The Body

by Dean Clayton Edwards

  Tonight would be different.

  Roger was her family now.

  Tonight she would formally cut all ties with her sisters.

  *

  Though she was racked by anxiety, that feeling gave way to excitement, because Roger was with her. She felt that as long as they were together, they would be able to overcome anything. He'd never leave her and he'd protect her from the things that crept and jumped and attempted to whittle her away.

  She took Roger's hand, turned the key and pushed open the door.

  As usual, it swung open silently. The smell of varnish and wood polish flowed out to greet them.

  Taking a subtle, deep breath, she stepped over the threshold, waited for Roger to pull the bags inside and then asked him to shut the door behind him.

  "Your mother doesn't waste money on heating," Roger said. "Right?" He shivered as though they'd just entered a tomb.

  "I've never minded the cold," she said, adjusting the thermostat on the wall. There was a click and a whumph followed by the low rumble of a boiler.

  "It's new," she said of the boiler. "Mother's unfamiliar with anything that was made in the last twenty years so it hasn't been used for a while."

  "It's an amazing space," Roger said, admiring the shiny, wooden floor and the sparse, off-white walls, which stretched up to the dark, oak beams of the ceiling. "Really wonderful."

  "It's cobwebby," she said. "And it does get cold in the winter. But I'm glad you like it. Don't get too used to it, mind. We won't be able to stay. Not with my mother here. We won't have our privacy, you see?"

  "Fine," he said absent-mindedly, looking at a bookcase in the hall, on which were growing two house plants with stems stretching down towards the ground. The vines appeared to have been reaching for each other and they were intertwined nearest the floor.

  "This is the drawing room," Lara said, throwing open a door to the left. Light from the setting sun spilled out.

  "Interesting," Roger said.

  "What is?"

  "That you have a drawing room," he said. "And that you call it a drawing room. I don't even know what a drawing room is."

  "We never use it," Lara said.

  There was a fireplace here, a mantlepiece and four wooden chairs around a table. It did look like the house of a woman who died. Every time Lara opened a door, she could have begun with:

  "You know, it's just the way she left it when she died."

  "... like a museum," Roger said in wonder.

  The ceilings were always very high above them. Their footsteps echoed.

  "This place is antique," he said. "It must be worth a fortune."

  He gazed up the bare wooden staircase as if looking up a skirt.

  "This way," Lara said. "Let me show you the kitchen first."

  This was perhaps the least impressive of the rooms so far, but he could have fit his flat into this room without it touching the sides.

  Large windows looked out into a very untidy garden with waist-high grass and brambles and a wooden perimeter fence aiming to reign it all in. The setting sun was turning the landscape into black shapes and giving them orange and red halos.

  The kitchen itself was draughty and thus cold, but Roger was cheered by the sight of an enormous cooker with six hobs and an oven door that would require two hands to open it. Pots and pans hung on hooks around the walls and there was a table in the middle of the room with a massive cutting board, as large as a small table itself, kitchen knives in a block, a pack of butter at an ambient temperature, a roll of paper towels.

  "Would you like a drink?" Lara said, indicating the kettle. "I'm not ... sure ... if we have coffee."

  "No," Roger said, distracted. His eyes were on the ceiling again and then rolling over the frieze. "Thank you ... There's something about this place. It's like a history book. Like a real-life, pop-up history book."

  "It's home," Lara shrugged, feeling faintly insulted by his intrigue.

  Roger pointed to the door back to the hall.

  "May I?" he said.

  Lara followed Roger back through the house. He immediately stood at the bottom of the stairs and looked up.

  "Are you sure your mother's not here?" he said.

  "Quite sure," she said, staring up into darkness beside him.

  "Where's the light? I'd like to explore if I may."

  "No," Lara said suddenly and added: "This is my home, not a playground."

  "Evidently," Roger said. "Perhaps you would be so kind as to complete the tour? I promise to be good."

  Reluctantly, she flicked on the light to the upstairs landing.

  "Should we bring the bags?" Roger suggested.

  She looked at them, leaning up in front of the door like dead bodies. If her sisters spooked Roger - for example, if there was anything yet to be broken and Imelda decided to throw it at him - he might like to make a quick exit through that door. They both might.

  There was always the kitchen though. They could huddle in the garden and she'd encourage him to laugh about how silly he'd been. Dressing tables don't throw things and mirrors only show you what's really there!

  "The bags can stay where they are for now," Lara said.

  "Right-e-o."

  As she climbed the stairs, Isla hissed at her.

  Neither woman made a sound out loud, but communicated with their minds so that Roger was aware of nothing.

  "What do you think you're doing!?" Isla asked, desperate sounding.

  Lara didn't look into Isla's reflective surface.

  (It's going to be fine. I know what I'm doing).

  "Don't do it. Lara, don't. I'm warning you, because the others won't. Not any more."

  The upstairs landing was illuminated only by a dim, bare bulb. Lara opened the door to what would be their bedroom for the night, which was as she had left it a month earlier, sparse and cool, a Victorian feel. It was the kind of room in which a flowery chamber pot would not be out of place. The bed was slept in, but neatly made. On her last day, she always stripped the bed and put the sheets in the wash before readying the bed for her sister.

