Between

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  “Sorry. I’m just a bit upset.” Georgia wondered if she was blushing, wondered if Norwen would be ashamed of her, then wondered why she was feeling so shy about it all anyway. So she sat up straight and said, “I think it might have been the man I was terribly in love with. Or it could have been my daughter. Did I tell you you’ve got a granddaughter?”

  “You mentioned it,” sniffed Rita.

  “My Sophie,” said Georgia, with a sniff just as loud. “and I miss her so horribly.”

  “Feeling sorry for yourself, miss?” demanded Rita. “Is that allowed in heaven?” She clasped her hands tightly and sniffed again. “But you went straight into the seventh, and I ended up on the fifth. So you did something right.”

  “But you wouldn’t even like the seventh,” Georgia shook her head. “The planes aren’t rewards. One isn’t even more beautiful than the others, not really. You’re comfortable here. You wouldn’t feel right on the seventh. I wish I could take you and show you. You’d probably think it was boring.”

  “All churches and heavenly choirs?” suggested Rita.

  Georgia sniggered and stopped herself. “Not at all. But more telepathy, a bit less physical and different sorts of fun.”

  “Opera? Libraries? History lessons?” nodded Rita.

  “Stuff like that.” Georgia did not admit that she had attended none of these things and had no special knowledge whether they existed or not.

  “Alright,” said Rita after a pause. “It sounds proper boring after all. Maybe I’ll just aim for the sixth, and leave the seventh to all you silly snobs. In the meantime, I’ll make some more tea.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “I started off travelling with a couple of friends,” said Wayne. “It was more fun with company.”

  “Then why did you split up?” asked Sophie.

  Wayne pulled a face. “They both got hooked up with people they met. One left in Naples. He got a job on a yacht. The other one, she met this tall dark brooding Italian in Rome who kissed her hand. Too much temptation.”

  “The lure of the Latin Lover,” nodded Julian.

  “It has been known,” murmured Romano.

  “Oh, no worries,” said Wayne cheerfully. “But it’s a hell of a nice change to be back amongst friends you know. It’s a bit risky hitching alone, and there’s no one to chat to. I even thought of trying to get some work picking grapes or something and then buying a car, but seems it’s the wrong season. No grapes to pick. Besides, all Italians drive these real flashy cars.”

  “We tend to confuse elegance of design and potency of machine with virility in this country,” smiled Romano. “In every country men do this a little. Here it is a national pastime.”

  “But your car isn’t so grand,” Sophie pointed out. “Beautiful of course, and a sports car, which is a bit macho perhaps. But it’s old.”

  Romano inclined his head and smiled. “Indeed, like myself. A well-used Saab well past its prime, and covered in the dust of this good Tuscan countryside.”

  “Well,” grinned Wayne, “back home I’ve got an eighteen year old Ford with a bashed in spoiler. That makes yours pretty virile by my standards.”

  Romano surveyed his small brood and chuckled. “So I am still Italian after all.”

  They had dined outside at the long table under the fig tree, backs against the candle lit moss of the ancient crumbling Etruscan wall. A scuttle of tiny lizards had sunned themselves on its ledge all afternoon. Stone eaten by ivy and the sleeping coma of two thousand years, warm breezes through the tips of the cypresses, tree roots gnarled into the red earth. Now the long shadows had turned day to evening and the candles were hissing in the dew fall.

  “So – séance time. If we still want to do this,” said Wayne, “I’d sooner we did it inside. Does anyone mind? Or don’t you want to do it at all?”

  “We do, darlings, don’t we?” insisted Julian. “It would be such a disappointment to abandon it now.”

  “Then we go inside,” said Romano. “Bring your glasses. We leave the crumbs for tomorrow’s starlings.”

  Georgia stood in the doorway, and watched her mother’s confusion. Rita turned, arms outstretched, staring first to one side and then to the other. “It’s so light. Look. Don’t you see it? I put in those windows you helped me with, and now it’s got so bright I can’t see. We don’t have summer, we don’t have hot days. So where did all this sunshine come from?”

  Georgia frowned. To her, it looked absolutely no different at all. The pretty curtains framed the wide windows and the murky lemon light slipped through, dancing a little in the dust and highlighting the polish on the stainless steel in the kitchen, fridge, cooker, pots and pans. It was exactly as she had last seen it. “If it’s brighter, then isn’t that nice?” she suggested. “Isn’t sunshine good?”

  “Don’t be stupid,” said Rita with heavy scorn, “and don’t go making out I’m stupid either. Of course sunshine’s good. Good? It’s bloody lovely. Just lately I’d even been wondering if these nice new windows were worth all the bother, when the only light that comes through is that dreary little bit of cloud. I’ve even talked about it with the neighbours, but they don’t think it’s dreary and dull at all. They think it’s bright and sunny and they call me blind. Cheeky sods! And then I woke up this morning and there it is, just blazing in. I can’t see my own teapot. Everything’s just a golden glitter. Now I am blind.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Georgia. Bewilderment made her cross. “Frankly, to me it’s just as dull and gloomy as ever. I mean, where’s the sunshine?”

  “Well now,” said Rita, offended but studiously polite, “as it happens, you always just seemed real shiny to me. I expect it works that way, like those irritating goody-goodies who drift in sometimes to poke their noses into our business and try to lecture us. Call themselves guides, but if you ask me they’re just busy-bodies. Well, they positively glitter. No wonder we send them packing.”

