Ivoria

by Tanith Lee

  “You look lovely,” Nick said. “Dewy-eyed.”

  “Oh, that. I had… I had a sad dream. Can’t remember what it was. Never mind that.” She sat up and swung her long legs, in a ruffle of the red skirt, off the chair, standing with an ease and elegance plenty of women ten years younger would have envied. “Let’s go for a walk along the river.”

  So they went for a walk, arm in arm.

  For three years he had been taller than she.

  But he had loved her at four years old when she had swayed above him like a slender, silver, living tower.

  They saw a water-vole, he always recollected that, busily splashing by the bank. And they started to make up bits of nonexistent plays, and to invent jokes, and laugh.

  He listened to her laughter. It was a young woman’s laughter.

  They were down among those fungus-nurturing copses, in the green shade, when she said, staring off along the river, “I’ll have to veil the mirrors, Nick. With soft white gauze. Look through that. Or do you think a metal mirror would be best? The ancient Romans found them very flattering, I hear. And Elizabeth 1st did too. They don’t show lines, you see. They keep one young, at least in one’s own eyes.”

  “You are young, Claudia.” But how mature he sounded, and of another era, and he had no problem with that.

  They stood there hand in hand.

  “No, darling love, I am not young, I am getting old. I must veil my mirrors. Better safe than sad.”

  And that little phrase of hers, which later he would find he too sometimes used instead of the more normal ‘better safe than sorry’, that little phrase this time twisted in his heart.

  He had always been in love with her. Deeply and enduringly, in love. Not Oedipally, not sexually, that element had never clouded and muddled his regard, nor hers. Other women were for sex, even for fondness, affection, but never to be in love with. He had never ‘fallen in love’. There was no room for it; he was in love already. Perhaps from the moment he left her body, and then they put him into her arms, and he gazed blindly and still saw her. Or even before that. From the moment he entered her womb. From then.

  He said, by the river in the green shade, “Did that fucking prat Laurence say some stupid thing…”

  “Yes, darling. To both your statements.”

  “He’s a moron. He’s wrong.”

  “Maybe not,” she said. “But who cares anyway? I didn’t want to do another movie anyhow. It was just that Torvind was all up for it. I’d have had to go to Hungary. I’m too lazy now.”

  The rest of the day went in the usual fashion. Laurence behaved as if nothing at all had occurred. As indeed did Claudia. But she was an actor.

  Next day she was light-heartedly going to a lunch party in London, and travelled in with Nick to see him off on the train to the airport. She seemed untouched. She had forgotten. Such dross was irrelevant to her.

  And Nick went to Paris and returned and took up the brief deadly job someone had given him (to shut Joss up mostly) and then he met the Scottish woman, Sandy or Candy or Mandy. The weather had altered by then. The prolonged sherry glow of October had been dispersed. Darkness and cold hosed Britain off disapprovingly. And Edinburgh was like the inside of a freezer, only ameliorated by whisky, sex and song. Until the phone sounded its own inane little tune. “…You fool, you fucking fool - oh Nick - she’s dead - she’s dead - she died - she’s dead.”

  Less than a month between that Indian summer lawn, and the winter of the heart.

  That was how long it had taken.

  Nick, that sunny afternoon, had briefly dreamed of a mushroom murder for his brother. But Laurence was by far the more practical and skilful assassin. Not even with a flattering word, but a cruel and insensitive plethora of them.

  It had taken only those transitory days for the blade to sink right into her, to clog her sparkling veins and arteries, to form and fire the instantaneous spark of aneurism upward into her brain. Laurence by then had reached Ireland. The perfect alibi.

  And Nick had never spoken of it to another, not even to himself, even once his own mind had caught up to it and properly comprehended, years after, comprehended, that was, not in any abrupt revelation. But only in some slow, irresistible drip-drip-drip of life upon the stone of the intellect, wearing away as age wore away all the outer layers.

  Laurence had killed Claudia. It had cost him nothing. Laurence did not even know.

