by Lee, Tanith
She was crouched very small in her garment of blood, darker and richer than her hiding place. Her black hair spilled round her. There was no blood on her that was visible and her hands were empty.
She turned her head like a snake, looked up and saw Adamus standing above her. And then she smiled, the sweetest smile Rachaela had ever seen upon her face. And the face, always that of a hobgoblin, broke into beauty like a star.
‘I hoped it would be you,’ Ruth said. ‘I thought it would be. Adam,’ she said, ‘they tried to keep us apart.’ Like a heroine in some third-rate book.
Very gently, almost daintily, he reached further into the dress, and with both hands he lifted her out.
And Ruth, seeing only him, put up the star of her face to be kissed.
Adamus transferred her to his left hand. He held her by a grip upon the waist of her dress, up in the air.
And then he struck her with his right hand, across the face and neck, a blow that should have smashed her in pieces.
His own blow tore her out of his grip and the bodice of the red dress ripped and came away and Ruth flew backwards to fall upon the floor.
She lay there, partly stunned, and the torn away bodice had left bare her breasts, which were white and perfect with buds for nipples, and now a tiny thread of scarlet spilled there, not from the dress but from the corner of her mouth. And for a moment Ruth looked, as she lay there, the flawless image of the media vampire, before her pale face turned puce on one side and began to swell.
‘Get up,’ Adamus said.
‘No,’ Ruth said through her thickening lips. ‘You’ll only do it again.’
‘Get up,’ he said, ‘and face them.’
So then Ruth got up, and holding one arm across her breasts, she stared at the Scarabae.
She stared and they stared back at her.
They did not ask her if she had done it, or why. She did not deny anything or boast of anything. All their faces were the faces of icons. Something was conveyed between them perhaps, without look or word.
The silence was very long.
When Rachaela looked at Adamus, his face too had become like theirs. He left Ruth where she stood and came towards the doorway. And all of them parted to let him by.
Only Rachaela caught at his arm.
‘No, Adamus. You can’t go—what will they do?’
‘Take your hand off me,’ he said. ‘Don’t force me to make you do it.’
Her hand fell and he went by her and away into the dark of the corridor.
She said to the Scarabae loudly, ‘What will you do?’ And she was frightened, but it seemed for herself not Ruth. ‘Stephan—what will you do?’
Stephan said, ‘We must confine her. That was what was always done.’
Miranda said, Tn the attic.’
‘Locked in the attic out of harm’s way,’ said Miriam.
Sasha said, ‘For many years.’
‘You’re crazy,’ Rachaela said, only a repetition. ‘She’s just a child. A sick child. She needs help.’
‘Locked away,’ said Stephan. ‘Carlo,’ he said.
And Carlo went forward to Ruth, and as he did so he took off his jacket, and when he came to her he offered it.
But Ruth spumed the jacket, only keeping her arm firmly across her naked breasts.
Carlo put one hand on Ruth’s shoulder, arresting her.
She put up her head arrogantly, and let herself be propelled towards the doorway. And as she passed through the Scarabae, or perhaps as she saw Rachaela, Ruth smiled again. But now it was the smile of a clown, lopsided from the damage of the blow. With difficulty she enunciated: ‘You deserved it.’ And was taken away to the attic above in the dark.
❖
‘Stephan,’ she said, ‘you don’t understand.’
Stephan sat staring at the hearth, where the fire had been in winter.
Rachaela sat down facing him. ‘Stephan, what Ruth did was terrible. Can’t you see that she’s psychotic? To lock her up in your attic will solve nothing.’ Stephan watched the phantom of the fire. ‘She needs attention. She needs a hospital.’
‘Anna,’ Stephan said.
‘Anna can’t be helped. Let me help Ruth.’
‘We have our own ways.’
‘Ruth isn’t yours. She’s mine.’
‘Ruth is ours.’
The bodies lay in their bedrooms, Peter and Dorian together on one bed. Soon, when the tide turned, they would be taken to the beach. Burned. So much Stephan had told her.
