Black Body

by H C Turk

  “The fee I would charge is low,” the criminal asserted, “too low for the price of failure.”

  “One sentence ago we had a virtual contract, and now the sum becomes unworthy. Is part of your illegality to seduce your employer?”

  “The sum is too low for your task, and any man in my place would agree. I tell you, then, I would work for less if given other payment.”

  “My word, man, would you require classical paintings from my wall, or perhaps the dining room’s candelabra?”

  “No, I would have your wife. Again.”

  Eric was so startled that his mouth opened without bidding; but was his greater surprise from the first idea or that ending word?

  Only then did the felon turn to look at Eric, one gaze at his face before turning away to speak again.

  “You say to know none of your wife’s sex doings? With them she nearly killed you, yet you have surprise.”

  “Surprise me with information about my wife and Lady Amanda’s sought demise.”

  “No coin did she offer me to kill that woman, but sex instead. And in advance did she give me, allowing me manself into her mouth as I would have it again, and therefore challenge Montclaire Prison. And do not tell me of not knowing these things or things like them, for you are no virgin with that woman, and she’s no common wife like others. Why are you without limb beneath your belly and her in jail forever if she’s the average lady? Insult me not with your ignorance.”

  In another rush of absolute decision, Eric had rapid orders for his future employee.

  “Find me at Penstone’s edge tomorrow, near the warehouse without roof. There will I have your initial payment, not to be transferred in the midst of London’s populace. Small it shall be, but a good beginning.”

  With no further word, Eric returned to his grandfather’s home. Entering the kitchen, his thoughts were of the wife’s expertise in unnatural intercourse, not the kind to kill a man, but to please him, more than one, gents and criminals. An implement for cooking Eric attained, then to the bank for currency, returning to practice the entire day handing the criminal his payment. Until sore in his arms, he reached into his coat, then out to that felon.

  Even upon retiring, Eric gave effort toward his wife’s release. In bed, he found no sleeping, only a part-waking dream that constantly displayed the criminal with the short and long hair. All Eric heard was the felon boasting of sex with the wife, describing the acts with such disdain that he could not face Eric, all the while astonished at the husband’s virginity. A greater distress was not from imagining sex between Alba and the Elephant as though I were practicing for pleasure, but my having intercourse simply to live out a life meant to torment me first, Eric later, and please a criminal enough for him to risk his own arse to come and rescue mine, to come within mine, that prick in my mouth not Eric’s, that man meat and semen eaten like the animal flesh and gravy I refused, refused fine beef though I would consume a fiend’s fetid cock, taking his rotten sperm on my tongue though rarely allowing Eric even a cursory kiss.

  Not even these scenes caused Eric’s greatest torment. Though seeing me couple with baseborn blackguard curs often enough that night for an army of tongues and turds to be procreated, Eric’s worst pain came from the man’s conveying this tale as though Eric were so poor a husband that he would not mind the wife’s extraneous fucking. After all, since he had married a witch who pinched his prick off, was he not less than human himself? Throughout the night, Eric suffered from criminal dreams until he was rolling from side to side in torment, the pains from his wound a moderation of agony in comparison. But never in the night did Eric imagine the upcoming contract’s denouement, for some things are best left unexamined, especially the precious wife’s having fucked a fiend.

  The next morning in Penstone, wearied from his embattled sleep, Eric accepted exhaustion, thereby avoiding the reasonable thinking of a freshened mind. When the criminal appeared as though a grubby vision presumed in sleep too often, Eric achieved the striking thought that he had no name for this person, because he deserved none. A person too lowly to have a name caused such repugnance in Eric that the upcoming business seemed tainted, even the exalted project of releasing the wife. Therefore, Eric would be on with the transaction and off with himself, having no torment now beyond distaste (though not from thoughts of manly fluid in anyone’s mouth). When the felon in disdain moved not to Eric’s face but his side while asking for the promised payment, the husband gruffly waved him on with no word. After brief walking, Eric viewed along an alley to find no superfluous persons. The men entered, and Eric revealed the blatant bundle of currency in his greatcoat. Accepting his payment, the felon held the printed pile with every finger as though a precious living thing, perhaps an exceptional vulva. Though greatly satisfying, the booty was not long retained; for as the criminal’s interest peaked, Eric reached for his kitchenware and applied the item with a certainty to convince potential observers that Eric typically stabbed men in the chest with a parer.

