Glimmer and other Stories (6 page)

My new love bent down, took a scalpel from his pocket and sliced square pieces of flesh from the dead man’s arms and face. Blood ran freely from the wounds and formed red pools upon the Persian rugs that reminded me of scattered rubies. Like the ones in the necklace my father gave me on my wedding day. I only wore them once. I could not turn away from the macabre scene, and stared with admiration as more perfectly thin strips of skin were removed.

He placed the delicate tissue into individual wrappers and put them into a bag filled with ice cubes. Then he reached behind him and produced a set of heavy dumbbells from a large black canvas rucksack. He wrapped the dead man’s fingers around the weight and let it fall across his already broken neck. Ah, I thought, a tragic weight training accident. Ingenious.
 

‘He didn’t know how to look after you. He didn’t know how to make you whole. Did he tear out those pages? Did he leave those jagged edges behind? They must snag every time you open,’ he said, and looked at me with those rodent eyes.

He picked me up, pressed me to his lips and sighed. I sighed too. We left together.
 

He set fire to the room.

Today:

Light, airy, warm.

I find myself resting on an Egyptian cotton towel in an elegant bathroom. Clean white tiles cover the floor and walls, and I notice a free standing Victorian bath in the centre. I glance down at my waxed and polished cover, and exhale a sigh of joy. My wizened skin all smooth. I have never felt more alive. Such sweet irony. I watch him in the orange light of dawn curing the human leather, making it pliable, ready for insertion.
 

He purrs silken words of comfort that feel like kitten paws in my ears. Soft, cajoling, and safe. That is it, I feel safe. Never thought that possible. Never had much luck with men. It was my necromancer of a husband who fashioned me into this book. To be used by him for his devilish deeds.
 
Each page a segment of my virgin flesh, each word written in his unwholesome fluids. Too bad he died of a heart attack mid-sentence. Glad for that. Did not relish the thought of life in perpetuity with that ghastly male.
 

Here he comes my latest beau, all smiles and expectation. His fingers slide between my pages, feeling for the telltale signs of use. He stops at page four. Sniffs then spits upon his index finger. Rubbing gently he notices strange characters appear, and licks his digit once again. He grimaces at the taste, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. Then repeats the rubbing and licking action. How I thrill to his dextrous touch, as more words appear until the page is full. He mouths the lines. I pause, trembling. He is disappointed, something he missed. He shrugs, opens a cardboard box and pulls out a moth-eaten leather bound book. He flicks through until he finds what he is he looking for. He nods his head, removes his constricting clothes and picks me up.

He rests me on the edge of the enamel bath and begins the ritual by drawing a circle on the floor with charcoal. Taken from Adam’s charred remains. He goes to the sink and picks up a toothbrush. How thoughtful of him. He gags slightly as he brushes his teeth, gargling out the last remnants of ancient semen, and sets to work.

Gently he clips away the ragged sheaths that have bothered me for centuries, and replaces them with the new. He reads from the extant tome that he took from the box, then places one hand upon his cock. He places the other on my spine, rocks to and fro and conjures up internal ink.
 

He pours it from his cupped hand into a china bowl, and kneels before me. He lifts me, puts me down between his thighs, and reaches for a jute sack closed tight with a leather thong.
 
Pulling it apart he removes a splendid peacock feather quill, dips it into his cloudy juices, and begins to write.
 

His fastidious penmanship delights me and I shiver with thrill each time the nib hits flesh. I savour every scratch that etches out our eternity onto my renewed epidermis. As the moist words soak in, I am aware of a strange sensation. A womb-like throb that pounds against his fingers. He clasps me close and I feel my pulse beating in rhythm with his own.
 

We lie together upon the cold tiles and wait.

The End

Daub

He offered Isabelle his hand. She shook it, felt the softness of his flesh against her damp palm, and slid her fingers from his. The oncologist mumbled something else, but Isabelle could no longer hear words, just the low, steady sound of his glib phrases clogging her ears.

She left the hush of the consulting room and went into the corridor. Trolleys squeaked, phones rang, children screamed, feet scuffed the polished floor. The noise punctured her skull and she clutched her head. Above the cacophony of chatter and roar, Isabelle heard a whisper, ‘Shush, shush now, there’s a good girl.’