‘You must listen to me, Stephan.’
‘Oh, Anna,’ he said.
Rachaela got up and went to her room.
She sat listening to the sea, trying to hear the moment when it changed.
It had happened.
Ruth would hate Adamus now. And he was finished with Ruth. So much passion between them. More than there had been between Adamus and herself.
But she must get Ruth away. Now it was possible. Only the locked attic door to prevent it.
Why? Why must she rescue Ruth?
Ruth was the demon Rachaela had always envisaged.
Better to wash her hands of Ruth and all that blood.
But something would not let her.
After all there was some bond between them. Like the umbilical cord, unsevered. No love, never that. But... something.
She could not leave Ruth to the Scarabae.
The tide, surely the tide had turned now.
She listened, no longer for the tide, but for the minute noises of the Scarabae as they went down to the cremation of their dead. Like beetles in the woodwork, creeping. She heard them go, or did she imagine it.
Finally she went out, and from the landing she saw them, filing into the lower rooms, in their summer clothes, as if to a midnight garden-party.
What a bonfire there would be on the beach.
Had Adamus gone with them?
Rachaela turned and went into the left-hand corridor.
When she reached the foot of the stairs she expected one of them after all left on guard, but no one was there.
She climbed to the attic door. It was firmly closed. The lock must be more hardy than that to the room of gowns or they would not have trusted it.
She tried the door. It shook and did not give.
Rachaela stood there at a loss.
What should she say, to an eleven-year-old murderess who had killed four times over?
‘Ruth—Ruth? It’s me. Ruth, answer me.’
A bell of silence formed, in which Rachaela seemed to hear dim bat-like squeaks, the rush of sparks in a great fire miles away.
‘Ruth.’
A voice answered from beyond the door.
‘Hallo, Mummy.’
It was calm and still, the voice, muffled by the swollen lips, and very young. It was a child’s voice.
‘Ruth. Are you afraid?’
‘No,’ said the voice. And then, solemnly, ‘Yes.’
‘Did they leave you a light?’
‘Oh yes. They left me candles.’
‘Be very careful with them,’ said Rachaela.
‘Yes, Mummy.’
‘I’ll make them let you out. Then we’ll go back to London. I don’t know how long it will take.’
‘They won’t let me out,’ said Ruth. ‘They didn’t let out Uncle Camillo for twenty years. That was in another house. Sasha told me.’
‘Sasha meant to scare you. Did they hurt you?’
‘No, just my face. I cut my mouth on a tooth.’
‘Are your teeth all right?’
‘Yes,’ said Ruth. ‘But my eye’s swollen up.’
‘He might have killed you,’ said Rachaela.
‘He was angry.’ There was a second silence. Ruth said, ‘I didn’t mean to do it. It was like the book. They were bad and I wanted to punish them.’
‘Don’t talk about it now,’ said Rachaela. ‘We’ll find you a doctor. You can talk to him.’
‘Yes, Mummy,’ said Ruth. After a mome
nt she said, ‘They brought my clothes, and my drawing book and paints. There’s a stuffed bird. All this wine Uncle Camillo made. I drank some. It made me feel funny.’
‘Don’t drink it,’ said Rachaela.
‘I can see Adam’s tower from the window. The lamp’s burning. I can see the yellow lion.’
‘Does the window open?’ Rachaela asked quickly.
‘No. They locked the window too. They brought me dinner on a tray. It was a piece of old fish. But the jelly was nice.’
Rachaela thought, incongruously, I haven’t eaten all day.
‘Ruth, try to trust me. I promise I’ll get you out.’
‘All right,’ said Ruth.
The third silence formed.
Rachaela thought of Ruth at the grave of the cat, weeping.
Blinding, searing tears filled Rachaela’s eyes, sliding through like razor blades.
‘Don’t be afraid, Ruth,’ she said. ‘There’s nothing to be afraid of.’
And now I am the liar after all.
