The Feast of All Souls

by Simon Bestwick

No. Alice actually felt dizzy for a second and had to grip onto the kitchen counter for support. But for a moment it was almost plausible. There’s a plan for everyone, and if you stray from it, the universe pushes you back towards it. Was that it? She’d been meant to be with John, but had a family with Andrew instead. So, one little nudge from the universe and that family was gone, sending her flying back towards the man she’d been meant for.

  No. No. No. Ugly, poisonous tripe. And people wondered how she bore the idea of a universe without purpose, without a guiding intelligence? It was actually far less terrifying than the alternatives: being the playthings of a god or gods with the attributes of sadistic children, or pawns in the crossfire of a never-ending war between God and the Devil.

  Unless, perhaps, there was no intelligence, only purpose and pattern – laws of a science unknown as yet, maybe indecipherable to human minds. A big machine whose parts came in all sizes – subatomic particles, complex organisms, planets, galaxies – cycling through some unfathomable process of which Emily’s death and all that had followed were just minor components.

  Alice pushed herself away from the counter. She carefully placed the tattered red cloth on a sheet of paper, which she folded into a neat little packet and tossed into a drawer. Enough of that. Simple tasks like cookery could be a godsend at times like this. She stirred the sauce, and put a pan of water on to boil.

  AFTER THEY’D EATEN, she washed up and John dried. She showed him where to put the dishes away. Again the slip towards the easy companionship of earlier days, half-welcome and half-not.

  John’s good mood didn’t last long after dinner, though; he tried to research the area near the Fall online, only for the house’s internet access to fail. Alice dug out the unused dongles, but neither of them were working either. They sat in moody silence, Alice reading while John worked his methodical way through a wordsearch book, glowering occasionally at the computer screen.

  “Do you fancy watching a DVD?” Alice said after a while. He looked up at her and kissed his teeth. “What?”

  “Ah, nothing. Just me in a bad mood. Have to go out tomorrow and try and dig up more info. I was hoping to get that side of things finished tonight. What movies have you got?”

  In the end they settled on Animal House; it was an old favourite of theirs that Alice hadn’t seen in years. She’d bought it on DVD but never got round to watching it; Andrew had seen it before and hated it for some reason.

  The sofa was a big one; they sat at opposite ends. Alice kept a supply of comfort food in the kitchen; they passed a bag of popcorn back and forth. Neither got too close to the other, afraid to actually touch, but the warm companionship was there all the same.

  The movie finished a little before midnight. Alice got up, stretched. “I’m going to get some sleep.”

  John nodded, frowning at the laptop screen. “You do that.”

  She padded upstairs, undressed and curled up in bed. She slept without dreams.

  BIRDSONG WOKE HER; there were plenty of trees along the other side of Collarmill Road. Alice sat up, yawning, then pulled on jeans, sweater and slippers before going downstairs.

  The guest bedroom’s door was open, bed empty with the covers thrown back. “John?” she called. “You up?”

  “Yup.”

  The voice came from the front room. Alice went into the kitchen, put the kettle on. “Want a brew?”

  “Please.”

  Cooking him dinner, putting the kettle on for him – Jesus Christ, she really was playing the little woman with a vengeance.

  “Fuck!” John barked.

  “In your dreams, buster,” she muttered; out loud she called, “What’s up?”

  “Gah.” John stepped out into the hallway, barefooted in tracksuit pants and a sweatshirt. “Damned internet’s still down.”

  “Seriously?” She made her way down the hall towards him, holding out a mug. “It’s never been down that long before.”

  “Well, it is now.” John took the proferred drink. “Thanks. Tried everything I could. Tested the connections, switched it on and off again, but there’s nothing. I’m gonna have to head out.”

  “Where to?”

  “Any coffee shop with wifi should do it. Unless this is screwed, of course.” He tapped his laptop. “You’ll be okay, right?”

  “John, I’ve lasted forty-odd years, more than half of them without adult supervision. I’ll be fine.”

