I thought I saw movement at the window. When I looked back, she had gone.
So I went into the kitchen, switched on the kettle. One last hurrah before departure. Within moments the familiar aroma of burnt ozone had returned. She was behind me. I caught a glimpse of her in the metallic sheen of the kettle.
There was a knife in her hand.
In one quick, swift moment, I spun round, tried to take it from her, but she wasn’t having any of it.
“Your funeral,” I mocked.
She laughed, but it wasn’t mirth, it was melancholy.
I don’t think that matters now, do you? Not now.
She was serious. Deadly.
The kettle began to boil.
“We used to laugh, didn’t we?”
Of course we did.
As the kettle sang that all was over, I stared into the steam, expecting to see a string of fat girls dancing the cancan. But they weren’t there. It was all in my imagination.
I closed my eyes. Could hear the tapping of the knife on the Formica. The blackness swirled around me. The room was full of smoke and I started to fall, to fall into the decent of madness. Drawn in like a moth to a flame.
When I came to, somewhere out back, the mirror cracked. “Cut it out, cut it out!” I started to hit the air, hit myself, bouncing off the walls. But it wasn’t now, it was before. Before all the insanity.
I must have banged my head on the floor. The blood poured freely. There was a large bruise under my eye. How long had I been doing this? “Cut it out, cut it out!” I kept screaming over and over again.
The loneliness is coming. It is time to dance in the long grass.
I tried to sit up but I must have been shackled to the floor. “What do you mean?”
It’s all consuming. Prepare, for it has arrived.
And fuck, was she right.
The bonds are released, I am lifted to my feet and carried to the bathroom. Been here before, I know it. The light overhead flickers on and off. My hand on the cord, a naked reflection in the floor tiles. Words are scorched into the walls, the ceiling. Blood all over my body. Ghosts hover above me, around me. In me.
Lilly is on the floor. Fresh. Just like I remember. Just after I killed her. Not naked. Wearing her coat. I seem to think she said something about an affair, someone in her office. Divorce. She wanted to leave me. Someone who could give her what she wanted. Not me. Her face pulped, her teeth broken. The only feeling I have now is indifference. Not particularly bothered at all that she was dead or at what I’d done. A pool of her blood heads towards me; I dip my toes in the warmness. Writing my name in the redness of it all. A hardness in my groin.
But the wave she promised hits me and I drown in pity. I put my hands to my face to protect me from the onslaught and wait. And wait. And wait.
When I peer through the gap between my fingers, I look towards the mirror. She’s returned, in all her putrefied glory.
A reflection, a shadow as she stands behind me. Her hands on my hips, bringing her into me. I try to fight it, to turn away; this sight revolts me and yet it’s obvious I’m still excited. I want to remember what she was, not what she is. But that doesn’t work either – after all she was a first-class bitch. Well, that’s not the whole story, she was at the end though and that’s all I want to know. Though was she always? I can’t be sure. I feel boxed in.
There is something sharp at my throat. I don’t want to see it but I take it nonetheless. “Trust me,” she whispers, using my voice.
And suddenly everything is clear. She nibbles at my earlobe. It wasn’t her that died that day, it was me.
The light bulb explodes. The world is darkness. I draw the knife across my throat and the scarlet drops begin to fall – for the first time ever I feel love. Albeit if the concluding kiss is steel.
As I fall to the floor, I hear the front door close. But whether or not she left me, I will never be certain. One thing’s for sure, I’ll fucking miss her. Yet tomorrow is another day and I have the strangest of feelings one of us will be back...outside time has stopped still and yet the children still play in the street, in the yard, in the fields.
Until she returns, I hope in the meantime I can get by myself. After all, it’s never too late to invite friends to the last day of your life.
Bradley & Emmanuelle At The Gates Of Hell
Friday 2nd September 2011 5.10pm – the Musée Rodin, Paris, France
“It’s definitely something isn’t it?” a voice behind them said.
