“It’s no use, Sidra,” he said.
Her lips twitched and still she prayed: “Get him out of here! Change anything—everything, only take him away. Let him vanish. Let the darkness and the void devour him. Let him dwindle, fade—”
“Sidra,” he shouted, “stop that!” He poked her violently. “You can’t get rid of me that way—it’s too late!”
She stopped as a final panic overtook her and congealed her brain.
“Once you’ve decided on your world,” Ardis explained carefully as though to a child, “you’re committed to it. There’s no changing your mind and making minor alterations. Weren’t you told?”
“No,” she whispered, “we weren’t told.”
“Well, now you know.”
She was mute, numb and wooden. Not so much wooden as putty. She followed his directions without a word; drove carefully to the little park of trees that was behind her house, and parked there.
Very carefully, Ardis explained that they would have to enter the house through the servants’ door.
“You don’t,” he said, “walk openly to murder. Only clever criminals in storybooks do that. We, in real life, find it best to be cautious.”
Real life! she thought hysterically as they got out of the car. Reality! That Thing in the shelter— Aloud, she said: “You sound experienced.”
“Through the park,” he answered, touching her lightly on the arm. “We shan’t be seen.”
The path through the trees was narrow and the grass and prickly shrubs on either side were high.
Ardis stepped aside and then followed her as she passed the iron gate and entered. He strode a few paces behind her.
“As to the experience,” he said, “yes—I’ve had plenty. But then, you ought to know, Sidra.”
She didn’t know. She didn’t answer. Trees, brush and grass were thick around her, and although she had traversed this park a hundred times, they were alien and distorted. They were not alive—no, thank God for that—she was not yet imagining things; but for the first time she realized how skeletal and haunted they looked. Almost as if each had participated in some sordid murder or suicide through the years.
Deeper into the park, a dank mist made her cough, and behind her, Ardis patted her back sympathetically. She quivered like a length of supple steel under his touch, and when she had stopped coughing and the hand still remained on her shoulder, she knew in another burst of terror what he would attempt here in the darkness.
She quickened her stride. The hand left her shoulder and hooked at her arm. She yanked her arm free and ran crazily down the path, stumbling on her stilt heels. There was a muffled exclamation from Ardis and she heard the swift pound of his feet as he pursued her.
The path led down a slight depression and past a marshy little pond. The earth turned moist and sucked at her feet with hollow grunts. In the warmth of the night her skin began to prickle and perspire, but the sound of his panting was close behind her.
Her breath was coming in gasps and when the path veered and began to mount, she felt her lungs would burst. Her legs were aching and it seemed that at the next instant she would flounder to the ground. Dimly through the trees, she made out the iron gate at the other side of the park, and with the little strength left to her she redoubled her efforts to reach it.
But what, she wondered dizzily, what after that? He’ll overtake me in the street— Perhaps before the street—I should have turned for the car—I could have driven— He clutched at her shoulder as she passed the gate and she would have surrendered at that moment. Then she heard voices and saw figures on the street across from her. She cried: “Hello, there!” and ran to them, her shoes clattering on the pavement. As she came close, still free for the moment, they turned.
“So sorry,” she babbled crazily, “thought I recognized you ... was walking through the par—”
She stopped short. Staring at her were Finchley, Braugh and Lady Sutton.
“Sidra darling! What the devil are you doing here?” Lady Sutton demanded. She cocked her gross head forward to examine Sidra’s face, then nudged at Braugh and Finchley with her elbows. “The girl’s been running through the park. Mark my words, Chris, she’s touched.”
“Looks like she’s been chevied,” Braugh answered. He stepped to one side and peered past Sidra’s shoulder, his white head gleaming in the starlight.
Sidra caught her breath at last and looked about uneasily. Ardis stood alongside her, calm and affable as ever. There was, she thought helplessly, no use trying to explain. No one would believe her.
No one would help.
She said: “Just a bit of exercise. It was such a lovely night.”
“Exercise!” Lady Sutton snorted. “Now I know you’re cracked!”
