Core of Evil

by Nigel McCrery

  ‘They’re coming back in the shops now,’ Violet said. ‘Speciality items, they’re called. Did you want a cup of tea?’

  ‘Speciality items,’ Daisy said scornfully. ‘That’s supermarkets for you. Make you pay more for food that tastes the way food is meant to taste anyway. I remember when ordinary eggs weren’t just eggs, they were Norfolk Greys, or German Longshanks, or Dorkings. All different sizes and colours. Some of them with freckles and some plain, some rough and some smooth. Not like now. They’re all plain and brown and the same size now.’ She suddenly caught up with what Violet had been saying. ‘Tea would be nice, ta.’

  Violet went out into the kitchen. The kettle had just boiled, and the air was tropical. She poured a little water into the teapot and sloshed it around, warming the china, then she poured it out in the sink and scooped two spoonfuls of tea from the caddy into the pot. She poured water from the kettle carefully, watching it froth as it hit the leaves. The smell wafted up to her nose again: that wonderful aroma of age and spice and roses. She closed her eyes and luxuriated in it, feeling the steam turning to moisture on her cheeks and forehead.

  ‘I’ll tell you another thing I remember,’ Daisy called from the parlour. ‘The coal man, making deliveries, wearing that cap with the leather back on it, reaching down his neck. Black with the coal dust, he was. Three sacks of anthracite every Tuesday fortnight, poured right down into the cellar.’ She paused. ‘He always had a smile for me, he did. Called me his little flower.’

  Violet slid open one of the cupboards and retrieved two cups and two saucers. Placing them on the counter, she turned to the wheezing fridge and got the milk from the shelf in the door. A splash in each cup, and she returned the bottle to its place.

  ‘Did you ever get the scissor-man coming around?’ she called.

  ‘The scissor-man? With his bicycle and his grindstone attached to the back?’ She chuckled. ‘Haven’t thought about him in a while. Whatever happened to the scissor-men? Don’t scissors or knives need sharpening any more?’

  ‘I think people just buy new ones nowadays,’ Violet said absently as she poured the tea into the cups, one after the other.

  ‘Wasteful,’ muttered Daisy. ‘That’s why there’s so much clutter. Too much stuff being made, not enough stuff being kept.’

  Violet reached down to where a tray was resting on its edge against the side of the fridge. She carefully lifted the cups and saucers onto the tray and carried it into the parlour.

  ‘Here’s your tea,’ she said as she placed the tray carefully on the side table beside Daisy. The elderly woman glanced down at it, then up at Violet.

  ‘Thank you, dear,’ she said with sudden hesitation.

  Violet crossed to the window again and gazed out. The skin on her cheeks and forehead was prickling from the steam, and she could feel a slight pressure in her throat. No matter. Every road had its potholes. Hadn’t someone told her that once?

  The street outside was peaceful. Most of the houses were unoccupied during the day. Husbands worked and wives worked too: Violet still found that a little disturbing, but she supposed the world changed and people changed with it. Wives so rarely stayed at home, these days. It was term-time, as well, and the children were still safely at school. The best thing about the street as far as Violet was concerned was that it didn’t lead anywhere. People or cars never cut through on their way to somewhere else. If you were in the street then you were visiting one of the houses, and during weekdays that was rare.

  From behind she heard a slurp as Daisy drank her tea. She smiled.

  ‘I picked up your pension from the bank,’ she said, the thought just popping randomly into her head. When Daisy failed to reply, she turned around. Daisy was staring at her, eyes defensive, teacup poised in her hand.

  ‘You don’t have to do that for me,’ Daisy said. ‘I used to be able to pop down to the post office myself, when I still had a pension book. The bank’s not that much further.’ She paused, judging Violet’s reaction. ‘In fact, I was thinking a walk wouldn’t do me any harm. Might be nice to get out into the fresh air …’

  Violet let Daisy’s words hang for a moment. She deliberately kept her face impassive. They’d had this discussion about once a week for the past two months, and there was no point getting angry. The decision was made and the river that was life was already flowing on, except that Daisy hadn’t quite realised yet. Or still had some hope of reversing the current and taking back some small measure of independence.