Emmanuelle turned her head. An old man standing there. A tattered and beaten book in his hand (which he held close to his chest). A golden crucifix hanging around his neck. He wore a simple black cassock which covered most of his body, sandals upon his feet. He was obviously a priest of some kind (unless he was in fancy dress of course, Emmanuelle chuckled to herself). It was odd that he had spoken to them in English though, albeit with what sounded like a French – Dutch accent (if an accent like that actually existed!) perhaps both her and her fiancé Bradley stuck out like sore thumbs – which was annoying considering she was at least a fifth French (on her mother’s side).
What a cunt, thought Bradley.
He was not in a good mood, not at all.
Which was unfortunate because they had actually had a really good day. He closed his eyes and counted to ten before opening them again. He was tired, wanted to go back to the hotel and take a quick nap before hitting the bars and cafes on the Left Bank later on. He had even liked the look of that really old place he’d spied over by the Pont Neuf bridge – the Highlander, he seemed to remember it being called. Looked like it was a good old pub steeped in history.
Of course, he wasn’t expecting to get any rest between now and then. His head was spinning, they had seen far too much to take in properly and whilst it had been quite amusing to begin with, they’d done what, four or five museums since they’d set off at 7am that morning? Coming here was just one too many – Emmanuelle had even suggested they might fit in a quick tour of that modern art gallery they’d passed on the way from the Varenne Metro station but no, enough was enough, he was putting his foot down.
Whilst Bradley nursed his banging headache (also probably caused by that fucking carousel that they’d seen, that she’d climbed upon, that fucking music had really grated with him, how old was she? 12?) and was totally lost in his own thoughts, Emmanuelle wanted to engage the old man in conversation (but whether that was because she knew religious people really wound him up or that she was generally interested in what the man had to say, Bradley wasn’t sure and thus he believed the best thing to do was keep his mouth tightly shut).
“What is it?” she asked.
Bradley frowned, convinced now that she was doing it on purpose; there was a fucking great sign next to the thing that said what it was!
The old priest though seemed completely in his element. “It certainly is monumental, wouldn’t you agree? It’s called the Gates of Hell and depicts a scene from Dante’s Inferno. It’s by Rodin...”
“...obviously,” Bradley muttered, rubbing at his forehead.
The priest continued. “It is said there are about 200 figures in those doors, probably one or two you even recognise.”
Patronising bastard.
He pointed them out as he spoke. “There are The Three Shadows, there Ugolino And His Children, there The Kiss and right in the centre, The Thinker.”
“Breathtaking,” she said, captivated, really getting into it. “It’s very beautiful but at the same time ugly, horrific, terrifying.” She paused. “Beautiful people forever damned there at the doors to hell.”
The priest smiled. “You took the words out of my mouth.” He breathed, then added, “How rude, I haven’t introduced myself, my name is Abbé Louis Van Haecke.”
He held out his hand.
“I’m Emmanuelle, this is Bradley. We’re going to be married soon.”
“How lovely,” the priest replied. He took her clasped hand, kissed it.
/> Bradley shot Emmanuelle his look and if looks could kill then she’d be down on the ground right now, her head smashed into the marble tiles, her eyeballs ripped from her skull, a massive wound in her chest, her throat slit, her breasts bitten off and forced into her mouth and then he’d start on that cunt of hers, what fucking fun he would have with that – it just wouldn’t be his dick that he forced into her; he curled his fingers into a fist and then wondered how far he could get his hand in there.
There was a rancid taste in his mouth, something disgusting in his nostrils, a smell of incense and death. He coughed hard and shook his head, tried his best to banish such thoughts out of his mind – where the hell had that come from? What the hell was he thinking? She was his beautiful fiancée for goodness sake. He loved her. Worshipped her. Wouldn’t dare harm a single hair on her head. He wished he could have a glass of that red wine he’d sampled earlier in the day, when they were at the carousel...
“Has it captivated you too, young man?” the priest asked, staring at Bradley right in the eyes, as if he was peering deep into his soul, as if he knew full well what Bradley was thinking.
