The Poison Garden (2019 Sphere Edition)

by Alex Marwood

  ‘Romy,’ he says, ‘come in, my dear.’

  As she crosses the threshold she glances back and sees Vita standing at the door to her own quarters. The look on her face is odd. Despairing. Lost. She loves him, she thinks. Then: no, she loved him once and now she doesn’t know what to do with that. And then she steps into his room and he closes the door behind her, and she becomes the next in line.

  She’s in a large room, a salon, doors to the left, door to the right, panels of blond wood on the walls and two huge sofas in dark green velvet. Lucien goes over to one and throws himself upon it, stretches out and leans on one elbow to drink her in. ‘I’ve been looking forward to knowing you,’ he says.

  ‘Thank you,’ she replies, proud and uncertain. Music – some music she doesn’t recognise, no voices, soaring – coming from black boxes sited on either side of a working fireplace. A table at the back of the nearest sofa, on which a silver tray laden with a dozen, two dozen bottles resides. A huge screen hanging on the wall. She realises that it’s a television. Of course. He has to record the news from somewhere. He watches it on this, plays edited highlights on the projector in the dining hall. She takes a couple of steps forward.

  ‘Don’t be shy,’ says Lucien. She walks over and looks out of the tall windows. He must watch them all from above, like God studying ants, as they scurry about their business. And then the view beyond the woods. Spectacular. The most spectacular thing she’s ever seen. The chequerboard of green that stretches to the distant blue hills, the small white houses crouched by clumps of trees, the two shades of silver where a river meets the sea.

  She turns back to him. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she says.

  He throws himself to his feet with remarkable energy. ‘Come,’ he says. ‘Come and sit with me. But first, a drink. What would you like?’

  ‘I don’t—’ She looks at him standing by his drinks tray, sees the tendons straining in his throat as he gives her a broad, wolfish, empty smile. Drugged, she thinks. He’s drugged. Is that what that smell is? ‘I don’t know what anything … ’

  ‘No, of course you don’t,’ he says. Picks up a series of bottles and studies their labels. ‘Cherry brandy,’ he says, ‘you’ll like that,’ and he slops a large measure of something deep red and sticky into a glass. Carries it over to his big green sofa. There’s a sheepskin on the floor in front of the fire. Long hair, combed and silky. She’s never seen such wool.

  ‘Merino?’ She gestures to it.

  ‘Leicester longwool,’ he replies. ‘From before you were born. Come. Sit.’

  She obeys. Perches on the edge of the sofa, like a débutante at a ball. Lucien presses her drink into her hand. Picks up a glass half full of some golden liquid and takes a gulp. His pupils are tiny pinpricks in those faded blue irises. There’s a dish on the coffee table, and lying in it is a long white roll of paper, like a cigarette only longer and fatter, half charred. It’s this that the smell’s coming from, she thinks. He’s been breathing in the smoke. She sips from her glass. Strong and acrid, and yet noxiously sweet. This will make me drunk really fast, she thinks, and then she thinks, maybe that would be a good thing, and takes a larger sip. Lucien watches her through narrowed eyes, little ripples of self-satisfaction playing over his lips.

  ‘I’m not your Father any more, Romy,’ he says. ‘In here, by ourselves, I’m not your Father at all.’

  Among the Dead

  November 2016

  42 | Romy

  The flat smells the way Plas Golau did that day. The smell is so strong it hits us as we walk through the street door. ‘Wow,’ says Ilo.

  ‘It doesn’t usually smell like this,’ I say, as though my housekeeping skills mattered all of a sudden.

  It’s the man’s blood, of course. I stuffed my bloody clothes into a carrier bag, still damp, and shoved the bag into the cupboard under the bathroom basin when I changed in a hurry for Aunt Sarah, and now they’ve rotted and the blood has turned. And a fly has got in from somewhere, though all the windows are closed, and its eggs have hatched. You wouldn’t have thought that a polycotton blend would provide much nutrition, but the maggots are cheesy-fat and squirming.

  Ilo stares at the bag. ‘What’s in there?’ he asks.

  ‘Oh,’ I say, ‘I got some blood on my clothes and I had to change them in a hurry.’