  ‘Not with your leg,’ Violet said. She knew Daisy couldn’t see her expression, with the light from the window behind her, but she kept her expression neutral. ‘Those ulcers still need dressing every day. You don’t want to make them any worse.’

  ‘Maybe I should make an appointment down the doctor’s,’ Daisy wheedled. ‘The ulcers don’t seem to be clearing up, and Doctor Ganz was always so good about looking after me.’ She sighed. ‘I used to be a dancer, you know? Now look at me. Can’t even walk down the shops.’

  ‘I told you,’ Violet said, ‘I talked to the chemist. The cream will clear up the ulcers if we keep using it. What you need is rest. I can get all your shopping and your prescriptions, and now you’ve written to the bank I can make sure your pension is drawn out on time as well. Now, don’t let your tea get cold.’

  ‘I’m very grateful to you, m’dear.’ Daisy took a noisy sip of tea, spilling some into her saucer. ‘You look after me properly. Don’t know what I’d do without you.’

  ‘Everyone should look after their friends and neighbours.’ Violet grimaced. The skin on her forehead was feeling tight and warm. ‘There’s not enough of that around, these days.’

  ‘You know what I really miss?’

  Violet wasn’t sure whether Daisy was going to keep on about her lost independence or go back to duck eggs and anthracite, so she just said: ‘What’s that, then?’

  ‘Whist drives down at the church hall. Once a week, Friday mornings. Used to see all me friends, have a chat and a cup of tea and some biscuits. Used to look forward to it, I did.’

  ‘I’m not sure they do whist drives any more.’

  ‘They do – I’m sure I saw it in the local paper.’

  ‘Well, you don’t want to strain your eyes. You’ve got to be careful at your age.’

  ‘I can read the paper all right.’

  ‘Daisy!’ Violet let a tart edge slide into her voice. She was getting tired of this bickering. ‘I’m only trying to help out. If you don’t want me to do things for you – if you don’t want me to get your shopping, and your prescriptions, and whatever else – then just say so and I’ll leave you to it. I’m sure there are lots of other ladies your age who’d be grateful for the help.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Violet, I didn’t mean—’

  ‘That’s okay.’ Soothing. ‘Least said, soonest mended. Now did you want a refill?’

  Daisy looked down into the dregs of her cup. ‘Don’t mind if I do,’ she said. ‘That was a nice cup of tea.’ She swilled the cup around in her hand, staring intently at the tea leaves as if she was trying to see the shape of her future in them. ‘What’s these white bits?’

  Violet took the cup from her hand and walked back into the kitchen. ‘I took some Christmas rose petals from my garden and sprinkled them in with the tea,’ she replied as she sloshed the remaining tea into the sink. ‘I always think it gives it a nice, flowery taste. And it’s meant to be good for you.’ She paused for a moment. ‘Who knows – if you drink enough of it, maybe you’ll be able to run down to the shops and the bank!’

  Daisy laughed, and Violet felt herself relax slightly. Crisis over.

  She poured another cup for Daisy, and brought it back into the parlour, placing it carefully down on the tray next to her own cup. Daisy had drifted off again, and Violet sat quietly watching her breathe and thinking about her garden. Her beautiful, bountiful garden, filled with the most marvellous flowers. She didn’t visit it as often as she should, but she knew she would be mak
ing another trip very soon.

  After a while, Daisy stirred. She blinked a few times, then smiled hesitantly at Violet.

  ‘Your tea’s still warm,’ Violet prompted.

  Daisy smiled her appreciation, and reached for the cup. As she glanced down to see where it was, she noticed Violet’s still full cup beside her own. ‘Don’t you want your tea, dear?’

  ‘I’ll wait for a while. I’m still out of breath from going to the shops. The pot’s still hot: I can get another cup if that one goes cold.’

  Daisy nodded, and sipped at her tea.

  ‘Can you play whist?’ she asked eventually. ‘I really fancy a game, right now. Make a change from the telly, and the local paper.’

  The question caught Violet by surprise. ‘I’m … not sure,’ she said eventually. ‘I think I can.’ She tried to remember. There were flashes of memory, like images cut from photographs, of her hands holding cards, but there was no context, no background. The memories were isolated, barely connected to reality and able to be moved around at will throughout what little she could recall of her life.

