by Kim Newman
Somehow, she had coaxed the girl's name out of her, and where she lived. Now, she was going to ask her questions. She asked strangers questions every day of her life. Usually, they did not want to give straight replies, but she tried to get them anyway. In this case, she knew she was going to hate hearing the answers as much as Nina was going to hate telling them.
'I'll make some tea, shall I?'
Nina didn't exactly say yes, but Anne went into the tiny kitchen anyway. There was no milk, except for an inch of sludgy cream in a carton, so she used the last sachets of jasmine tea, which she found loose on a table top next to the carton. There was a couple of days' worth of washing-up in the bowl, and she had to fish out, rinse and wipe off a pair of mugs. They both had Royal Wedding pictures on them. There was a disassembled coffee percolator on the draining board. Anne realised that Nina's kitchen looked a lot like her own. They even had the same spice chart blu-takked to a cupboard door.
Looking for clean teaspoons, she opened the drawer by the sink. It was full of sex aids. Grossly outsized rubber penises, a tangle of leather and rubber belts, a dildo with a small model of a leaping dolphin attached to the shaft, vibrating electric eggs, an electrically-operated plastic tongue, various large rings with peculiar attachments and an assortment of unidentifiable objects that might have been instruments of torture. And a plastic case full of little scalpels. Plus several bubble-packs of batteries.
It occurred to Anne that Nina had probably slept with more men in the last month than she had in her entire life. And so had Judi.
She slid the drawer shut, and probed in cold and scummy water, coming up at last with a spoon. She wiped it dry on a kitchen cloth, rubbing the greasy wetness off her hand at the same time. The spoon's underside was discoloured where it had been held over a flame. She wiped it again, very thoroughly. Her knuckles ached, and she rubbed her hand back to life in the dishcloth. She poured the old water out of the bowl, being careful not to dump any of the crockery into the sink, and turned on the hot tap. The pipes coughed and ran. Eventually, steam rose from the washing-up as it was again submerged.
She dumped the teabags in a wastebin shaped like a pair of buttocks, and carried the mugs of tea into the other room. It was not mainly a living room, she realised. It was a bedroom.
Nina still hadn't pulled herself together, but she took the tea easily. She warmed her hands on the mug.
Anne turned on an electric fire. The dust on the elements started to singe and smell. She sat opposite Nina, on the edge of a low chair, leaning forwards, elbows on knees, taking regular sips of the still-too-hot tea. She scalded her tongue.
She had conducted plenty of difficult interviews. Her first session with Mrs Aziz had been especially nervous, as she tried to show some balance, probing for details of any criminal history her dead son might have had. She also remembered the Home Counties councillor who had been placing compulsory purchase orders on private houses he had then sold at a huge profit through his girlfriend's estate agency, the famous writer who had nothing to say about his current book but plenty of comments on attractive young lady interviewers in tight jeans, and the Christian Crusade leader who had been using starvation, regular beatings and harsh punishments to keep his young followers in line.
'My sister,' she began, 'did you know her well?'
Nina swallowed some tea, and shook her head. Anne could not tell if the gesture meant yes or no. Nina put the tea down, clawed her hair again, and tried very hard.
'She was my friend's flatmate. We… we worked together sometimes.'
Worked together?
'Do you mind me asking questions?'
Nina nodded, 'No, I want to… I need to talk. I'm close to the end.'
'What do you mean?'
'It's nearly over, isn't it? Judi's dead. I think Coral is too. We're just girls. Just tarts. No one cares. I wish… I wish…'
Nina trailed off, hands over her face. Her nails were chewed, old varnish flaked away, and there were prominent blue veins between her knuckles.
'Yes?' encouraged Anne.
'I wish I'd never grown up. I wish I'd stayed at school. I wish I'd stayed with my Mum. I'm only nineteen. I've always been fucked up.'
'Did you know if Judi was… was using any kind of drugs?'
'Smack?'
'Heroin, yes?'
'Once, I think so. I don't know.'
'A special kind of heroin?'
'I don't know. Clive would know.'
'Who's Clive?'