  He looks at me, lowers his head as though he’s peering over a pair of reading glasses. ‘Is that how you got—’

  ‘You should see the other guy,’ I say. ‘Well, you wouldn’t want to now.’

  He doesn’t say anything, just picks up the bag and ties the handles around the top, his mouth working. He never used to be squeamish, my brother. Didn’t seem to turn a hair as Jaivyn bled out in front of him. Maybe his thing isn’t blood, it’s rot. Or maybe what happened at Plas Golau has changed him. I hope not. I need him as he was.

  ‘I think maybe we need another bag,’ he says, ‘to put this one in.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, and go and look in the kitchen cupboard.

  ‘Actually,’ he says, ‘maybe we should split them up. Drop them off in different places.’

  ‘Have you been watching movies?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes. I rather like television.’

  ‘So do I.’

  ‘Have you seen Judge Judy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She should be the One, really. She doesn’t take any nonsense.’

  ‘Bit old, I suppose,’ I say.

  ‘But tough,’ he says. ‘Like beef jerky.’

  All I could do with my knife while Sarah was there was rinse it off while I was in the shower and wipe it down with toilet paper. I almost weep when I see it in the cupboard under the bathroom sink, its beautiful blade devoid of shine, rusty brown already showing around the hinge. ‘I’m sorry,’ I tell it, ‘I’m so sorry,’ and I take it through to the living room to save it.

  Ilo looks horrified when he sees it. ‘What did you do?’ he asks.

  ‘Aunt Sarah was here, in the living room. She surprised me. I did all I could do with someone I’d never met in the flat.’

  He takes it from me and strokes it like an orphaned kitten, his face filled with longing. He always loved my knife.

  ‘D’you want to clean it?’ I offer.

  He turns his face up, and it’s shining. ‘Oh, yes.’

  As I’m sorting through my sad little collection of clothes and starting to pack my box, my phone starts to vibrate in my pocket. I get it out and look – now two people have my number – and see that Uri has called while we were on the road and again just now. I call back.

  ‘What are you doing not answering, 143?’ he says. ‘You should keep your phone with you.’

  ‘I was taking a shit, sir,’ I say, silently thanking Ilo for the idea. Uri is squeamish about gut functions. That’s why the Dung Squad was the worst punishment he could think of, before torture and death.

  ‘Oh, right,’ he says. ‘As you were, then. What news?’

  ‘It’s done,’ I tell him.

  ‘And did he still have his medallion?’

  ‘Yes, and the boy took photos.’

  ‘Good,’ he says. Not much of an obituary. ‘Hey – did you say you have your box?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. You solsticed with Eilidh, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Still got the photo?’

  ‘Yes.’ It’s in the living room, on the mantelpiece.

  ‘Send me a copy,’ he says.

  ‘What’s the address?’

  Uri laughs. ‘Haha – very clever. With your phone, stupid.’

  ‘With my phone?’

  He sighs. ‘Take a photo with your phone and send the photo to me as a text message.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘I want to braid my hair and take a stroll down Memory Lane,’ he says. ‘No, I have an idea.’

  ‘What idea?’

  ‘Shut up, 143. Just do it.’

  ‘Okay,’ I say, and he hangs up.
r />   Ilo’s cleaning my knife on the sofa and watching a film about cars that turn into robots that looks so excruciatingly boring only a thirteen-year-old boy could like it. He looks up as I come in, with a blanket over my arm. I hand it to him. ‘You might as well turn in when you’ve done that,’ I tell him ‘You must be tired.’

  ‘Not really,’ he says.

  ‘Well, we’ve got to get this place cleaned up in the morning, so you should get some sleep. Sofa okay?’

  ‘Sure,’ he says, and his eyes swivel back to the television.

  I collect the photos and Kiran’s little horse from the mantelpiece, my crown from the picture hook. Might as well put them all away now.

  Sitting on the bed with the phone, I look at the photo. We look even younger, now, than we did a month ago. Dead Kiran and doomed Eilidh and me. Things are going to get harder now. I must be kind to Eden.

  I wake with a start as my bedroom door opens in the darkness. ‘Romy?’

