Aickman's Heirs

by Simon Strantzas

  I couldn’t answer. “Um...would you happen to have any of Vera’s pieces left here?”

  The man kept his eyes on me as he extinguished his cigarette. “Cuppa first, yeah?”

  “That’s not necessary.”

  “I’m afraid I must insist, ‘tis nearly four after all.”

  “Well in that case...”

  I scanned the room while my host put the kettle on. The sight of the myriad smudges and smears on the walls gave birth to imagined bugs that crawled coldly across my skin. As I scrambled for a way to politely refuse any food or drink from the whistling man in the kitchenette, my eyes happened upon a plaque that was affixed to the moulding above another door, one that led perhaps to the bedroom or lavatory. The plaque was carved from a wood that was cayenne-red and was so thickly varnished it appeared wet. The word Neithernor had been scorched into the wood by someone skilled in the art of pyrogravure. Each of the ten characters was modelled in Blackletter script. Given this, regardless of Neithernor’s meaning, I obviously couldn’t help but hearken back to Alighieri at the Gates.

  “Milk and honey?”

  I’d grown so lost in my contemplation that I first mistook my host’s query as an offering from Paradiso. Glancing sidelong, I discovered that my host was holding a tray upon which both these condiments were standing. I took my tea straight. It was bitter and the cup smelled as though it had been wiped with a dirty rag.

  I held my breath while I drank. I might have made spewed out some banal chatter, I cannot recall. My next memory was of asking to be directed to the lavatory. I was peculiarly hopeful that it existed behind the Neithernor door, but it was at the end of a stout hallway.

  Closing the door behind me, I splashed some cold water on my face, and panicked over what my next move would be, for I now felt nothing at all like a visitor and more like a double agent on some life-or-death mission. Using the room for its true purpose, I stepped back into the living room in time to see a bird-like woman pressing the Neithernor door shut behind her.

  “Vera?” I was surprised at how breathless my voice sounded. She turned to me.

  How time had ransacked my cousin. She stood before me dressed in a soiled white smock, hear hair concealed beneath a knitted cap like a patient in the thick of her battle with cancer. Her face had slid from delicate to skullish. Of her complexion and the state of her teeth I shall not speak.

  “Come join us for tea, Vera dear,” called my host, rising to collect another stinking cup. Only then did it strike me that I did not know his name. The question leapt to the tip of my tongue but died there. The last thing our motley gathering needed was gaucherie.

  We sat and sipped and inhaled second-hand tobacco smoke. Vera gave me a lone glance. Furtive and fearful at first, she rectified it, or rather attempted to, by hitching the corner of her chapped mouth into a kind of grin.

  Distressed, I asked her bluntly if she was well.

  “Oh, yes. Just tired, I suspect.”

  The response came from the man, touching off my suspicions of a Svengali-like command over my cousin.

  “Have you been working on new art, Vera?” I put a heavy emphasis on her name to indicate that I wanted her reply.

  “Endlessly,” she said. Her voice sounded as I’d feared it might.

  “Is that your studio beyond the door there?”

  She looked at the man in the sleepwear.

  “I should very much like to see it if I may,” I added, rising. I moved swiftly so as to carve the bearded man off before he could stop me. Vera did not even attempt to.

  Neithernor was not a studio, nor even a room, but rather a closet. Shallow, lightless, and fragrant with old wood, the recess contained a stout metal stool and, upon the dust-studded floorboards, a spool of gleaming copper wire. Shelves lined either side of the closet and each was stacked with pastry boxes of thin white cardstock, all lidded and bound like caskets awaiting interment. A hatch door was set into the centre of the back wall. It was secured with a latch and padlock, both of which had also been slathered in the same eggshell primer.

  A hand reached in front of me and pressed the door shut.

  “Neither a studio nor a closet,” I said with deliberate impertinence to the bearded man. He stood regarding me with a diamond-hard gaze. His face began to redden and twist. I’ve no shame in admitting my fear. You too would have been afraid.