Nina halted. Anne knew she did not want to go on. Apart from anything else, the girl was scared.
'Remember, I've nothing to do with the police, Nina. Right now, believe me, they probably like me a lot less than you. Now, who is Clive?'
Nina decided to talk. 'A dealer.'
'Drugs? Does he get heroin for you?'
'Smack, yes.'
'And for Judi?'
'I think he did. He does other things. Judi was with him for a while, but they had a big row and split up. She says he's scary, but…'
'Is Clive a pimp?'
Nina was almost indignant. 'We don't have pimps any more. That's stupid. We get beaten up and fucked over enough as it is. We had a girls' co-operative for a while, but now we just freelance on our own. The game isn't like that now. It's mostly just the girls.'
'And you're self-employed?'
'Yes. I'm on Schedule D. I do my own accounts. I've never gone on supplementary benefit.'
'What about Clive then?'
'He fixes us up sometimes.'
'For a commission?'
'No. Well, yes. He has expenses, he says. He puts work my way sometimes. And he did a lot for Judi before they broke up. He's more a friend than a work person. He sent me a Christmas card. It's the only one I've had so far.'
Anne wanted to cry for Nina, to do something for the girl. It was too late for Judi. But maybe she could do something here, something for her sister's memory.
'What did Clive do for Judi?'
'He set her up with some people. Rich people. Weird, if you know what I mean. But we all got paid.'
'You and Judi were with these people?'
'Yes. We only went together once. This woman in St John's Wood had a party. She called it an "entertainment". Coral was with us too.'
'Do you remember any names?'
'Well, I shouldn't… but… this woman was Amelia Something. The last name isn't English. German maybe. Dorf. And there was one really creepy guy. I didn't like him at all. He was called Skinner. Mr Skinner, no Christian name. They called him the Games Master.'
'Games?'
'Do you really want to know? I mean, Judi was your sister and all, but…'
'No, I suppose not. You're a nice girl aren't you, Nina?'
'Yeah, so what am I doing like this? I know, I know. It's not easy.'
'It never is.'
Nina looked at her, shrugging. She had a strand of her hair in her mouth, and was chewing nervously. The flat was warming up, but Nina was still shivering.
'Did you know anything about us? Judi's family?'
'Not much. We were watching a film on telly once and she said her Dad had written it or something. It was an old film in black and white. Marlon Brando and Therese Colt were in it. We didn't believe her, and Coral teased her about it. She shut up. I suppose it was true, wasn't it?'
'Mmmm, yes.'
'I knew it really. She pointed out some things you had written sometimes. You're a good writer.'
'Thanks. Judi would have been good too. At something.'
Nina tried to smile, and showed too much of her skull. Her cheeks were too tight over the bones, and there were hollows above her temples. Her eyes were still young, but the rest of her body was ageing fast. Anne remembered Judi's withered look.
'Amelia Dorf is having one of her "entertainments" later this afternoon,' Nina said.
'Are you going?'
'I may have to.'
'Why?'
'Because I'm broke, Anne.'
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'I can give you money.'
'Not enough. I need to do some smack. I'm not an addict, but I need it to work sometimes. I'm gradually cutting it out, like Judi, but you can't do it all at once. Clive will be there. He always has good smack. And he's straight with it.'
Anne felt an icy calm. Seizing on what Nina had said, she casually asked the next question, knowing it was the key to the story. 'You say Judi was off heroin?'
'Yes. As far as I know, she had been straight for over a year. She was never a big user. Just a jab once in a while.'
'How did she look?'
'Uh, you mean how did she look? Good, I suppose. Pretty. She's a pretty girl. Much prettier than me. As good as Coral sometimes. And Coral is amazing.'
'So, the heroin hadn't affected her in any… permanent way?'
'Not really. She lost some weight, but she was looking better lately. When she broke up with Clive, she tried to talk me out of smack. She said I was being stupid.'
'And…?'
'Well, she was right, wasn't she. I've always been stupid.'
