The Scream of Angels

by David Haynes

  “Come quickly!” the door swung open revealing a wide-eyed Metier. “They have returned!”

  “Who?” asked Bishop.

  “Our fathers of course!” The sound of his footsteps echoed along the corridor. Metier had already started running toward the stage.

  Bishop arrived to find Victor and his father slumped on the front row of seats. Between them, an empty bottle of Cognac had fallen smashed on the floor. Both men had dried blood on their collars and even in the gloom, Bishop could see one of his father’s eyes was swollen.

  “We have been drinking and we have fought!” Victor announce with a slurred voice. His head had taken on a deformed shape and one of his eyes was swollen and closed entirely.

  “And we have decided that neither one of us is worthy of Rose.” Bishop had never seen his father intoxicated but it was clear he now was.

  “We must sober him up,” exclaimed Metier, “There are barely two hours until we open and he cannot play his role like this.” He took Victor’s arm and tried to lift him.

  “No!” roared Victor. Tonight we will not open. Tonight we must all drink together and we must get drunk. I have lost one brother today yet God has seen fit to grant me the opportunity to redeem myself.”

  From the wings, Heath appeared. He was red-faced and flustered. “Come quickly, Eve has collapsed.”

  Bishop turned to Metier, “I shall go. You try and get some sense from these two sots.”

  Bishop followed Heath as he ran along the darkened corridors until he stopped beside a crumpled figure lying on the floor. Bishop crouched beside her and lifted her head. Her face was pale and her lips parched and cracked.

  “You found her like this?” he asked Heath who had also knelt beside her.

  “Yes. I was coming to see what all the fuss was about and here she was.”

  “Fetch some water and a cloth then bring it to her room.” Bishop scooped her up and held her in his arms. She groaned but did not open her eyes.

  Bishop had never been in her room before. As Victor had instructed, entry was forbidden to all. It was much larger than either of their offices and much more lavish. He counted twenty or more candles, all burning brightly about the room. The light danced with the silk of a hundred dresses displayed at one end of the room sending silhouette dancers across the walls. Gone were the sombre religious paintings which so adorned the rest of the theatre. Instead were the modern colours of the new breed of artist in Montmartre. Such furnishings as would be found in any affluent saloon gave it the feel of a home, and not merely a dressing room.

  He lowered her onto the golden coloured chaise and felt her pulse. It was slow and feeble and her skin was cold and clammy.

  “What have you taken?” he whispered. There was no sign of alcohol or odour of opium, but he was convinced she was under the spell of a narcotic. He pulled back her eyelids; her pupils were as specks of jet; dull and lifeless.

  He reached under the chaise until his fingers disturbed two bottles. They sounded as a dismal death knell. He pulled them out, “Laudanum,” he whispered again.

  Heath rushed in clutching a bowl of water and a bundle of towels in his hands.

  “I need salt, she has taken a tincture. We must induce vomiting, so bring a bowl.”

  Heath stood and stared at the bottles in Bishop’s hand, “She said she had a headache and needed to sleep. I fetched the laudanum for her,”

  “Fetch salt, Andrew. Now!”

  Heath returned a few moments later with Victor. He stumbled into the room and collapsed at the side of the chaise. “Oh my love, what have you done?” He turned to Bishop. “Is she dead?”

  “No but she must empty her stomach or I fear the worst.”

  Victor fell back and lay supine on the rug, “What have I done!” he wailed.

  Bishop ignored him and addressed Heath, “Pour salt into the water until it no longer dissolves. Be quick!”

  He took Eve’s head and supported it in the crook of his elbow, “Eve, you must open your eyes and listen to me. You are very ill and must drink what I give you.” He separated her lips. “Now, Andrew, pass it to me.” Heath passed him the liquid and Bishop poured it slowly into her mouth.

  He expected her to cough it out immediately but she swallowed it down. Her eyes remained closed for which Bishop was grateful. He managed to pour three more measures into her mouth before the first bout of nausea took hold.

  The powerful spasms continued to come and in the process something which she had been holding in her hand fell to the floor. Bishop picked it up and unfolded the creases.

  Victor stopped wailing for a moment, “What is it?”

  The note was addressed in great flourishing letters to Victor. “It is a letter for you,” he passed the note to Victor who immediately stuffed it into his pocket.

  “Are you going to read it?” Bishop asked. If it was a suicide note, it may explain her reason and give clue to anything else she may have consumed.

  “I cannot read her suicide note now! Not when she still may live.” Victor replied abruptly.

  “Oh she will live, Victor. She will not act for a day or two but she will live.”

  Victor stood and patted Bishop on the back. He had regained his senses remarkably quickly for a man so struck with grief. Had it been an act? “Shall I send for a physician?”