  “I would like to call on you again, Vera,” I called as I reached for my coat. “I am still interested in one of your pieces.”

  She sat on the sofa like one adrift in dementia. Her mouth moved but I did not hear what she’d uttered.

  “We’ll have something for you,” the man said. I closed the apartment door and took the stairs at a hare’s pace. Outside I clung to the street door with one hand while collecting the narrowest wooden slat I could find from amidst the alley’s debris. This I used to keep the door from clicking snug into its frame.

  4.

  I wrestled with whether or not to remain in the little village. My concern for Vera ran deep, regardless of how estranged we were. Sometimes women just need rescuing.

  Having nothing in way of a plan, I stopped into a tavern to phone Cara and say that I was chasing a story lead and would not be home until the following day. Her suspicion was palpable.

  Night fell and I tried to sort my thoughts into some semblance of a plan. I couldn’t even begin to judge whether or not my intentions were pure. Cousin Vera had become swallowed up in a life that I can only describe as leprous. If I could not free her, I could at least confirm that she was not in imminent danger. I believe people have the right to diminish themselves if they so desire.

  I buttoned my overcoat against the dropping temperature and once again crossed the little bridge. I stood across the street from Vera’s hovel and kept watch. Lamplight shone amber through the second-storey window, but not indefinitely. Shortly after eleven I watched as the bearded man’s ugly silhouette extinguished the light. I stood shivering for nearly an hour, affording Vera’s keeper time enough (I hoped) to doze off.

  Much to my relief, the wedge was still in the door. Scaling those ancient steps noiselessly was arduous and time-consuming, particularly because my most formidable obstacle stood at their summit.

  Exactly how I was going to unlock the apartment door was a problem I resolved to simply deal with by whatever means. Ultimately this meant, after attempting to wriggle it loose and to pop the lock using my driver’s licence and my lapel pin, kicking the flimsy door open.

  The bearded man had been snoring on the sofa where we’d had our dirty tea. The crash of the breached door woke him instantly, but he was too groggy and stunned to prevent me from tearing across the living room and flinging open the door to Neithernor.

  As I’d dreaded, Vera was sealed up within the tiny closet. Her slight frame rested on the metal stool and for a beat I thought she was sleeping, until I noticed that her eyes were open...open yet rolled up in her skull like one in an epileptic throe. Her mouth gaped. In her hands she held the spool of copper wire. The glinting strand was taut before her, like a fishing line in the deep. It fed backward above her head and into the tiny hatch. This time the tiny door in the wall was unlocked and ajar. A fat band of shadow concealed whatever was rusting inside that cubby. Whatever it was, it possessed strength enough to tear at Vera’s hair, which caused her somnambulistic body to heave up and then drop down again onto the stool. Her scalp was missing much more than the knitted cap.

  The bearded man was growling as he grabbed me. Dread and adrenaline made breaking free easy.

  Less easy to escape is the memory of those neatly stacked white boxes beginning to rattle and shake and leap from their perch.

  Vera was careless or helpless to the whole nightmare. Not even my shrieking flight could lure her from her in-between.

  5.

  I drove aimlessly for the remainder of the night and when I came home the following morning it was to an empty apartment.

  Upon Cara’s dressin
g table, which was stripped clean of the little bottles and brushes and mirrors that littered it, a single leaf of notepaper had been taped:

  Forrest –

  I will write the things that neither of us has the courage to say aloud.

  Where to begin? By suggesting that we have grown apart? No. You cannot separate that which was never together to begin with.

  Your phone call yesterday afternoon was the tipping point. There was no story to chase; I called the paper and spoke to your editor. I hope this other woman, whoever she is, is able to give you whatever it is that I couldn’t, whatever it is you’re lacking. I doubt even you know what that is.

