Between

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  Romano said, “Georgia? Yes. This is Sophia, her daughter. She and her friends are staying with me. Naturally, under the circumstances, I’m afraid I must decline your invitation.”

  The woman switched to reluctant English, and walked around to stand by Romano’s chair. She hid an automatic scowl. “I am pleased to meet you. I met your mother. I am sorry about – you know.”

  Elegant, dark and sleek, the woman was classically dressed and her clothes shrieked expensive. She reached out a small hand and red lacquered finger nails, bringing a spare chair from the next table, and sat next to Romano with a quick flick of perfect bronzed legs. “But carissimo, it has been an age. I give a small dinner party this Saturday, and you must come. I accept no excuses. Bring your little English friends perhaps.”

  “Wayne’s Australian,” said Sophie somewhat unnecessarily.

  The woman waved a dismissive and diamond studded hand, immediately switching back to Italian. Julian lost interest, burying himself in conversation with Wayne, discussing the colour of the Campari and the architecture of the tower. Sophie sat straight and stared. She wished she was small and dark and sleek, with thick hair that gleamed black sunbeams and legs as smooth as silk.

  Romano finally answered, given the opportunity, in English. “I think not, Bianca. Society must manage a little longer without me, I believe. I have not the slightest desire to rejoin the status game. You must forgive me.”

  The woman was surprised and taken aback, obviously unused to being denied. “But caro, you have become a recluse,” she told him. “It is unhealthy. Romano, carissimo, you must reconsider. Just one little dinner party. For me.”

  He shook his own black sheen of hair. “No,” and stood, scraping back his chair and looking down at her with a frown. “And now you must excuse me. I have other matters to attend to.”

  Dismissed and angry, the woman also stood. Impressive, beautiful, intimidating, glorious and utterly immaculate, she reasserted dignity and leaned up, kissing Romano quickly on each cheek. “Another time perhaps?”

  “Perhaps.” Romano gathered his group, helping Sophie with her chair. Sophie grinned, and tucked her less than immaculate hand into the crook of his arm. It hid her nibbled finger nails. “Home now,” Romano smiled at her. “I shall cook us all a - Putanesca.”

  The woman blinked and left, a neat figure crossing the square with the reflections of the swallows glittering across her hair like little jewels. “Sounds great,” said Sophie, grinning back.

  So grooming and unblemished detail, the unobtainable that Sophie had always coveted in magazines, could exist, and be wondrously tantalising, on free offer, and still, incredibly, be uncompromisingly rejected. Romano had been blatant in turning it all down. So beauty really could be in the eye of the beholder after all. It was a useful thing to know. And be thankful for.

  “A tiresome woman,” said Romano, patting the small hand that now gripped the sleeve of his cream linen jacket. “Your mother disliked her. And now, I hope you are hungry.”

  Primo was walking in the forest when Daisy turned up. He was particularly pleased to see her until he realised she wasn’t alone.

  “What did you bring him for?” demanded Primo kicking at tree roots, which moved quickly out of his way.

  “He came to live with me after you buggered off,” said Daisy. “I like him. He’s sweet.”

  “In my hut,” Primo scowled. “With him.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with him,” insisted Daisy. “Just because he was in Pigseed’s gang doesn’t mean he’s all bad. We all move on and up. You were in Pigseed’s gang too, but you moved up. So – Sam’s moved up.”

  “Sam’s a little shit and he ripped half my face off,” said Primo. “And come to think of it – you were one of Pigseed’s lot too. So, both of you can piss off. I don’t want you. I’ve built a new place and I want it all to myself, thanks very much.”

  “You liked me before,” Daisy looked wistful. “You said you loved me.”

  “And what a huge mistake that was,” Primo pointed out. “After I said that, you went all shitty. Besides, I don’t love you anymore. I don’t even like you.” He paused, glaring at her. “Have you been doing it with Sam in my hut?”

  Daisy shook her head and then changed her mind. She nodded. “Yes, and what do you care?”

  Primo kicked the tree again, which quivered reprovingly. “Why didn’t you come with me when I had to leave,” he asked, “instead of leaving me all alone and then following on after me when it’s too late? Fucking women don’t make any sense if you ask me.”

