Mythangelus

by Storm Constantine

  Sheila dressed herself and went to her mirror to brush her hair. She was taken aback by the red stain, which still covered her lips. Rubbing it, she found it would not come off. Soap and water, then. She glanced down at the lip-stick print on the tissue, which seemed to smile up at her provocatively. Those lips had not felt soap and water for years, not since their owner had been a child. Only the best, silky cleansers and toners had stroked them clean, only the richest of moisturisers had nourished their soft folds. Sheila lifted the tissue and sniffed at the print. A faint aroma of fading perfume, cinnamon or ginger. And something else. Tobacco smoke, wine, the bloody smell of rare meat; the tinkle of silver against china; the glint of candlelight reflected from diamonds and eyes. Sheila closed her eyes and inhaled. A glimpse of that life, the sureness of it.

  Among Sheila’s many prognosticative talents, psychometry and palmistry ranked high. She knew that the lipstick print was a gift. It would give her a story, a life to invade and explore. What was she doing now, that woman who had kissed herself in the mirror?

  I need a name, Sheila thought, and willed it to come to her, but then her mother was calling, ‘Are you coming down, Shee? Marj has only got an hour.’

  The impressions fled; back into the print, back into the past. Sheila sighed again, more heavily, and carefully placed the tissue in the top drawer of her dressing-table, so that her mother wouldn’t inadvertently throw it away.

  Downstairs, Sheila came across Marj and her sister, Joyce, who were sitting with her mother at the kitchen table. On the stove, greens boiled for later consumption by her timid father when he returned home from work.

  ‘Oooh, Sheila!’ Marj exclaimed. ‘Bit of a cold sore there, is it?’

  Sheila rubbed her lips, went red. She had washed her face thoroughly, but the scarlet stain still haunted the corners of her mouth. Her mother swept over to investigate, and gripped Sheila’s jaw in a fierce squeeze. ‘Dearie me,’ she said, squinting. ‘Does seem inflamed, you know.’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ Sheila snapped, pulling away. ‘Lip-stick.’

  Sheila’s mother nodded to her friends. ‘Tess has really fancy make-up. Expensive, you know.’ She shook her head. ‘Not really your thing, is it, Shee!’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Marj rejoined. ‘She is looking a bit perky. Must’ve done you good, girl, a nice day out.’

  Sheila had to admit she did feel more energetic than usual. She associated it with the anger she’d experienced after her mother had left her bed-room. She felt more alive than she had done for months.

  Breakfast eaten, she spread her old tarot cards on the kitchen table. What could she tell Marj and Joyce? Nothing. Because nothing much happened in their lives, other than petty squabbles with friends and families, along with the occasional unexpected pregnancy from younger and wilder relatives. ‘You will be feeling reckless,’ Sheila said, ‘but there could be disappointment.’ An extra round on the lottery perhaps - to no avail.

  As the women stared down at the cards, Sheila couldn’t help but examine their lips. Could they possibly reflect what lay in the readings? Joyce, silent and with a perpetual worry line between her eyes, had flaking lips; dry and bitten. They didn’t seem to have lines, as if she’d nibbled away all her personality. Marj’s upper lip was virtually non-existent, while her lower lip stuck out petulantly and always appeared slightly wet. Marj was hungry - for gossip and control. Sheila smiled to herself. Over the years, she had trained herself in many disciplines of divination. Now, she had something new to work on.

  The lipstick woman’s name was Francesca. It came to Sheila as she went back upstairs after giving Marj and Joyce their reading. She wasn’t entirely sure whether she’d simply dreamed up the name because it seemed so appropriate, or whether it really belonged to the woman whose mouth print lay hidden in the dressing table drawer. Francesca. She could not be called anything else.