  Locking up the townhouse last night I found a parcel on our doorstep. I’m embarrassed to admit that I thought you had left it to surprise me with. But as soon as I opened it and saw the little fetish inside it became very clear to me that you’re walking down a road I would never even set foot upon.

  Just being in the same house with it last night gave me nightmare after nightmare, when I did manage to sleep that is.

  I have nothing more to say. I’ve gone to stay at Mother’s and will arrange to have my things collected. I don’t expect this note to shock or pain you in any way, no matter how much I may wish otherwise.

  - Cara

  p.s.—I left your little bauble for you. You’ll find it inside your closet.

  I locked the townhouse door behind me and immediately relocated to the only hotel I could afford.

  I did not return to the house until the movers I’d hired met me there and carried out the furniture I singled out as being mine. Cara’s belongings appeared to have already been collected.

  The bedroom closet was never reopened, at least not by my hand. After settling into a small apartment on the far side of the city my first quest was to rebuild my wardrobe to replace the dress shirts, trousers and various other pieces I abandoned for fear of parting the gate to my own little Neithernor.

  It seems my life waxes then wanes. For a time my cup runneth over, then is drained, after which I strive and scramble to replenish that which has been lost.

  6.

  I had noted that Cara had once told me something about Scelsi that I have never forgotten. It is this: the eccentric composer refused to allow his photograph to appear in conjunction with any of musical releases, for he maintained a conviction that his music was much more than a simple outgrowth of his personal imagination. The sounds were a transmission from the greater Soul that transcends all matter and masks. Scelsi was, in his own words, merely a conduit for the music that existed well beyond his own private abilities.

  In place of his own visage, distinguished though I later discovered it to be, Scelsi used the symbol (a circle hovering over a straight line) that appeared on the jacket of the recording Cara had presented me with. I have studied that symbol often and with vigour. Cara had always said that for her the image was a cleanly abstract vision of a sinking sun, but to my eye it appears as something else entirely.

  Least Light, Most Night

  John Howard

  Why is the sun worshipped, never the arctic cold?

  Sacheverell Sitwell, For Want of the Golden City

  Mr Bentley’s invitation to Mr Thomas to visit him at home on that Saturday afternoon had come as a complete surprise. Smiling, Bentley had gone on to state the time at which he hoped Thomas could arrive, and given him a piece of paper with his address already written out on it in neat block letters. It was as if he had planned the invitation well in advance, knowing exactly what Thomas’ answer would be.

  The two men were employed in the same office, and had occupied adjacent desks for several years. But their conversation rarely involved anything other than matters connected with their immediate tasks. If they were aware of each other’s first names, they had never revealed any sign of it. Certainly neither had ever referred to the other by his given name. Although it would have been acceptable for Bentley to do so, it would have been beyond the bounds for Thomas to reciprocate. Outside of the office, however, there were no such rules. Nevertheless they were observed.

  Until the words of invitation were uttered, Thomas had never seriously speculated on Bentley’s home or the life he led there, away from the brightly lit office. He had also assumed that Bentley had no curiosity about his own circumstances. For instance, neither man could be sure whether or not the other was married. For a moment Thomas wondered if that was the reason for the invitation: Bentley was now engaged and wanted to ask the advice, as confidentially as possible, of another man—one younger and presumably more knowledgeable. Thomas hoped not: he was not married. The women he knew—and most of the men for that matter—were complex mysteries to him, and ones he had no desire to unravel and solve.

  *****

  Thomas left his little house in Turnham Park in order to walk to the bus stop. A damp mist made it seem later than it actually was, and its damp, clinging coldness encouraged him to tuck his scarf in more closely around his neck. During this sort of weather, after returning from his Saturday half-day of work and eating a light lunch, he usually stayed at home. As the afternoon drew on, he would put down his book and light a fire, sipping his tea as the flames danced and flickered. Sometimes he would switch on the radio, listening while the competing steady glow radiated from the perforated panel at the back of the cabinet. Either way Thomas kept himself sheltered in his cozy sitting room.