  11

  An ivory moon, dusted with faint blue patterns, sails above the cul-de-sac and, by the time he enters the flat, is positioned almost centrally in the window. Nick stands a while in the dark watching the moon, its ascent seeming almost visible up the cobalt wall of the dusk.

  He has been to meet Sonia.

  They had lunch today, then sex in the small hotel, one of several Sonia knows.

  He has never seen her flat. She always excuses that by saying it is too much of a mess, and even she sees it as little as possible.

  Everything went as it always has, satisfyingly well. He did not mention anything else, but finally, when they were drinking coffee and putting on their clothes, Sonia had said:

  “You know, I kept thinking about that woman you told me about - Kit? I did know a girl - oh, about a year ago – very good-looking, sort of like you described. Only she had red hair, but I do think it was dye, not like a real red, but that sort of too crimson type of thing that sort of gets lost against a red wall or red curtains. She was called Kitty. Kitty Andrew. I met her on some TV commercial I made for feminine hygiene – Christ! Oh I put on this thing and at once become the most sexy, athletic and alluring woman on earth. Despite the fact I’m bent double with period cramps - or stoned on pain killers – whee! Anyhow, Kitty was the tea-girl or whatever, but a bit of a laugh, a bit nuts. And she did once meet me from work, so she would know the sort of work, and the building too. But no, I never said a word about you, Nick.”

  He had noticed a tell-tale flicker in her eyes when she added this. Nick knows that while this can be the giveaway of the liar, also it is often the tell-tale sign of someone who fears they may be thought to be a liar, even if not lying. Often the truest test of one who deceives is that they will stare you straight in the eye.

  But anyway the name Kitty Andrew is not quite Kit Price, is it, and red is not blonde, even when dyed to match the curtains.

  In a way Nick had been regretful that Sonia had referred to it, reminding him.

  That episode is closed. It is shut out, and the mind’s door also shut, and fastened with its extra security lock.

  Kit had looked like Claudia, or he had thought she had. And to Nick, now, this appends an ultimate proviso of unlikeliness. Doubtless anyway she had no sinister motive - the break-in had no connection. He does not want to consider Kit any more.

  When the flat lights are on, Nick pours himself an orange juice and sits down with the two letters left for him in the lobby.

  He seldom receives letters. Or only junk mail, to be sloughed in the handy recycling bin downstairs.

  But now in the lamplight, although one still looks simply official, he sees the second letter is defaced by his sister’s scrawling. Serena’s handwriting manages to combine characterlessly immature round shapes with an untidy, ugly unreadability.

  Nick regards his name and address on the envelope, which appear to begin: M Lous, Plud IS.

  A second class Christmas stamp has been crookedly stuck on. Serena is not poor, and probably sends only a handful of letters per year. It reminds him, this, of a time soon after he had received his mother’s legacy, when Reenie had constantly sullenly applied to Nick for loans - always given - two hundred quid here, a thousand there, until presumably she found some other axe to grind elsewhere.

  He opens the envelope.

  ‘Muck,’ the letter starts. He translates this as his name. There is no punctuation.

  ‘nick why the fuck you cant have an email address like everybody else god knows I havent got time for this I had to rush back from 99 i
n Corfu for christs sake because of this terrible thing with laurence’ (or, cuunc, as she appears to have their brother’s name) ‘I cant believe hes dead for gods sake I keep telling angie they made some mistake and it isnt him only shes off her bloody head so its useless and I hate the fucking police and its getting to be a police state and I knew I couldnt call you after the awful fucking way you treated me when I called you after claudia died as if you were the only child for gods sake and she wasnt my mother too but you always were selfish so basically dont come to the funeral as angie’ (which looks more like orange) ‘says if she sees you there she will kill you after how you behaved to her on the phone and anyhow she is sure you got him involved with that bloody woman and some doctor or other thinks he died because of all the sex stupid fucker at 45 or whatever he is to be overdoing it I mean hes practically an old man only now hes dead’

  There is a little more, this of a slightly religious nature. It quickly becomes, even for Nick, once practiced in Serena-ese, entirely illegible. Oddly, or perhaps not, her nickname of Reenie, signed at the bottom, is curlicued but quite clear.