  I’m almost asleep. Lift up the covers to let him get in. Little brother, here you are. I’ve missed you.

  ‘Romy?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Your baby. It’s His, isn’t it?’

  I consider lying for a moment. But what’s the point? He will have to know some time. ‘Yes.’

  He doesn’t say anything.

  ‘How did you know?’ I say.

  ‘I just … I just realised. Just now. I thought it might be Kiran’s, before. I know you liked him. But then I realised.’

  ‘Well, yes,’ I say.

  A silence. A long silence so complete I can hear him blink. He’s thinking. Mulling over what this means. For all of us. He’s not stupid.

  ‘Romy?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Does she have to die?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, and as I say it my throat fills with tears. ‘You know it’s not her, Ilo. You know she will never be the One.’

  ‘But why does she have to die?’

  I’m stumped. I’ve never even questioned it. Not as I watched them all die off one by one, not even now. Until now. It just was, like Lucien was, or the coming Apocalypse. Because the strongest will be the One? Because surviving in itself is a show of strength? Because the One will keep us all safe. Because I have to get us to Cairngorm, baby, and there’s only one way he’ll let us in. Because sacrifices have to be made. Because the Great Disaster is just around the corner and we’re out in the open with no defences. Because Uri says so.

  ‘We have to sacrifice to survive, Ilo,’ I say. ‘You know that. If the loss of the few means the many survive … ’

  ‘I love her,’ he says.

  ‘I love her too,’ I say, though maybe I didn’t know it until now. He falls quiet again. I lie in the darkness and listen to him breathe. It’s not fair, this, baby. I know nothing about the end of the world is fair, but Eilidh and Eden …

  ‘Romy?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Promise me one thing.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Make it quick,’ he says. ‘Don’t let her see it coming.’

  43 | Sarah

  She stops into the garage on the way home from work and notices that it has Christmas trees. It’s not even December until tomorrow, but the lights have been up in the High Street a fortnight already. She buys one, and five strings of LED lights with battery packs and a big box of assorted baubles. Of all the crap in Gethsemane Villa, the one thing she knows for certain there isn’t is Christmas decorations. Christmas in the Congregation was a long and dreary day of sermons topped off by a cold collation of every family’s most colourless dish.

  Of course we didn’t do Christmas, she thinks. Why would we do anything that suggested that life could be fun? Well, these young people are going to get some fun this year, if it kills me. I don’t suppose Christmas was a barrel of laughs at Plas Golau, either. That’s something we have in common.

  She comes in to a savoury scent and all the lights blazing. In the hallway, by the ebony umbrella stand, a small pile of luggage: a battered suitcase, a duffel bag, another of those beautiful polished boxes like the ones Eden and Ilo brought with them. Carrying all that on public transport would have been a nightmare by herself even if she weren’t up the duff. Sarah’s glad she let Ilo go and help.

  She calls out. They’re all in the kitchen, the room warm, something delicious in the oven, radio playing, volume on full. Gloria Gaynor singing loudly on the radio and the three of them singing along, dancing, smiles on their faces, Eden waving a wooden spoon in the air like a conductor’s baton. They have beautiful voices and they harmonise with professional confidence. Who knew? She pauses in the doorway to watch, feels a smile spread across her face.

  ‘Your bones will turn to stone,’ they chorus, ‘you’ll be petrified.

  ‘And then your flesh will melt away, you’ll lose your appetite.

  ‘And then you’ll spend so many sighs because your future will be bleak,

  ‘And you’ll grow weak,

  ‘And your last breath will be a shriek,

  ‘And with a flash, from outer space,

  ‘The light will sear the skin and eyebrows from your boiling burning face … ’

  Ilo catches sight of her, nudges his sisters. They break off, see her and their smiles widen. Eden turns the radio down. ‘Hi, Aunt Sarah.’

  ‘Hi,’ she says, and puts her bag down on the table. ‘Good to see you all having fun.’

  ‘We love that song,’ says Eden. ‘We used to sing it at home. I didn’t know you had it on the Outside too.’