Nina was looking at Anne and seeing a social worker, a schoolteacher, a Mum. 'Thick, that's me. But I'm not an addict. I'm not. I just need a shot sometimes. Just sometimes.'
'Like now?'
'Yes, 'fraid so.'
'Would you do something for me if I gave you some money?'
'What?'
Nina was alert now.
'The rich people this afternoon? The "entertainment"?'
'Ye-e-es?'
'I'd like you to help me meet them.'
FOURTEEN
SHE WAS WITH a thin, angular young man, who was wearing a slightly too large sports jacket and horn-rimmed glasses. Nobody noticed him, but everybody, including the homosexual Lawyer and phallus-worshipping Objectivist, was compelled to stare at her. Some fought the urge and carried on talking or eating, intent upon their tableware while their dinner companions' eyes expanded, but most gave in. Even in a crowd sprinkled with authentic movie stars and frequently pinned-up starlets, she drew glances like a magnet draws iron filings. Without needing to look at the dancing star's table, he knew that she must be fuming hatred at the new beauty. All movie stars feared their juniors. He was amused again. Nobody in Romanoff's, himself included, qualified as the woman's junior.
She was, he knew instantly, one of the Kind.
Her hair, so blonde it seemed in this light to be white, was worn unfashionably long, and her evening dress, off the shoulder and floor-length, simple enough to pass in almost any century. Like him, she wore little jewellery. Like him, she excited attention wherever she went. No matter how hard the Kind might try to camouflage themselves among men, they could not suppress the glamour.
Mike Romanoff himself seated her, and her protege, removing a 'RESERVED' sign from a prime table. For an unknown, she was rating unprecedented treatment.
Tail Gunner Joe and the Objectivist were still trading names. She was suggesting Communists and fellow travellers from the Screen Writers' Guild, and he was huffily claiming he had never heard of them. The Junior Senator was greedy for big fish. The Lawyer, he realised, was looking at him and trying to figure something out. It would be impossible for him to even guess at the truth. Compartmentalised and secret-filled the Lawyer's life might be, but he had few dreams, and he could never hope to tap in to the Big Dream he sought to control. The Lawyer's questions about Hugh Farnham were entirely practical, and entirely irrelevant: how much could the man be trusted, how could he be controlled, what could be used to leash him?
She was looking across the room at him, a catlike smile on her lips, her eyes seeming to swell in her face. She had known him at once, as he had known her.
It had been 60 years since the End of the Immortal Empire. Since Giselle's death, he had not encountered another of the Kind. He had heard nothing of the Elders, and wondered occasionally whether he was the last of the family. It would have been so easy, amid the chaotic bloodletting of two world wars and innumerable revolutions, colonial disputes and massacres, for the Kind to die out, and pass from history as unnoticed as ever, its Fall eventually percolating through into the myth-echoes that were all they ever left behind.
Evidently, this was not so.
'King of the Cats,' she said, inside his head, amused at his surprise.
He controlled himself, and nodded minutely, raising his glass to her.
Her protege was trying to get her attention, and she was brushing him aside. Waiters were flocking to their table, and the young man, left to his own, was awkwardly ordering wine and food for the both of them. The Monster sensed in the young man the seeds of the extraordinary. It could hardly have been otherwise, if this creature were interested in him.
'Outside,' the words formed in his mind, 'on the terrace.'
He was excited by the meeting. He noticed his nails had changed, growing hard and pointed, sharp enough to part the tablecloth. And teeth were swelling in his cheeks, tearing the inside of his mouth. He subdued his body, and excused himself, reaching for his cigarette case like a Noel Coward character.
The Objectivist looked at him as he walked towards the terrace, gliding through the dancing couples. The orchestra was playing 'A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes'. He felt the tendrils of her desire snapping back at her as they broke, as he slipped out of the crowded restaurant.
Beyond the curtains he was alone, looking out at the lights of Hollywood. There were premieres out there, and searchlights stabbed the velvety sky. In the darkness, the Dreams sparkled.
'Your Majesty,' she said, appearing through the curtains like a leading lady, 'I am honoured.'
She was mocking him.
