‘Ingmar Bergman didn’t make this film,’ the woman sitting in front of Alex says conclusively. ‘I don’t know who made this film,’ and then someone turns and asks her to stop talking, please.
Finally a young boy is found dead and a frantic hunt for the wolf ensues, night and wrathful villagers with torches, hounds and antique rifles wandering through a mist-shrouded forest. It’s obvious that this scene was shot on a soundstage, the contorted, nightmare trees too bizarre to possibly be real, nothing but plywood and chicken wire and papier-mâché. Some of the trunks, the tortuous limbs, are undoubtedly meant to suggest random scraps of human anatomy - the arch of a spine, a pair of arms ending in gnarled roots, a female torso sprouting half-formed from the bole of an oak.
And Alex thinks that maybe there’s something big skulking along through the gloom just beyond the wavering light of the torches, insinuation of spiderlong legs and sometimes it seems to move a little ahead of the hunters, other times it trails behind.
The woman seated two rows in front of Alex makes a disgusted, exasperated sound and stands up, her silhouette momentarily eclipsing the screen. ‘This is absurd,’ she says. ‘I’m asking for my money back right now,’ speaking to no one or to everyone who might be listening. She leaves the theatre and someone down front laughs and ‘Good fucking riddance,’ a husky, male voice whispers.
On-screen, a shout, the bone-wet snap of living wood, and one of the villagers raises his gun, extreme close-up of his finger around the trigger before the boom and flash of gunpowder. The tinny speakers blare rifle-fire and the furious barking of dogs, so loud that Alex puts her hands over her ears. A man screams and the scene dissolves, then fades away to daylight and a high-angle view of a dirt road winding across the fields towards the village. The camera zooms slowly in on a small gathering of peasant women waiting at the end of the road; silent despair in their weathered faces, loss, resignation, fear, and one by one they turn and walk back towards their homes.
Alex squints down at her watch, leans forward in her seat and angles her wrist towards the screen, the greysilver light off the scratched crystal so she can read the black hour and minute hands. Only half an hour since the film began, though it seems like it’s been much longer, and she wonders if Margot is home yet. She thinks again about the pay-phone outside the theatre, about the gallery and the answering machine.
She glances back at the screen and now there’s a close-up of a skull, a sheep’s, perhaps, but Alex isn’t sure; bone bleached dry and stark as chalk, a leathery patch of hide still clinging to its muzzle, the empty sockets for eyes that have rotted away or been eaten by insects and crows. The lonely sound of the wind and the film cuts to the peasant’s blind daughter, a music box playing Swan Lake softly in the background and she stares out the window of her dead father’s house. She’s neither smiling nor does she look unhappy, her hands folded neatly in her lap, and then a man is speaking from somewhere behind her. The cold, guttural voice so entirely unexpected that Alex jumps, startled, and she misses the first part of it, whatever was said before the girl turns her head towards the unseen speaker, raises a hand and places one index finger to the centre of her forehead.
‘I saw the light again last night,’ she says, the milky, colourless cataracts to prove that she’s a liar or insane, and then the girl’s hand returns to her lap.
‘Floating across the meadow,’ she says.
The music box stops abruptly and now there’s the small, hard sound of a dog barking far, far away.
‘Who are you? Your hand is cold—’
‘Which road will you take?’ the guttural voice asks, interrupting her. ‘That of the needles, or that of the pins?’
She turns to the window again, imperfect, transparent mirror for her plain face, and for an instant there seems to be another reflection there, a lean and hungry shadow crouched close behind the blind girl’s chair. And then a popping, fluttering racket from the projection booth and the world is swallowed in pure, white light and Alex knows that the film hasn’t ended, it’s merely stopped, as inexplicably as it began.
The house lights come up and she keeps her seat, sits waiting for her eyes to adjust as the handful of people remaining in the theatre stand and begin to drift towards the lobby doors, confused and thoughtful faces, overheard bits of conjecture and undisguised bewilderment.
‘It could’ve been Robert Florey,’ a man who looks like a college professor says to a blonde girl in a KMFDM T-shirt, slender girl young enough to be his daughter, and ‘Do you know, Florey, dear?’ he asks. ‘I’ve always heard there was a lost Florey out there somewhere.’