  Bishop poured more salt water into her mouth bringing forth another great spasm. “There is no need, but had Heath not found her when he did, she would surely have died.” Bishop looked at Heath who stood in the doorway looking terrified. He opened his mouth to speak but Bishop shook his head, signalling him to be silent.

  “Then I am in your debt, Andrew. You shall have employment here for as long as you wish.”

  Victor rubbed both hands over his face. “My stupor has gone. I am left only with a splitting head and regret. Do everything you can for her, Robert.” He paused for a moment, “You must think me a demon; many others do. Here I am, the man who took your mother away from you and you do this kindness for me.”

  Bishop was astounded and angry, “This is not for you, Victor! What arrogance possesses you to say such a thing.”

  “I did not mean…”

  Bishop turned away. He had no desire to look at Victor any longer. Maybe it was the alcohol or maybe it was confusion, but his attitude toward the situation had become unpalatable.

  “Andrew, please bring strong coffee for Eve. She will need it when she comes to.”

  He gave Eve another drink of salt water and dabbed her brow with the towel.

  “You should not judge me, Robert,” Victor’s voiced whispered into his ear, “for I know what is in your mind. It is the same as your father’s and my own. We are more alike than you think.”

  The smell of brandy was still strong on Victor’s breath; sour and warm. Yet an involuntary shiver ran down Bishop’s spine. He found himself unable to turn around and look Victor in the eye for he knew he was right.

  When at last he was satisfied that Eve was stable and comfortable, he left her sleeping in her room. She had not spoken and the only sounds she had made were the mumbled ramblings of an addled mind and screeched requests for Victor.

  “I knew medicine was your true calling!” His father had not moved since he saw him last and remained sitting on the front row of the stalls beside Victor, Alexander and Rose.

  “Has she recovered?” Metier walked toward him. “You are quite wonderful, Robert, Victor has told us what you have done; I am in awe of you.” He turned to the others. “We all are.”

  “She is resting but remains very ill. When she has recovered her strength I will take her home.”

  “Why would she try and take her own life?” Rose asked.

  Bishop looked straight at Victor who returned his gaze. “I cannot say what games the demons play inside her mind, any more than Cunningham could say with mine. Who can say what torment and anguish she suffers. She is the only one who can say for sure. I dare say all will be revealed with time.”r />
  “Well, your actions saved her. You may not be a physician in name but in actions you are,” Victor stared earnestly but a smile crept mischievously across his face. “Perhaps you should fill my role as the resident surgeon!”

  Walter laughed, “His stomach does not cope well with blood!”

  A rage started to build inside him. A furious rage against Victor, his father and his mother. Their arrogant and selfish behaviour was without limit. They cared for none save themselves and now they threatened to destroy another innocent soul.

  “I can barely stand to look upon your self indulgent faces. Look at you all sitting there, together, as if you had not a care in the world. You have caused me misery, such utter misery and I would see you burn in hell!”

  His father stood and took a step toward him. Bishop also took a step forward and bellowed, “If you take another step, father, I shall unleash what Cunningham nurtured inside me. I shall rip you apart.” He pointed at Rose. “She has told me what you did to Cunningham. How I was merely a prop for you and Victor. You deserve the misery you reap. All of you.”

  He saw fury flash across his father’s face but Walter did not move for what he saw in his son’s face, Bishop knew, was far worse.

  Bishop turned his head to the wooden angels above and roared with all his might. There were no words, there did not need to be for it was nothing more than a primitive call to God.

  When he had stopped they all waited in silence. What would happen next, Bishop no longer knew. It did not seem possible that the theatre could continue as it had. He was unsure if he could continue as he had. It seemed his life was not intended to be bathed in the contented happiness he had experienced during the last week.

  The sound of glasses gently knocking together caused them all to turn to the stage. Andrew Heath stood wide eyed but smiling with a tray containing a bottle of brandy and several glasses.

  “I am sorry to interrupt,” he swallowed hard, “but I believe brandy is best consumed at times like this.” He walked to the edge of the stage and placed the tray on the lip.

  When Angels Scream

  Metier poured five glasses more than half full with the warming liquid. They filed up and took their drinks one at a time. The atmosphere was tense and it was not helped when Rose suddenly broke down and wailed in grief. Metier immediately went to her side and ensured she took a drink. Her coughing fit indicated she was unused to the taste but she drank it nevertheless.

  Bishop slumped on the front row on the opposite side of the aisle to his parents and Victor. He no longer knew what to think and he dared not consider what was growing in his mind.

  Metier joined him after a few moments, “You have been lied to more than I have and I cannot hope to understand what is in your mind. But you and I are brothers. You are worth more to me than my father. We are still friends, yes?”

  Bishop turned and smiled, “And you are worth more than my mother and father combined! We shall always be friends and if this all comes crashing down then we will build another and write such horror as never seen before!” He tried to sound more enthusiastic than he felt.

