Personal Darkness

by Lee, Tanith

  "Con," Lou whined, "all my stuffs upstairs-—"

  "Leave it, you dopey cow," said Connor. "Don't you know he'll take care of that? He says go, we go."

  "But Con—"

  "Or stay here. Stay behind."

  Lou huddled onto Cardiff's bike and he came and swung up before her, bumping her askew.

  The others were mounting up. The fire was out.

  The scene was suddenly desolate and ruined, the path of an army which had moved on to victory or wreck.

  As they revved the bikes, they heard the trike awake.

  Red was on the damson velvet, her hair bloodied by the window.

  "Now we ride," said Camillo, "now we run."

  "I'm here."

  "Giddy-up," Camillo said.

  The sound of the trike altered. It had the noise now of a rocket.

  "Christ," Connor said. "He's done it. The methane—"

  They heard the trike take off—a missile—gone.

  Connor slipped on Viv's goggles. The Shovelhead rose up on its rear wheel, a wheelie. He plunged forward and away after Camillo up the slope. Viv yipped.

  He's killed it, Connor thought. The fuel injection that would take the trike to a hundred and twenty miles an hour in two seconds, would burn out the guts of the machine. They would find it dead, but miles off.

  The Shovelhead slammed down and Connor tore up and over, along the slope toward the road, the others streaming after, and the black mud flying.

  The door opened.

  It was not a dream attic from a storybook. Somehow, Stella had supposed it would be. There was nothing in it but for a sofa and a chair, a bed. This was only a room, with another door that might lead to a bathroom. Papers and books were stacked about. On a rail hung some expensive, beautiful clothes.

  And by the window, which was of blank white glass, stood a girl, beautiful and expensive, like a final garment.

  Nobbi's murderess.

  The Vixen. Black fox. Death.

  "I don't want any argument," said Stella, "I want you to come with me."

  The girl moved from the window.

  She was pale, she did not look dangerous, or mad. Under her eyes were patches of darkness. Her mouth was almost white, and very dry.

  "All right."

  "But I must warn you," said Stella, "if you resist, I'll hurt you."

  "Will you?" asked the girl. She seemed almost interested.

  Her eyes were full of wonder. It was like a black screen parting to reveal a darker, deeper black.

  "Don't bring anything," said Stella.

  "No."

  The girl wore a white dress with a tight darted waist and a longish skirt, and pale suede boots.

  "But take that coat," Stella said.

  "This one?"

  The girl took up the black coat from the chair back. She touched it, as if it were some dead animal which once she had loved.

  "Do you know me?" Stella said. The girl was so compliant, surely Stella had been mistaken for someone expected.

  "Oh, yes."

  "Come along then."

  They went outside, and Stella was ready for the girl

  —Ruth—to make a dash for it. Stella would have broken her arms and her neck. She knew she could.

  But the girl did not attempt escape. She stood quietly, attending, for Stella to lead her away.

  "We'll go down now, and out of the house. Then along the road. There's a car waiting."

  "Shall I go first?" asked Ruth.

  "Just remember. Don't try to get away from me."

  "Oh, I won't."

  Where does she think I'm taking her? To safety? Out of confinement. Or does she think I'm a policewoman?

  Stella and Ruth descended the silent house, and, as they did so, the noise came of the bikes flying across the slopes. But then that faded.

  "That's right, Ruth."

  Ruth walked before her. Her hair was like a silken mantle. Was this what he had seen, before—

  They were on the staircase now. There, she had recalled the way without problems.

  Below was the hall, and the two doors. And then the outside, the road and the car.

  "So you know me," said Stella. "Who am I?"

  "You're going to kill me," said Ruth.

  "Yes. You're right. But don't try to get away. Do you know why?"

  "No. I don't care why."

  "You wicked little bitch. You fucking little bitch."

  They were in the hall.

  Ruth turned and looked at Stella. Ruth smiled.

  The smile was marvelous. It was like music or a sunrise.