  “Well, no one’s asking you.”

  “You could stay,” Primo said reluctantly, “if you really want. But I’m not having him.”

  Sam grinned out from Primo’s front window. He was exploring the house. Primo had no way of keeping him out. “Same prissy little sod as always I see,” Sam said, widening the smile. “Always did think yourself better than the rest, didn’t you? Well, you can keep your frumpy old tree house. I wouldn’t live here if you begged me. I’m sticking to the hut you made on the mountains at the border. Daisy can choose who she wants to share with. No skin off my nose, either way.”

  “Which reminds me,” said Primo, striding over. “It was the fucking skin off my fucking nose you had your nasty little paws in last time I met up with you. If you don’t want a fight now, bugger off. And don’t take anything of mine with you.”

  Sam reappeared from the house with a swagger. “Like what? A stone? A couple of dried old leaves? You haven’t got anything. Forget it. You coming, Daisy?”

  “Maybe,” said Daisy. “You go back home. I’ll probably come back later.”

  Sam disappeared between the trees in the direction of the third plane fogbanks. Daisy stood her ground and Primo looked down his re-grown nose at her. “How could you want him after me?” he demanded. “You could have come with me but you chose him instead. He’s a vicious little moron. So go on, bugger off back to him now.”

  Daisy sat on the grass under the drooping foliage. She did not attempt to enter Primo’s new home. “I never had a son,” she said. “Sam’s maybe grown up over here, but he died when he was ten and he’s still sort of like that. Like a little kid. He likes me to cook for him.”

  Primo sighed, exaggerated. “Oh great. The course of true love. You have so much in common.”

  “Don’t give me that life shit,” said Daisy. “I was being honest. It’s why I like Sam, with him being like my own little boy.”

  “Even though you’re fucking him? How heavenly.”

  “Yes, well,” Daisy looked into her lap with a sniff. “That was the only way he’d stay with me. Pretty typical, isn’t it? That was the only reason you let me live with you too I reckon.”

  “No it wasn’t,” said Primo, “though I admit I liked it. Anyway, I can’t be bothered arguing. So make up your mind once and for all. Stay with me, or sod off with him.”

  Daisy stood up. “I think I have to go,” she said. “I’m uncomfortable here. Look, it’s nothing to do with Sam. I wanted to come to you, and he just insisted on coming along. But the wave length’s too advanced and I can’t breathe properly, so I can’t stay. I knew it when you left before but I was too proud to tell you, so I pretended I didn’t want you. Really I just knew I couldn’t live on the fourth, except on the boundary. So now I have to go back. Even if I really don’t want to.”

  “So why come now?” Primo was cross. He looked at her little pointed chin and her floppy blonde curls and slanted eyes, and remembered how much he’d really liked her, and how much he wanted her to stay. And she was right. He missed the sex.

  Daisy was panting, her breathing becoming noticeably forced. “The vibration’s beyond me. I’ve got to go.” She began to back track through the trees in the direction Sam had gone. “But there’s something – that – I don’t know. Binds us. Like ties us together. I keep feeling I have to find you. It’s like chains.”

  “Oh bloody perfect.” Primo frowned
and clenched both fists behind his back. “Now I’m a fucking liability, am I? A nice pair of handcuffs? It’s not even that you like my company, you just feel glued to my shadow or something.”

  Daisy stood her ground a moment. “Perhaps it is something like that,” she said, a little sorrowfully. “But I like you too. Honestly I do.”

  “So – send me a letter,” said Primo.

  “The do-gooders say things like this, don’t they?” whispered Daisy. “About being tied to people for special reasons. You know. Karmic debts.”

  “Don’t recite that sort of drivel to me,” retorted Primo. “I hate the fucking do-gooders and I hate their boring dogma. I’m not tied to anyone and I don’t believe in fucking karma. So piss off.”

