Diana Christmas

by F. R. Jameson

  When I got there, it was to a dozen messages from Diana Christmas. Yvonne the secretary, blew me an exaggerated kiss when she handed them to me. Clearly, she’d worked out that something was going on, and was loving the fact.

  “What happened?” I asked Diana. “Tell me exactly.”

  The sobs came full and fast now. She bent over slightly, her arms clutched around her belly as if she was being eaten away from the inside. A frilled lace tissue was caught in her left hand, no doubt to dab away the tears – although there were too many of them for such a flimsy dam to have any effect.

  “I was so beastly to you Friday night, Michael, and I apologise for that. I really am very, very sorry. But I’ve known Carlisle Collins most of my life, and I know what a duplicitous swine he is. So, when you came back and said he didn’t have the film anymore, I simply didn’t believe it. Not that I didn’t believe you, Michael, but I didn’t believe him. I know what a filthy bastard he was.” She spat out the word ‘bastard’, as if it left an unpleasant taste in her mouth. “I saw the expression on his face after I first learned about the film, all those years ago. It was one of smugness. Such a gloating and self-satisfied expression. It turned my stomach to look at it, turns my stomach afresh to think of it now.

  “I’ll confess I had a large tumbler of vodka Saturday morning at breakfast. I’d been up all night, tossing and turning, thinking about what you’d said, regretful of the way I treated you after all you’d done for me. But I was also filled up with contempt again for Carlisle Collins. Perhaps that drink was my big mistake of the day. I find that if I take one too early, it starts to play havoc with the anxiety pills. It’s not long before I start to get light-headed, to lose some of my judgement.

  “It was about mid-morning that I decided to go and see him myself. I looked up his address on Timmy’s A to Z, then walked into Kingston itself and picked up a cab near the station. It was such a long journey and I felt so anxious for the entire of it, a fidgety mess on the back seat. Fortunately, the driver didn’t try to engage me in conversation. I don’t know quite what I would have said. I got the taxi to drop me off about three streets away and then – absolutely terrified – went to see the bastard. For the first time in twenty years, I went to clap eyes on this man who I’d spent the best part of that time trying to forget. But I didn’t mean to hurt him when I got there. I promise you that, Michael, I just wanted to talk to him, and look him in the eye. The thought of hurting him simply didn’t enter my head.”

  Her cheeks were flushed, mascara running like henna scars down her face. The blouse she wore that evening was white satin. It was immaculately cleaned and pressed, fresh out of the dry cleaners. The mascara fell like acid rain upon it, scarring it forever. Not that she seemed to care.

  “God, his place was simply horrible, wasn’t it, Michael? I was on edge already as I walked up to it. A youth wolf-whistled me. But not from a distance, like it might be a compliment. No, he actually stepped forward into the road – almost into my path – to do it. His face was like it was caught between whistling and blowing a raspberry. Then his friends all joined in. There were three of them sitting in a row on a garden wall, all even younger than you, Michael. Fortunately, they didn’t step forward with their friend, but they wolf-whistled me too. And when I did my best not to respond, they heckled me and yelled the most disgusting things in my direction. That put me so on edge. I was walking faster than I normally do, trying my best not to run. Without even thinking things through earlier, I’d worn heels instead of flats, and I deeply regretted that decision. The noise those boys made as they hooted and grunted was so horrible, it was like some demons cheering.

  “So I didn’t get chance to properly look at Carlisle’s house before I got in there. I was rushing, desperate to get away from those youths, not even thinking that the person I was hurrying towards was the same bastard who had once grabbed my life in his fist and crushed it to nothing.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Michael.” Her hand reached across to stroke mine. “I know I didn’t quite believe you when you described how bad it was. I wasn’t conscious of it, but clearly I thought you were exaggerating. How could anyone live like that? How could anyone choose to spend their days like that? It was revolting, it was terrifying. I nearly lost control of myself the moment I pushed open that flimsy excuse of a front door. When I pushed it open and then, without thinking, pushed it behind me – as things are normally safer when you’re behind bricks and mortar. It was disgusting, absolutely disgusting. There were things on the floor that I never want to think of again. The stench was simply appalling. I’ve never been anywhere like it, couldn’t believe that such places really exist.