  "Stop that," said Stella. "You have an hour or so of life. But it'll get shorter. Make the most of it."

  Ruth's smile left her and she lowered her eyes.

  Stella ushered her through the doors and out and under the gray sky.

  "Can't you…" said Ruth, "couldn't you do it now?"

  Stella frowned.

  "You'll have to wait."

  She took Ruth's arm, and together they stepped down toward the road and the car.

  CHAPTER 47

  SOUTH-FACING, THE WINDOW WAS ALSO clear. Only at the top, under the arch of the embrasure, was a slender panel in which were set faceted glass jewels, which produced, as the morning sun passed over in its arc, rainbow prisms which showered the living room. With these the cats, sensing the infinitesimal movement, sometimes played.

  The flat was quite modern, with pale apple-green walls in the large main room, and a ceiling three tones lighter. The carpet was dark green and the drapes ivory-white with a plant pattern in several green tones. There were ivory-white blinds trimmed with dull gold. The furniture was in a white wood, that looked unbelievably like the bark of birches. On the table was a huge green glass bowl in which was suitable fruit, subaqueous apples and pears, jade grapes, and one sportive yellow grapefruit.

  The bedroom was also large, and done like the main room, but in blues, with blue and ivory velvet curtains and pale blue blinds. There was a double bed. In a concealed cupboard were quantities of sheets and pillowslips, even duvets and their covers, in contrasting blues and ivories.

  The bathroom was white with a wine-red carpet and wine and white towels stacked in a second concealed cupboard. There were lights high on the walls, shaped like wine-red roses. The window was in white glass with pink jewels.

  The kitchen was in pine, very pale, with adventures in sunshine yellow. All mod cons. Freezer and fridge, technological oven, washing machine, dishwasher, gadgets for coffee and tea and every form of pulverizing food.

  Modern, yet unmistakably Scarabae. The colors alone.

  Had they, collectively, once known great darkness, that now they strove always after this richness? And was it, if so, only the dark of night?

  But she tried not to think of them.

  The great south window, which went to the floor, led into a conservatory, which had initially no plants, only a tessellated floor (soft emerald and charcoal), and strips of stained glass without pictures around its top. This in turn opened on a wide balcony with a high brick surround. Ivy grew over it, picturesque, and below, the house descended quietly, its two other floors, into an overgrown garden, with overgrown plum trees and a choked pool visited by frogs.

  Beyond the garden walls the ground tumbled to mud flats, and then into the river, the oily gleaming Thames, where ducks waddled and swam, and now and then a speedboat would pass with a wake of Persil spray.

  Along the riverbanks, on both sides, were attractive buildings, new considered blocks of flats with Roman tiles and ovals of glass, two churches, some complexes of perhaps an industrial nature, but with an art deco Egyptian look. From one, the farthest off, a plume of smoke occasionally lifted, and turned to rose at sunset. Doubtless unhealthy but undeniably aesthetic.

  The middle floor of Rachaela's block seemed unoccupied. At the bottom dwelled a pair of couples in adjoining apartments. She had seen them in the hall, polite and smiling but not pushy. She heard no noises from t
hem but the intermittent soft waft of cello music, or glimpses of a concerto by Liszt or a symphony of Mahler's.

  They had made all perfect for her. As perfect as was possible.

  Jacob and Juliet too were charmed. They climbed down the strong lattice of ivy and jumped to the garden wall, thence the garden. They sat in the plum trees like racoons or lemurs, tails hanging, and eyed the ducks on the mud flats.

  By the middle of March, Rachaela had bought plants for the conservatory—she had never been able to grow things, but maybe now… ?—and added a music center and two portable radios to the flat. She had introduced green plants, too, and green soaps and towels to the bathroom, filled the freezer with exotic food and the fridge with cheeses and salad. She found an orange glass dish and put oranges in it.

  The floor was scattered by cat toys, catnip sticks of "dynamite" with chewed tassels, catnip mice which had had their ears eaten off, and balls which were rattled and tinkled around the rooms at three in the morning.

