ruth looked about her. She glanced at the photographs. Crossing to the bed, she touched the spread of skins.

  "Oh, you like pussies, then?"

  "Is it real?"