  “And at the centre of it, chortling as he saw me, was Carlisle bloody Collins! He was sneering like he always did, but there was such amusement on his face at the same time. Obviously, he wasn’t enjoying his life – no one could enjoy a life the way his was – but he was taking pleasure from the thought of causing me pain. It was 1959 all over again! He was doing this just because he could, because he liked hurting people, because he wanted to torture me.

  “‘I’ve been expecting you, darling Diana,’ he rasped at me. ‘Ever since that little boy of yours showed up, I knew eventually your pretty little hide would appear.’

  “That’s what he called you, Michael, my little boy. As if you’re no more than a child.

  “I stared back at him, hoping to give him a look as cruel as the one he gave me. But I don’t think I could manage it. I thought I knew what I was going to say. In the taxi over, I’d practised it inside my head, but when I saw him again the words just deserted me.

  “To see him like that, Michael, to see him so broken and desiccated, it was traumatic. So traumatic! He was a skeleton. A skeleton that had learned how to breathe and say God-nasty things. Remember, I knew him when he was young, and Carlisle Collins – despite being a rotten bastard of the first order – was an incredibly handsome man. A beautiful man, even. So, to see him like that, to see him so corpselike, rotting away in that hovel… it was terrible, Michael. I thought twenty years had slipped by cruelly for me, but that was nothing compared to what they had blatantly done to him.

  “Only the eyes showed the old Carlisle. His eyes had always been superior and arrogant. Back when we knew each other, he’d had a lot to be superior and arrogant about. He may have been a long way down the food chain, but he knew from close quarters that he was more handsome than most movie stars. Taller too, with a better physique. He obviously got more girls than most movie stars, and could have had boys too if he wanted. So what if he was at the bottom rather than the top? He was the kind of man who found out others’ secrets, who used them to give himself power.”

  She stopped and sniffed deeply. “Do you think that’s why he came to hate me, Michael? Do you think that’s why he did what he did to me? Was it to get back at me for getting the attention he should have got, for being paid more? Maybe I hurt him in some way and that’s why he did it. It wasn’t just me – I know he had dirt on other people. I knew it even back then, but I just shrugged it off. Everybody had secrets and some hid them more poorly than others. I probably hid my secrets poorly too. But then Carlisle didn’t just find out something about me, he created it.”

  “Tell me what happened Saturday, Diana?” We could agonise over the history later; I wanted to get a grasp on the current events.

  “Of course,” she said, and then swept the lace tissue under both eyes, a delicate gesture which made little difference. “He stared up at me with that arrogant and superior gaze of his. A gaze which had nothing at all to be arrogant or superior over any more. It was then that the residue of the vodka, the residue of the pills in my system, brought the words back. ‘I don’t want to argue with you, Carlisle, I just want the film!’ I told him.

  “His voice was horrible, the sound of a crypt opening. The Carlisle Collins I knew had a rich baritone. He used to sing Sinatra songs to us, and all us girls used to swoon. It was almost impossible not
to. Now his voice sounded like it was already coming from the grave. His breath smelt literally of death.

  “‘I already told that effing boy of yours that I don’t have the film any more, pussycat,’ he rasped. ‘In fact I ain’t seen it in effing years.’

  “I know that that was exactly what you told me, Michael, but still it was an answer to floor me. I’d wanted to keep calm, but my voice came out as a screech.

  “‘But you took money off me! You took it off my husband!’

  “‘Yeah, sorry about that, pussycat.’ I’ve never heard anyone speak with such utter callousness, I really haven’t. ‘There was a time I had your film and then there was a time I didn’t. When the one became the other I couldn’t rightly say, but your husband never checked I still had it and so I kept on going. A man’s got a right to live, after all.’

  “Live? How could he possibly call that living? How could he call that any kind of life?

  “I could tell he was going to be stubborn, that he was absolutely intractable. I didn’t know whether to believe him or not, Michael. He might have been trying to hint that the film was still at large, just so he could continue making me feel small and helpless and trapped. He was a bastard, Michael, an utter bastard, and it’s exactly the kind of thing he’d do.

