Mirrorman

by Trevor Hoyle

  ‘I guess you’re right,’ Kersh says worriedly.

  ‘Sure I’m right! Have I ever let you down? Listen – if you go, we all go, so the crew’s pretty keen, you can imagine. Anyhow, the guy’s lost, working in the dark. He don’t know jackshit.’

  ‘Guess that’s so.’ Kersh nods. He stops nodding, stares with his one good eye. ‘Who don’t know jackshit? What guy’s that?’

  ‘Relax, old pal, you got Cawdor flapping around like a headless chicken.’ Baby Sam chuckles. ‘Poor sap don’t know his ass from his elbow.’

  Kersh feels a chill creeping through his gut. Back there on the balcony he couldn’t put his finger on it, but his sense of danger was bang on the money – and this disgusting bag of weeping pus has confirmed his instinct was dead right. Fact is, Kersh now realises, that’s what Baby Sam is and why he’s here – as a kind of go-between, linking Kersh to events on the outside. Maybe a form of protection too, alerting him to any bad shit that might come down before it comes down. The notion comforts him. Is he bombproof and fireproof or what?

  ‘Anything we need to do about this creep?’ Kersh asks suddenly more confident, his panic already a fading memory.

  ‘Naw! Like I sez, Frank, he’s up shit creek without a paddle.’

  ‘He don’t know about me, right? That’s so, ain’t it?’

  ‘Well, yeah, that’s right.’ Baby Sam squirms a little. ‘And no, it ain’t…’

  ‘Can’t be both, scumbag. Which? Spit it out.’

  ‘Don’t ask me how, he’s seen you in the chair. He musta tapped into something, gotta flash of you hanging in there. But, for chrissakes, so what?’ Baby Sam shakes his hairless cranium dismissively. ‘Cawdor’s got plenty troubles to keep him busy, Frank. His whole world’s falling apart. Naw, he won’t bother you.’ Sagging forward on the barstool, Baby Sam winks lewdly by squeezing one lidless eye shut. ‘Hey, the chick, how she rate? She deliver? Gives good head? She’s got the mouth for it all right.’

  Kersh leans moodily on the bar. ‘She’s a ten. Even came up with a coupla things I hadn’t thought of before.’

  ‘Yeah? What?’ A whiteish substance dribbles from the corner of Baby Sam’s mouth.

  ‘I’d better not say. It’ll stunt your growth.’

  ‘Ha fucking ha. Anyway, when you’ve done with her maybe you could …’

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ Kersh says shortly. He has to keep these punks in check, stop them getting uppity. This is his penthouse, his tower, Kersh tells himself. Give ’em an inch, they’ll take a mile. Never let them forget they’re living between his heartbeats.

  Baby Sam’s feelers hold out the glass. ‘Gimme another shot.’

  ‘You’ve had enough.’ Kersh finishes his own drink and bangs the glass down. ‘You’d better go. I’m tired. I want to sleep.’ Baby Sam flops to the floor with a squelchy sound. A disgusting smell escapes from him, as if his insides are rotting, which they probably are.

  He slithers off, leaving a glutinous trail.

  If that’s what I picked to protect me, Kersh muses, why didn’t I go for something seven feet tall built like a brick shithouse?

  He goes through into the bedroom and sprawls out on the black silk sheets. Acres of stars shine down on him through the glass roof.

  The crescent moon hasn’t budged. The silvery sail impotently pulls the immobile ship.

  His mind’s too tense, too fraught, to think straight. He’d like to unwind by taking a little nap, but – truth is – he’s scared to sleep. Yeah, OK, he admits it. Because, whenever he sleeps, he dreams, and in his dreams time moves on. Visions of the electric chair loom before him, only a heartbeat away. And he knows the next heartbeat – should it ever come – will be his last. It doesn’t bear thinking about. Kersh shrinks from thinking about it. It makes his brain hurt. Like a fist squeezing the juice from an orange until the pips squeak.

  Forget all that. Forget, Kersh tells himself grimly, you even thought of thinking about it.

  He wishes now he hadn’t sent Baby Sam away. They could have chewed the fat, traded dirty jokes, got smashed together. Kersh doesn’t want to sleep any more. That’s the last thing he wants. If he falls asleep and dreams, God knows what he’ll dream about – there’s stuff floating around in his brain even he doesn’t know about and is none too keen to find out.