  Looking at the print once more, Sheila strained her psychic sight to acquire more details of Francesca’s life. She was a woman who lived on the edge, who was often disliked, especially by other women. Sheila saw an indolent selfishness in the lines of Francesca’s mouth, perhaps even a streak of cruelty. But she also had humour and hedonistic desires. Sheila glanced at herself in the mirror and was surprised by the expression she saw on her face; a watchful sneer. Do I want to be like her? Sheila wondered. Francesca was glamorous and beautiful, but had few female friends. Sometimes she felt lonely although she never admitted it. Sheila realised that she herself never felt lonely, despite her own lack of close friends and the gulf between her and her family. She liked her own company and was not totally dissatisfied with herself. Her part-time job at the local news-agent fulfilled her modest financial needs and gave her more than enough contact with the world. Why then this growing obsession with an alien creature, this woman of secrets and dangerous passions?

  Sheila put the tissue back into her drawer. She shivered involuntarily, suddenly craving a walk in fresh air.

  Sheila strolled across the common, where people walked their dogs and children played in the cold, winter sunlight. The trees were stark against the sky and crows rasped from the naked branches. The town beyond the expanse of grass looked squat and grey. There was so little colour in the hibernating world. Sheila thought of red lips and heard a peal of free laughter in her head. A ghost of giant lips kissed the grainy sky and Sheila knew that somewhere Francesca was sitting in a wine bar with a group of men, her eyes restlessly scanning the room, searching for someone. She despised her lecherous, overweight companions, but she had information now; information to sell. Sheila could feel Francesca’s impatience and also a shred of uncertainty. It was a seed of fear, hidden in darkness. Perhaps Francesca could not sense it herself.

  Sheila closed her eyes to blink away a band of pain that gripped her temples, her eyes. Her glimpse into Francesca’s life scared her, but she was still curious, still wanted to know more.

  On the High Street, Sheila ambled along gazing in shop windows. It was one of her favourite pastimes. She passed an array of satiny continental chocolates, then the winter coats of the ladies’ dress shop, on to the garish jumble of children’s toys and the sleek, sinister pyramids of electrical goods. The shoe shop, Sole Partners, lay at the end of the street, where what had once been a market square had been turfed over, flower-bedded and stuck with benches, bearing the names of dead town councillors on small, metal plaques. Sheila decided to go and sit there for a few minutes, watch the clouds of scavenging pigeons lift and fall, before making her way home via the coffee shop in Church Street. She looked into the shoe shop window as she passed, and her attention was caught by a pair of shoes in the display before her. Shiny black patent leather with high, high heels. A strong impression assailed her: they were power shoes, designed for treading on human flesh; figuratively if not literally.

  Sheila wanted the shoes immediately and with a hunger she had never experienced before. The lust to acquire flooded her system. Her heart beat fast.

  The shop assistant looked at her strangely when she stammered her request and pointed at the window. Sheila knew she did not look like the kind of woman who would buy shiny, spiky shoes. As the assistant flounced out from behind her counter, she glanced down, taking in the worn-down, flat-heeled pumps that currently encased Sheila’s feet in scuffed, tan leather. The black shoes were removed from the window display and presented with reverence for the customer to inspect. Sheila looked at them nervously and the assistant suggested she try them on. For a moment, Sheila considered saying that they were for someone else - a gift - but then she was told the size of the shoes, which was hers, and it seemed too much of a coincidence. ‘All right,’ she said, and sat down on a plush-covered seat and bared her stockinged feet.

  The stiff patent leather slid over her right foot, crushing her toes. ‘They’re too small,’ she said, with some relief, but the assistant frowned and lifted Sheila’s foot, declaring that no, they were a good fit.

  ‘You’re just no
t used to wearing shoes like this,’ the assistant said. ‘Slip the other one on. Stand up, walk around.’

  Of course, Sheila could not walk in them and suffered the humiliation of staggering up and down in front of the mirror, while the assistant chewed the inside of her mouth in a clear attempt to stem her laughter.

  ‘Yes, I’ll take them,’ Sheila said.

  What am I doing? she thought as she numbly made out a cheque for what was to her an extortionate amount. The assistant packed the shoes into a box amid a froth of black tissue paper.

  Out in the street, the maroon and gold carrier bag weighed heavily in Sheila’s hand. She could no longer face sitting among the empty flower beds of the square and made her way directly home. She would never wear these shoes. Why had she bought them?

  The answer was obvious. These were Francesca shoes, worn with sheer black stockings, the toenails hidden within lacquered to a red gloss.