“I guess it has,” Bradley replied, sounding nonplussed but also confused by the images he had conjured up of Emmanuelle dead and what he planned to do to her corpse.
The priest was perplexed. “You guess?” he mocked, gesticulating with the tattered book. “A great piece of art and you can’t come up with anything more constructive than guesswork?” He closed his eyes, kissed his book and muttered something under his breath. After a couple of moments he shook his head, spat on the floor and walked away.
“Looks like I pissed him off,” Bradley said, a small smile on his lips.
When he turned to face Emmanuelle, he saw that look scratched right across her face. “Oh Christ, don’t tell me I’ve pissed you off too? You know what I’m like with that lot, full of their own smugness, their own self-importance. Come on baby, don’t look at me like that.”
Emmanuelle turned away, shrugging as she did so. She headed towards another exhibit.
Bradley followed, grabbed her. “What’s the matter now?” he asked her.
She shook her head.
He ran a hand through his tight blonde hair, wiped his face. Christ, he was hot all of a sudden. It was like a furnace in the museum. Weren’t they supposed to keep the exhibits at an even temperature, he was positive he’d read that somewhere...he needed to get some fresh air. He decided to try again. He didn’t want to argue with her.
“Look, I’m sorry, I’m not sure why you’re angry but let’s not fight.”
She knocked away the arm that he was trying to put around her, to bring her close into him.
“What the fuck has got into you?!” he said a little more loudly than he’d wanted to, so much so that one or two of the other visitors noticed and looked over. In particular a young boy with red hair who seemed totally captivated by their argument. He looked familiar, didn’t he?
“That’s just so typical of you.” There were tears in her eyes.
Emmanuelle tried her best to hide it, but no doubt, she was angry. She stormed away.
Bradley stood there for a moment, not exactly sure what he should do. The eyes of the others bored down into him. He weighed up the pros and cons, then decided the best thing to do was follow her.
He did sigh deeply however.
*
Bradley eventually found Emmanuelle amongst the plants, the shrubs, the flowers, in the Garden of Orpheus to the rear of the museum. She didn’t see him approach; she was lost in her own dreams. He stood there watching her. Eventually she stood up, wiped the dried tears from her face.
“I’m sorry Emmanuelle, I didn’t mean to upset you, I can be quite a bastard at times, I know that, but please forgive me.”
She turned away and whispered. “I think I saw a cafeteria, I could do with a cappuccino.”
*
The cafe wasn’t that busy. He looked up at the clock; it was half five, they only had fifteen minutes or so before the cafe closed. He stared through the windows. It looked overcast; a storm was on the horizon.
Since they’d sat down, they hadn’t spoken, but he knew that her coldness was beginning to thaw. It was obvious in her body language, the way she played with her spoon. Okay, she wasn’t talking now, but she would do. This was a good thing; he didn’t like falling out with her, and often they didn’t, but when they did – the make-up sex was amazing. He could certainly do with a bit of that right now. He scanned the room for the toilets, Emmanuelle wasn’t always up for al fresco lovemaking but he knew she could be persuaded if he pressed the right buttons.
He reached out, playfully made a grab for her hand, was encouraged when she didn’t move away, under the table his leg touched hers...
“Do you mind if I sit down?”
That damned priest again. Emmanuelle withdrew her hand. “Be our guest.”
He smiled. “Many thanks. I’m sorry about my behaviour later. I don’t always seem myself nowadays. Must be my age.” He sat, put his coffee or whatever it was on the table along with his tattered book.
For a couple of moments, no one spoke. Emmanuelle could feel that Bradley was trying hard to keep his anger in and not to let it get the better of him.
“Some say that the Gates of Hell is cursed.” the priest said eventually.
Emmanuelle was hooked immediately. “Really?”
“I am from Bruges originally, I have travelled to Paris to see for myself. I have heard many strange things about it.”
Bradley sighed. “Don’t be ridiculous. You are a priest for goodness sake, you shouldn’t be talking about curses and all that crap.”