  Back in the main suite he fixes himself another drink and pads down the three steps into the circular well and flops down on the curved couch. Automatically, he reaches for the remote and switches on the TV. His hand is shaking. The panic he thought was under control rises up again, gnawing at his throat. Not the chair this time – Kersh can live with that. It’s Cawdor. That’s where the real danger lies. The Messengers have delivered on their promise, installed him in splendour, been ungrudging with his every comfort, but they had failed to warn him that all of it might be threatened from outside.

  Kersh doesn’t know how yet; living by his wits, he senses the danger, and that’s plenty good enough for him.

  Suddenly he’s hit by a bolt from the blue. Maybe they haven’t warned him for one simple reason – they don’t know. It’s down to him to warn them.

  No sooner has the notion entered his mind than he sees on the TV screen a dark chamber with a high conical ceiling fading into deep shadow. Figures shrouded in black robes kneel in a semicircle, chanting with bowed heads. They raise their eyes and look up. They are looking directly at him. Goddamn. This is a mighty shock, and with it comes a thrill more intense than sexual orgasm as Kersh realises who is the object of their devout worship and humble supplication.

  The one and only him.

  The Messengers are praying to Frank Kersh.

  RITUAL IN THE DARK

  1

  It got hotter. The sails were becalmed. The Salamander drifted on a flat, colourless sea in which the sun was reflected like a brass gong. The drinking water, stored in casks in the deepest part of the hold for coolness, tasted brackish. Many of the passengers complained of stomach cramps and vomiting, and a rumour swept the ship that an epidemic had broken out.

  During a single night there were two deaths in steerage, which Doctor Chapman pronounced were both due to natural causes – a statement greeted with private scepticism but which no one publicly had the nerve to question. Panic was feared almost as much as plague. It could devastate the ship just as effectively.

  Captain Vincent issued a proclamation which was nailed to the main mast, advising that anyone found crossing the white line did so on pain of instant quarantine in the aft hanging magazine. This was a vertical wooden shaft sealed off from the rest of the ship, used for storing powder, cartridge and shot when the vessel was employed as a man-of-war. From this, Cawdor deduced that the captain was deeply concerned that a contagion would spread from the crowded forward quarters and infect the middle ship and, worst of all, the ‘quality’ end.

  ‘I don’t think Captain Vincent cares overmuch about those poor souls forward of the main mast,’ Cawdor remarked to Saraheda. ‘But he lives in mortal terror that the fine ladies and gentlemen might contract the pox. They have influence, and the captain doesn’t wish to lose his mariner’s certificate.’

  ‘If I had my way, he’d lose more than that,’ Saraheda said darkly. She lay on the bed, a damp cloth across her forehead.

  Cawdor knew her mood, and from the stubborn set of her jaw guessed what she was thinking. He had told her of his interview with the captain, leaving nothing out. Saraheda had been all for finding the girl, Elizabeth, and shaking some sense into her and the truth out of her. And she was outraged at the ‘justice’ Captain Vincent had dispensed. But Cawdor had been sanguine. Under the circumstances, what else could the captain do? The girl stuck by her story, wouldn’t be budged from it; it was Cawdor’s word against hers, and the captain had chosen to believe her.

  ‘You should have told him what you saw on deck that night. How you intervened to save the girl. And then –’ Saraheda sat up, her eyes wild ‘– how she had the nerve to
accuse you of the act you prevented!’

  ‘If I had, what then?’ Cawdor shrugged. ‘It would have been my word against the girl’s and Elder Graye’s. Two against one. No, it was the better course, Saraheda. Or at least the best I could make of a bad job.’

  Saraheda shook her head. ‘I’ll tell you what the best course would be.’

  And proceeded to do so, involving a carving knife honed to razor sharpness and a certain portion of Elder Graye’s anatomy.

  Cawdor awoke, streaming with perspiration, the smell of the privy in his nostrils. He lay there for a minute, feeling nauseous. He couldn’t endure this stifling heat an instant longer.

  He put on his shirt and breeches and went up on deck. There wasn’t a breath of wind, but at least he was free of that noisome stench. Gratefully, he sucked in a lungful of air. It was a moonless night, black as pitch, the ship in darkness except for a single lamp on the poop casting a feeble yellow glow. Even the spread of stars appeared dull and misty.

