The Scream of Angels

by David Haynes

  “He is quite depressed. Not only with his friend’s death but he thinks the theatre will be empty tonight and we will be closed within the week.”

  Bonfils departure was like a death knell to many and it appeared the end was imminent.

  Andrew Heath maintained a cheerful countenance though and his air of confidence went someway to lighten Bishop’s own dark mood.

  “Instead of flinging her guts to the stage, I think this may work just as well, if not better.” He laid the pig entrails over his shoulder and theatrically inhaled their malignant odour. “I think it adds a little more thought to his actions. What do you think?”

  “It may be your first and last performance, so make of it what you will!” Bishop replied.

  “Then I shall make it one to remember!”

  Metier walked across the stage, “Perhaps it would be better for all concerned if we just closed. I doubt anyone will come and our doctor is in no fit state to play his part.”

  “We shall do nothing of the sort!” Victor’s unmistakeable voice boomed across the stage, as he appeared from the wings, “Even if just one man comes to watch, we shall give him the show to end all shows. We shall send him home with the name Grand Guignol painted in blood across his nightmares!” He patted Heath on the back and took the intestines from around his shoulders. “Now tell me, Mr Heath, how strong is your arm?”

  “My arm, sir?”

  “Yes your arm.” He pointed his finger toward the angels. All looked to where he pointed. “Do you think you can fling Mademoiselle Bissette’s guts around their necks?”

  Heath laughed and took the offal from Victor, “I can certainly try!”

  He planted his feet and hurled them skyward. They wriggled through the air like a monstrous worm dropped by a crow, before landing with a wet thump on the stage.

  “No. That won’t do at all. You must do it dismissively, as if you were in contempt of every part of her body,” Victor bent and picked them up, “like this.” He tossed them over his shoulder as if he were discarding a meat bone.

  Again the offal spun through the air before it landed on the angel and circled its oaken neck in a vile scarf.

  “There, see? It is no more difficult than fastening your collar.” He turned to Metier, “Use the pulley to lower the angel. We shall fetch the guts down so you can perfect it.”

  By eight o’clock the theatre was full. All seats were taken and even the standing areas reserved for those with nothing more than a passing interest were full of expectant and nervous faces.

  “Has there ever been such a crowd?” Bishop whispered to Metier as they watched from the wings.

  “Certainly not in my time. Perhaps Devaux was correct in his assessment of Parisian folk after all. Maybe we should bring him in as a consultant!” Metier smiled.

  “I will leave you to raise it with your father. It would seem there is a past between them which is not laden with friendship or good intentions. I cannot see them working together in harmony.” He paused and considered the incident at the morgue, “What do you know of your father’s past?”

  “Not a great deal. Merely, that prior to being in Paris, he had been a regimental officer of some sort. And twenty years ago, he had thought enough of my mother to conceive a bastard with her, but not enough to wed her. As I said before, I scarce know him any better than you. Why do you ask?”

  “The inspector made some comments at the morgue today. Nothing of consequence but Victor became quite agitated by them. It was probably nothing.”

  “Yes, he has a quick temper. We have observed it on Boulevard Clichy for ourselves. Do we not all hold that potential within our hearts?”

  The lights dimmed and the pianist tapped out his mournful dirge. The theatre grew silent and the audience held their breaths.

  “Let us see if Heath can pull it off.” Metier whispered.

  Heath’s performance was demonic. The natural ebullience of his personality worked well to demonstrate the depths to which his mind had descended. Even when he flung Eve’s intestines toward the angels, he did so with a terrible grin etched across his face. The guts wobbled over and over in the air, spraying blood into the audience. The smiles, which Victor and the writers wore throughout, were only matched in breadth by the voluminous screams which echoed through the theatre.

  The blood splattered audience rose to their feet and called the players back to the stage, not once but three times. At the final call, Victor beckoned both Metier and Bishop to join them. It was the show to end all shows and yet it was just the beginning.

  A Step Too Far

  Cunningham’s Surgery

  London

  1880

  “And tell me, sir. Have the dreams grown worse since your wife departed?”

  “The dreams are simpler now, and with the simplicity comes clarity. She has left me to be with another; a man I once held dear. Yet I bear her no malice for she was ever destined to do what her heart instructed. I knew when we married it was not for love. Where once I loved this man as a brother I now despise him with passionate fury.”

  Cunningham was unshaven and dishevelled. “And what of this other man?” His voice lacked the strength it had once had. Fewer and fewer patients had been coming of late. Spiders had made their webs in the corner of the once pristine room and grubby handprints covered the cold white tiles in filthy grease. He could no longer afford to pay for a cleaner to make things right.