‘Will he forgive me?’ said Ruth.
‘No, Ruth, he won’t.’
‘No,’ said Ruth. She said, ‘I did it to make them sorry. But I didn’t really mean it.’
‘Yes, I understand.’
‘I’m sorry, Mummy.’
When she went out, the sky was bright with fire.
When she looked over at the steps, it seemed to be touching heaven.
There was nothing left to see of them, Anna and Alice, Peter and Dorian. They had gone up in smoke.
Without a prayer or a song, like old clothes or refuse, so they cremated their dead at the rim of the water.
Far out, the sea made white flounces.
The Scarabae, those who were left, stood in their erratic circle, like old kiddies at a Guy Fawkes party.
She looked from her height and saw them all, Teresa and Anita, Unice and Miriam, Sasha, Miranda and Livia, George, Stephan, Jack and Eric. And to the side the humble retainers, the not-quite Scarabae, Maria, Cheta, Michael and Carlo.
Adamus was not with them. And Camillo was not.
The fire burned on and on like all the fires of the world.
Chapter Nineteen
Both doors to the tower were locked.
The woman stood before each of them in her skirt and blouse and deluge of black primeval hair. Then she went back to her green-and-blue room.
Rachaela stood looking at herself in the winged mirror, breast-high amid the hedge of lilies, the rayed sun and swallows.
Who am I?
She did not know. She saw herself as a stranger, beautiful and far away. In looking at the faces of others, she had forgotten her own.
It would be easy to go. To leave them all to each other.
But they would travel with her.
She could not leave Ruth, poor insane little animal, snared in their rites and ceremonies where even murder was accorded a kind of ritual place.
Rachaela went down to the kitchen.
Cheta and Maria were scouring pots; Michael sat at the table, cleaning silver methodically.
‘Michael, I need to see Adamus. You must let me into the tower.’
‘When Mr Adamus locks the doors he wishes to see no one.’
‘I realize that. But this is important. And you have a key.’
‘I take his meals, Miss Rachaela.’
‘If you won’t let me in, I’ll come with you.’
He could not refuse her. She was Miss Rachaela. And Anna was not there to countermand the order.
She waited until lunch-time, in the kitchen.
When the tray was ready with cold, supermarket chicken and salad, biscuits and cheese, the glass of wine, she followed Michael, as she had followed him before.
They went via the Salome annexe, down the stair and along the passage, to the door.
‘If you will wait, Miss Rachaela, I shall tell him—’
‘No. I’m coming in with you.’
Michael did not argue.
She went after him, into the tower and up the steps.
The room, burning from its window, tawny, gold, amber, was empty.
Michael put down the tray on a table.
‘I’ll stay,’ Rachaela said, firmly.
Michael left her in possession.
Half an hour passed in the golden syrup of the room.
She examined books in a bookcase, there was nothing she recognized. No music stood on the piano. There were no ornaments in the room. On the mantelpiece the clock whirled backwards. Overhead the beams were like old toffee, sticky with webs, and with hooks in them for vanished lamps.
Rachaela left the upper room and walked down the stairs to the two closed doors beneath. She knocked and tried one, and found a white bathroom with a seahorse window. Hesitating, she knocked and tried the other door. It opened on a small bedroom, very dark, for the window showed a tower in a storm, like something from the tarot pack. The bed was ordinary, without posts. Adamus lay on it, looking at her.
‘You know why I’m here,’ she said.
‘No.’
‘Of course you do. Because of Ruth.’
‘Why because of Ruth.’ It was too flat to be a question.
‘Adamus, I have to take her to London, to some hospital.’
‘Why?’
‘She’s deranged. I must get her help.’
‘Again, why? They’ll care for her and keep her locked away. What more do you think your doctors will do for her?’
‘There’s a chance she can be—cured—’
‘No chance at all.’
Rachaela said, ‘I treated her like a sort of monster, so maybe it’s my fault if she is one.’