'The Kingdom of the Cats is over,' he said. 'I'm Hugh Farnham, now.'
'Hugh. Very well. You change your names with your skins, nephew.'
'We all do.'
She made no noise as she came near him, her dress catching the lights of the city.
'Not all. I'm Ariadne.'
He had heard of her, but not much. Giselle had met her in Portugal, after the Lisbon earthquake. And, he realised, he had seen her credits on motion pictures.
'Of "Gowns by Ariadne"?'
She smiled. She was supposed to be one of the Elders, but she was not above being flattered by recognition.
'I am pleased to meet you,' he said.
'No, you aren't. You were enjoying your uniqueness, imagining yourself the last of the Kind.'
He said nothing. She was more beautiful even than Giselle, and stronger even than he.
'We've flourished since your little kingdom fell, you know. We've changed our ways, while you've stayed the same.'
'Am I to be punished, then?'
She laughed, musically. 'Oh no, Hugh. You may follow your own road. Perhaps there'll be another Kingdom of the Cats. You can always rejoin when you get tired of playing with all this…'
She extended her arms, including the city in her gesture.
He reached out to her, drawn to her burning ice centre. Feeding was one thing, but this desire was different. The way he felt for Ariadne was not so different from the way the Objectivist or the Lawyer felt for him.
'No,' she said, holding his hand, 'I don't think so. I have other business to…'
'Who is he?'
She was taller than she had been, her cheekbones more prominent, her eyes brighter.
'My date?'
He nodded.
'A man of genius, nephew. A lamb among wolves just now, I admit, but a remarkable man. Cameron Nielson.'
He knew of the young man. A playwright, his first works - a two-handed drama about a prisoner and his psychiatrist, and a family saga called Father, Son and Holy Terror - had been successful on Broadway, netting two successive Drama Critics Circle Awards, and were optioned by Mark Hellinger at Universal. Along with Arthur Miller and Tennessee Williams, he was expected to shake up the American theatre a little.
The Monster had a taste for geniuses. In his mind, he saw Ariadne opening Nielson's
head, and scooping his genius out in grey lumps.
'Not yet,' Ariadne said. 'Later, maybe. But not yet. He has things to do.'
'Why do you care?'
She smiled again. 'I'm a patron of the arts.'
A wind blew by, bringing a chill. Ariadne's dress clung where the wind pressed, and stirred, flapping on her other side. In the starlight, her skin was as dead white as her hair, but her eyes shone, red under green. She was the adult Giselle might have become in a thousand more years.
'And you,' she said, 'will you ride your crusade?'
He nodded. She laughed.
'It'll be interesting. But it'll be the end of you.'
It was like a blow. The Elders were always like that, secure in their survival, contemptuous of the rest of the Kind, treating them like children playing at the edge of the precipice, knowing better but doing nothing.
'I don't think so.'
'Well, maybe not. Maybe you'll last. But your friends in there are a poor lot.'
'They don't matter.'
'That's a dangerous thought. You should be careful about the people you mix with. I prefer the brilliant…'
'So do I, they taste better.'
'Not just for that, nephew. They're less prone to envy us. Among humans, the brilliant are freaks and sports. It's mediocrities you should watch. Like your friends back there, arguing about movie stars. When they've finished with the Reds, they'll want to see your head on a pole. Have you read that woman's books?'
He was embarrassed, and shrugged.
'I trust you've not fed off her. She would be such a feeble meal.'
They had nothing more to say to each other, but they stayed on the terrace, politely sampling each other's memories. There were great parts of her experience that she successfully kept him away from. She was much older, much stronger. It was not really new to him, being powerless, but it was hardly relishable.
All she gave him were a few pictures of the world as it had been for her. And yet, she exhausted him in a single draught. All his ghosts were conjured up for her. It was a wrenching, unpleasant experience, but he submitted to it, hoping to impress her. When it was over, she looked at him with an expression he would never be able to wipe from his memory. There was a nannyish kindliness in it, but also disappointment, and - intolerably - pity. She shrugged, her dress rippling from her shoulders, and smiled.