  She turned then, and quickly ran off through the trees, disappearing into the tall shadows. Primo stood all alone and stared at the marks of her little bare heels on the soft ground. Almost immediately they faded and Primo went indoors and sat down and looked at his pool. Then he stepped into the water and slowly lay back, letting the green surface support him, stretched his arms out in a crucifixion and closed his eyes tight. It was cool. He relaxed each tensed muscle, counting as he stretched every tendon, loosened each joint, purposefully relinquishing tension. It had been his way of surrendering when he’d first broken the barrier and started to live on the fourth but then he had done it lying on the bare, stony cliff edge. Now, in cooling, rippled water, it was blissful. He felt the tadpoles tickle his neck.

  He wondered for a brief moment how the little cockroach Sam had ever managed to move up from the third to the fourth. He further wondered what that said about him. Only a forest between them, and now on the same level.

  Then, turning his face, he saw the algae studded blur of his own reflection. It smiled gently at him. Through one wide watery unblinking eye, a tadpole wriggled, flashed its tail, and jumped, becoming a frog with a smug, golden flecked grin. It sat on the pool edge and croaked. Primo’s reflection swirled in rippled distortion, and then was still. Primo smiled back.

  “It is a long, long time since I thought of my life,” Norwen said. “Now objective memory leads to subjective decisions.” He spoke aloud. Memories of the physical brought back physical habits.

  “Everything, in the end, is subjective,” said Wilmot. “Even objectivity is subjective. Indeed, specifically so. Relish it then.”

  Norwen nodded. Wilmot smiled. They were sitting on the sea mist, lilac billows of glitter rolling in from the hesitant spangle of distant dancing spray. “I watched the old man arrive,” Norwen admitted. “It’s so long since I’ve felt anything like it. His arrival was not easy for him. It alerted me, a punch almost, a slap of reminder.”

  “You welcome it naturally,” Wilmot said, “Without illusions of coincidence, this connects to your next progressive advance.”

  “To something holding back my progress?”

  “Of course not,” Wilmot said, studying his flippers. “You have long forgiven the man, inevitably and assuredly. Nothing holds you back but the need for assimilation.” Wilmot had taken a quick swim, entering the waves as a dolphin but reappearing complete with trident and crown. Now the sun glittered on his seaweed beard.

  “Asking your advice,” said Norwen, memories now vibrant, “is like speaking to an entire closet full of animated comic books.”

  “Am I too ostentatious for you?” Wilmot doffed his coronet with an elaborate and plaintive frown. “I could always become a barnacle instead, if that would make you more comfortable. I’ve no objections, I assure you.”

  Norwen grinned. “You can be a kangaroo for all I care. Indeed, better a kangaroo than a chattering barnacle, I think. Just bounce me some of your splendidly individual knowledge.”

  Wilmot chuckled. “You know exactly what to do. You don’t need me, kangaroo, barnacle or subjectively directive signpost. Your spirit craves only final assimilation of past experience. Each scavenging memory reappears to challenge, then aids advance.” He had indeed now become a barnacle, hanging limpet-like from the misty cloud. Its hinged shell wobbled in the sun trapped sea crystals. “Your own guide, I imagine,” it added with a damp sniff, “is long advanced.”

  Norwen was, as was still possible with Wilmot, surprised at the remark. It entered his mind telepathically in a warming caress. “She entered the higher realms soon after I reached the eighth,” Norwen said. Further memories with different shades of progressive loving, travelled his mind in splendid waves of recognition. “As I shall do perhaps,” he continued, “once my new apprentice enters the eighth. How glorious it will be, when we are all in the high realms together.”

  “We shall love each soul so completely,” said the barnacle with a shiver of pleasure, “every aspect of existence will be superlatively glorious. In the meantime, I adore my own small and ravaged apprentice. He is – utterly precious to me.”

  Norwen smiled. “Your third plane child? Of course.”

  “Fourth plane – and rising,” Wilmot corrected him. “Becoming so – deliciously – close. He is within a breath – one sweet warm breath of being entirely ready for me.”

  Norwen smiled. “And thank you. I know what I have to do.”

  “You always did,” said the barnacle, licking its lips. “Very salty, this puddle. I think I shall go home. An unorthodox approach can sometimes be so tiring.”

