by Michel Faber
Serene and resolute, William returns to the work at hand: calculating exactly what’s needed if he’s to remove Sugar from the hazards of her current lodgings.
While her husband ponders the details, Agnes Rackham, brim-full of morphine, sleeps. A railway carriage, specially prepared for an Invalid, stands waiting in her dreams, wreathed in steam. She’s tucked up inside it already, in a darling little bed by the window, and her head is raised up on pillows so that she can look out. The Station Master knocks at her window and asks her if she’s all right and she replies ‘I am’. Then the whistle blows, and she’s on her way to the Convent of Health.
A fortnight later, we find William Rackham making his final inspection of the place where he intends, from this evening onwards, to spend as much time as his busy life will allow. The last of the hired men has left, having installed the last of the furniture; William is free now to survey the whole effect, and judge if these smart rooms in Priory Close, Marylebone, truly look as if they’re worth the small fortune he’s spent on them.
He loiters in the front passage, fussily rearranging a bunch of red roses in their crystal vase, clipping the stems of individual blooms where necessary, to achieve the perfect arrangement. He hasn’t paid this much attention to aesthetic niceties since his dandy days at Cambridge. Sugar brings out the … Well, to be frank, she brings out the ‘everything’ in him. These elegant rooms are a fitting place for her — a jewel box to house the treasure she is.
The agreement with Mrs Castaway is already signed. The old woman complied without opposition; indeed, what else could she do? He’s now ten times the man he was when he made the original contract with her, months ago — and she, by contrast, has diminished. In the creamy mid-morning sunshine of his most recent visit to her, she appeared less fearsome than in the red glare of firelight, her garish clothing paler, decked with motes of dust that swirled visibly in the sunbeams. He showed her receipts from the best furniture-makers, drapers, tilers, glass merchants, and many other craftsmen employed by George Hunt, Esq., as well as a bank account in Mr Hunt’s name to the value of a thousand pounds. (Of course William knows he could, if he wished, abandon this pantomime now, but, seeing as it’s effortless to maintain, why not spare himself the embarrassment? And as for the bank account in George W. Hunt’s name — well, that might prove a damn good idea in its own right, if his researches into taxation are not mistaken!)
Mrs Castaway seemed mightily impressed with him, anyway, whatever name he bore, and she needed little persuasion (apart from an additional wad of money) to tear up the old contract and release Sugar into his sole proprietorship.
‘I have cared for her as best I could, in the circumstances’ were her final words. ‘I have faith that you will do the same — to our everlasting benefit.’
Now, inspecting the rooms in Priory Close, William banishes the memory of her horrible, waxen, wrinkled old face, by confirming that everything is in order here — flawless and perfect. He assures himself of his love-nest’s ideal location, its ideally appointed interior, its harmonious compromise between male and female tastes. He sits in each of the chairs and the chaise-longue, taking stock of all he can survey of the decor from each vantage point. He opens and closes all the little doors, windows, lids and ledges of all the cupboards, bookcases and whatnots to make sure they don’t stick or creak.
The bathroom is a cause for concern. Has he done the right thing in having it plumbed for a hot bath? The pipes are ugly, resembling the elephantine apparatus in one of the Rackham factories; mightn’t Sugar have been happier with a freestanding and opulent washtub? Ah, but he wants her to be clean, and these new ‘Ardent’ bathtubs are the very latest thing. The instructions for operating the hot water geyser may be a little complicated, and there is the risk of explosion, it’s true, but Sugar is a clever girl, and won’t allow herselfto be blown to Kingdom Come by a bath, he’s sure. And these new ‘Ardent’ designs are the safest yet. ‘In the future, everyone will have one of these,’ the salesman said. (To which William, tempted to give the fellow a lesson in business, almost responded: ‘No, no, no, say rather: the common mortal will always wash in a glorified slop-pail — only the most fashionable and fortunate will have one of these.’)
Then he walks slowly into the bedroom and, for the tenth time, scrutinises the bed, feeling the sheets and coverlets between his fingers, reclining momentarily against the pillows to take note of the prints on the walls (chinoiserie, not pornography) and the way the wallpaper’s pattern glows in the light. All of it, he dares to be sure, will meet with her approval.