Finchley said: “Why’d you pop off like that, Sidra? Bob was furious. We’ve just been driving him home.”
“I—” It was too insane. She’d seen Finchley vanish through the veil of fire less than an hour ago-vanish into the world of his own choosing. Yet here he was, asking questions.
Ardis murmured: “Finchley was in your world, too. He’s still here.”
“But that’s impossible!” Sidra exclaimed. “There can’t be two Finchleys.”
“Two Finchleys?” Lady Sutton echoed. “Now I know where you’ve been and gone, my girl! You’re drunk. Reeling, stinking drunk. Running through the park! Exercise! Two Finchleys!”
And Lady Sutton? But she was dead. She had to be! They’d murdered her less than— Again Ardis murmured: “That was another world ago, Sidra. This is your new world, and Lady Sutton belongs in it.
Everyone belongs in it—except your husband.”
“But . . . even though she’s dead?”
Finchley started and asked: “Who’s dead?”
“I think,” Braugh said, “we’d better get her upstairs and put her to bed.”
“No,” Sidra said, “no—there’s no need—really! I’m quite all right.”
“Oh, let her be!” Lady Sutton grunted. She gathered her coat around her tub of a waist and moved off. “You know our motto, m’lads. ‘Never Interfere.’ See you and Bob at the shelter next week, Sidra.
‘Night—”
“Good night.”
Finchley and Braugh moved off, too—the three figures merging with the shadows with the delicate shadings of a misty fade-out. And as they vanished, Sidra heard Braugh murmur: “The motto ought to be
‘Unashamed’!”
“Nonsense,” Finchley answered. “Shame is a sensation we seek like all others, it redu—”
Then they were gone.
And with a return of that horrible chill, Sidra realized that they had not seen Ardis—nor heard him—nor been aware even of his— “Naturally,” Ardis interrupted.
“But how, naturally?”
“You’ll understand later. Just now we’ve a murder before us.”
“No!” she cried, hanging back. “No!”
“How’s this, Sidra? Afld after you’ve looked forward to this moment for so many years. Planned it.
Feasted on it—”
“I’m ... too upset . . . unnerved.”
“You’ll be calmer. Come along.”
Together they walked a few steps down the narrow street, turned up the gravel path and passed the gate that led to the back court. As Ardis reached out for the knob of the servants’ door, he hesitated and turned a suffused face to her.
“This,” he said, “is your moment, Sidra. It begins now. This is the time when you break that chain and make payment for a life’s worth of agony. This is the day when you balance the account. Love is good—hate is better. Forgiveness is a trifling virtue—passion is all-consuming and the end-all of living!”
He pushed open the door, grasped her elbow and dragged her after him into the pantry. It was dark and filled with odd corners. They eased through the darkness cautiously, reached the swinging door that led to the kitchen, and pushed past it. Sidra stared and gagged. She uttered a faint m
oan and sagged against Ardis.
It had been a kitchen at one time. Now the stoves and sinks, cupboards and tables, chairs, closets and all loomed high and twisted like the distorted scenery of a nightmare jungle. A dull-blue spark glittered on the floor, and around it cavorted a score of silent shadows.
They were solidified smoke—semiliquid gas. Their translucent depths writhed and interplayed with the nauseating surge of living muck. Like looking through a microscope, Sidra thought in sick horror, at those creatures that foul corpse-blood; that scum a slack-water stream; that fill a swamp with noisome vapors—And most hideous of all, they were all in the wavering gusty image of her husband. Twenty Robert Peels, gesticulating obscenely and singing a whispered chorus:
“Quis multa gracilis te puer in rosa
Perfusus liquidis urget odoribus
Grato, Sidra, sub antro?”
“Ardis! What is this?”
“Don’t know yet, Sidra.”
“But these shapes!”
“We’ll find out.”
Twenty leaping vapors crowded around them, still chanting. Sidra and Ardis were driven forward and stood at the brink of that sapphire spark that burned in the air a few inches above the floor. Gaseous fingers pushed and probed at Sidra, pinched and prodded while the blue figures cavorted with hissing laughter, slapping their naked rumps in weird ecstasies.