  No Gryble tonight, Cawdor thought. And (he prayed) no young lovers either. Cawdor was in no mood to play the knight in shining armour, and to be slandered and severely castigated for his pains.

  ‘Have no fear, Mr Cawdor. My honour is not in jeopardy.’

  It was less the unexpected voice than that his innermost thoughts had been pried into that made Cawdor spin round, his mouth dropping open like some country bumpkin’s. He felt a flush rise to his cheeks. The Spanish Woman was smiling at him, the same ironic, mocking smile he’d seen before, as if they shared some complicity – which damnit all they didn’t! He’d never even spoken to the woman.

  ‘That’s an odd statement to make, madam,’ Cawdor blurted out, at once confused and suspicious. ‘What prompted it?’

  ‘There has been talk about you.’ Despite her accent, her intonation was clear and precise, and she spoke the words casually, as if quite at home with the language. ‘At the dinner table. An officer said that you had been wrongly accused. I agree with him.’

  ‘Mr Tregorath?’

  ‘Yes, that is the gentleman.’ The Spanish Woman came closer, and Cawdor was enveloped by musky perfume. She wore a lace shawl across her shoulders, but otherwise, as far as Cawdor could make out in the darkness, they were bared to the warm air. And there seemed a good deal of flesh.

  ‘If that is Mr Tregorath’s opinion, why didn’t he speak out before? He might have, yet he stood silent and did nothing –’ Cawdor paused to control his breathing. He was angry and inflamed. ‘And I do not much care to be the subject of dinner-table tittle-tattle. Is that how you make your entertainment on the upper deck?’

  ‘That isn’t my notion of entertainment, Mr Cawdor.’ The Spanish Woman gazed up at him through her eyelashes. ‘I prefer other diversions.’

  Cawdor felt his stomach tighten. He breathed in her perfume, and his senses seemed to come adrift. He felt drowsy and at the same time aroused. Her breasts were luminously pale, rising and falling above her low-cut gown. They seemed to beg to be caressed.

  ‘And, as I said,’ the Spanish Woman went on softly, ‘my honour is not in jeopardy. You need have no fear of that.’

  They stood facing one another in the silent, pressing darkness. She reached up with both hands and pulled his head down. Cawdor tried to resist. He told himself then, and afterward, that he tried to resist, though whether he did or not the outcome was that he slipped into her embrace, feeling her breasts rise up voluptuously out of her gown as they flattened against him and her lips mould themselves hotly to his in a hungry kiss.

  Saraheda dreamt she was being suffocated. It was so real that she kicked out and fought with all her strength. She wanted to scream, and couldn’t, because her mouth was filled with cloth. She could smell liquor on someone’s breath. She could even identify it.

  Rum.

  She could smell rum.

  And hear a man’s laboured grunts.

  The dream was too real.

  She was being carried, bound and gagged, over the man’s shoulder, along the passageway, down a flight of steps, his hard shoulder banging into her stomach with each step.

  Where was Jefferson? He couldn’t have slept on while she was attacked in her own bed. Because she had kicked. She had struggled. He would have felt it, surely to God. But he hadn’t, otherwise he would have done something when the man hoisted her over his shoulder and carried her out.

  The breath was being jolted out of her body. She tried to suck in air but the gag prevented her, and now she started to choke. Her body arched and bucked as convulsions racked her. Her eyes streamed with tears and strings of mucus hung from her nose. She was about to vomit. If she did she would choke to death. With all her willpower she fought against the sour bubbling and frothing that was erupting in her stomach. But the hard, jolting shoulder kept striking her and forcing the sour mess into her throat.

  The possibility entered Saraheda’s mind that she was actually going to die – that she would be tossed into a dark corner somewhere and allowed to choke on her own vomit. Her struggles were mere weak twitches now. Her consciousness ebbed and dwindled away until it became a solid pounding roar in her eardrums.

  Where was Jefferson?

  Where was he?

  Where?

  2

  ‘Set her up. Remove that bond. And the rag from her mouth. But be ready, lest she cry out. The ceremony must not be violated by unbelievers.’

  A smoky yellow flame threw its flickering light over Elder Graye’s face, deepening the hollows underneath his cheekbones. The other elders stood beside him, two on either side. All five watched as Kershalton released Saraheda’s hands and unwound the knotted cloth from her face. She choked something up and spat it on to the floor.