  And there was another memory, another image. A table. A long table, set for tea in a darkened room.

  Push that memory away. Push it away fast.

  ‘I’m sure there’s a pack of cards somewhere,’ Daisy said, gesturing vaguely to the bureau. ‘Perhaps we could have a game later. Just a short one.’ She smiled hesitantly.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Violet said, still feeling unsteady after the intrusion of that unwelcome memory.

  ‘And then I could—’

  Daisy stopped, her words gurgling into incoherence. Spittle flew from her lips, spraying the air. Her lower lip suddenly glistened as saliva spilled across her dentures and down her chin. ‘Violet—!!’ Another explosion of spittle as she coughed. ‘What’s happening to me?’

  Violet backed away, her heart fluttering lightly but rapidly. The world seemed suddenly bright and pin-sharp. She could see red streaks in the saliva as a thick glistening string of it dribbled out of Daisy’s mouth.

  ‘Not to worry,’ she heard herself saying. ‘It’ll all be over soon.’

  Daisy’s hands clutched at her throat, clawing the sagging parchment skin. Her lips were crimson, puffy. A deep flush spread across her throat and thick, guttural noises emerged from her mouth with every burst of spittle. ‘Gra – geh – helgh—!’

  ‘You know, I’m amazed how quickly the blistering has come on,’ Violet said, taking a deep breath to calm herself down. She backed away from Daisy and perched herself on the edge of the sofa. ‘I had expected it to take a lot longer. I wasn’t sure of the dose, of course, so I probably erred on the side of extravagance.’

  She leaned forward and looked into Daisy’s eyes. Normally the whites were yellowed and the irises were a faded porcelain blue, but now they were heavily bloodshot and weeping profusely, the tears rolling down her cheeks to join the red river of saliva streaming from the gaping cave of her mouth.

  ‘I realise it must be alarming,’ Violet murmured as Daisy fell back into her armchair and her eyes rolled up in her head, ‘but it will all be over soon, I promise.’ She leaned forward and patted Daisy’s hand, which was clawing at the arm of the chair. One of Daisy’s eyes fixed on Violet with desperation. The other seemed to have taken on an independent life, and was pointed away toward the ceiling. She broke wind: a long, wet sound that seemed to last forever.

  ‘You’re probably wondering what has caused this,’ Violet went on, chatting to block out her reaction to what was happening. ‘Christmas rose sounds so charming, doesn’t it? Or winter rose, which it’s also referred to as in the gardening books. Black hellebore sounds much more forbidding, but I don’t suppose you would have drunk so much of the tea if I told you that it had black hellebore in it. Not just the flowers, but powdered root and bark as well. Funny, the different names that people give to the same things.’

  Rolling over the lavender and boiled vegetable smell of the house came a darker, nastier smell. A smell of faecal matter, cloying with foul sickness. Violet winced and turned away on the sofa. It’ll all be over soon, she told herself. All over soon.

  Daisy was sitting in a spreading pool of her own watery, bloody-soaked faeces now, squirming in it, convulsing in it, grinding it into her dress and the fabric of the armchair. Violet was going to have to burn that chair in the back garden later, along with Daisy’s clothes and a lot of garden waste to cover the smell. And the remaining tea leaves, of course. She couldn’t leave those lying around. What if she forgot, and made herself another cup of tea while she was cleaning up!

  Violet giggled to herself, covering her mouth politely with a delicate hand. Despite the mess, she really did enjoy this part of the game.

  ‘There are all kinds of horrible things in the Christmas rose,’ she said, watching to see whether Daisy could still hear her. ‘Helleborin and hellebrin are both like digitalis, which I’ve also used before, but there’s saporin and protoanemonin as well. It’s a very nasty cocktail.’

  Daisy’s hands were both clutching at the armchair now, levering her body forward as if she was going to stagger upright and totter over to where Violet was sitting. Violet raised a hand to ward her off, but Daisy convulsed, falling backwards into the chair again as a thin waterfall of muddy vomit cascaded from her mouth and into her lap. Some of it splattered onto the floor. That, Violet thought ruefully, would be difficult to get out.

  She decided not to use the Christmas rose again. It was certainly quick, and definitely easy to prepare, but it was too messy for her purposes. Cleaning up was bad enough at the best of times, without all those bodily fluids to worry about. Foxglove, perhaps, or bryony. Or perhaps oleander. She liked the smell of oleander.