A slash on Sidra’s arm made her start and cry out, and when she looked down, unaccountable beads of blood stood out on the white skin of her wrist. And even as she stared in disembodied enchantment, her wrist was raised to Ardis’ lips. Then his wrist was raised to her mouth and she felt the stinging salt of his blood on her lips.
“No!” she screamed. “I don’t believe this. You’re making me see this—”
She turned and ran from the kitchen toward the serving pantry. Ardis was close behind her. And the blue shapes still hissed a droning chorus:
“Qui nunc te fruitur credulus aurea:
Qui semper vacuam, semper amabilem,
Sperat, nescius aurae
Fallacis—”
When they reached the foot of the winding stairs that led to the upper floors, Sidra clutched at the balustrade for support. With her free hand she dabbed at her mouth to erase the salt taste that made her stomach crawl.
“I think I’ve an idea what all that was,” Ardis said.
She stared at him.
“A sort of betrothal ceremony,” he went on casually. “You’ve read of something like that before, haven’t you? Odd, wasn’t it? Some powerful influences in this house. Recognize those phantoms?”
She shook her head insanely. What was the use of thinking—talking?
“Didn’t, eh? We’ll have to see about this. I never cared for unsolicited haunting. We shan’t have any more of this tomfoolery in the future—” He mused for a moment, then pointed up the stairs. “Your husband’s up there, I think. Let’s continue.”
They trudged up the sweeping gloomy stairs, and the last vestiges of Sidra’s sanity struggled up, step by step, with her.
One: You go up the stairs. Stairs leading up to what? More madness? That damned Thing in the shelter!
Two: This is hell, not reality.
Three: Or nightmare. Yes! Nightmare. Lobster last night. Where were we last night, Bob and I?
Four: Dear Bob. Why did I ever—And this Ardis. I know why he’s so familiar. Why he almost speaks my thoughts. He’s probably some—
Five: —nice young man who plays tennis in real life. Distorted by a dream. Yes.
Six—
Seven—
“Don’t run into it!” Ardis cautioned.
She halted in her tracks, and simply stared. There were no more screams or shudders left in her. She simply stared at the thing that hung with a twisted head from the beam over the stair landing. It was her husband, limp and slack, dangling at the end of a length of laundry rope.
The limp figure swayed ever so slightly, like the gentle swing of a massive pendulum. The mouth was wrinkled into a sardonic grin and the eyes popped from their sockets and glanced down at her with impudent humor. Vaguely, Sidra was aware that ascending steps behind it showed through the twisted form.
“Join hands,” the corpse said in sacrosanct tones.
“Bob!”
“Your husband?” Ardis exclaimed.
“Dearly beloved,” the corpse began, “we are gathered together in the sight of God and in the face of this company to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony; which is commanded to be honorable among all men and therefore is not by any to be entered into unadvisedly or lightly—” The voice boomed on and on and on.
“Bob!” Sidra croaked.
“Kneel!” the corpse commanded.
Sidra flung her body to one side and ran stumbling up the stairs. She faltered for a gasping instant, then Ardis’ strong hands grasped her. Behind them the shadowy corpse intoned: “I pronounce you man and wife—”
Ardis whispered: “We must be quick, now! Very quick!”
But at the head of the stairs Sidra made a last bid for liberty. She abandoned all hope of sanity, of understanding. All she wanted was freedom—and a place where she could sit in solitude, free of the passions that were hedging her in, gutting her soul. There was no word spoken, no gesture made. She drew herself up and faced Ardis squarely. This was one of the times, she understood, when you fought motionlessly.
For minutes they stood, facing each other in the dark hall. To their right was the descending well of the stairs; to the left, Sidra’s bedroom; behind them, the short hallway that led to Peel’s study—to the room where he was so unconsciously awaiting slaughter. Their eyes met, clashed and battled silently.
And even as Sidra met that deep, gleaming glance, she knew with an agonizing sense of desperation that she would lose.