  He did not wait for the man to die. Immediately after stabbing, Eric released the knife lodged between ribs and began thrusting with both fists against the criminal’s face. As the semi-human pulled away, collapsing, the semi-man allowed him no opportunity to attack, for the cad was reaching out with one hand, reaching for the hilt with the second. But Eric by then was kicking the felon with force enough to strain his joints, strain his injured crotch, his face revealing the exertion of kicking the man’s stomach inches from the utensil poking out like a readied man-stick.

  This was their business, one erect stick exchanged for another, Eric’s lost prick replaced by this blade. Culminating their contract, Eric ceased his bludgeoning only when the man became static, his breaths like a dead frog’s twitches of remnant nerve. As he bent, Eric felt that he would pass out from the terrible and terrifying exertion. But he retained his senses while retrieving his currency yet bundled by the bank with paper even as this cretin was girded with blood. Then away he fled with no fear, no regret, only a businesslike gait through Penstone Place, then a sore walk into better London, moves made stiff by the force required for his surpassing success, an achievement never gained by the wife, for Eric had vanquished a dream.

  Chapter 40

  The Way Of Nature

  “So could we not be sending things to Mistress Alba to make her stay easier? Some attire, I’m thinking, or the fresh fruits she well loves but is surely not getting. Now that we’re admitting how much she should be with us, are we not helping her discomfort?”

  “No, miss, for several reasons. First, we should have English law believe that we’ve rejected Alba, for thereby ours is the advantage of surprise when we come for their prisoner. Furthermore, consider Alba those years in the wilds when she likely had not even a roof to shield her person. Additionally, might not our thoughts of her current discomfort inspire us toward greater activity as we fulfill our designs?”

  “Ah, but what design are we having, sir? Well I’m seeing you out and doing things, but oft you’re returning most disheveled and even injured, and these are things I’m having to fear!”

  “I assure you, Elsie, that my greatest damage was in the past, in bed, an injury I survived solely because of your courage.”

  “Ah, Master Eric, I can’t even be thinking of that time without trembling in places I don’t understand. Useless I’ll be if my part in your planning is to face such a terror with only me will.”

  “I vow, Miss Elsie, never to conscript you into an army of swordsmen. Your part, when it arrives, will correspond to your strong spirit. If you then remain prepared to aid the missus, be assured that your hands will have no difficulty in following your heart.”

  Despite his talk with Elsie, Eric could no longer envision a plan that would lead to anything but further violence. For days after the stabbing, static Eric remained in Lord Andrew’s study, responding pleasantly toward his grandfather and the servants while wishing to be with none of them. Often Elsie saw him at the window lo
oking at the closed curtains as though desiring not the view outside, but whatever light the imperfect opacity of the fabrics transmitted. Too often was Eric seen moving his head side to side as though rejecting some new scheme or pitying his lack of thinking. Not until days later was Eric set again on his path toward reestablishing his marriage, a renewed direction provided not by the brilliance of his intellection, but the persistence of that broader genre called family.

  A pair of old visitors come anew were met poorly by Miss Elsie, the servant able to greet them only after substantial pause, for at Lord Andrew’s door stood Mr. Edward Denton and his wife.

  How removed the offspring remained considering the familial proximity, Eric unable to approach, standing in the great room as though a timid boy, his legs dead. He thought of the wife, and what a loss she was, but what of this parallel loss, that of his original family? Families should not be exchanged, Eric knew, but increased, the spouse adding to the parents, not overthrowing them. Then all of his losses became active at once, Eric so disheartened that he could only feel, not speak, only look to his parents and see me, see nothing.