The priest sipped his drink. “Crap? You can be sure of that, can you, young man?”
“Of course I can. This is the 21st Century after all.”
“I see,” the priest replied before adding, “You’re probably right, just an old wives’ tale. What a foolish man I am.”
A triumphant smile crossed Bradley’s chops, but Emmanuelle looked disappointed. “Please, go on, please tell us the rest of the story. I’m interested even if he isn’t.”
The priest picked up his book, flicked through the pages, then pushed it across the table. “You can read French?” he asked.
“A little,” she replied, scanning the book and starting to translate the words.
Bradley peered over; he was a little surprised as he had thought the priest’s book must have been a Bible but now he could see it wasn’t – it was full of small writing, gothic almost and lots of drawings. An odd book for a man of the cloth to be carrying.
Emmanuelle looked up after a minute or two. “I can translate some of this, but not all, some of the French is a little archaic...”
“Medieval,” the priest replied curtly. “Not archaic. There is a difference.”
“Sorry,” Emmanuelle apologised and reddened in the process. Bradley wasn’t happy with the way the priest had reacted. He grabbed the book, rifled through it.
Oddly (and if he admitted, a little disappointedly) Bradley was entranced by what he saw (not that he could read the words of course – he was good at many things but languages wasn’t one of them) – the drawings of devils, burnings, hellish creatures, tortures.
“What is this?” he asked.
“A Grimoire,” the priest replied.
A look of panic crossed Emmanuelle’s face. “That’s something to do with black magic isn’t it?”
Bradley held the book to his nose. “Smells a bit, doesn’t it?”
The priest snatched it back.
“Hey, I was getting into that,” Bradley stated. He smelt his fingers. “What were the pages made of? They smell disgusting. Old. Musty.” He turned his nose up, rubbed his hands on his trouser legs.
As the priest put the book amongst the folds of his cassock, he smiled. “Human skin.”
Emmanuelle spat out her coffee, immediately apologised, grabbed a small napkin out of the dispenser on t
he table and wiped away the spilt drink.
“That’s enough,” Bradley said, the anger rising. “Why are you trying to scare us?”
Shaking his head, the priest replied, “I’m not trying to scare you, I’m trying to show you the truth.”
“Truth?” Bradley mocked. “This isn’t truth this is bullsh...”
The priest grabbed Bradley’s arm, pinned it down on the table. Such visible strength from someone so ancient. “Do I look like I’m joking?”
Bradley tried to move his arm but the old man held tight, he was damn strong. He turned to Emmanuelle and tried to laugh it off but she could tell in his eyes that it was hurting him.
“Please...” she started.
“Please what?” the priest snarled.
“Let him go, he didn’t mean any harm, it’s just his sense of humour.”
“I don’t find him funny,” the priest replied.
Emmanuelle tried to remove the old man’s hand but he was quick; with his other hand he knocked hers way. His flesh felt like fire. She rubbed at her wound.
“And as for you, bitch! You deserve everything that’s coming to you,” he sneered.
She had no idea what he was talking about, but she reddened and looked down. The skin on her hand was going red, blistering almost. It smarted like hell.
“Couple of young fuckers aren’t you?” the priest spat. In any other situation, the way he was talking, particularly with his strong accent, would have been amusing. But not right there and then.
“You think your shit doesn’t stink, don’t you? But that’s all you are, don’t you understand anything about your miserable existence? Piles of stinking shit wrapped in a rotting burlap sack. Not worth anything to anyone, not even the steam off my piss! A couple of godless cunts, if I had the time I’d stick this cross right up both your assholes and fuck your pus-filled wounds until Judgement Day.”
“You’re really starting to piss me off...oooowww,” Bradley retorted, but instantly regretted it as the priest applied more pressure.
“Yet what the fuck are you going to do about it? I could rip the brains right out of your skull and you would be powerless to stop me,” he stated coldly before turning to Emmanuelle. “And imagine what I could do to her cunt? I could make cities of her flesh and we would feast forever.”
Through A Forest Dark Page 6