It was a familiar voice that made her knees buckle. Was it the same one she’d heard when the headaches began? The one that screamed and cried? The one that growled like a tethered fox? She put her hand against the wall, took a deep breath and the murmuring went away. When her ears stopped ringing, she stood and walked down the passageway on wobbly legs. With each step she took, a drop of sweat slid down her back.

Acrid smells of bleach, vomit and disinfectant swept up her nostrils. She held her hand over her nose and mouth to smother the stink. A woman wearing a green headscarf leant against a chair and stared at Isabelle. For a moment, they exchanged a look. Then the stranger bent her head and coughed up a crimson ball of mucus. A film of wet covered Isabelle’s eyes distorting everything she saw. People became hazy shapes; ghost-like figures that rippled and contorted as they walked past her. Isabelle flinched away from their warped forms, and quickened her pace to the exit.
 

Blinking away the tears, she stepped out into the autumn evening, shivering as a chilly wind blew across her face and shoulders. Eager to be gone, she hurried to her car, got in, and fumbled around inside the glove compartment. Her fingers touched a crumpled piece of paper. She pulled it out and read the instructions scrawled across the page, then tapped in the address on the Satnav. Isabelle turned on the engine and drove away.
 

Unmindful of her surroundings, she sped past houses, cars, trees and people. They flashed past and became little more than blips to her tired eyes. There was one thing she did notice - a small star shaped crack in the windshield, just below the rear view mirror. A flaw in the glass that kept splitting and spreading, reminding her of the tiny flaw in her brain that would not stop growing.
 

The urban landscape petered out and Isabelle switched to full beam as she raced along the deserted country lanes. ‘At the next junction, turn right. Turn right,’ the nasal female voice from the navigation system said. When she did, the grittiness behind her eyes abated and she relaxed as she drove down the dark dirt track. Sucking in the countryside odour of freshly dug earth and smouldering piles of manure, she said, ‘Ah,’ when she saw the two-eyed glare of a rabbit caught by the headlights in a statue pose.
 

A tractor churning up dust and stubble-straw pulled out from a field and all but halted her progress. Isabelle clutched the steering wheel and tried to squeeze past the huge vehicle, but she couldn’t. So she continued her journey stuck behind it, listening to the shuddering swish of the windscreen wipers as they swiped away bits of dried grass and mud. They sounded like the continuous, ‘Blah, blah, blah,’ of the doctor’s professional speech. Isabelle’s neck muscles tightened. She sat forward in her seat and screamed profanities at the driver, until he trundled off into another field.
 

As soon as he was gone she pressed her foot on the accelerator, wound the window down and drove along the twisting lanes, until she saw the landmark her mother told her to look out for. A telephone post with a sign saying, ‘Duck eggs for sale.’ Isabelle slowed to a crawling pace and spotted the thatched cottage opposite it. She pulled into the driveway and turned off the engine. Looking down, she noticed that the hem of her knee-length skirt was scrunched up, crumpled from when she had gripped onto it during her consultation with the oncologist. She brushed her hand across the creases and smoothed them out. Then grabbed her carpetbag from the passenger seat and got out. Isabelle lifted her head towards the black sky. ‘So many stars,’ she said and watched the warm mist from her mouth float upwards and disappear.

The moon shone brightly, highlighting twisted trees and frost encrusted spider webs. A wispy fog drifted across the vast neatly mowed lawn making everything look like it was in a horror movie. In the fields behind, pheasants crowed huskily to each other, and owls shrieked. Isabelle’s skin prickled. She rubbed her arm, yanked the heavy bag over her shoulder and walked through an archway covered in honeysuckle that led to a green front door. She stopped, inhaled the damp ground smell and detected another odour. Smoke. She looked up at the red brick chimney, but saw no wisps of grey swirling out from it. Scratching her nose, she rapped on the half glazed door. A light blazed behind it. Isabelle shielded her eyes from its stabbing brightness.

‘Izzie! You made it,’ her mother said. She took her by the hands and pulled her through the doorway. ‘How was the trip?’