  Daisy’s arms were flapping around now. The end was very close. Very close indeed.

  ‘Your throat will have closed up almost completely by now,’ Violet murmured, ‘and your heart will have slowed down quite dramatically. I don’t know whether you will suffocate before your heart actually stops beating of its own accord, but either way you will be dead within a minute or two. I don’t even know if you can still hear me, but if you can I’d like to tell you that you are a selfish, stupid old woman, and I’ve hated every single moment of the time I’ve spent with you. Apart, of course, from the last few minutes. Those I have enjoyed very much.’

  Daisy was silent and motionless. Her eyes were dull and sunken, and the saliva dripped slowly from her slack mouth.

  Violet leaned forward, trying to see whether her heart still fluttered in her chest, whether the blood still pumped sluggishly around her veins, but she couldn’t tell. She would come back later and check Daisy’s pulse, she decided. After she tidied up. And if Daisy wasn’t dead now, well, she would be within the hour.

  It was going to be a long afternoon, and Violet found that she couldn’t immediately raise the energy to get off the sofa. The light streaming through the window seemed to have a weight all its own. It held her down, sapping her strength and sending waves of languor flowing over her body. From where she sat she could see a slice of the smoky blue-grey sky imprisoned between the top of the window frame and the roofs of the terraced houses across the street. The sight didn’t quite provoke an image in her mind of a slate-grey sea eternally lapping at a stone causeway, but it provided an avenue through which the image could creep into her thoughts. Wave after wave after wave, battering against the stone, wearing it down a minuscule amount at a time.

  Violet shook herself. If she wasn’t careful she would fall asleep, and she might lose half the afternoon that way. The seaside could wait: tidying came first.

  Despite the fact that she had been visiting the house – often every day – for months now, Violet had a very good idea of what she had touched over the course of that time. The kitchen and bathroom would have to be scrubbed with bleach, of course, to remove any fingerprints or whatever else might give her presence away. The parlour and the dining room were less problematic: Violet had been
careful about what she touched, and had often wiped down a handle or a surface while Daisy wasn’t paying attention. If she had noticed at all, she had just thought that Violet was helping keep the house tidy. Daisy’s bedroom and the spare bedroom – used for storage for the past thirty-odd years – had nothing of Violet in them. No, removing traces of her passage through the house would be easy.

  Cleaning up after Daisy’s messy death would take longer, and would be less pleasant, but there Violet didn’t have to be perfect. Old people were often incontinent, in her experience, and as long as all the obvious signs of diarrhoea and sickness were removed then the odd stain and the odd lingering smell would not be too disastrous. And besides, modern cleaning technology was marvellous.

  Violet stood up and made her way into the hall. Her legs were unsteady – the relief of having got Daisy’s death out of the way, she assumed – and she leaned against the wall for a moment before pushing open the door to the dining room.

  Daisy had always kept the dining room immaculate, in case she ever had to entertain, which meant that it had been used perhaps twice in the past ten years. The centrepiece of the room was a solid mahogany table with legs turned in spirals. Three silver candlesticks sat on the table, and prints of hunting scenes were spaced around the walls.

  A folded wheelchair leaned incongruously against the far chimney breast. Behind it, a large sheet of grey plastic was folded on the carpet.

  Violet had brought the wheelchair and the plastic sheet into the house a few days ago, whilst Daisy was snuffling and murmuring in her sleep. Now she carried the sheet back into the parlour and looked around. Not the floor – she was going to have to scrub and hoover that pretty thoroughly. Perhaps the sofa.

  Yes. She unfolded the plastic and draped it over the sofa until it was just a grey lump, like a shiny outcrop of stone. She could lift Daisy’s body – light as it was – onto the sofa, then take the chair out to the garden and clean the carpet thoroughly. Once she had done that she could undress Daisy, wash her down with flannels and towels which she could also take out into the garden, and then re-dress Daisy in some of her other clothes from upstairs. Then Daisy could be lifted into the wheelchair, covered with a blanket and wheeled out of the house and down the street: just another old lady out for a breath of fresh air, fast asleep and dreaming of the past.