From the outside, the house is unremarkable; virtually identical to those on either side. The door into the front passage faces the street, but is half-hidden inside a dark guard-box of a porch, affording shelter from the scrutiny of the neighbours. There are no lodgers upstairs, as William has leased both floors and decided, for discretion’s sake (though he could get a pretty penny for them in rent!), to leave the upper rooms empty.
William consults his watch. It is nine o’clock, on the evening of March seventeenth, 1875. Nothing remains but to visit Mrs Castaway’s one last time, and fetch Sugar to her new home.
Henry Rackham is out walking in the half-developed fringes of civilisation, walking after bedtime, walking in the dark. He is not by nature a night owl, is Henry; he’s the kind of man who wakes as soon as the sun rises and who has trouble suppressing his yawns once it sets. Yet tonight he has left his warm bed, hastily pulled some clothing over his night-shirt, and covered his dishevelled appearance with a long winter coat — and gone out walking.
For the first couple of miles there are lanes with houses and street-lamps, but these become sparser and sparser until they finally give way to the flickering campfires of distant gypsies, the eerie halo emanating from the Great Western Railway, and the natural illumination provided by God. A full moon shines down on him as he forges ahead. His enormous shadow runs along beside him, jumping nimbly over the uneven ground like a swarm of black rats. He ignores it, concentrating on his own clumsy feet, striding restlessly forward in unlaced shoes.
I am a monster, he is thinking.
In spite of the chill air and the challenge of finding his way through the dark, he still sees Emmeline Fox before his mind’s eye — or whatever eye it is that can see her thus, splayed supine in a pillowy bower, naked and abandoned, inviting him to fall upon her. The vision is scarcely less vivid now than it was when he first cast his bed-sheets aside and repulsed the advances of lubricious sleep. Yet, for all its luminescent clarity, the picture of his dear friend is damnably false. He has never, in God’s reality, glimpsed any of Mrs Fox’s flesh except her face and hands; anything below the neck and above the wrists is his own wicked fantasy. He has given her a body of his own design, stitched seamlessly together from painted nudes of Greek goddesses and water nymphs, and grosser parts supplied to him by the Devil. Only the face is her own.
But, Yes! she whispers, her ghostly pale arms reaching languidly into the space between them. Yes.
Henry presses against the wooden railings of a low bridge over Grand Junction Canal, unbuttons his clothes, and cries for release.
‘Where,’ murmurs Sugar, ‘are we going?’
The cab has rattled past all the likely places William might have intended for them to go when he commanded her (most unusually!) to dress for ‘a little jaunt’. At first she thought he might have in mind a visit to The Fireside, for sentimental reasons; he’s been queerly sentimental lately, reminiscing about their affaire as if they’ve known each other for years. But no, when she saw the cab waiting, she knew they weren’t going to The Fireside. And now they’ve passed all the best pubs and eating houses, and have turned up the wrong road for the Cremorne Gardens.
‘That’s for me to know,’ teases William gently, stroking her shoulder in the dimness of the cabin, ‘and you to find out.’
Sugar loathes pranks and riddles of all kinds. ‘How exciting!’ she breathes, and presses her nose t
o the window.
William finds this child-like curiosity adorable — and a most pleasing contrast to the way the newly-married Agnes behaved on the day he took her to her new home. Agnes looked behind her all the way, however much he implored her not to; Sugar is looking ahead with naked anticipation. Agnes was so irksome (snivelling and fretting) that he wished he could knock her insensible, not to wake until snugly ensconced in the new house; Sugar he wants to lift onto his lap, right here in the cab, so that the vibrations of the carriage on the bumpy road help her ride his cockstand. But, apart from stroking her shoulder, he does nothing: this is a momentous occasion in her life — in both their lives — and must not be spoiled.
Meanwhile, Sugar sits watching the dark, eyes wide. Is William taking her to his home in Notting Hill? No, they’ve turned right at Edgware Road, instead of carrying straight on. Is he taking her to some deserted place outside the city, the better to murder her and dump her corpse? In her own novel she’s described so many such murders that the possibility seems quite real to her; in any case, don’t prostitutes die at the hands of their men all the time? Only last week, according to Amy, a woman was found headless and ‘interfered with’ on Hampstead Heath …
One sideways glance at Rackham reassures her: he’s radiant with smugness and desire. So, she returns her nose to the glass, realigning her mouth with the expanding crest of condensation she has breathed there.
