HOPE . . . because that's all there ever is.

by James Crow

  Beth smells the lavender immediately and swallows away its sharpness. Showering under cold water doesn’t look like fun to Beth. ‘Where’s your master?’ she asks, expecting him to join Elizabeth under the cold shower of spring water.

  ‘I don’t recall. At home, or out hunting,’ Elizabeth says, then, after a moment, ‘Ah, I see, you question how this can be fun? Look,’ she says, ‘look at my own little fun do.’

  The Elizabeth standing under the cold spring water is now hunched, washing between her legs, her hand moving vigorously.

  ‘Don’t you like a fun wash, Bethy?’

  Change the subject. ‘Why don’t you run away?’

  Elizabeth looks at her as if she’s gone doolally. ‘Run away? Why would I run away?’

  ‘To your mum, where’s your mum?’

  ‘My mother was a drunken whore. Master saved me when I was born and gave me a far better life than she ever could.’

  ‘Where is she now?’

  ‘You ask too many questions.’

  A yawn comes from nowhere. Beth stops herself hallway through it.

  ‘Tired already? I suppose it is really late for you.’

  Late? Beth has no idea of the time.

  ‘Have you ever been loved, Bethy?’

  Beth suspects the love from her mum is not the love Elizabeth means.

  ‘Have you?’

  Beth shakes her head.

  ‘Do you even know how it’s done?’

  Of course, the pictures on Charlotte Allsopp’s phone are pinned on the wall of her mind forever. ‘I think so.’

  ‘You think so? Well, it’s time you learnt.’

  Elizabeth’s hand takes hers.

  10

  The prozzie’s scrawny arse is covered in pimples and spidery hairs.

  ‘Gerrus fucked, then.’ She turns her head to look at him, standing at the bottom of the bed with his shirt undone. She crawls herself around until she’s on all fours in front of him. ‘Git your cock out.’

  Pete doesn’t.

  ‘I’ll git yer hard.’

  Pete ignores her. When he’s ready to fuck he’ll do it his way.

  ‘If ye’ve changed ye mind, I don’ do refun’s.’

  ‘I haven’t changed my mind.’

  The prozzie sits back, gropes around for the whisky bottle and takes a slug, spilling it over her wretched tits. Pete sees himself throwing a match at her blackened teats and watching as her frizz of hair erupts into flames.

  ‘What’s ye name, kidda?’

  ‘I already told you.’

  ‘Memory . . . nae fucking good.’

  ‘Pete.’

  ‘Pete, that’s it. Play wi’ me nips again, Pete. I like when ye did that.’

  Pete moves around to the side of the bed, lifts her by the armpits and rests her against the pillows. He smooths down her hair as best as it will go and tells her to stay still. He snaps open an easel and clips a sheet of paper to it and washes it yellow.

  ‘Fuck ye doing?’

  ‘Painting you.’

  The prozzie laughs. ‘Why the fuck would anyone want to paint this ol’ skank?’

  At least she knows she’s a skank. ‘I want to capture your life-force.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just paint you.’

  ‘Easiest grand I ever made.’ Another cackle.

  ‘You remember that but not my name.’

  ‘Pete,’ she says, grinning black teeth.

  ‘Aye, Pete. Now keep fucking still.’ He uses grey for the outline, the yellow wash makes her look dead. He uses black and exaggerates the already exaggerated teats.

  She knocks back another slosh of whisky. ‘Would ye do something, Pete?’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Tongue me. I’d pay. Haven’t had tongue fer donkey’s.’

  Pete looks at the tumbleweed sitting between her thighs then back to the prozzie’s waiting eyes. ‘Aye, I’ll tongue ye. Just let me paint you first.’

  When the prozzie’s body is complete, he tops it off, not with her pig-ugly head, but with a single huge eye. He steps back to admire. The prozzie asks for a look. He turns the easel to face her. She gazes it awhile then vomits down her front.

  Pete feels the urge to knock her out with a punch to the forehead. Instead, he hauls her from the bed and shoves her into the shower cubicle and turns on the cold water. The prozzie yelps and flaps about and tries to get out. Pete slams the door and jams it with a chair.