  Not this time.

  Roger grinned at her as she pulled the door shut and they moved on to the next room.

  "Guest room," she announced.

  Again, the bed was made and there was a bedside table and chair. There was nothing to mark the room as unique. It was the kind of room one might have found in an old hotel.

  On the other side:

  "Bathroom."

  Roger nodded in appreciation at the sight of a large tub on four feet. The taps were ornate brass, shaped like animal paws. It was clean, though stained with use and age. This was perhaps the coldest room so far, but steam from a hot tub of water would see to that. A white curtain hung from a rail and an electric shower had been fitted as a welcome nod to modernity. It was a small room, so only two or three times the size of Roger's bathroom.

  "Nice," Roger said.

  At the end of the hall:

  "And another bedroom."

  Again, the room was very simply decorated and didn't seem to have seen much use. Some of Lara's sisters used this room in preference to the other, but most of them, unsurprisingly, preferred to be at the other end of the landing, or downstairs, if they stayed in the house at all.

  Lara could sense her sisters' presence on the other side of the only remaining door. They were habitually silent, but she could feel the agony of their fear.

  "What's in here?" Roger asked.

  "This is my mother's room," she said, walking back towards the stairs. When she looked back, she saw that his face was that of a child who'd been led past a toy store without even a look in the window.

  "May I see?" he asked.

  She looked appalled.

  "It's her private room," Lara told him. "Not a peep show."

  "But she's not here, right?"

  "All the more reason not to go in," she said. "Besides, it's locked."

  He turned the handle.

  "No, it's not,"
he said.

  She ran across the landing and pulled the door shut with such strength that the wall shook and the sound of it was still reverberating through the hallway as she said:

  "No!"

  "Oh, come on!"

  "I said: No!"

  "Sarah," he whispered, "if she's not here, we can go in and look for your passport. I bet I know where she keeps it. I'm good at this kind of thing."

  "Stealing?"

  "It's not stealing when it's yours. How could you say such a thing?"

  His eyes changed then. He went from being a mischievous little boy to being her husband again, demanding his rights.

  "I want to see," he said and she couldn't look him in the eye. Nor did she step away from the door. "Why so secretive? Got another guy in there?"

  "Don't be ridiculous."

  "Darling, don't you see that you're the one being ridiculous? You can't expect me not to be curious after all I've heard about her. And to deny me a look now ..."

  "Roger, please."

  "Sarah. Open the door. We don't even have to go in. I just want to see. This house clearly means a lot to you and I want to see every bit of it. I want to know everything about you. No secrets. I don't care if it's a mess."

  "It's not a mess."

  "Then let's see."

  He reached for the door handle again.

  "No," they were saying from the other side.

  "He can't," they said.

  "Nobody. Nobody comes in here, but us. That's the rule."

  It wasn't so much a rule as an understanding. Unlike rules, this hadn't required debate or enforcing. Nobody wanted people in the room while they were in stasis. The risk to their safety was too great and the disruption to their peace too profound. In such a stressful scenario, the temptation to do strangers grievous harm, and in so doing blow their collective cover, was too powerful to ignore.

  Lara had agreed. Until now.

  And yet, if she didn't let Roger have his way, she knew that he'd be up in the night and then he'd be letting himself in there to snoop around without her. It would be better for him to get it out of his system now, while she was able to shield him from the danger he could not see.

  "Roger," she said clearly. "You're never to enter this room without me."

  He refrained from saluting her and from jumping with joy. Instead, he shifted his gaze to the door and smiled expectantly. She turned the door handle. It clicked.

  The door opened with a sigh, stealing the breath from her, but she forced herself to go in. Roger followed respectfully, restraining his childish delight, not knowing what lay waiting for him.

  Not a single large item was out of place. Every one that had moved had returned to its resting position.

  "Mind the broken glass," Lara warned.

  "Quite a battle went on in here," Roger quipped, stepping over broken perfume bottles. "Smells wonderful though. War of the rose-scented."

  Although he was making jokes, Lara could see that he'd stiffened up. The mess in the room upset him, because she'd been hurt here.

  She positioned herself in the middle of the room, afraid, while Katja ticked out the seconds with great patience and menace, making timekeeping look easy, even under these conditions.

  "Looks like this took a direct hit," Roger said, touching the Katja's door where the glass had been shattered.

  Lara flinched on his behalf. She couldn't help it.

  "And you," he said, gazing at her tenderly.

  "She hit me with one of those bottles," Lara said, pointing to one of the fragrance bottles on the floor. "It didn't break. And neither did I."

  "Your own mother," he muttered.

  He stooped to pick up the offending bottle and turned it over in his fingers.

  "It's cracked," he said. And then: "She doesn't deserve to have such beautiful things. She doesn't deserve to have you."

  "No," Lara said. "She doesn't."

  "I have to try the four-poster."

  The bed was neatly made, with that hotel room feel. The sheets were tucked in so tightly it looked painful. Hospital corners she'd heard it referred to once.