  He had considered going to the trouble and expense of sending a telegram informing Bentley that he had been taken ill, very suddenly, and therefore, regretfully, could not keep the appointment. But that would only cause complications. He dreaded the many complexities that could gather around untruth. For a start, Bentley had seen him earlier and knew there had been nothing wrong then. On Monday he might simply repeat his invitation. Thomas did not wish to court the possibility of offence by a plain refusal, and it would scarcely be credible to invoke illness a second time. Yet again he read the scrap of paper bearing Bentley’s address. Bentley had assured him that the bus he specified would carry him almost to the corner of the cul-de-sac where he lived, but as soon as he had reached home he had consulted his street atlas and worked out the route he would take if he were to walk from the bus stop at which he alighted each day he went to work. It had occurred to Thomas that he would, in that case, very likely be following Bentley’s own route home. In any case, he wanted to walk. It would help take his mind off the churning anxiety he always felt at a major break with routine. It would also possibly furnish material for conversation, should that turn out to be necessary.

  Bentley lived in a part of London that Thomas did not know at all. It was close to home and yet completely unexplored by him. He knew where Brentford was, and where to find Twickenham, but as to what lay between them he had very little idea. His mental map of the region was a distorted parallelogram, featureless, glaring white, with main roads fading out as they reached its indefinite border. He knew that one side of his blank area had the Thames for its boundary, and had supposed somewhere inescapably obvious like Hounslow Heath or London Airport must serve the same function at the opposite, and far, side. The map in the street atlas had narrowed things down and filled some of the gaps. Thomas had worked out that his destination was beyond Brentford and Spring Grove, but not as far as Whitton nor yet quite in Isleworth. If he were to reach the Great Chertsey Road he would have walked too far. The Southern Railway and the Sewage Works were impassable obstacles. If he encountered those he would have to retrace his steps.

  *****

  The house was a semi-detached villa at the far end of the road by the turning circle. Thomas had dawdled while peering at the house numbers, when visible or existent. But he had found the place without getting lost, and was on time. Behind him, the road vanished into the thickening mist. Bare trees, recently pollarded, wiped the low, milky sky. The world he had come from and walked through was now, at best, remote. It was certainly not possible to look back at it. He shivered, and hoped he would feel warm
er inside the house.

  After Bentley had taken Thomas’ coat and hat and hung them up on the stand in the hall, he indicated that Thomas should precede him up the carpeted stairs. The house seemed no warmer than the street. Thomas was glad he had chosen to wear a thick pullover as well as his usual jacket and tie. He had not wanted to appear too casual, nor yet ignore the fact that the working week had just ended. He was spending time with Bentley voluntarily, and not at the office in his position as a subordinate. Thomas saw that his host had changed out of the suit he had worn that morning. Bentley’s concession to the weekend was the donning of a checked shirt and knitted tie, with jacket and trousers that were clearly more casual in cut, the material of each differing slightly.

  “After you,” Bentley said. “She will bring refreshments in a minute.”

  Thomas restrained himself from asking who ‘she’ was. He was sure Bentley had not mentioned a name. Each step up seemed to take a moment longer to release his shoes than he thought it should. As he trod warily in the dim light, he wondered if Bentley had meant his mother. Did he still live with his parents? The thought brought back childhood memories of bringing friends back home, out of school hours. Were they going to Bentley’s bedroom, as if to play a game or read comics?

  “Second door on the left,” Bentley said. “I have the entire upstairs. Of course, we share the bathroom.”

  The front bedroom had been furnished as a sitting room and study, with a worn sofa, armchairs, and a low table. A heavy old desk crouched in front of the bay window. Shelves of dark wood, crammed with books and folders, lined the walls. Bentley flicked the light switch, but nothing more than a vaguely yellow glimmer escaped the lampshade to seep down from the ceiling.