‘Well, they might have told us they didn’t have The Seventh Seal,’ another man complains. ‘They could have said something.’
And when they’ve all gone and Alex is alone with the matte-black walls and the sugar-and-vinegar theatre smells, she sits and stares at the blank screen for another minute, trying to be certain what she saw, or didn’t see, at the end.
III
July
Margot away for the entire week, a lecture series in Montreal -’Formalism, Expressionism, and the Post-Modernist Denial’, according to the flier stuck to the refrigerator with a magnet shaped like an apple core - and Alex left alone in the Midtown condo paid for with the advance money from The Boats of Morning. Four days now since she’s gone any further than the row of mailboxes in the building’s lobby. Too hot to go out if she doesn’t absolutely have to, eggs frying on sidewalks out there, so she stays half-drunk on Absolut and grapefruit juice, smokes too much and watches black-and-white movies on television. Whatever it takes not to think about the typewriter in her office down the hall from their bedroom, the desk drawer full of blank paper. Margot called on Wednesday night and they talked for twenty minutes about nothing in particular, which is almost all they ever talk about these days.
‘You’d like it here,’ Margot said. ‘You’d like the sky here. It’s very big and blue.’
Late Thursday afternoon and Alex comes back upstairs with the day’s mail, the usual assortment of bills and glossy catalogues, a new Rolling Stone, an offer for a platinum Visa card at twenty-one and one-half per cent interest. And a large padded envelope the colour of a grocery bag.
Her name and address are printed neatly on the front in tall, blocky letters - MS ALEX MARLOWE - and there’s no return address, only the initials J. S. written very small in the upper left-hand corner. She leaves everything else on the dining table, a small mountain of unopened mail accumulated there already, debts and distractions for Margot to deal with when she gets home; Alex pours herself a drink, takes the big brown envelope to the sofa in front of the television and opens it with the pull tab on the back. Inside there’s a videocassette, along with a couple of pages of lavender stationery, some newspaper and magazine clippings held together with a lavender paper clip.
Alex sips her drink, the vodka too strong, so she stirs it absently with an index finger and looks down at the top sheet of stationery. It takes her a moment to place the name there - Jude Sinclair — a moment before she remembers the pretty girl from the gallery, dark-skinned, blue-eyed girl who’d tried ardently to explain Albert Perrault’s work to her. Alex leans back against the sofa cushions, glances at the TV screen (an old gangster film she doesn’t recognise), and takes another sip from her glass. ‘Dear Alex,’ the letter begins, and she notices that it was typed on a typewriter that drops its ‘t’s.
Dear Alex,
I’m sure that you won’t remember me. We talked briefly at the gallery in May. I was the chick with a serious hard-on for M. Perrault. I think I ^told you that^I’d written poems about the ‘Secunda ratis,‘ do you remember that? I suspect you may have thought I was a fLake. Did you know about P.‘s accident?? Terrible. I was at the funeral in Paris. I thought you might want to read one of the poems (I have burned the other one). Hope you are well. My love to Margot.
Jude S.
Alex pulls the pages free of the lavender paper clip, places the f
irst page on the bottom and the second is the poem, the one Jude Sinclair didn’t burn; she looks at the black videocassette, considers stuffing it all back into the envelope and tossing the whole mess into the garbage can in the kitchen. Perrault one of the last things she’s in the mood to think about right now; she’d almost managed to forget him and his paintings, although Margot talked about him for weeks after the show. They heard about the accident, of course, a motorcycle wreck somewhere in France, and finally, that seemed to close the subject.
Alex takes a long swallow of her drink and scans the first few lines of the short poem, a copy obviously produced on the same typewriter as the letter, the same telltale dropped ‘t’s and a few inky smudges and fingerprints on the lavender stationery.
‘Jesus, who the hell still uses carbon paper,’ she wonders aloud, setting her drink down on the coffee table, and Alex starts over and reads the poem through from the beginning. ‘The Night We Found Red Cap’ and then a forced and clumsy attempt at Italian sonnet form, eight-line stanza, six-line stanza, Jude Sinclair’s slightly stilted, perfectly unremarkable impressions of the painting.