  One wall of the living room was book shelves, and Rachaela was filling it. Rebecca West, Jean Rhys, Lawrence Durrell, Proust, Shakespeare, Chekhov, Dickens, Hardy, Jane Gaskell, Louise Cooper.

  Her taste in books had broadened, but, conversely, her desire for music had retracted like a bruised antenna.

  Then, she found a solution. She began to paint, playing music as she did so.

  She was not attracted to oils, and chose instead watercolors and creamy gouache. She worked with a light drawing board balanced on her knee, sometimes leaning forward until her hair brushed the paper and she must tie it back.

  She suspected that her paintings were effective, if still unformed. She tended to realism rather than abstraction, yet with meltings, hints, and candid lies.

  What she painted were women. Scar abac women. Pale and gorgeous, with vast clouds of hair. In amorphous dresses from two or three eras, padded shoulders, flowing skirts. The hands were ringed, the eyes blinding with lights. They stood at colored windows or walked on heaths. One floated like Ophelia in a stream, but she was not drowning, only—floating.

  There was a bank account. It had been opened for Rachaela, in the name of Day, and the documents sent her the morning after she entered the flat.

  She used the money without scruple, and, of course, as she used the money, it was topped up.

  Continual letters came from the bank, urging her to invest, to begin this or that enterprise with her healthy account.

  Sometimes she walked by the river, or shopped in the smart streets behind the flats.

  Twice, she cried, very deeply, and for a long time.

  Yet, as she did so, she stood beside herself, watching.

  Juliet came to comfort her, but Jacob, embarrassed, ran and hid.

  "What am I going to do this time?" Rachaela asked Juliet.

  Juliet had no ideas. To her it was all quite easy. Jacob and she were already showing a new interest in each other, breaking off their play to wowl softly, then washing each other vigorously.

  Rachaela had known, before Althene got onto the helicopter. Not been sure, of course, but, in fact, where could be the doubt?

  She did not blame Althene. It was her own fault. This time, it was.

  She did not feel anything amiss with herself. The former nausea was not there, no tiredness. She felt well and vibrant.

  Probably she should see a doctor. The social climate had changed, and she was in her forties now. A termination would perhaps be suggested, rather than withheld.

  And that was the answer.

  To be pregnant—to be released.

  Not, again, even if now supported in luxury, to go through that long business of carriage, and then that disgusting pain and indignity. Worse than all that, not again to produce a child. For the last child had been Ruth.

  Camillo had Ruth.

  That was the incongruous thing.

  That afternoon, when she had been asleep, and the others locked up in their silences, the bikers had fled, Camillo with them, and when Michael went up to the imprisoning attic, the door stood wide and Ruth too was gone.

  Rachaela had thought that Camillo hated Ruth. Perhaps Malach's hatred of her had turned Camillo about.

  Two mad things, out in the world.

  She did not want to think of it. Mostly because she had seen what had become of Ruth, after the murder, when Malach let her fall. Ruth had died. She was a corpse.

  "I'll let it go until April," Rachaela said to Juliet. Juliet stared at her with azure eyes. Jacob came back, haughty, prepared to overlook the outburst. "That will be around three months. I can't tell Eric. They'll protest and find some way to stop it."

  She put her hand over her stomach.

  Was it alive?

  Was she holding in the core of her a living thing, planning its death, Rachaela a killer, as her first daughter had been?

  On the 1st April, April Fool's Day, the green telephone rang in the living room.

  Rachaela ran to it, petrified, and could not lift the receiver.

  "Don't be an idiot."

  As she raised the green arm the line went dead and then there was the dialing tone.

  "A wrong number," said Rachaela.

  Is that you, Gladys?

  As she was turning away, the phone rang again, and she dragged up the receiver wildly.

  "Hallo?"

  "This is Althene."

  Rachaela sighed. It was as if she had been holding her breath for half an hour. Her legs shook and she sat down. Jacob pranced onto her lap.

  "Jacob's here," Rachaela said, "he wants to speak."

  "Fin so glad. But do you?"