  Back in the living area he removes his clothes and folds them and places them neatly in the corner on top of his art-cart on wheels. From the bottom of the bed he loosens a wing-nut and pulls the first strut up and tightens it into place. At the end of the strut he loosens the wing-nut on the L-shaped foot-hold and angles it to where he thinks will be best. He repeats the process with the second strut and foot-hold before peeling open the Velcro straps. He knees up onto the bed, lies on his back, spreads his legs and places his feet in the L-shaped blocks. Perfect.

  Moira Muldoon is no longer yelping. She’s found the hot water tap. Steam is coming from the shower room and the skank is singing and bouncing off the cubicle walls. Pete retrieves the bag of speed from his jacket’s poacher’s pocket, takes six generous dabs and washes them down with whisky.

  The shower turns off, water drips.

  ‘Git that tongue ready, sonny!’ the prozzie yells.

  Pete thinks of Mr Wood. He’s going to make him proud.

  1

  The peelaway isn’t so dramatic this time. Green and white chequered tiles slot into place beneath their feet and the walls and ceiling appear to jostle before they still. The walls are grimy, mottled black with mildew. Against one wall is a huge bathtub with curved legs and at the base of each leg is the golden head of a lion.

  Sister Charity’s garments are in a pile on the floor. She’s in the bathtub, sitting on top of Master. She has no hair, only dark shadow across her smooth head. Her bony hands shake as they grip the bathtub’s rim. Her upper body trembles as she mutters prayers with her eyes closed. Master is lying back, his plait hanging out over the edge of the bath. His arms are folded across his chest. He appears to be studying the trembling nun.

  ‘This is true love, Bethy.’

  Beth lets go of Elizabeth’s hand.

  ‘Sister Charity liked to preach, you know. Liked to tell me I would burn in Hell . . . as for Master, why, the Devil himself would flail poor Master’s skin from his body.’ The wood spirit’s laugh echoes around the room. ‘Silly fool. She changes her tune when she’s loved, as you can see.’

  The nun’s head is tilted back, mouth gaping. She’s pushing herself up and down on muscled arms. A fat bluebottle zigzags across her wrinkled chest.

  ‘When Master removed her legs, he fashioned her a new hole.’

  New hole? ‘Why did he remove her legs?’

  ‘She was always trying to run away. Left untied for a second and she’d be off like a rabbit. She got as far as the road one day, naked as the day she was born. Master caught her just in time. Pulled her into a ditch before a passing car saw them. He took her legs straight after.’

  The nun starts making a lot of noise. Water sploshes and slops. Beth looks away until she hears wet splashes on the floor. She looks back to see Master carrying the nun to a huge bowl sink. Her rounded base is pink and puckered. He pats it dry before sitting her in the sink and handing her the towel. He reaches for a tub of talcum powder and showers her base with it. The air smells like babies.

  ‘Don’t ever think of running away, Bethy. Accept Master’s love, give him your will, and once you do, once you let him into your heart, you won’t ever regret it, I promise you that. Master’s love is all-encompassing, the only love you’ll ever need.’

  Don’t think of running away? Trying not to imagine herself shooting off faster than a rocket isn’t an easy do. Calm, heart, calm, don’t let her inside your head. Beth’s legs are shaking; she doesn’t want to lose them.

  The wood spirit nods th
oughtfully; she’s watching Master fix the nun’s headpiece into place. ‘Which reminds me,’ she looks at Beth with a bright-eyed smile. ‘We have an important experiment to do. Come!’ She reaches out a hand.

  ‘We do?’

  Elizabeth’s hand flips palm-up. ‘I said come. Why do you falter?’

  Shoot, like a rocket.

  ‘Come!’ Elizabeth says again, eyes fierce.

  Beth slips her hand into the wood spirit’s hand and the wood spirit smiles. Cold fingers curl around hers.

  2

  At the sink, Ali ran the water until it was icy cold. She filled a tumbler and drank the water down. She poured the next one over her head and grabbed a towel to dry her face. She hoped she hadn’t killed him, but even from here she could see more blood oozing into the puddle by his head. She had to stop the bleeding.

  She went to him swift-footed, packed the damp towel against the gleaming red mush that was the side of his head and applied pressure. She felt for a pulse at his neck, but her fingers were jittery and his neck was slick with blood. Calm it down, Ali, you can do this, you really fucking can. She went back to the sink, filled the tumbler, returned quickly and poured the cold water over his face. Nothing. She went back for another, this time dribbling water into his mouth. She packed the towel, held it, poured more water. Come on, George, come the fuck on. She slapped him again. Nothing.