  “We would hope, son,” his father began, “that we might speak again.”

  “We would hope to be together again,” his mother added, the concern in her eyes so intense that she seemed to be pained by the sight of her only child.

  “Now that…she…is away and gone.”

  “Can we not be together as a family is due?”

  Eric then spoke strangely, for his smile seemed facetious. This mad humor was from his parents’ stating that the wife was gone, as though done and gone, Eric therefore considering them fools. But, no, only innocent, Eric feeling in a rush of certainty that the wife was not gone, merely apart, to be returned as he willed, if only he could will enough.

  “I do love you well and always,” Eric told them, his smile changed to fondness, “but you must learn to love me equally.”

  “But, Eric, we love you more than—”

  “Not enough, Mother, to respect my own love, that which I have always felt for my wife.”

  “Son, you cannot be so distressed as to love one who would kill you,” astonished Edward returned.

  “A devil in the form of Amanda Rathel made to kill me,” Eric declared. “You are certainly aware, Father, that this woman resides in prison for that crime against me, and more than anyone, you know her cause—yourself, you and that family never gained by Amanda for which she could never forgive you.”

  “I cannot deny Amanda’s part as adjudicated by law, Eric, but she was not the one to, to….”

  “Alba was the vehicle, but no more to blame than any knife wielded by a criminal. Your accepting this fact might be difficult, but understand that you must come to believe it for us to be close again. For in fact, dear Father, all your long assertions of Alba’s danger even considering my wound were not proven true. Only verified is my love for her, a love that remains though my lust is impossible. Praise God for moderated flesh and a strong heart of love. And now, my parents, I accurately offer you my love, and suggest that you might not visit me again until willing to visit my wife.”

  • • •

  The morrow found Eric preparing for Penstone, for his parents’ visit had set him toward activity. After seeing the pair and suffering that shared, imperfect love, Eric found he could no longer remain indoors and merely cogitate. Instead, he had to initiate his next beginning, and therefore would proceed to that land of loose illegality to achieve its freer aspects for the wife.

  No hat nor cane would he require for this inelegant journey, Eric approaching the front door as a knocking came. Startled and stopping with his hand at the latch, Eric in a flash believed that the skewered criminal had come for revenge. The man of criminality to come, however, was inverted, for there on Grand’s stoop stood a most legal magistrate.

  “I would speak with you, Mr. Denton, of a certain interest your wife of late attracts.”

  Eric had Sir Jacob enter, responding to his guest with courtesy but no conviction, since his main response was fearful confusion. Guiding Sir Jacob to the drawing room, Eric wondered of the wife’s attraction, imagining guards drawn to their loveliest lodger, imagining her sex attacked, the men’s genitals accommodated as his own.

  “Mr. Denton, could you kindly explain the intents of your parents for them to seek audience with your wife?”

  Convincing even to magistrates was silent Eric’s confounded visage. Naylor thus continued without Eric’s reply.

  “You have no knowledge of your parents’ requesting of me that they be allowed to visit your wife?”

  “Utterly, absolutely I have no idea that any such request transpired.”

  “Might you explain, then, why the woman remains your wife? No record exists of your seeking dissolution of that marriage.”

  “The rearing within my home and England’s great church is that marriages once made beneath God’s eyes are permanent. And no need have I for shameful annulment when the marriage’s continuation is impossible. Legally or not, Alba and I are not husband and wife.”

  “But your parents’ pronouncement was precisely that the prisoner remains their son’s wife. Why, then, would they seek that person who in marriage you reject?”

  “I conclude that their feelings stem from a comment of mine. My damage was caused by the devil in Alba, not the woman herself. My parents, however, place all responsibility on Alba as though she were evil incarnate. Between parents and son is a stress sourced by the former’s failing to accept that Satan not only can reside in average folk, but seeks their companionship.”