  “No doubt.” Norwen was also leaving, his outline fading from the sea mist into a deeper mist of enveloping invisibility. “Though I imagine orthodoxy would exhaust you entirely.”

  “I have no idea,” said the echo. “I’ve never tried it.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Ayakis sat and picked pebbles from inside his sandals. The roadway, though mostly hidden beneath the haze and sudden gusts of fog, remained hard so stones and grit imbedded themselves in his open shoes, biting at the rough skin of his feet. It had become extremely chill at first and while various of the group had been called away by strange forbidding shapes that appeared in the mist and disappeared with them, so Ayakis had shivered, wrapping his skinny arms around his chest, colder than he had felt for most of his life. He was used to hot forbidding countries and the scorch of a relentless sun on his face. He had not expected the cold. He had not expected any of it.

  Now, gradually, it was becoming warmer and the fogs, though still thick, showed faint openings where the sandy soil peeped through. When he sat to pick between his toes, so he could see, just, what he was sitting on.

  He could also see his remaining enemies. His victims. The group had shrunk, but the stuffy pompous Dutchman still plodded along beside the dirty heathen monk and his fleas, lice, complaints and infections. There was the stupid bus driver and the vile American couple, holding hands now and chattering inanely. There was the tall boy, about his own age, called Sven. Worst of all was Francesco the bully. Ayakis still nursed a wounded face and an aching body. To be dead, yet in pain! He had been prepared for the agony of the bomb but dying had been utterly painless. A breath, followed by no breath, and then breathing easily again, but as if the breath came from quite a different place. The breathing felt, in fact, as if it came from outside himself. The familiar sensation of lungs and a pumping heart, of a mouth of saliva and a throat of air, all that had gone. But somehow, life continued. He had been blind to the explosion, fire and shattered limbs, had been quite unaware of the experience of a mangled and fearful death. Yet now, stumbling a foggy roadside, he was in pain after all. The angry man had beaten him and he had felt every minute of it. The scars still stung. So did the shame. His sacrifice and martyrdom had been unrecognised by the Eternal Power, and he felt as unloved and overlooked as he had always felt in life. After the beating even his victims tended to ignore him.

  The growing warmth was a comfort. Then the boy Sven looked up and smiled, and said, excited, “Grandfather. It is you? You look ridiculously young.”

  Ayakis heard the laughter and watched as Sven walked into the gold and became invisible within it. Then the ligh
t blinked out. It left an understanding, in the sudden contrast, of how dull the hazy road really was.

  “Puff. Just like that,” said Ethel. “One minute you’re speaking to them, and then off they go. I just hope it’s us next time.”

  “Who do you think will come?” wondered Ron. “Your mother I suppose.”

  “Or your first wife,” said Ethel. “Now, that’d be an embarrassment. Do you think she knows about me?”

  “You are pathetically mundane,” interrupted Ayakis, irritated into sudden speech. “Do you think you are on some absurd Yankee picnic? You must think of God and His sacred laws, be prepared for what will be demanded of you. You must account for your sins and beg forgiveness for your transgressions. You are in Holy Paradise, not Hollywood.”

  Ethel smiled without rancour and nodded. “Well, that’s what’s been puzzling all of us,” she said. “I don’t reckon this is your idea of Paradise any more than ours. And we’re not being accused of any past faults or being made to account for them either. Hey, you pray if you want to, honey, no one’s stopping you. But family seems to come and call for those who go off into the light, not angels nor saints, nor devils either.”

  “But it’s more than likely the devil will come for you,” Ron frowned, prodding Ayakis, who moved quickly away, fearing another beating. “I never actually believed in the devil, tell the truth, but if there is one, he’s salivating over you this minute. He’ll be having boiled bomber for dinner.”

  “Fool,” spat Ayakis from a safe distance. “You understand nothing.”

  “Well, I’ve always believed in Lucifer,” said Francesco, slowing up to trudge beside Ron. “And this bastard proves it, far as I can see. Evil is as evil does.”

  Father Martin was trying to knot his beard, keeping it from tangling in the fogs. “I’ve had a clear faith most of my life,” he muttered. “I’ve known it and lived by it, pure as any human man can be. But this isn’t what I expected.”