‘Yeah, fine. Except I ended up behind a tractor for ages, so it took a lot longer to get here.’

Her mother guided Isabelle into the kitchen. ‘Dad and Pete are in bed. I stayed up to wait. Want anything to eat or drink?’

Isabelle shook her head and looked around at the timber-framed room. She stared at the bumpy plaster between the beams. Her mother touched her arm. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Yeah, well, no,’ she said and paused. He mother widened her eyes and bit her bottom lip. Isabelle blinked slowly. ‘I’m really tired, that’s all. Would it be okay if I just went to bed?’

 
‘Of course you can,’ he mother said and took the bag from her hand. ‘Come on I’ll show you to your room. You’ll love it, it’s in the oldest part of the house.’

She walked behind her mother, through the kitchen, and into a tiny hallway. ‘Mind your head when you go up the stairs. The ceiling gets really low at the top.’

Isabelle held onto the wooden bannister and climbed up the stone steps as if she were carrying someone on her back. When she stepped onto the narrow landing she almost cracked her head on one of the low beams. A small round window at the end of the corridor caught her eye. It was crisscrossed with diamond shaped lead that dissected her reflection. Isabelle shivered at the gaunt face staring back.
 

‘This is yours,’ her mother said and pointed to a door on the right of the window. Isabelle went inside and heard her mother click on the light.

The room was painted a dove grey, accentuating the dark oak rafters that sloped down from the ceiling. At the top of the room was a large brass bed with a small metal table beside it. Reminding her of the white aluminium cabinet that stood beside her bed in the chemo ward. Something buzzed past her ear. Or was it her name being called from far away. She heard it again, closer this time, and turned her head in the direction of a huge wooden wardrobe to the left of the door.

‘Did you hear that?’

‘Hear what Izzy?’

Isabelle put her index finger into her ear and the voice went away. ‘Oh, nothing. Must have been the wind.’

‘Well, yes you do hear all sorts of strange noises out here. Owls, squirrels, foxes, badgers, stuff like that. The first night we slept here, your father and I kept waking up. We were really scared. Don’t worry, you’ll soon get used to it.’

Isabelle yawned. ‘I’m so tired.’

Her mother stroked her face and said, ‘You do look worn out. Go to bed love, we’ll catch up in the morning.’

Her mother kissed her on the cheek and left. Isabelle closed the door, took off her clothes, wig, and left them in a heap on the floor. Then she pulled a pair of red check pyjamas from her bag and put them on. Before she slid underneath the covers, she switched on the small nightlight on the table. It was shaped like a lotus flower and Isabelle stroked the moulded petals. The action soothed her. She lay down, put her head on the pillow, closed her eyes, and let the memory foam mattress mould around her body until she was completely relaxed.

Isabelle heard panting. It was fast and hoarse as if an animal was trapped. She licked her lips, lifted her head, and looked around. The nightlight on the bedside table cast elongated shadows across the floor. The dark lines crawled along the skirting boards and up the walls like dirty fingers groping for something clean. Isabelle watched their journey; mesmerised by their contorted shapes as they slid and slinked up onto the ceiling.

Her nostrils twitched as an unpleasant, sweet, burning hair smell filled the place. It tickled the back of her throat and made her hack. She wiped her mouth and saw a black smear across the back of her hand. She rubbed the mark away on the duvet and the cinder scent dispersed.
 

The panting slowed and became faint. Isabelle lay back down and lowered her lids. A quiet descended, and she felt the fuzziness of slumber pull her into a place of emptiness and peace.
 

Guttural cries made Isabelle snap open her eyes. She held her breath as the sound of gulping sobs grew louder. When she tried to move, she could not. Her arms and legs became heavy, as if invisible hands pressed them down.

A truck whizzed past the window and the whole place shook. The sobbing stopped and the pressure on her limbs eased. Isabelle pulled the duvet up to her chin.
 

A scratching sound began.

It was frantic. Isabelle swallowed. Her mouth was dry and her head hurt. She massaged her temples with her fingertips in an attempt to relieve the pressure that was building up around her nose and cheekbones. The dim light made her eyes water, so she reached out and switched it off.
 

‘Shush.’