  "Of course. How are you?"

  "I am well. And you?"

  "Oh, yes. Very well."

  "Rachaela, forgive me. I'm old enough I hate telephones, I am coming back. That is, I'm coming back today. This evening."

  "You're—"

  "And if you want to, Rachaela, you can meet me. I'll see to it a car is there for you at five o'clock. It will bring you to the airport. It will wait below the flats until half-past five. If you don't come out to the car it will drive away. That will be that. This is all I have to say. Goodbye."

  Rachaela sat holding the phone, which Jacob was using for a scent-marking object, rubbing his head on it so violently that it was dashed from Rachaela's hand.

  Rachaela got ready to meet Althene.

  When she was finished, she put down plates of boiled cod for the cats, and refilled their water bowl, as if she would be gone a long while. That was possible. For what did Althene want?

  She had changed the sheets on the bed, and put out extra towels, as she would for a guest. But actually, she thought, Althene would want to take her somewhere, some hotel, undoubtedly very glamorous, and then that would be that. Meeting. Parting.

  Or else, there was some message Althene had been charged to deliver. By Malach. Or someone.

  Rachaela put two bottles of Californian Colombard into the fridge. It was the wine with the taste of apples.

  She had put on a gray skirt and gray waisted jacket over gray silk lingerie and gray stockings whose tops were patterned with cats.

  But conceivably that had been silly.

  She did not think about herself and Althene making love, because when she had done this before, the intensity of frustrated need had, as the pregnancy did not, made her sick.

  No, better just to take this as it came.

  She ran down through the flats at a quarter to five.

  The gentle young man from the second bottom flat, the cello player, was bringing his Labrador puppy in from its walk.

  Rachaela stroked the puppy quickly, not giving it enough time to investigate the fascinating taint of cat.

  "Have to fly—"

  Outside she waited in the cool mellowness of early sunfall. And from the muslin light, the long car came, a Rolls.

  She got in, and the driver, with only a mannerly greeting, drove her away.

  The planes were coming down like giant win
ged whales. They went nowhere near the arrival lounge, but away among some trees, to a tiny airstrip separated from the conglomerate by high barbed-wire fences.

  It was dark now and cold lights pierced vision from all directions.

  Like some film, she thought, when the famous spy arrives with the secret which will save the world.

  Althene, the spy.

  / don't feel anything.

  She stood outside the car, and after a while she saw the little plane descend from heaven, onto the little runway.

  It landed beautifully, as if sliding along a pat of butter.

  A ten-seater, which, when it halted, let forth one figure. A tall woman in a layered devastating coat, not black like her hair, but flaming red.

  Red. The marriage color.

  Rachaela felt sick. She wanted to run away.

  Althene, like fate, inexorably came toward her.

  She was so beautiful she put out the bloody lights of the airport.

  She came straight up to Rachaela and took Rachaela into her arms.

  "Let me go." Althene did so. "Before you say anything," Rachaela said, "I'm pregnant."

  "Ah," said Althene. "So much for the Roman method."

  "I shan't go through with it," said Rachaela. "I want you to understand that. I'm too old—"

  "You're Scarabae. Your body will do anything you want. You can't be harmed, or the child."

  "All right, but I don't want it."

  "That's different, of course," Althene said.

  "You understand then."

  "Naturally. Can I kiss you now?"

  Rachaela looked at Althene. "I want you to. But then what?"

  "My bags are coming. Quite a lot of them. More things on their way. You have a flat. The second floor is also available to us. They interconnect."

  "I see."

  "I mean I shall live with you," Althene said. "I hoped you realized this, and that was why you had come to meet me. Obviously, if not—"

  Rachaela began to cry. The third time. The tears flooded out, and were ended.

  "I gather it will be horrible for you," said Althene.

  "I love you," Rachaela said. "Don't leave me."

  They did not kiss after all, only embraced each other. Beyond the chauffeur and the men coming with the bags and a couple of cabin crew, there was no one to see. And these took them for sisters.