  “Okay, then. I mean, you can come along if you want, but I’ll be out and about for a while.”

  “I’ll manage,” she said. She had the rowan crosses, after all. She gestured around. “What about all this kit?”

  “It’ll run itself. Don’t worry. If anything happens –”

  “Journal.”

  “Right.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ll be back in a couple hours.”

  The front door closed. Alice went upstairs, climbed back into bed. Not a good habit to get into, but right now it was an attractive option. She dozed, read, finally got up again and went back down. In the kitchen, she refilled the kettle and put it on, spooning coffee into a mug.

  And then she heard the whispering.

  No, she thought. No, no, no. The cross, the rowan cross, warded them off. But she looked up and there they were, gathered in front of the back door, grinning at her, white-eyed.

  They are getting stronger, the Red Man had said. She backed away; their heads swivelled as one to follow her progress towards the kitchen door. Their grins stayed fixed. Their bared teeth were sharp, the tips of their white fingers hard and pointed. She had to keep out of their reach.

  But they weren’t coming after her. A breeze blew through the kitchen. It picked up, began to push at her.

  Then there was a rattling sound, and one by one the drawers to the kitchen units slid out. The rattling intensified; seconds later the blades of the kitchen knives rose into view, pointing ceilingwards, then swivelled slowly down to point at her.

  The knives hovered, aimed directly at her.

  And then they flew across the kitchen like arrows.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Moonlight Meeting

  The Confession of Mary Carson

  YOU MAY IMAGINE, Mrs Rhodes, that it was a shock to realise my employer entertained feelings of a romantic, even carnal nature towards me. Perhaps, but not so much as you might think. Arodias Thorne, while not in the first flush of youth – he was in his fifties at this time – was still virile. Nor was he unhandsome.

  Yes, not only was I flattered by Mr Thorne’s attentions, but another, baser part of me – the one we women are expected to pretend does not exist, lest we be branded sluts, degenerates or wantons – was quick to imagine what yielding to Mr Thorne’s desires (should he entertain any) might be like.

  In fact, let me be truly honest here – this is a confession, after all, and I can hardly make it and maintain the fiction that I am the good, saintly woman folk take me for. As I said, women are not allowed to lust, are we? Men may lust after us, but we women – oh, we must guard our honour. Only the vilest of us admit to a lustful thought, and yet, we are considered to be the weaker sex.

  So, let me confess it. It would be a more comforting tale were I the victim – the virtuous ingénue seduced by the wicked old roué – so long as I had no feelings of my own. But I did.

  Despite his grey hairs, there was a strength to Arodias Thorne. Not like the strength my father had had; that had come from his faith, his unwavering belief in his cause and his selfless dedication to it, for which he would risk even his life, and, perhaps less admirably, the security of his loved ones.

  Arodias Thorne was strong because what he wanted, he sought and took, with unstinting, single-minded devotion. Nothing barred his way: no law, no ethic, no difficulty of any kind.

  My father’s strength had been rooted in his compassion; Mr Thorne’s was rooted in his ruthlessness. Yet were they total opposites? Each had pushed himself beyond normal limits, had striven and su
ffered to reach their goal. Mr Thorne had dragged himself from the very bottom level of society to a higher one, schooled himself, amassed wealth, by thrift, industry, and, above all, by will. His ruthlessness was unsettling, yet, at the same time, also deeply attractive.

  I wondered briefly if his actions regarding the mill had been merely a gesture to win me, but almost immediately chided myself for such vanity. I could hardly imagine Mr Thorne playing for such petty stakes, or myself inspiring such extravagance. And whatever its cause, it had certainly improved the lot of the workers there. Something was working on Arodias Thorne – something, I dared hope, akin to grace. He was, quite clearly, not the monster some had thought him.

  As the days passed, I watched for another sign of affection on his part, but in vain. Perhaps he felt he’d given sign enough, and now expected me to make some response? I considered the prospect and found it more than plausible. His actions must cost him dearly, eating deeply into his profits as they did. His dark grey eyes, surveying me at work in his study or over luncheon, remained inscrutable.