  “He just sneered at me with that top lip of his and his awful rotting teeth, and I lost my temper. I’d promised myself all the way over that I wouldn’t lose my temper. That I would keep my cool and not let him know how much he got to me. Not put on display just how much hurt he’d put me through over the years. But then, I lost my temper. I screamed at him:

  “‘I want my film back, Carlisle! Give me my film!’

  “‘And I said I don’t have your film any more, you dumb bitch!’ That’s what he called me. That’s what he yelled at me, Michael. I couldn’t believe he yelled at me, I wouldn’t have thought he’d have the strength in him. ‘I don’t have it!’ he said. ‘As much as I’d love to wipe your nose in it, I can’t be bothered spending the rest of my days dealing with you. That’s the end of it, okay? So why don’t you do us both a favour and leave me alone? Fuck right off back to the sanatorium, why don’t you?’”

  She actually said the f-word that time, without any hesitation. Giving it a lot of the passion and contempt Carlisle Collins must have used when he wielded it. With a cry of pain, Diana bent double and her hands covered her eyes, her body shaking on the end of her bed.

  I was sitting in front of her, on the stool of her dressing table, a mass of bruises and bandages. Of course I’d answered her summons after work, but I hadn’t touched her yet. Not when she answered the door, not even when – leaning heavily on the bannister – she led me upstairs. Maybe she thought I would when she brought me into her bedroom. But still I didn’t. Even though my impulse when I saw her – when she greeted me, so pale and fragile – was to scoop her up and protect her in my arms, I resisted it. Every part of me ached, and no desire to be the hero could override that. I wanted to know what had happened and I wanted to know it fast.

  Diana gave a sigh which was almost a gasp of pain, and then rocked herself upright. She stared at me, the expression on her face so wretched and broken. Undeniably she was still stunning, her skin so perfect and porcelain, even with the lines of pain carved into her forehead. But amidst her ethereal beauty, it was impossible to ignore just how hurt she was, how hurt she’d been for a long time.

  “It was then that I cracked, Michael.” Her words were now a whisper between tears. “What he said was a low blow. It was such a nasty remark. He knew that, after my career came to its abrupt end, I spent a small stretch of time in a sanatorium, unable to cope with all I’d lost. All he’d taken away from me. It was cruel for him to say that, so absolutely cruel!”

  She took in a deep and wheezy gasp of air. For a few seconds I thought she was going to have an asthma attack, but she tapped into some inner reserve of strength and managed to calm herself.

  “When I put it in there, Michael, it was only for protection. Please, believe me. I couldn’t go to his place without protection. That would have been stupid. So stupid! When I made up my mind to go, the first thing I did was put one of the sharp kitchen knives into my handbag. Sheffield steel, Timmy always swore by it.” She gave a half-smile at the memory. “When I dropped the knife in there, Michael, I had no intention of killing anyone, I didn’t even want to hurt anyone. It was just for protection. Nothing else. But after he yelled that remark at me, when he just kept sneering at me, something within me snapped.

  “I think I had it in my hand before I realised what I was doing. There was no conscious thought, I had no real plan, I think I just wanted to scare him a little. That’s all I wanted, I think, to scare him. Please believe me, Michael. That’s all!

  “It didn’t work though.

  “‘What the fuck you going to do with that?’ he demanded. It was so ugly, the way he twisted up his lip, so horrible the way it was the only bit of animation on his whole dead face. ‘What are you going to do with that, pussycat? Slash open your wrists again?’

  “I don’t know what happened to me then, Michael. I really don’t. I’ve read of people describing a red mist descending, but I’ve never experienced anything like that myself. Never felt anything like that kind of rage. Even when I was at my worst – when I was in the sanatorium – that wasn’t how I felt. But now, it’s the only way I can describe what happened to me. Suddenly all I could see was red. A glowing, angry crimson in front of me everywhere I looked, and I just wanted to see more of it. Something about him, something about the way he just sat there so high and mighty in his own filth, something about the way he sneered at me – had sneered at me for years, would go on sneering at me forever if I let him –made me lose myself. It made me lose all that was good and sane within myself.”