  Back home, Sheila scuttled into her bedroom and sat panting on the bed, the carrier bag lolling between her feet on the floor. After some minutes, while her ears strained to detect the approach of her mother, she took the shoe box from the bag. She could hear her mother’s voice downstairs; a monologue to her father, who was silent. Sheila lifted the shoes from the box, held them in one hand. She felt guilty, ashamed, as if she was about to examine a pornographic magazine.

  Her feet seemed to slip into the shoes more easily now. She looked down at her feet, the toes pointing inwards. Her ankles looked slimmer, although her beige tights spoiled the effect somewhat. Sheila stood up in front of the mirror and was surprised at how tall she appeared. She took a few tentative steps. Away from the deriding eyes of the shop assistant, she could take her time, and realised she could learn to walk in these torturous contraptions, if she wanted to. But still, the feeling of shame persisted. Sheila knew that in some way she was stealing something, from a woman who was unaware of the theft. Like a magpie, she had snatched up the glittering fragment of Francesca’s life and taken it back to her nest to gloat over. She could never truly appreciate the glittering thing, because she was not a creature who could make use of it properly. She could only admire its lustre.

  Sheila paused before her mirror and straightened her spine. She lifted her hair in both hands and held it on top of her head. With the extra height of the shoes, she did not appear so chunky, and her face, free of its customary veil of drab hair, looked stronger somehow. Sheila was suddenly filled with fear. She sat on the bed and kicked off the shoes. Do I want this? She asked herself. Do I really? The shoes lay on their sides before her, provocative and gleaming. Waiting.

  Sheila took to walking in the shoes at night. She would leave the house at seven o’clock, her clandestine purchase hidden in a large shoulder-bag that Tess had left in the cupboard under the stairs. Once she had sauntered a couple of blocks away from home, she would change her shoes. They hurt her at first. She would walk with her hands deep in her pockets, the collar up around her ears. She liked the sharp tap of her heels against the damp sidewalks, although the new leather, stiff with cold, ate into the soft flesh of her feet. She carried the lip-stick print in her coat pocket, her fingers barely touching it. As she walked, impressions of Francesca’s life would flood her mind: impromptu parties, city lights, music, laughter. And Francesca’s shadowed profession; the secrets of the enchantress had been revealed.

  Sheila was now sure that Francesca was involved in dangerous business. She had visualised Francesca seducing men of power, stealing information from them with soft words and deft hands, then selling what she had learned to other men, who paid her highly: politicians, industrialists, high priests from the inner cabals of mega-corporations. Francesca was cold and greedy, wrapped in a veil of ice, yet she slunk with movie star gloss through the adventures that Sheila applied to her. The evening walks were spiced with endless day-dreams of Francesca’s exploits, yet even as she fleshed this fantasy out, Sheila couldn’t help feeling impatient about Francesca’s failings. The woman had so much, yet abused her privileges. She was the kind of person Sheila normally despised - spoiled, selfish and avaricious - yet their lives had inexplicably become entwined. It could be no coincidence. They were linked by more than a chance meeting at Euston.

  About a week after buying the shoes, Sheila went into a cosmetic store on the way to work and bought the brightest red lipstick on sale. She did not attempt to use it, but removed it from its paper bag several times during the afternoon and twisted the colour up out of its casing. Later that evening, during her walk, Sheila went to rest her aching feet in a cheap café. A couple of down and outs mumbled at one another in the dim light, and the only other occupants were a group of teenagers who were clearly on their way to somewhere more interesting. Sheila ordered coffee and spread out the tissue on the Formica table top. The fibres were fragmenting badly now and would soon would be nothing more than wisps of fluff in the bottom of her pocket. The lipstick print had faded to a mere filigree of lines and looked aged. When the tissue had fallen apart completely, would she lose this strange half-life she had begun to enjoy? No, Sheila thought, determined. I took some of her into me. I kissed the mirror. The print has sunk into me. These thoughts made her heart beat faster, shortened her breath.

  She stared at the lip print without blinking, until her eyes watered. Tell me, tell me… She had exciting images of Francesca’s life, but she wanted more: the future. Some of the lines were broken, perhaps because of natural decay. Perhaps they had always been broken, but the details were only now becoming clear. The print itself, while fading, had spread outwards, almost as if the lips were bloated.