  I was ignorant of how I might respond without embarrassing myself. Indeed, I feared that outcome so much I might have allowed the whole business to pass, except for the nagging fear that, should I do so, I might lose what chance of happiness I had in life. God helps those who help themselves, after all, and I’d prayed more than once for help in avoiding a destitute old age. How better to do so than by marrying a man of Mr Thorne’s standing?

  You must remember, Mr Muddock and Mrs Rhodes, that although a grown woman, I was largely a child in matters of the heart. We live and learn by trial and error. In these matters, as I’m sure Mrs Rhodes will attest, the sweethearts of childhood and youth are our instructors in truth and falsehood, but I had had none of these. Only, as I have told you, a brace of suitors for my hand, who had quickly abandoned their pursuit on seeing my devotion to my father’s cause.

  And so here I was, growing ever more certain that Mr Thorne desired me, but wholly ignorant as to how I should proceed. I concluded, at length, that the initiative now lay with me. It was like a game of chess; he had made his opening move, and now waited – patiently, I hoped – for mine.

  But what should my move be? I could ask no help in the decision. I had, of course, no family to ask. All I could do was to make an overture of some kind, and hope I did not appear gauche or wanton.

  I was afraid to, and afraid not to. As days went by I feared my chance might pass, and Mr Thorne find a younger and fitter subject for his affections, if he had not already. Or what if I had read the signs wrongly? I saw myself driven from the house in shame as a hussy, a harlot, a whore. All of which, I knew, would take place beneath Kellett’s balefully gloating eye.

  But there was nothing for it, I decided, but to make the attempt. I had to hope that even were I wrong, the worst consequences would be simple embarrassment. Surely, I had now been in Mr Thorne’s service long enough to be valued.

  And so I planned my move carefully; I made it one luncheon, at the little dining-table, watching Mr Thorne closely as he ate. You will see, of course, that over a cold repast such as the one Kellett served, it was easy for the diners’ hands to touch by accident over bread or meat. I so contrived to ‘accidentally’ touch Mr Thorne’s hand with my own, my fingers brushing over his... and then, in one of the most daring acts of my life, going on to rest upon the back of his hand and linger there.

  I shall never, so long as I live, forget that moment. Time seemed to stop. Mr Thorne certainly did; he went utterly still. For how long? I could not say. No more than three or four seconds, certainly – but how long a time that seemed to me, Mrs Rhodes.

  Then he looked up. Those dark, grey eyes fixed me with their stare... even now, the memory gives me a guilty shiver of mingled fear and delight. With his free hand, he dabbed his lips with a napkin, and then he smiled. For just a moment, he took my hand in his, then went back to his meal.

  A moment later, I returned to mine, but was unsure what had happened. The smile, the holding of my hand: had that been only fatherly kindness? Was that the nature of his affection towards me? I had no idea.

  I nibbled what little remained on my plate, then returned to work on the half-hour strike, until at last the working day was done and I returned to my room. I could hardly communicate my intentions more clearly than I had; the initiative now lay with my employer.

  After the evening meal, which I partook of in solitude, I remained in my chamber, reading by lamplight beside the open balcony window, for it was a warm evening and the air was richly scented from the gardens below. It was perhaps ten o’clock when someone rapped lightly on the door.

  “Who’s there?” I called.

  “Miss Carson?”

  I started, at once enthralled and terrified. “Mr Thorne?”

  The door handle turned – but, of course, I had locked the door, as was my habit due to my mistrust of the other servants. “One moment,” I called, and hurried to the door with the key. My father would have been scandalised – receiving a man in my rooms, clad only in my night attire? – and if I had allowed myself to think, I might have done differently. But I did not allow myself to think; I was resolved.

  Fumbling the key into the lock, my fingers shaking, I knew very well what this night-time visit meant, and what he sought. But, I realised in that moment, it was no more than I wanted to give, and be hanged to the consequences. All my life I had shown care and moderation; much good it had done me. Let me be wild, then, wanton and abandoned. Let me be wicked!