  From the corner, sitting cross-legged on a pile of straw, Six-Fingered Sam gazed with bright, unblinking eyes at the young woman, who was dressed only in a thin nightgown that was already torn at the neck. His mouth hung crookedly open in a wet, vacuous grin. Now and then he giggled.

  ‘As your lordships commanded,’ Kershalton said, standing by Saraheda’s shoulder. ‘My part done and delivered, without so much as a squeak or a whimper. You’re all witness to it. A promise made and kept. In good faith, you’ll keep to your side of the bargain.’

  ‘Yes. We will keep to it, to the letter, when the final act is accomplished. Mark what I say: the final act.’

  Kershalton made a fulsome low bow, hand to his heart, as a courtier to his king. He winked at Six-Fingered Sam. ‘Trust me, your lordships. I’m the man to do it.’

  Elder Graye laced his long fingers together and held his hands devoutly to his chest. ‘Saraheda.’ His voice was deep, full of trembling reverberations. ‘Saraheda. A very pretty name. And a fine figure of a woman. I can see from your appearance that you are a woman capable of giving great pleasure. No doubt you have done so, many times, with numerous randy gentlemen. And some not so gentle, eh?’

  Saraheda’s flesh chilled. Something cold crawled in her belly, like a snake uncoiling. She gathered up the phlegm which burnt her throat and spat it at his feet.

  Elder Graye sighed and shook his head. ‘You do not know your place. Nor your function. We shall teach you.’ He smiled. ‘You’ll know it then. This I promise. And you’ll never forget it.’

  The boy, Six Fingers, sniggered into his grimy fist.

  Elder Graye unlocked his hands, took hold of Saraheda’s nightgown and tore it apart down the middle. Kershalton was ready and, before Saraheda could react, he grabbed her wrists from behind. Elder Graye ripped the torn shreds from her and threw them away. His eyes travelled slowly from her face and down the length of her body, lingering on her breasts and pubis.

  ‘The flesh is evil and must be purged,’ he intoned. ‘All women are sinful, being formed and shaped for the purposes of temptation and the weak indulgence of sensual desire. Being shameless and wicked, they must be punished and abased, until they become meek and contrite, and seek forgiveness for their harlotry and despicable lust.’
/>
  ‘Your religion suits you,’ Saraheda said. She stood facing the five elders, proud and unashamed. ‘A warped and twisted theology, the product of depraved minds and empty souls. You would be contemptible were you not so pitiful.’

  Kershalton gave a gruff chuckle. ‘This one’s a real vixen, worthy of your lordships’ most severe chastisement.’ He leant forward and peered over Saraheda’s shoulder, ogling her breasts, one eye gleaming, the other drab and sunken with its dead layer of skin. ‘I could give it a good, sound shafting m’self.’

  ‘When the ceremony of the Fall from Grace is over, you may do as you please.’

  ‘I can have her then, can I?’ Kershalton gloated. Spittle ran down his chin and dripped on to her shoulder. ‘I have in mind a trick or two her husband never taught her. She has a very soft mouth.’

  ‘My husband shall deal with you in good time,’ Saraheda said. There was a tremor in her voice that she couldn’t control; her body had started to tremble, nervous spasms twitching in her neck and arms. ‘He won’t wait on the captain’s justice again, I promise you that.’

  She stared straight into Elder Graye’s impassive face. Then her throat welled up for a scream, which was stillborn by Kershalton’s rough palm clamped hard across her mouth. Saraheda tried to bite into it, but her head was wrenched backward until she thought her neck would snap.

  ‘Now, now, none of that,’ Kershalton grunted in her ear. ‘Nary a peep or a squeak, or you’ll get a throttling, Mrs Cawdor. Be still now. Quiet as a church mouse.’ He slid his hand from her mouth and clasped it lightly round her throat.

  Six Fingers rocked to and fro, hugging his knees, giggling.

  Elder Graye stepped forward.

  ‘For your lewd sins, woman, and for the blasphemy of your husband, Jefferson Cawdor, there is a price to be paid. You shall now pay that price in full and exacting measure.’

  Towering above her, he parted the front of his garment and revealed himself – the bulbous tip of it reared up, an inch or so away from Saraheda’s white belly.