  Lara thought that it might have been better if Sylvia had at least ruffled a corner or dented a pillow, but there was no way she would have known the deception Lara was attempting. Sylvia was a mind reader, yes; they all were, but the connection was most powerful within feet of each object; when inside the room, for example, when it was too late.

  The waiting women were surprisingly quiet that evening, even telepathically. Lara sensed that it was a stunned silence. And she was not the only one of them who was afraid. Lara enjoyed the victorious feeling of having surprised them. Her capacity to take them by surprise was perhaps her strongest weapon, aside from the love that she shared with her husband.

  Roger sat down on the edge of the bed.

  "No!" Sylvia yelled, her voice reverberating through Lara's mind.

  "I wouldn't do that if I were you," Lara told Roger.

  "Fine," Roger said, getting up. He made a show of dusting the white duvet and then straightening it.

  "Don't touch anything," Lara added. She eyed the objects around the room.

  "Roger that," he said, facetiously, and then returned to Katja's broken glass door, watching her swing; within biting distance of Hilda. "This is probably the oldest thing in here," he suggested, sounding knowledgable.

  "Hardly," said Lara. It was impossible to tell, but Katja would have lost half a second due to that remark and would now be attempting to make up that time equally imperceptibly.

  "Then what's the oldest?" Roger asked. "The bed? No. That table."

  "Yes," Lara said, glancing at Jocanta. "That table."

  "Don't let him sit on me," Jocanta projected into the shared mindfield. "Don't let him sit on me. You'll be sorry if he does."

  "Don't worry," Lara said out loud.

  "Oh, I'm not worried," Roger said. "I've been to museums before. You should have red ropes though, to prevent me getting too close to anything."

  "I'll consider that," she said.

  "You never know, I might accidentally disturb some dust and that would be a tragedy."

  "There's no dust in here," Lara said.

  He looked out of the small, square window that looked down onto the now shadowy garden and then turned back to the room.

  "It's incredible," he said. "That people still live like this. It's beautiful in a way."

  In a way?

  "Live like what?" Lara asked.

  "No offense," Roger said. "It's unusual, that's all. I mean, look, who has a rocking chair these days?"

  "My mother," Lara said.

  "Evidently. And who else?"

  "It's very fragile," she warned him.

  "I know, I know. Don't touch." He shoved his hands into his pockets, but filled his eyes.

  While he enjoyed himself, within Lara's constraints, she turned to look at herself in Imelda's mirror. She looked not so much older but more mature than she had last time she had done this. There was still the fear, but also the resoluteness that she now felt with Roger at her side. She thought that it was an accurate reflection of the state of things for a change.

  "You see, Imelda," Lara thought, suddenly and spitefully. "You can do it when you try." She felt emboldened, yet scared by the fact that nothing bad had happened yet. Her words were much like her exploratory fingers, which went to her face over and over to feel that it was still bruised. It might have been healing better by now if she'd been able to leave it alone, but she couldn't stop touching it, rubbing it and being reassured that it was neither bigger nor gone.

  Roger came up next to her then, reaching for her arm, but Lara noticed that Roger's reflection did not appear in the mirror. A second later, he was touching her, reassuring her, but in the mirror she saw only herself, Sylvia's posts and the wall and window behind.

  Lara turned him away quickly, saying:

  "Look at this."

  She directed him to Petra, with her quaint littl
e teacups and trinkets, but it was Tanya's books that now caught his eye.

  "What ... refined taste your mother has. Quite the philosopher ... and scientist."

  "She doesn't read them," Lara said. "They're just for show. Like the teacups. And the window. And her manners with strangers."

  "She sounds like quite a formidable woman," Roger said. "I'm glad we've got the place to ourselves."

  He slipped his arms around her waist and tried to kiss her, but she pulled back, aware of the many witnesses to their intimacy.

  "What's wrong?" he said. "Don't want to do it in your mother's room?" He winked. "On her bed?"

  "That's disgusting," she snapped, shoving him away.

  "Honey, it's a four-poster. And you're so beautiful. You can't blame a man for trying."

  "Yes, I can," she said.

  "I am your husband. And we didn't-"

  "Okay, okay," Lara said.

  "Is that a 'yes'?"

  "It's a 'please can we move on now'?"

  "Well." He turned on his heel. "Since you don't want to grant me the satisfaction of my carnal needs," he began, "perhaps we could look for that passport now. I know it's in here. I can feel it, lying in the bottom of a drawer or slid into a crack somewhere."

  "I don't think that's what you can feel," Lara said.

  "I bet she sleeps with it under her pillow."

  "It's time to go," she said, forcing a laugh, and she ushered him towards the door, using more strength than would have seemed appropriate to him.

  Confused, but partly sated, he acquiesced.

  "Could you bring the bags up, darling?" she added at the doorway. "I won't be a minute."

  "Of course," he said and was gone.

  With the door shutting him out and shutting her in, the air tingled. She scratched at her bare arms and returned to the middle of the room to talk, even though her legs were shaking.

  "How dare you!" boomed Olga.

  "Bringing him in here like that," Sylvia said. "Without warning. He sat on me!"