  It seemed inconceivable that anyone would wish to quieten a lunatic’s voice by inserting a pick through his eye socket. The ramblings of a demented soul should never be dismissed. They should be heard, they should be welcomed and most of all, they should be nurtured. Not driven away like an unwelcome guest. Yet this is what they sought to accomplish in Bethlem.

  “What of him?”

  “What would you like to see done to him?” His voice shook. It was a question he could barely stand to ask, yet deep within, he knew he must. The words were like opium for an embittered soul and now he was dependent, he knew he would never be the same.

  “We have spoken about this before, Cunningham. You knew what was on my mind back then. It is no longer there.”

  “And it does no harm to repeat it. In the repetition comes detail and in the detail will come the relief you desire.”

  “I do not wish to speak of it again. I will not!”

  “Then you will be forever living in a world of terrible darkness. Rest assured, sir, I take no salacious joy from listening to your darkest desires.” He ran a grubby hand through his thinning hair. “Listening, day after day to your nightmares. Accepting them as real and giving you hope where you have none. Nevertheless you must accept what was in your heart. What has always been in your heart.”

  “You know nothing of what was, or is, in my heart doctor, only what I choose to confide.” He paused and looked to his palms. They were the same palms that will forever be coated in blood. “Very well Doctor, you shall hear it again. You shall hear what is in my heart.”

  Cunningham licked his cracked lips, “Good Mr. Bishop. You have found me an excellent confidant before and you shall again.”

  *

  “Staggering, Mr. Heath. Quite simply staggering!” Victor clapped the young actor violently on the back, nearly knocking him to the floor.

  “Thank you, sir,” he managed to utter with only half a lung of air.

  “Don’t you agree?” he turned to Metier and Bishop who both stood smiling beside Victor.

  “Absolutely!” Metier shouted.

  “Undoubtedly.” Bishop concurred.

  “And I,” Eve walked into Victor’s office, “have never been so elegantly disembowelled before, Monsieur Heath.” She wiped a spot of blood from his cheek and brushed her lips against his it.

  “I am at a loss for words,” Heath started, “I did not expect such a reception from the audience and now from you all. It is quite overwhelming.” Even in the flickering light of the office, the flush on his skin was obvious.

&nbs
p; Victor resumed his place behind the giant desk. He placed an unopened bottle of cognac before him. “It seems I am not in the mood for a celebration tonight but I ask you to take one drink with me.” He poured five drinks and handed them out.

  “Blair!” he announced and promptly threw back the brandy. They all followed suit. There was little else to be said and an awkward silence filled the room.

  Eve turned for the door and the others took their cue but before Bishop or Metier had gone through the door, Victor called them back, “I wish to speak with you two gentlemen before you leave. Come and sit with me for a while.” He poured three more measures of Cognac.

  “I shall reach blessed oblivion tonight in memory of our friend, Blair, but before I forget what has gone before, I wish to talk of him to you. Especially you, Robert, for he was your friend too.”

  For the next hour, Victor regaled them both with tales of his youth and of time spent with Blair. Although it was clear they had both enjoyed the company of ladies, Victor did not remain on the subject very long. It was a wise choice for Metier’s countenance grew dark and indicated his feelings for the subject matter.

  “Has your father ever spoken of me, Robert?”

  “Not once,” Bishop replied quickly, “until Blair told me of the association I was unaware of your existence.”

  Victor nodded, “I have not spoken to your father in many years, so it comes as no surprise. We were once comrades in arms as was Blair.” He closed his eyes.

  “At Isandlwana?” Bishop asked, “I know very little of my father’s involvement. He has never once spoken of it to me.”

  “Then I will not be the one to speak of it. It is a matter best kept between father and son. Perhaps it would be wise for you to write him a letter and inform him of the news about Blair. I shall make arrangements for the funeral tomorrow.” He rose from behind the desk. His face was weary, “I have taken enough of your time…

  “And what of me, father?” Metier interrupted, “What matters are best kept between us?” His voice was ringed with anger.

  Victor looked shocked and glanced from Metier to Bishop and back again.

  “It is quite alright, father. Robert is well aware of our relationship.”

  “Perhaps it would be better if I left?” Bishop started to back away.

  “Tonight is not the time to conduct this conversation, Alexander. I am tired and in grief for the loss of my friend.”

  “As was my mother at your continued absence.” Metier almost spat out the words.

  “Were you not loved? Did you not have the finest clothes, food and education money could buy? You are privileged and do not forget it.” There was a trace of anger in his voice now.

  Bishop had made it to the door and felt the handle beneath his grip but he could not bring himself to open it.

  “Metier took a step forward, “But where were you?”