  Her hands went to her mascara-stained cheeks, the lace handkerchief she clutched in her left hand now dripping. The words came fast and garbled: a confession, a cry for help, an attempt to understand what had transpired. I don’t think she could have stopped herself blurting it all out then even if she’d wanted to.

  “I don’t think I really meant to cut him at first. I just reached out with the blade to scare him, to make him think twice about the way he’d treated me. But before I knew it, I’d slashed open his arm. I’d sliced my knife right across the grey flesh of his naked forearm, and his blood was spilling like a red rainstorm onto the dirty, disgusting floor.

  “He didn’t scream, Michael. I think that’s what made it worse. He didn’t scream or whimper or cry out. Instead he just sat there and stared at me, his teeth gritted and his eyes still so incredibly cruel. It was as if he didn’t feel anything, as if cuts like that were nothing to him. It was like he was daring me to do worse. After all the terrible things he’d done to me, he was letting me know there was no way I could do anything to hurt him!

  “Well, I just went crazy. Absolutely mad. I started swinging the knife back and forth, slashing open his flesh again and again. I wanted him to feel some of the raw hurt he’d caused me, to experience anguish like I’d experienced anguish. But he didn’t scream, Michael. He didn’t scream at all. So I just kept wielding that knife, watching his blood flow and liking it. I actually liked it, Michael. If he’d screamed I’d have stopped, if he’d done anything but sneer I’d have stopped. But he didn’t, and before I knew it he was… he was…”

  She was unable to hold back any more and gave in to hysterics. They convulsed her whole body, so that she shook and spasmed and screamed almost unintelligibly at the same time.

  I leapt across the bedroom to her, my arms wrapping tight around her. Full of compassion and sympathy and understanding. Both of us falling back on the bed.

  “I killed him, Michael,” Diana choked out, her lips pressed close to my ear. “I actually killed him!”

  Chapter Nine

  Finally she calmed.

  I’d had my arms wrapped tight around her, trying to stop her from lashing out o
r hurting herself, and at last she curled into my grasp. It was impossible to say how long it had taken, but her sobs at last eased from hysterics to a weary and numbed cry.

  On that dark winter’s night at the end of the 1970s, with a grim world of chaos bubbling away angrily outside, it felt like I could make sense of something if I could just soothe Diana and let her know she was safe.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she kept repeating.

  And I believed her. As she kept apologising for what had happened, saying sorry again and again for Carlisle Collins’ death – justifying it to me and to herself – I kept telling her it was okay, that I was going to look after her.

  I had to think about all he’d put her through. He’d destroyed her career, shattered the movie star persona she’d built up, and left a desperate and scarred woman in her place. A woman whose intense beauty couldn’t disguise how many years she’d suffered. He’d sent her into seclusion, and, when she was hiding under a rock, still kept coming at her. Any way you stared at it, Carlisle Collins was the villain of the piece. He wouldn’t leave her be.

  She’d been lucky in having a devoted husband to look after her. And now Timmy Williams was gone, I was going to make her feel lucky to have me in his stead.

  Maybe she’d exaggerated all she’d done to Collins. That was quite possible. She admitted herself that she was almost blind with fury; perhaps there was an element of exaggeration. I’d seen Carlisle Collins, and he was far from a healthy man. With all the griminess surrounding him, it wouldn’t have taken much to kill him. If pushed, I could have probably done it. All it would have taken was one little cut of his tissue-thin skin and he’d have surely bled out.

  She justified it and I justified it alongside her.

  Whispering between her tears, she repeated what had happened, and I explained it away to myself. Exonerated her. “Murder” is such an ugly word and not one I dwelt on. It was self-defence, or it was an accident. She hadn’t gone there to kill him and she hadn’t meant to kill him. With their shared history, it was temporary insanity. Diana had been provoked by the one person alive who could provoke her like that, and she’d reacted. It was terrible, but it was understandable. Completely and utterly understandable.