  “Mr. Denton, I interrupt for a reminding, in that you and I know equally that your wife is not average, for she is the witch.”

  “Before Satan’s attacking me via Alba, the woman was a peaceful, godly sort. As for my parents, they disloved her always, even when believing her merely a woman.”

  “This comment, then, that so inspired your parents to seek Alba via my office?”

  “I remarked that until they understood the evil to damage me enough for them to visit my wife, they should not visit the son yet affected by that woman.”

  “Affected in what manner?”

  “By her aspects evident to any man: her decisive intellect and uncommon beauty. These traits yet move me, but not so deeply that I misconstrue them as being less weighty than my scars. Therefore, Lord Jacob, though my parents would visit Alba to reduce my oppression, I cannot imagine associating with your prisoner regardless of her beauty or wit or that recorded paper we share. That, sir, is ink,” Eric added, then pointed to his crotch. “And this is blood.”

  Naylor was convinced of Eric’s partial notion that he desired no company with the prisoner. The husband’s greater idea, however, was that he would live with her forever upon her release. Adequately satisfied, the magistrate departed before tea, a fluid of less concern than Eric’s blood and Naylor’s ink, two materials I handled profoundly.

  • • •

  The following morn found Eric in Penstone Place. Anxious for action, his taut emotion a type of energy itself, Eric proceeded for deeper sites, not concerned with further bouts of cutlery’s display. He considered himself fortunate to soon arrive at a voice that fit his desires.

  “Eh—and if you’re of prisons, enter to speak with me.”

  The voice was high, strained, and unfamiliar. Not so foolish as to enter unaware, Eric cautiously stepped into a sagging building to find a man prepared to kill him.

  Due to his youth or the attacker’s own wound, Eric avoided a thrusting knife by dropping to the floor’s rubble. By then he had recognized the man as a seeker of his wife’s gender, having known it from previous commerce. Poorly stabbed had he been according to his minor stiffness, his imperfect movements all anger and force. Up and around the two males proceeded, Eric intending only to flee, but the felon was between him and the door. All of this in seconds, Eric stumbling deeper into the building, his assailant following with unpleasant grunts
as though a mad animal defending itself with desperation, but only sinners become desperate for vengeance, not God’s natural creatures. Eric sought another exit as he avoided the knife’s loud swings, its screams through the air for his entrails. After a quick beginning, the two men danced within, never but nearly together, Eric crawling over a timber even as the felon lunged with an ugly grunt, a failed sound since Eric again avoided the blade.

  Eventually Eric understood that the man seldom moved directly toward him, always remaining between the gent and the door, that single path of escape excluding the roof; and Eric had thoughts of flying, of clambering up fallen rafter and thatch pile to the outside world. But no opportunity had he for this escape, the felon sliding left and right, his mass expertly balanced over his feet, amateur Eric not considering attack, only survival, not contemplating grasping that beam as a weapon nor throwing those bricks, only seeking the door, only seeing that sliding knife.

  Stepping backward, Eric stumbled to his knees—and the man was on him, Eric throwing himself at the felon’s shins, barely tripping him as the knife ripped near enough his head for Eric to smell metal. With each following lunge and stumble, Eric seemed slower, now attacked by that anxiety of his parents’ visit wherein he had lost his legs, but this poor moving would lose his heart as slit by the criminal. And again he was in his bloody bed, part awakening to find himself part missing; and how would such damage feel to one fully aware? Each rough breath by the attacker was as frightening as a scream, Eric sensing efficiency in the felon’s sliding moves, in his careful views of his victim’s feet, Eric sensing disaster, a cut to come that he would feel absolutely, as he ran to the man’s side and leapt over a chair only to be met upon landing. And there was Eric hurling himself over that same chair backward, an unlovely move that saved his life. Eric again had avoided the one blatant mistake to be his last; and how would their audience observe his mutilation?