  Strangled lips. Breath squeezed out. The heat. The darkness. Gasping, struggling.

  Sheila shuddered, and nausea churned through her body. She almost cried out, but managed to control herself and stuff the tissue back into her pocket. Her heart was pounding now and specks of light boiled before her eyes. She mustn’t faint - not here.

  She lurched from her seat and felt her way between the tables to the rest room at the back of the café. Here, she pushed open a door and virtually fell into the cramped cell beyond. She leaned over the stained sink, taking deep breaths. A bare electric light-bulb hummed over her head, echoing the buzzing in her mind. She splashed some cold water on her face. Mustn’t think about what happened. It’s fantasy. I dreamed it up. Her hand dipped into her coat pocket, seeking the tissue in reassurance. She found instead the smooth plastic case of the lipstick she had bought. Sheila couldn’t remember having put it into her pocket. Her fingers were steady as she took it out. She removed its case and with one twist exposed the rod of colour. Almost involuntarily, she applied a layer of it to her lips. The colour glowed like neon in the dim electric light. It made her look startled. Shoes and lips. Top and bottom. But what about the expanse in between? Was it still hers? She shuddered and remembered she’d left her bag outside at the table. She must go back: someone might steal it.

  By the time she returned to her seat, Sheila had managed to compose herself, and was relieved to find her bag where she’d left it under the table. She forced herself to examine the lipstick print again. Red waves of danger and darkness seethed up to her, yet she could fix on no definite image. The fading image of Francesca’s mouth looked misshapen, bloated. Sheila took a sip of coffee to calm herself and an unusual craving crashed through her. She wanted a cigarette, badly, but she had never smoked.

  Numbly, she found herself outside, tapping down the sidewalk to a convenience store, where she knew exactly which brand to ask for. The implications of what was happening disorientated her, yet at the same time she felt calm and focused.

  Back on the street, Sheila lit a cigarette, took the smoke into her lungs. Her body coughed and spluttered, yet her inner self revelled in satisfaction. Leaning against the shop wall, Sheila closed her eyes to the night and forced herself to examine what had happened in the café. She can’t be dead, can’t be… Yet how could she doubt her talent? It had never failed her before. Wh
at she’d experienced in the cafe must have been an intimation of the future. Sheila opened her eyes. She had no choice now but to find Francesca, seek out her home, make sure the dreadful prophecy never came true. Although she did not wholly like the woman, Sheila realised she looked upon her as a wayward sister. She could not judge Francesca for her actions; she could only love her - unconditionally. Sheila glanced at her watch. Was it too late to start looking now? There was a train to London in fifteen minutes. She could make it; if she hurried, if she ran.

  On the train, breathless and hot in her raincoat, Sheila removed the tissue from her pocket once more. She needed to direct all her energy and intention into the print now. She needed hard information. Her vision blurred as she stared unblinking at the red stain, and an image of a cat filled her mind; an animal wholly suggestive of Francesca’s nature. No, no, concentrate! Sheila saw a hill, a spire and superimposed over it, a cat’s face. Cat, church, hill. Perhaps the cat was relevant then; part of a road name. She would have to buy a street guide as soon as she got into town.

  Sheila sat in the smoking carriage, lighting cigarette after cigarette. Her body protested, but her mind ignored the physical pleas, some distant part of her mind.

  The station shops were just closing as she charged up the ramp from the platform into the concourse at Euston. She marched into a Menzies shop and snatched an A-Z street guide off a shelf, setting her face in a determined expression. The bored assistant behind the till clearly wasn’t going to argue the shop was closed.

  Sheila made her way down to the tube station. It was only ten o’clock; there was plenty of time to search. She could look all night if necessary. Her body bubbled with energy. If by any chance tiredness overcame her, she could go to Tess’ place. Some explanation would be needed, but it just didn’t seem important now.

  As she glided down an escalator, Sheila scanned the index of the book. It was almost too easy. There it was. Catchurch Hill. Virtually tearing the pages, Sheila found it in the map section: a tiny curl of a road on the fringe of the West End.