  More water. This time she knelt behind him, lifted his head to rest it on her knees, nipped his nose, tipped his head back, poured slowly. Most of the water spilled over his lips but some gurgled its way down. Tumbler empty, hands not so shaky, she tried for his pulse again and there it was, the faintest tap against her finger. She almost hugged him.

  More water. This time George responded, lips moving a little, a drowsy groan. She laid his head back on the floor and removed the towel. The bleeding had almost stopped. Now she had to get him to the bed. Should she wake him some more, get him to help? Risky.

  She went to the wardrobe, found two clean sheets and knotted them together at both ends to form a loop. She returned to George, hitched up her dress, fed the sheets under him and out through his armpits. She twisted the loop into a figure of eight and slung it around her shoulders. When she gave a tug, George’s lifeless body moved an inch or two. She put her good foot forward, braced herself and pulled. His head slid a circle in the blood as she turned him towards the bedroom. He moved easy now, the blood beneath him oiling his way.

  Deep breath, power to the muscles, muscles that seethed with energy. She gave another heave, sweat streaming down her face. She’d moved him five or six feet. She braced again, took a step and pulled the bastard another foot. Another step, another drag and momentum found rhythm and she was off – step – drag – step, step – drag – step.

  She left George propped against the bed, a red-wet mess of silence. At the sink, more water, two tumblers down and head under the tap. She was burning up. She dried her face, went back to George and climbed onto the bed, hitched her dress up to her waist and crouched down close to George’s head. She twisted the knotted sheets behind him and fitted the smaller loop around her neck and put her back into the heave. When his head came up level with the mattress she lost the tension and had to let him drop.

  Again, tighter loop, she crouched until her chin touched his good ear, hooked her hands under his pits for extra lift and braced for a big one. ‘This time, you fucker.’ When she rose, George lifted. When the base of his back came in line with the edge of the mattress she dug her heels in, toppled backwards and would have fallen off the other side of the bed if not for the sheets connecting her to George, who was now arched against the mattress. She rolled off the bed and heaved at the roped sheets until her arse hit the carpet. George’s upper half fell back onto the bed, his legs angled straight to the floor. She unhooked herself from the sheets, went around the bed, got between his feet, lifted his legs and pushed.

  Back on the bed, she pulled him up towards the pillows, rested his head on them and felt again for a pulse: faint but still there. She retrieved the washing line from the corners of the bed, spread his arms and tied his wrists, as tight as she could get them. She took off his shoes and removed his trousers and shorts before spreading his legs wide and tying the washing line to his ankles.

  He was a mess. He was hers. And he was staying fucking put.

  She hitched her dress, kneeled up on the bed, straddled him, felt his flaccid cock against the glowing heat between her legs. His skin was pleasantly cold against hers. She moved against him, back and forth, hands on his blood-soaked shirt. ‘Can we fuck, babe?’ George was breathing, only slight. His chest rose and fell beneath her fingers, only slight. ‘Show me you love me, babe. Can you do that for me? Just once? Just one fucking time?’ His chest shuddered and he coughed up a little water. She clawed her fingers into his shirt and ripped it open. ‘Please wake up, Georgie Porgie. I want to tell you about the pain. The fucking awful pain.’ She lowered her head to his, kissed his chin and sobbed into his neck.

  3

  Beth’s hands fly to her eyes. Blinding yellow sunshine and – sparrows. Lots and lots of sparrows.

  They’re standing in the yard at the side of the house, freshly-turned dirt underfoot. Sparrows on the ground, sparrows in the air, whirling shapes. Beth follows their flight and the hypnotic patterns they make. She giggles at this but the wood spirit’s tugging at her elbow. The birds disperse with a clatter.

  ‘Watch!’ Elizabeth nods to the house. ‘The upstairs window, the one on the right.’

  A girl in a yellow dress comes to the window. It’s a younger Elizabeth, perhaps she’s eleven or twelve. Her bricks are golden, small and neat, and they sit tightly to her head and shoulders.

  ‘Another flush,’ Elizabeth says. The girl in the window vanishes from sight and seconds later the sound of rushing water travels beneath their feet.