Alex glances quickly through the clippings, then: the Artforum review of the show at Artifice, review of another Perrault exhibit last summer in Manhattan, Le Monde’s account of his motorcycle accident and a short French obituary. And at the bottom of the stack, a photocopy of a very old lithograph; she sets the rest aside and stares at it, a pastoral scene centred around some strange animal that resembles a huge wolf more than anything else she can think of, though it’s reared up on its hind limbs and its long, sinuous tail makes her think of a big cat, a lion or a panther, maybe. The creature is attacking a young woman and there are other mutilated bodies scattered about on the ground. In the distance are men wearing tricorne hats on horseback and the creature has raised its head, is gazing fearlessly over one shoulder towards them. Beneath the scene is the legend, ‘La Bête du Gévaudan’. On the back, someone, presumably Jude Sinclair, has scribbled a date in pencil - 1767.
Alex lays the small bundle of paper down on the coffee table and picks up her drink. The glass has left a ring of condensation on the dark wood, the finish already beginning to turn pale and opaque underneath. An heirloom from Margot’s grandmother or a great-aunt or some such and she’ll have a cow when she sees it, so Alex wipes the water away with the hem of her T-shirt. But the ring stays put, defiant, accusing, condemning tattoo and she sighs, sits back and takes another swallow of the vodka and grapefruit juice.
‘What are you supposed to be, anyway?’ she asks the videotape; no label of any sort on it for an answer, but almost certainly more Perraultiana, an interview, possibly, or maybe something a bit more exotic, more morbid, a news report of his accident taped off TFI or even footage shot during the funeral. Alex wouldn’t be surprised, has seen and heard of worse things being done by art groupies like Jude Sinclair. She decides to save the video for later, a few moments’ diversion before bed, leaves it on the couch and goes to fix herself a fresh drink.
Something from the freezer for dinner, prepackaged Chinese that came out of the microwave looking nothing at all like the photograph on the cardboard box, Kung Pao pencil erasers and a bottle of beer, and Alex sits on the living room floor, watching Scooby Doo on the Cartoon Network. The end of another day that might as well not have happened, more of yesterday and the day before that, the weeks and months since she’s finished anything at all piling up so fast that soon it’ll have been a year. Today she stood in the doorway to her office for fifteen minutes and stared uselessly at her typewriter, vintage Royal she inherited from her father and she’s never been able to write on anything else, the rough clack-clack-clack of steel keys, all the mechanical clicks and clatters and pings to mark her progress down a page, through a scene, the inharmonious chapter to chapter symphony towards conclusion and THE END.
When the beer’s gone and she’s swallowed enough of the stuff from the freezer to be convinced that she’s better off not finishing it, Alex slides her plate beneath the coffee table and retrieves Jude Sinclair’s videocassette from the couch. She puts it into the VCR, hits the play button, and in a moment Scooby and Shaggy are replaced by a loud flurry of static. Alex starts to turn down the volume, but the snow and white noise have already been replaced by a silent, black screen. She sits watching it, half-curious, impatient, waiting for whatever it is to begin, whatever the blue-eyed girl from the gallery wants her to see.
In the kitchen, the phone rings and Alex looks away from the television screen, not particularly interested in talking to anyone and so she thinks she’ll let the machine pick up. Third ring and she turns back to the TV, but it’s still just as dark as before and she checks to be sure that she doesn’t have it on pause by mistake. The soft, green glow of digital letters, PLAY and a flashing arrow to let her know that she doesn’t, that either the tape’s blank or the recording hasn’t begun yet, or maybe Jude Sinclair’s filmed a perfectly dark room as a tribute or eulogy to Perrault.
‘This is bullshit,’ Alex mutters and she presses fast forward. Now the blackness flickers past as the counter tallies the minutes of nothing stored on the tape. In the kitchen, the telephone rings once more and then the answering machine switches on, Margot’s voice reciting their number, politely informing the caller that no one can come to the phone right now but if you’ll please leave your name and number, the date and time, someone will get back to you as soon as possible.