  Metier started coughing, “I am unused to brandy, Robert, but this tastes bitter and unpleasant. Were it not for the circumstances I would gladly pour it away.”

  Bishop reached up to the stage and took the bottle. There was only a small amount remaining. It was a cheap brandy no doubt but the smell was not right at all, “It is not the champagne we have grown used to of late, but if I consume enough, it may allow me to converse with them without threatening murder.” He turned and looked to the others. Oddly they were all slumped back with their mouths open. How could they sleep at a time like this? It was incomprehensible.

  “It appears they are asleep,” he murmured. The sound of glass smashing caused him to turn to Metier. He had dropped his glass and had also inexplicably fallen asleep.

  Bishop looked to the angels again. They were flying in circles above the stage. Flapping their great angel wings and falling through the air; somersaulting and weaving amongst the rafters and they were free at last. The powerful strokes of their wings sent whispers of cool angel breath onto his flesh. He smiled, his eyes were growing tired and there was no need to fight it. He should sleep like the others.

  Yet the peculiar smell of the brandy was familiar. Yes, it was the same smell in the bottles from Eve’s room. Was it laudanum? Had Heath mixed up the bottles and given them laudanum by mistake? Of course not; how absurd. The bottles were entirely different sizes. He looked to the angels for answers for they surely knew everything about bottles of differing sizes. One eyed him with an unkind expression and flew down from the rafters where it had once been secured. It loomed large and ugly in front of his face, “Tell me your dreams, Robert and I will cure your ills.” Yet the face of the angel was warped and twisted like a demon from his nightmares. He blinked and tried to focus. Unless he was very much mistaken, it was the vile snarl of Andrew Heath before his eyes. “Show me your dreams,” his cheerful voice whispered, “and I shall show you mine.”

  As he drifted through the various stages of sleep toward waking, a curious sensation swept through his body. The laudanum had rendered him senseless and he now wondered if he was in fact dead. His body felt weightless, almost as if he were floating but it was not the comfortable experience he might have expected. His arms and legs felt as if they had been pulled and stretched into an unnatural posture.

  Blurred shapes started to emerge from the fog but they were too indistinct and his head too filled with wool to bring them to focus. What was the weight on his back? Odd shapes and sharp points burrowed into the hard muscles around his spine. He tried to wriggle; to be free of the pain, but still it dug into his flesh like the fingers of a surgeon searching for his organs.

  The sudden and irrepressible urge to vomit hurled him from the laudanum induced confusion straight into hell.

  The vomit fell from his mouth like a rancid waterfall to the stage below. How was this possible? His mind must surely be stupefied by the drug, and yet there it was, the pool of vomit on the wooden boards of the stage below. He coughed and tried to wipe his mouth, but his arms would not move. He felt drunk but he knew where his arms were, and looked to them as if to issue a command for them to move.

  He gasped. His arms had been stretched out to the side and tied to the wings of the angel. He soared above the stage like a bird in flight but he was trusting his fate to the wooden feathers of a statue and not to wings. His shoulders had been pulled back so tightly that they threatened to dislocate from the joint.

  “Robert?” a voice whispered beside him. He was able to turn his head just enough to see Metier beside him. He was attached to the other angel, its giant cheek beside Metier’s own.

  “Where are we? Are we in heaven?” Metier asked.

  Bishop wriggled his arms to try and free them. He was unable to answer Metier’s question for he was unsure of the answer.

  “I would not move too much, gentlemen. You may find the angels cannot fly after all.” Heath pulled Eve’s golden chaise on to the stage beneath them.

  “One of you filthy angels has been ill. No matter we shall decorate the stage with more than just vomit tonight.”

  “Heath?” Bishop called. “What are you doing? Are you insane?” There was a brief and fleeting sense of relief at seeing Heath. The normality of a man dressed in his suit completing stage chores was easier to comprehend that being suspended above the stage with the angels.

  Heath stood beneath them and looked up smiling, “Yes, quite, quite deranged. As was my father by the time you had all finished with him. I am sure you recall Heath House and my father Dr. Cunningham?”

  “Your father?” Bishop asked incredulously, “Your father is Dr. Cunningham? But we had no part in it. I was as much a victim as he.” Bishop found that with the burgeoning clarity came a rising panic.

  “What are you talking about?” Metier panted.

  “Your fathers tortured my father and
he in turn tortured my mother and me. They sent him mad; they picked apart his mind and made him a monster. Behold, Cresswell, Bishop and Blair, the makers of monsters.”

  Metier looked to Bishop, utterly confused.

  “How interesting that you should follow in their footsteps and create monsters of your own. Like father, like son?” He turned and walked away.

  “Heath!” Bishop yelled.

  “Cunningham, please. I have grown tired of that pseudonym.”

  One by one, Victor, Walter and Rose were dragged onto the stage. They had all been bound in rope and were unable to move beyond turning their heads. It appeared none of them had yet awoken.