‘Don’t you think,’ he said, ‘that we’re all monsters.’
‘Perhaps you’re right,’ she said. ‘If I say that the Scarabae drove Ruth to do what she did, I suppose you’ll disagree.’
‘I don’t care why she did it,’ he said.
‘I’m surprised you take it so hard. You spend no time with them.’
‘Rachaela,’ he said, ‘she took a steel knitting needle and hammered it through Anna’s breast. After she had practised on Alice, Dorian and Peter.’
‘Yes, I know. Which is why I say she needs help. They’ve locked her in the attic as if this were some old ‘B’ horror movie.’
‘Instead of a nice hygienic padded cell. Do you think,’ he said, ‘that Ruth would let you put her into some institution?’
‘Ruth’s frightened by what she’s done. She knows she needs—’
‘Ruth knows nothing. Ruth is a collection of instincts and primal talents. You let her grow like a weed. Plenty of callousness to make her strong, and no guidance, to make her a law to herself.’
‘Then it is my fault.’
‘Probably.’
‘Let me shoulder it. Give Ruth to me.’
He sat up. In the storm light of the window he was white and hard as marble.
‘If it had been left to me, I’d have broken her neck.’
‘She’s your child, too.’
‘I know.’
‘How long will they keep her in a cage? What will happen when they release her? The Scarabae aren’t able to deal with this.’
‘They’ve dealt with plenty of things like this, and worse.’
‘That story about Camillo—’
‘The story is true. He was married in the family tradition to a girl, and he savaged her on the wedding night. She bled to death.’
‘It isn’t relevant.’
‘No. Probably what Camillo did was an accident.’
‘Ruth didn’t know what she was doing.’
He stood up. He came towards Rachaela and stood over her. She did not let herself draw aside.
‘Please help me, Adamus. Help me get her out. I’ll take her away. You can forget her.’
‘It’s unforgettable,’ he said.
‘Then you can’t want her to remain.’
‘I don’t care,’ he said, ‘any more.’
‘All the more reason—’
‘About Ruth, or the house, about them. What does any of it mean? Nothing.’
She took after all an involuntary step backward, and he reached out in an instant and gripped her arms.
‘And you,’ he said, ‘the brave mother battling for her child. You would have had her cut out of you like a cancer.’
‘And you,’ she said, ‘you served me like a bull does a cow. And then you were done with it. You would have done the same for Ruth.’
He held her so she could not move away, and he grinned at her with dead black eyes.
‘Nothing means anything,’ he said again, ‘but I know why you’re here. All right, then.’
He swung her round before she could struggle and thrust her on to the bed.
She tried to writhe away but he dropped on top of her. His weight crushed her. Every forward surface of her body was covered by his. What she had feared was happening.
Rachaela freed her right hand and struck the side of his head as hard as she was able. He caught her hand and pinned it down. She attempted to bring up her knees but he was too heavy on her.
His face was a blank but he frowned slightly with concentration. His eyes were flat as jets—Ruth’s eyes.
As he bowed his head towards her she sank her teeth into his neck. She bit hard and thought she tasted his blood.
A terrible thrill uncoiled in her like a serpent.
He jerked back from her and she hit him across the face with her left hand.
She seized his body and as he let go of her right wrist she grasped the fall of black hair. She struck him and pulled on him, filling her fingers with his spare hard body, as if she climbed a mountain. She wrapped him with her legs, splitting her skirt along the seam.
She screamed his name again and again.
At the last moment she buried her face in his neck, her open mouth against his skin. Erupting shudders ran the length of her, she was molten, clinging, tossed and flung backward. The delirium deserted her and she fell down into the bed.
When she opened her eyes he had left her. He stood against the occult window.
‘So much for that,’ he said.
A sort of shame ran over her. She got up, shaking and dizzy, her kkirt absurdly flapping open.
On his neck was the mark of her teeth. She had not drawn blood.
What had happened had robbed her of speech, but she said, ‘I’ll never bother you again.’