  Victor took a step backward away from his son and lowered his head, “I am sorry, Alexander, for I have loved you always and your mother remained always in my heart.”

  “Pah! There are a thousand Cresswell bastards all through Europe, I have no doubt!”

  Victor raised his hand and struck Metier across the face.

  “Stop!” Bishop shouted.

  Victor glanced briefly at Bishop as if he had forgotten he was there and took his son by the shoulders. His voice was filled with regret. “I am sorry my son.” He pulled Metier closer toward him, “There are no others. There have never been any others and I will never look upon a woman as I looked upon your mother, for she is an angel.”

  Whether from shock or emotion, Metier spoke with a tremble, “Then why did you leave us?”

  “I could not stay.”

  “Is that it? You could not stay! Then perhaps I can no longer stay either.” He wriggled free of Victor’s grasp.

  “Alexander, stop!” Victor pleaded.

  Bishop looked from one man to the other; his presence was entirely unnoticed.

  “I am a murderer,” Victor whispered.

  Metier stopped at the door; his hand remained above Bishop’s on the handle.

  “And I killed them all with my bare hands.” He held his hands outward, toward his son, as if the blood were still wet.

  Metier turned slowly, “What?”

  “I am a killer. As was Blair,” he turned to Bishop, “as is your father.”

  “You talk of Africa?” Metier asked.

  “And I still possess the capacity.”

  “But this was war. You were protecting yourself and the others, fulfilling your duty,” Metier walked back to his father.”

  “And was I fulfilling that duty when I took the thief in my hands and beat the life from his body? I felt nothing for that man, and when the bones in his face splintered under my fist and his blood covered my flesh, I felt nothing, not pleasure or grief, just absence of life,” he collapsed against the desk. “My heart is that of a murderer and I would not inflict my poison on your mother or you, my son. I could not stay.”

  The office was silent for there was nothing to say. Metier simply stared down at the sorrowful figure of his father crumpled against the desk. Tears washed both their cheeks.

  Bishop knew now was the time to leave, for what was between father and son had now been shared. He had been made part of it by his unwitting presence and even in his own father’s absence had learned something about which he formerly possessed no knowledge.

  Does my father hold the same darkness in his soul? Was this why mother left us? Bishop walked back along the corridor listening to the muffled echo of voices from the office, lost in his own thoughts. Devaux had indicated that Blair and Victor had been involved in violence before. Was this not also the case for his own father? He could not recall a moment when he had thought of his father as a violent man with a quick temper. But he now realised he knew very little about him. Less now than Metier knew about Victor.

  “They are arguing again?” Bishop jumped at the sound of Eve’s voice. An enormous ostrich feather in her dark coloured hat trembled as she came toward him. She was dressed to leave.

  “Yes,” shrugged Bishop, “you know what they are like.”

  “It is unfortunate they are so alike.”

  “They are?”

  “Why, they fit together like cloak and dagger,” she smiled, “as father and son should.”

  Bishop said nothing, it was not his place to confirm or deny Eve’s suspicions.

  “Do not be concerned, Robert. Everyone knows of their relationship. It is plain for all to see.”

  “Where is Heath?” he changed the subject.

  “I have sent him home, although he will not sleep for he is filled with excitement. Will you walk me home?”

  “Of course.”

  The streets were as bright and as noisy as ever. The late hours kept by Parisians and their raucous behaviour was becoming less noticeable to Bishop now. Where once he had felt out of place, he now felt completely at home.

  Bishop offered his arm and Eve took it, linking her own arm through his.

  “I wonder if all relationships at Le Grand Guignol are quite so transparent?” Eve started the conversation.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t quite follow,” Bishop replied.

  “I am quite sure you do, Robert. Victor is a marvellous, wonderful and kind man. He is also a savage brute. Yet I fear our relationship is not what the other desires.”

  “He is in love with you. It is plain to see. Yet I do not blame you for resisting his advances.”

  “Why? Why do you say that?”

  They strolled slowly along Boulevard Clichy. Cigar smoke and laughter drifted from the cafés as they passed. The evening was cool and a gentle breeze stroked the feathers on Eve’s hat.

  “I would not speak ill of Victor. He has given me a chance to fulfil my dreams.”

  “And yet you believe him a terrible libertine, yes?”

  Bishop remained silent.

  Eve laughed and tugged Bishop’s arm,
“How funny you men are. You think you have every matter settled. You have considered all the information and arrived at a suitable and comfortable conclusion.”

  “I can assure you, I have barely considered the matter at all. It is not my business.”

  “No it is not. But the welfare of the man I love is my business and I will not see him harmed by his son, or any other.”

  Bishop stopped walking and turned to Eve, “The man you love?”