  The younger Elizabeth is back at the window, smiling brightly. Beth notices her rosy cheeks and how some of that rosiness seeps into her neat little bricks and makes them look like flower petals. She can feel her joy. A shrill whistle from the trees makes Beth start.

  The wood spirit claps her hands rapidly and bounces with excitement. ‘That was the pit inspector’s signal. We must get ready. The younger me will come this way and stop right here when she meets the inspector on his way out. He’s an ugly man, so try not to look at his face. Nevertheless, you must know that this was one of our greatest days, Bethy. A triumph of Master’s will, and never had I felt so enlivened.’ She clasps a hand to Beth’s shoulder and squeezes. ‘Right here, I stopped, and the inspector talked to me. He surely talked for less than a minute, but I felt something, something new, a presence. It ran me hot and it ran me cold, Bethy. When I told Master about it, he took me down the pit and he loved me greatly, and afterwards he relayed his theory of scientific import. It is now that we test that theory, so I need you to pay close attention.’

  Beth nods. Her cheeks are burning and there’s a buzz of excitement in her belly. It feels wrong. She feels hot and cold too.

  ‘Master theorised a loop of spiritual energy. When the younger me stops to talk with the ugly inspector, I want all of us to join together.’

  ‘With the inspector?’

  Elizabeth rolls her eyes. ‘No, Bethany, me, you, and my younger self will join together and become one.’

  One? ‘What will happen?’ In her mind’s eye, Beth sees a spinning white loop in the air above the heads of three girls in yellow dresses. The girls are holding hands to make a circle.

  ‘Not quite what you’re thinking,’ says the wood spirit, ‘but close. Look, here I am now.’ She claps excitedly once again.

  Younger Elizabeth skips into view, shooing sparrows to the air. One remains on her shoulder. She brushes it away when her eyes lock onto Beth’s.

  ‘Oh, Bethy,’ the wood spirit says with a sigh. ‘Are you ready for this?’

  Beth realises young Elizabeth isn’t looking at her, she’s looking th
rough her. She glances behind to see a man emerging from the trees. He’s not ugly in the slightest and his bricks are dark and busy. He reminds Beth a little of her dad.

  Young Elizabeth stops right in between Beth and the older Elizabeth, just as the wood spirit had said she would; three girls in yellow dresses, only Beth’s has the added skirt of bramble spikes.

  ‘Now!’ says the wood spirit. She reaches with both arms around her younger self, palms open. Beth’s hands rise to the air. Fingers slide through fingers. ‘Step inside,’ says the wood spirit. She pulls Beth towards her and all three merge as one.

  There’s a fleeting snap – a feeling of being stretched and let go – and Beth’s standing in a small dome-shaped room with murky brown walls. On the wall in front are two circular windows. Outside is sunshine bright and the smiling inspector is looking down at the windows.

  ‘It worked,’ says Elizabeth at her side. ‘It really worked.’

  I don’t like it in here, it stinks of rotten veg, this thought is automatic from Beth, but the weird thing is she hears her words aloud and sees them run around the curved wall in squirly letters as if they’re being written out as she thinks them.

  rotten veg rotten veg rotten veg

  Elizabeth laughs at this. ‘This is a lovely room, don’t you see the flowers on the wall?’

  Flowers? The word trails around the wall, flowers flowers flowers

  The inspector’s voice can be heard coming through from outside. He’s telling young Elizabeth she did a good job and that she can keep the whistle. When his big hand comes up and ruffles her hair, the dome shakes. The wood spirit shudders at Beth’s side and the shudder runs through Beth. Don’t fret, the ugly brute will soon be gone.

  The wood spirit’s thought rolls around the wall and sure enough the inspector steps aside and young Elizabeth moves on. The trees through the circular windows come at them with quickening pace.

  Where are we? What happened? What happens next? I don’t like this room . . . Beth’s unbidden thoughts go pulsing around the wall. Her heart is beating too fast.

  The wood spirit takes Beth’s face in her hands, opens her mouth, and for a second Beth thinks she’s going to bite her. She pulls back, but the wood spirit’s grip is firm. Beth closes her eyes, gasps when cold lips press against hers. After five heart-thudding seconds the wood spirit breaks the kiss and smiles as if all her dreams have come true. Dreams come true . . . ‘Oh, they do, Bethy, they truly do. Master was right.’ Dreams come true, they truly do . . . the words roll around the wall.