  ‘So I guessed,’ she says. Restrains herself from pointing out that the original lyrics are a tad gentler. I’m learning, she thinks. I’m getting better at accepting who they are. ‘Hey, listen, come and give me a hand. I’ve got some stuff needs bringing in from the car.’

  I like them, she thinks. I actually like them. Amazing what a difference Romy’s already made to the children’s spirits. I didn’t think she’d be much help when I first met her, but I was judging someone who was clearly not well. Look at them now. Ilo’s like a whole new person, and even Eden’s laughing and joining in.

  They’ve put the tree by the fireplace in the drawing room and spread the baubles out on the coffee table, and she’s opened a bottle of Riesling and given them each a glass. Hester Lacey looks down and judges. ‘I don’t think she approves,’ says Ilo, and nods up at her.

  Sarah looks around. All those old dead people, disapproving. All my life, she thinks. All my bloody life. And she stands up. ‘Yeah, you know what? If she doesn’t like it, she can go and sit in the study.’

  She unhooks Hester and a cloud of dust bunnies falls to the floor from behind. ‘Bollocks,’ she says. ‘Mind that when you get the others,’ and carries Hester ceremoniously through to lean against the study wainscot. As she goes back to fetch the hoover, she crosses paths with the three of them, a little queue of removals people carrying a portrait each.

  ‘Who are these ghouls, anyway?’ asks Romy.

  ‘Your sainted ancestors,’ she replies. ‘They didn’t rate Christmas.’

  ‘How was your stay in Hounslow?’ she asks as they hook baubles onto the branches. It’s a good, sturdy little tree, lots of foliage. ‘Did you get any sleep?’

  They glance at each other the way Ilo and Eden used to do. Maybe it’s just a Plas Golau thing: that everyone checks with everyone else before they speak. It would make sense, really, if you’ve lived in a world so ordered, so constricted. She should read less into things. Be less paranoid.

  ‘Yeah, it was fine,’ says Romy.

  ‘What did you eat, in the end?’ she asks.

  ‘Big Macs,’ says Ilo. ‘And how was your day, today?’

  Another first. My God, she thinks, this woman’s a miracle. Here for a few days and he’s totally noticed that there are other people in the equation.

  ‘Not bad,’ she replies. ‘Straightforward, at least. A bunch of form-filling and a load of filing.’

  ‘Mmm,’ he
says. ‘I know I should know, but what do you do?’

  ‘I’m the school administrator,’ she says. ‘Well, one of them. Mrs Field is the other. Have you met her?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ he says. ‘The lady with the gammy eye.’

  ‘We don’t say “gammy”, Ilo,’ she says. God, she sounds like Helen. ‘Sorry. I mean, just that it’s generally frowned on to point out people’s disabilities as a way of describing them.’

  ‘Mm, okay,’ he says. ‘It must take a lot longer to describe people if you don’t mention the most obvious thing about them, though.’

  ‘It’s just good manners.’

  ‘Okay,’ he says. ‘So can I say something like “the pregnant lady” about Romy, then? Does it apply to temporary stuff that stands out about them today, too, or only, you know, permanent things?’

  ‘You never told us who the father was, by the way, Romy,’ says Eden.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ says Romy, and she doesn’t look at her. ‘He’s dead.’

  A little drop in volume, a little chill in the room. Romy gives them a smile. ‘That shepherd’s pie must be ready by now,’ she declares.

  They remove the ancestors from the dining room as well, and the place looks immediately brighter, as though they’ve actually changed the light bulbs. The shepherd’s pie is delicious. Hot and savoury, with nutmeg in the mash.

  ‘What’s your favourite food, Aunt Sarah?’ Ilo asks.

  ‘Ooh, I don’t know. French, maybe? Or maybe – no, Chinese. Chinese is my favourite.’

  ‘Ooh!’ echoes Ilo. ‘What’s Chinese food like?’

  ‘It’s good. Lots of textures. Lots of flavours. I’ll take you up to Man Ho on the High Street before Christmas. You’ll like it.’

  ‘I’d love to try it,’ he says. ‘I want to try a lot of stuff before—’ and she feels him consciously check himself. ‘Have you been to China, then?’ he asks instead.