At the end of the journey, she is made to alight in a dark close, a very modern-looking terrace whose facades are all identical. Inadequate lamp-light is intercepted by a pair of massive stately trees, each with branches of Gothic complication. As the cab rattles away into the distance, a cemetery quiet descends, and Sugar is led by the arm into the pitch-black porch of one of these strange new buildings.
William Rackham is at her side, an obscure figure in the darkness; she can hear his breathing and the rustle of her skirts as he brushes against them in his search for the key-hole. How quiet it is here, for her to be able to hear such things! What sort of place is this, that leaves its air so vacant? All of a sudden she’s under the sway of an unknown, but potent, emotion. Her heart thuds, her legs grow weak and begin to tremble — almost as if she were about to be murdered after all. A match is struck with a sound like fabric tearing; she sees William’s face illuminated in the lucifer’s flicker as he bends to unlock the door. His bewhiskered features are utterly unfamiliar to her.
This man is changing my life, she thinks as the key turns and the door swings open. My life is being tossed like a coin.
William lights the hallway lamp and instructs Sugar to stand underneath it while he hurries into each of the dark rooms beyond, lighting their lamps too. Then he returns and takes her gently by the arm.
‘This,’ he says, extending his arm theatrically, ‘is yours. All yours.’
For a moment everything is silent and motionless, a tableau vivant made up ofthree elements: a man, a woman, and a vase of red roses.
Then, ‘Oh William!’ the astonished Sugar exclaims, as Rackham leads her into the sitting-room. ‘Oh, dear God!’ All the way here, she’s been preparing herself to play-act, whatever his little surprise should prove to be; but now there’s no need for play-acting, as she reels in stupefaction.
‘You’re trembling,’ he observes, cupping her hand inside both of his, to authenticate the phenomenon. ‘Why are you trembling?’
‘Oh William!’ Her eyes are wet as she looks back and forth between him and the unbelievably sumptuous room. ‘Oh William!’
At first he’s taken aback by this display of gratitude, shyly distrusting it in a way that he’s never distrusted her displays of lust. As soon as he realises she’s genuinely overwhelmed, he swells with pride, to have been the engineer of such a transport of delight. She seems in danger of swooning, so he takes her by the shoulders and turns her to face him. Adroitly he unknots the silken ribbon under her chin and, as he lifts her hat off, eases the pins out of her hair, so that her mass of golden-ochre curls spills down like newly-shorn wool out of a basket. He feels a pain in his heart: if only this instant could be spun out forever!
‘Well?’ he demands, teasingly. ‘Aren’t you going to explore your new home?’
‘Ohyes!’ cries the girl, springing away from him. He watches, beaming, as she dances around the room, acquainting herself physically with everything, laying claim to objects and surfaces with a touch of her palm, then dashing through the door to the next room. As she does so, William can’t help recalling Agnes moving through the house in Chepstow Villas on her first day like a sick and petulant child, blind to everything, oblivious to all his preparations.
‘I hope I’ve thought of everything,’ he murmurs into her ear, having caught up with her as she stands, entranced, at the writing-desk in the study. She accepts his kisses in a daze, staring down at her reflection in the varnished wood.
‘What is this room?’ she asks.
He caresses her neck with his bearded jaw. ‘Sewing-room, dressing-room, study — whatever you like. I didn’t put much in it — thought you might need a thing or two from your old room at Mrs Castaway’s.’
‘She knows?’
‘Of course she knows. It’s all arranged.’
Sugar’s face goes white. Nightmare visions are suddenly before her: a vision of an old woman in blood-red dress, mounting the staircase to Sugar’s bedroom; a vision of a cupboard door swinging open to reveal the white manuscript of The Fall and Rise of Sugar. Mrs Castaway mustn’t touch those pages! In those pages, a madam called ‘Mrs Jettison’ is blamed for many, many things — principally the violation of her own innocent daughter, the intrepid heroine.