And then Margot answers herself, her voice sounding small and distant, sounding upset, and ‘Alex?’ she says. ‘Alex, if you’re there please pick up, okay? I need to talk to you.’
Alex sighs and rubs at her temples. A bright burst of pain behind her left eye, maybe the beginnings of a migraine, and she’s really not up to one of Margot’s long-distance crises, the two of them yelling at each other with half a continent in between. She glances back to the television screen, presses play and the nothing stops flickering.
‘Hello? Alex? Come on. I know you’re at home. Pick up the damned phone, please.’
It really is blank, she thinks. The crazy bitch sent me a fucking blank videotape.
‘Alex! I’m not kidding, okay? Please answer the goddamn telephone!’
‘All right! Jesus, I’m coming she shouts at the kitchen, gets up too fast and one foot knocks over the empty beer bottle; it rolls noisily away towards a bookshelf, leaves behind a glistening, semi-circular trickle of liquid as it goes. By the time Alex lifts the receiver, Margot has started crying.
‘What? What’s wrong?’
‘Christ, Alex. Why can’t you just answer the fucking phone? Why do I have to get fucking hysterical to get you to answer the phone?’
And for a second Alex considers the simple efficacy of a lie, the harmless convenience of I was on the toilet or I just walked in the front door. Any plausible excuse to cover her ass.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says, instead. ‘I’ve been in a funk all day long. I’m getting a headache. I just didn’t want to talk to anyone.’
‘For fuck’s sake, Alex,’ and then she coughs and Alex can tell that Margot’s trying to stop crying.
‘Margot, what’s wrong?’ Alex asks again. ‘Has something happened?’ She wants a cigarette but she left them in the living room, left her lighter, too, and she settles for chewing on a ragged thumbnail.
‘I saw something today,’ Margot says, speaking very quietly. Alex hears her draw a deep breath, the pause as she holds it in a moment, then the long, uneven exhalation and ‘I saw something terrible today,’ she says.
‘So what was it? What did you see?’
‘A dog attack,’ and she’s almost whispering now. ‘I saw a little girl attacked by a dog.’
For a moment, neither of them says anything and Alex stares out the window above the kitchen sink at the final indigo and violet dregs of sunset beyond the Atlanta skyline. The pain behind her left eye is back, more persistent than before, keeping time with her heartbeat. She has no idea what to say
next, is about to tell Margot that she’s sorry, default sentiment better than nothing, better than standing here as the pain in her head gets bigger, listening to the faint, electric buzz and crackle coming through the telephone line.
‘I was walking in the park,’ Margot says. ‘Lafontaine, it’s not far from my hotel. This poor little girl, she couldn’t have been more than five and she must have wandered away from her mother—’
And now Alex realises that she can hear the faint, metallic notes of a music box playing from the next room, something on the video after all, and she turns and looks through the doorway at the television screen.
‘—she was dead before anyone could get it off her.’
Grainy blacks and whites, light and shadow, and at first Alex isn’t sure what she’s seeing, unable to force all those shades of grey into a coherent whole. Movement, chiaroscuro, the swarm of pixels pulled from a magnetised strip of plastic and then the picture resolves and a young woman’s face stares back at Alex from the screen. Pupilless eyes like the whites of hardboiled eggs, a strand of hair across her cheek, and the music box stops playing. A dog barks.
‘Who are you? Your hand is cold—’
‘I never saw anything so horrible in my life,’ Margot says. ‘The damned thing was eating her, Alex.’
‘Which road will you take?’ a guttural voice from the videotape asks the young woman. ‘That of the needles, or that of the pins?’
The pain in Alex’s head suddenly doubling, trebling, and she shuts her eyes tight, grips the edge of the counter and waits for the dizziness and nausea to pass, the disorientation that has nothing whatsoever to do with the migraine. The entire world tilting drunkenly around her and ‘I have to go,’ she says. ‘I’m sorry, Margot. I’ll call you back, but I have to go right now.’
Dark Terrors 6 - The Gollancz Book of Horror - [Anthology] Page 39