There was no longer any will, any strength, any courage left in her. Worse, by some spectral osmosis it seemed to have drained out of her into the man that faced her. While she fought she realized that her rebellion was like that of a hand or a finger rebelling against its guiding brain.
Only one sentence she spoke: “For Heaven’s sake! Who are you?”
And again he answered: “You’ll find out—soon. But I think you know already. I think you know!”
Helpless, she turned and entered her bedroom. There was a revolver there and she understood she was to get it. But when she pulled open the drawer and yanked aside the piles of silk clothes to pick it up, the clothes felt thick and moist. As she shuddered, Ardis reached past her and picked up the gun.
Clinging to the butt, a finger tight-clenched around the trigger, was a hand, the stump of a wrist clotted and torn.
Ardis clucked his lips impatiently and tried to pry the hand loose. It would not give. He pressed and twisted a finger at a time and still the sickening corpse-hand clenched the gun stubbornly. Sidra sat at the edge of the bed like a child, watching the spectacle with naïve interest, noting the way the broken muscles and tendons on the stump flexed as Ardis tugged.
There was a crimson snake oozing from under the closed bathroom door. It writhed across the hardwood floor, thickening to a small river as it touched her skirt so gently. As Ardis tossed the gun down angrily, he noted the stream. Quickly he stepped to the bathroom and thrust open the door, then slammed it a second later. He jerked his head at Sidra and said: “Come on!”
She nodded mechanically and arose, careless of the sopping skirt that smacked against her calves. At Peel’s study she turned the doorknob carefully until a faint click warned her that the latch was open, then she pushed the door in. The leaf opened to reveal her husband’s study in semi-darkness. The desk was before the high window curtains and Peel sat at it, his back to them. He was hunched over a candle or a lamp or some rosy light that enhaloed his body and sent streams of light flickering out. He never moved.
Sidra tiptoed forward, then hesitated. Ardis touched finger to lips and moved like a swift cat to the cold fireplac
e where he picked up the heavy bronze poker. He brought it to Sidra and held it out urgently. Her hand reached out of its own accord and took the cool metal handle. Her fingers gripped it as though they had been born for murder.
Against all that impelled her to advance and raise the poker over Peel’s head, something weak and sick inside her cried out and prayed. Cried, prayed and moaned with the mewlings of a fevered child.
Like spilt water, the last few drops of her self-possessions trembled before they disappeared altogether.
Then Ardis touched her. His fingers pressed against the small of her back and a charge of bestiality shocked along her spine with cruel, jagged edges. Surging with hatred, rage and livid vindictiveness, she raised the poker high and crashed it down over the still-motionless head of her husband.
The entire room burst into a silent explosion. Lights flared and shadows whirled. Remorselessly, she beat and pounded at the falling body that toppled out of the chair to the floor. She struck again and again, her breath whistling hysterically, until the head was a mashed, bloodied pulp. Only then did she let the poker drop and reel back.
Ardis knelt beside the body and turned it over.
“He’s dead all right. This is the moment you prayed for, Sidra. You’re free!” She looked down in horror. Dully, from the crimsoned carpet, a slightly distorted corpse face stared back. It showed the drawn, high-strung features, the coal-black eyes, the coal-black hair dipping over the brow in a sharp widow’s peak.
She moaned as understanding touched her.
The face said: “This is Sidra Peel. In this man whom you have slaughtered you have killed yourself—killed the only part of yourself worth saving.”
She cried: “Aieeee—” and clasped arms about herself, rocking in agony.
“Look well on me,” the face said. “By my death you have broken a chain— only to find another!”
And she knew. She understood. For though she still rocked and moaned in the agony that would be never-ending, she saw Ardis arise and advance on her with arms outstretched. His eyes gleamed and were pools of horror; and his reaching arms were tendrils of her own unslaked passion eager to enfold her. And once enfolded, she knew there would be no escape—no escape from this sickening marriage to her own lusts that would forever caress her.
Selected Stories of Alfred Bester Page 23