‘My room …my old room …’ she falters. ‘What … what arrangements … ‘
‘Don’t worry,’ Rackham laughs. ‘I have your privacy very much in mind. Nothing will be touched until you remove it. I’ll arrange for that too, whenever you wish.’ And he strokes her face, to soothe some colour back into it.
Bewildered, Sugar walks over to the French windows, watching her quartered reflection approach the glass. The panes are at fractionally different angles, so the four portions of her image don’t quite meet, until she moves so near to the glass that she becomes transparent and disappears altogether. Outside, there’s a tiny walled-in garden, difficult to make out in the darkness, but abundant with … well, some sort of greenery — living proof that her new home is at ground level, in far more verdant surrounds than Silver Street. Her doubts fall away from her, and the exhilaration returns.
‘Oh, William,’ she cries once more. ‘Is all this really for me alone?’
‘Yes, yes,’ he laughs. ‘For us alone. I’ve leased it for a lifetime.’
‘Oh, William!’
And she’s off again, tearing off her gloves and dropping them on the floor in order to run her hands along the spines of the books in the bookcase and the embossed candy-stripe of the wallpaper. She skips from room to room with William following on behind, and in each she performs the same dance of celebration and tactile acquaintance. Such cart-loads of things Rackham has bought for her! The place is crammed with bric-a-brac: useless, useful, ugly, beautiful, ingenious, impractical: and all, as far as she can tell, expensive.
‘Let me show you, let me show you!’ he keeps saying. ‘There’s a bath, with warm water. It’s simple to use. Even a child …’
And he demonstrates the procedures for enjoying all the luxury of the modern age without the risk of mishaps.
‘Repeat the sequence,’ he urges her, for she’s rather dazed. ‘Show me you understand.’ And she does, she does.
As the wealth that William has invested in her sinks into Sugar’s brain, she moves faster and faster, whirling from room to room, from table to cabinet to bookcase, sliding her back against the walls like an animal in heat. Instead of words she utters such a variety of appreciative squeals and moans that William seizes her wrist and leads her to the bed, a king-sized monster even more arabesque than the one they kn
ow so intimately.
He catches her appraising the bed-head, quizzical, even as she unbuttons her boots: there’s no looking-glass affixed there, no reflection except what the polished grain of dark wood offers. William frowns, wondering if he’s made the right decision: he couldn’t bring himself to have a mirror rudely screwed into the lustrous teak. Oh, he considered it, calling to mind how much he liked to see, in the mirror on Sugar’s old bed, his stiff manhood disappearing into her and emerging wet and slick. He even went so far as to say to the furniture-maker, ‘I wonder, my good man, if it would be possible …’
But then he changed his mind in mid-sentence, and concluded, ‘…to carve a small, ornamental “R” just here, near the top?’
Now William carefully examines Sugar’s face, even as she prepares her body for him.
‘Do you miss the looking-glass?’ he asks her.
She laughs. ‘What do I need to look at myself for, when I have you to look at me?’
She’s wearing only her camisole now, and his trousers are bulging. He pushes her down on the mattress, and observes her eyes widen as she stares up at the canopy of the bed — yes, that’s finest Belgian lace! It’s as much as William can manage, to resist the temptation to tell her everything: the trouble he went to in choosing the furnishings, the rare and elusive objects he found, the bargains he struck … But it’s better this way, not to puncture the fairytale magic of his gift.
God almighty, her cunt is wetter than he’s ever known it before! What a state she is in! And all because of him!
‘But dear William,’ she gasps as he enters her. ‘There’s no kitchen.’
‘Kitchen?’ He’s seconds away from bursting. ‘You don’t need a kitchen, you goose,’ he groans. ‘I’ll … give you … all you need …’ And he spurts his seed inside her.
Afterwards, Sugar lies in his arms, kissing his chest a hundred times, asking forgiveness for appearing preoccupied at such a delicate moment. She was overwhelmed, she says, by his generosity — still is. It’s too much to take in all at once, her poor head is in a spin, but her cunt knows what’s what, as he can attest! And if he bears any regret that his climax was a solitary one, unaccompanied (for the first time since they met) by the simultaneous eruption of her own ecstasy, well, she’s more than willing to wait until his manhood has revived. Or if he prefers, shall she take it in her mouth? The taste of it alone is enough, she assures him, to bring her to the brink of ecstasy.