  Nick sits holding the letter upside down, then drops it on the wooden floor.

  Which bloody woman does Serena mean?

  Something clicks, almost like a bone, in Nick’s head.

  Is this a reference to Laurence’s female TV producer? That makes a certain sense. Since the consultation with Nick had been Laurence’s smoke screen, Laurence had perhaps intended to meet her after his visit to Nick and the hiding of the Roman pin. Their affair was doubtless already up and running. Which might even explain why Laurence had chosen to hide the pin in Nick’s flat. The new girlfriend might be the clinging, or lovingly prying sort, who would for example needlessly use Laurence’s own toothbrush, and then go through his bags, looking for a keepsake, or one of his shirts to put on. Laurence had fancied but not trusted her. But even so, would she really have caused Laurence’s death by her invitation to over-enthusiastic sexual exertion?

  There had been nothing wrong with Laurence’s health. He was the right weight, active and fit from his archaeological stints. And he was forty-two, forty-three… not old by today’s standards - even if his thirty-six year old sister suggested he was.

  Whatever else, Nick has been exempted from the funeral. Serena has furnished a get-out clause.

  He refuses to consider her remarks about her call to him in Edinburgh. He had never challenged her after on her own assault on him. But then again, he has no memory from the moment of putting down the phone to the return journey on the London train. Maybe he had picked up the phone once more and bawled obscenities at Serena. He cannot recall. Nor, of course, does he care.

  He drinks some juice, then thinks of the other envelope.

  It is addressed to Mr. N. Lewis etc: in small neat computer print, a standard font. It has no stamp but is franked in red, in-house mail from some business. It also carries a red advert, rather disconcertingly, for the very TV series Serena has been, and apparently still will be, filming one episode of in Corfu, 999-24/7.

  Nick opens the printed letter more out of ennui than anything. He cannot yet be bothered to get up, even to turn on the TV.

  The normal and successful afternoon with Sonia seems to have tired him. Perhaps he too is getting too old, suddenly. That would be a pity.

  Inside the envelope is a pristine business-like sheet, dated but without an address. Also computer printed, it looks official, but is not.

  ‘Dear Nick,’ it reads.

  ‘Dear Nick,

  ‘I’m sorry to take so long to get back to you after our recent evening together. I did try to call the following evening, but I’m afraid it was rather late, and you were either asleep or away.

  ‘As our meeting was in the nature of business, really, I felt I should be professional in my reactions, and take time to let you know what my opinion was. I hope you will, for your part, find this helpful for future reference and projects.

  ‘I felt on the whole you handled the initial situations fairly well, but obviously you have already performed some work in this line. Considering that, I have to say I think possibly you could review your opening sequences. Nothing too heavy, really! But why not at least aim for perfection? Generally, as I say, it wasn’t bad. You were punctual, quite smart, and polite, if a little, shall I say, hesitant and uninventive - which did surprise me slightly, to repeat, in light of your prior experience of the job.

  ‘However, certain aspects, as with the handling of the refreshments, cab etc:- did seem just a bit slipshod. Again, nothing dreadful, but maybe just review these scenarios and think where you can give things a tweak.

  ‘But now let’s come to your main presentation.

  ‘I felt that, despite having some reasonable basic material, and quite a decent technique, your work here left a lot to be desired. Physically, of course, you are not among the best, though I will say your hygiene and general personal grooming were nearly faultless. One suggestion though, perhaps calm down the cologne. It might be an idea to try to match up the range you use, for example. You’d be startled, evidently, to learn how often shampoo and cologne, not to mention anti-perspirants - particularly for men - can clash with each other. But once more, these are small things and easily adjusted with a touch more care and forethought.