  Mr Thorne stepped into my room, bearing a candelabra and wearing a thick, brocaded gown. As he strode past me towards the bed, I glanced up and down the landing outside, but saw no-one.

  “The servants are abed,” said Mr Thorne. “Now, Miss Carson – or shall it be Mary?”

  I smiled at him. “Mary – yes, Mary, if that pleases you.”

  “Mary, then. And I shall be Arodias to you, when we are private like this. Close the door, Mary, and come to me.”

  I did as he said. When I reached him, he sat upon the bed, and patted the place beside him. After a moment’s hesitation, I sat, leaving a small gap between us – one I already regretted making, and wished to close, but at the same time feared to.

  Mr Thorne – Arodias, as I must now think of him – had put the candelabra on a table, and the soft warm light lapped over his face. It was a kindly light indeed, for it seemed to smooth away not only the lines of age but the starker aspects of his countenance, making him appear not only younger but kinder. But the kindness had always been there; his actions at the mill showed that. It had only been hidden beneath the harsh demeanour he had been forced to cultivate.

  “Mary,” he whispered to me, and every dream of passion I had known was in that word.

  “Arodias.” It was the first time I had spoken his Christian name aloud. He reached out and stroked my cheek. How large his hands were, how broad and thick the fingers – yet how warm they were on my skin. I reached up to touch the hand. I gasped, as if stung, as the other unfastened my woollen dressing-gown and slipped inside. Again the warmth of his fingers, first caressing my ribs, then trailing up across my midriff towards my bosom...

  Why, Mrs Rhodes, you are blushing! I have seen strawberries a lighter shade of red. And my dear Mr Muddock, are you shocked? Then be shocked. If you are, it is only a testament to your lack of self-knowledge. Desire is a part of us – not wicked, nor sinful in itself, but a natural thing. Had I not denied myself for so many years, I might have known a happier outcome than I did...

  Still, I shall spare you both your blushes. Even in confessions, there are parts over which a discreet veil should be drawn. I will say only that he was a skilled lover. For my own part, I was surprised by how much came to me naturally, and for the rest, Arodias was quick to educate me. There was an instant’s pain as my maidenhead gave way, but otherwise, that night was... joyous.

  When at last he was content only to lie beside me in my disarrayed – and, as
I discovered to my shock and embarrassment – bloodied sheets and take me in his arms, I felt... transfigured. In that respect, at least, I was fortunate, for I know now that neither all women nor even all men find their initiation into the acts of physical love a source of such delight.

  But I did. I was outwardly the same woman who had retired to her chambers with her novel that evening, but now I was a world of experience richer and wiser, or so I thought. I was – I thought, I dared to hope – loved. And I was in love. I whispered it before I could stop myself. “I love you.”

  Before I fell asleep in his arms, I heard his reply, “And I you.”

  We did not sleep long. Waking just before dawn, I was pleased to find Arodias had no difficulty reprising his earlier performance. Nor did I – indeed, my passion energised me to the point where I felt I could have dispensed with sleep altogether. As we lay together panting, spent once more, I felt wide awake, oddly rested, and serene.

  “We must, of course, maintain decorum,” Arodias said at last.

  I looked up at him. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that tomorrow, we can show no more familiarity than in the past.” He smiled. “That can be saved for the evening – if, of course, you don’t object to our repeating this encounter tomorrow night?”

  Object? I would have near enough demanded it. Nonetheless, it raised a disturbing question. “Am I to be your kept woman, then, Arodias?” I tried to speak without bitterness – after all, I was now a woman of the world – and I knew that a mistress could, at least, hope to be reasonably well provided for. But I had hoped that I might become a bride; perhaps by giving away my virtue so easily, I had lost that hope. Men craved it, and I understood why. If Arodias had experienced half the pleasure I had received, the desire was easy to understand. That was not what angered me, but the hypocrisy men showed, where a woman who enjoyed the act or was willing to partake in it was considered unfit to marry.