  ‘Your work, however, in the main arena - the most important one! - was very, very disappointing. I truly am sorry to have to say this, as I had myself expected - indeed had been led to believe - that it might even be spectacular. But no such luck. To tell you your performance was adequate is, frankly, to flatter. It was not. So you do need to go back to the blackboard on this one. (Run don’t walk). After all, it is all very well to provide a half way decent escort, but when it comes down to the nitty gritty, the service your clients require, and let us not forget pay for, must be of the most superior kind. You are not, as I’m sure you’re aware, an especially cut-price outfit. That being so, everything you offer should be beyond reproach - so far beyond it, in fact, that any customer should leave your hands not only entirely satisfied, but willing to experience more. I must say I do wonder how often this has been the case. Aside, of course, from clients who are so incredibly desperate almost anything will do.

  ‘I realise some of this may come as something of a shock to you. It is a fact about women, and I will now let you into the secret, that very often they do not tell the truth to men - any man - either about their feelings or their needs, let alone what they truly dislike or find lacking. In being honest, I am sincerely trying to help you, Nick, as you seemed quite a nice person, if rather naive and limited in your outlook, and, I’m afraid, ability.

  ‘And I do - I am a great optimist! - feel that with a lot more painstaking attention and concentrated work, you should, hopefully, be able eventually to perform to a much higher standard.

  ‘To that end, I’ll now offer a few pointers and suggestions which I hope you will accept, as with the rest of this letter, in the spirit I tender them.

  ‘Firstly, join a gym and start some work-outs. They will be very good for you, both mentally and physically, but there is the more important point that, while your body isn’t in too bad shape for now, in a year or so others, if not you, will begin to notice a deterioration. Secondly, enlist the assistance of really good professionals in the areas of clothing, hair-styling and, as mentioned earlier, scent. Your main research however must be, I’m afraid, in the field you have chosen. You really must learn more about what you are doing, polish and refine those few natural gifts that are already yours, and bring the whole package together in a professionally acceptable manner. At the moment, alas, if I had to award you marks out of ten, you would only receive a rather weak 2, with perhaps, one more for effort, why not?

  ‘You’ll understand from this, obviously, that I won’t be seeking to renew our acquaintance. But do let me wish you every future success - once you have ironed out all those glitches.

  ‘Best Wishes,

  K.P.�
��

  The moon, unwatched, has reached the top of the eight-sided window. It always goes faster - or sometimes more slowly - if unobserved. It is bone white now; ivory.

  Nick sits staring at the letter from K.P., who is - is it? - Kit Price.

  Suddenly he bursts out laughing, and as he does so, he hears himself.

  He too sounds young, years younger, about twenty, maybe.

  Amused, amazed, he starts to read the letter again.

  Then abruptly, instead of hilarity, a wave of the most intense and primitive anger grips him.

  He finds he has stood up. He is crushing the letter in his fist as if it were Kit Price’s pure white neck.

  And again, caught in the core of this rage - this murderous rage - he is astounded, now at himself.

  Why is he angry? If he even needed it, there has been plenty of contrary proof. Besides, if it comes to it, to coin a phrase, orgasm may be felt in muscular spasms not only watched as acted out. Kit Price had come like a fucking roller coaster, three times.

  He puts the crumpled ball of letter on the table, and goes to the fridge for another juice.

  Only gradually he sees that perhaps his animal reaction was not for himself at all. He has, decidedly, the sense she has written this letter, or similar stuff, before. Not every man is confident, or has reason to be. Is she then complimentary to them?

  If not, how many have got hurt? And why has she done it? She is mad, that must be the answer.

  Nick remembers knocking on the door of the basement flat and the figure, perhaps Kit or not, perhaps not there, but if there, seeming to hide and to listen - in fear? Probably she has needed to take refuge, to hide, quite frequently.

  He smiles again. But is even that real?

  And someone knocks.

  Someone knocks on the door of Nick’s flat.

  Only one clipped thump. But Nick now stands there unmoving. He has forgotten Kit. He too is now listening, even hiding. Trying to decide again if the shadow is far enough behind, or getting close again. And if it is sensible to open the door.