  “I don’t mean to shine or anything.” Georgia stared down at her shiny feet. “I don’t try to look different. It’s the way the vibrations work. I don’t belong on this plane, so I seem to shimmer. That’s all. My own guide seems like a beacon when he’s on my plane, because he comes from higher up.”

  “Well now, that’s what I was trying to explain,” said Rita. “But the thing is, now you don’t so much. Well, you still do a bit, but not as exaggerated. Perhaps I’ve got used to you, but there just isn’t that much gleaming around you anymore.”

  Georgia smiled with sudden delight. It was the first bit of good news for some time. “That must mean your own vibrations are speeding up,” she said in a rush. “Maybe you’re being called. You’re certainly being told something. But of course I’m not your guide so I just don’t know what it is.” She paused, then hurried on, “Of course, I’m not anybody’s guide. I’ve not been here long myself.”

  Rita stopped twirling around in the middle of the room and flopped into the armchair, sitting rather tremulously, knees together, a little bemused and almost timid. “Me? Calling me? What for? I’ve done nothing wrong, honest.”

  “Sit quietly in the light and listen,” Georgia decided. “I don’t think bright lights could mean something wrong. Sounds more like something very right to me.”

  “But I don’t want someone telling me something into my head,” said Rita, her voice suddenly fading to a whisper. “What if I’m told to go and do something I don’t like? If anyone tells me something bloody peculiar, then at least I’d sooner it was you. I’m not keen on strangers.”

  “I really can’t understand why you’re so suspicious of everything and everyone,” Georgia shook her head. “You must know you’re totally safe whatever happens. Now all that fear of death we all used to have doesn’t count anymore, so what is there to be scared of?”

  Rita fiddled with her fingers, staring into her lap. “You know.” Georgia shook her head again. She didn’t know. “The unknown,” continued Rita. “Anything could happen over here, cou
ldn’t it? How do we know what’s possible? What lives up beyond – and what lives down below. This is much scarier than being alive where the worst thing was just being run over by a bus.”

  Georgia blinked. “The trouble is,” she said in a distinctly motherly voice, “you don’t believe you’re worthy of nice things. That’s what it is, isn’t it? You expect the worst, because you think you deserve the worst. I have a feeling that all this is about forgiving yourself.”

  Rita glared. “What’s this then? Bloody silly psychology stuff? Who do you think you are, to tell me that? I’ve nothing to forgive myself for, I’ll have you know.”

  “Well, the light can’t be a punishment, whatever you think,” Georgia interrupted. “It’s something good. It has to be – I promise. Go and stand in it. Listen to it, if you don’t want to listen to me. In the meantime, I’m going home.”

  Pigseed aimed a kick. Francesco moved but wasn’t agile. Stiff and sore, he felt increasingly restricted, unable to breathe easily, as if all the pain of death which he had utterly escaped at its moment of conclusion, had come to trouble him now. He felt, quite simply, as though he was dying.

  “You fat prick sucker,” Pigseed said as he kicked. “It’s your turn. Get up and brew the coffee and check the still. Lazy fucking turd. You’re fucking useless. Don’t know why I ever bothered picking you up.”

  “Don’t go making any of your vile burned coffee for me,” said Primo, looking down with dislike. “I never drank it while I lived here, let alone now. And I don’t want any of your shit home-stilled whisky either. It’s a foul concoction. If you weren’t already dead, it’d fucking kill you for sure.”

  Pigseed sniggered. “Got to keep the slaves in order. The coffee’s not for you. It’s to keep them busy. Don’t want them getting clever ideas about running away, do I. Not like you did.”

  “Well, no risk of you moving up, is there,” remarked Primo. “It’ll be a fucking eternity before you move off this plane. Must have been a pissing miracle that you crawled up from the second.”

  “I told you not to talk about that,” Pigseed glowered. “You want to pick my brains, I said okay, I’ll tell you about when you first got here. Nothing else though. Don’t push your fucking luck.”

  Francesco obediently climbed to his feet, stumbled across to the huge bucket of water and dipped in the pan he was carrying. He then returned to the camp fire, the pan now brimming with water. Having spilled a good quantity on his ruined shoes, he set it to boil. He was gasping for breath and clutching at his throat as he sank back down to watch the flames, carefully keeping his distance from the other gang members.

  Father Martin sidled close. “You’re sick, my son. Let me help you.”

  “With what?” demanded Francesco. “Medicine? Prayer?”

  “Prayer,” nodded the monk dutifully kneeling. “I pray for all of us. This place is hell indeed.”

  “Fool,” interrupted Ayakis gleefully, holding his hands to the fire. “Pray to your infidel saints, it will do you no good for they do not exist. This is all the paradise you deserve. I admit I expected more, but in time some angel with discover me and take me up to the higher temples. For the moment, it is warm and pleasant at least. You deserve the torments of hell, so be thankful you have escaped the everlasting fires.” Francesco was coughing louder now, as if he might vomit. Ayakis pointed a long and tremulous finger. “See. This one is already sickening with the plagues of the hell he deserves. His gullet, choking with the vile words of blasphemy he speaks, is closing upon him. Soon he will swoon in agony.”

  Primo, though impatient to return to his own plane, looked down, momentarily diverted. “Got a cheery one here, Pigseed. Where did you pick him up?”

  Pigseed nodded. “Nice little suicide bomber, they tell me, just the sort I like to fucking chew on. These other three new ones got blown up at the same time. Fucking good joke. Swells my gang just the way I like it.”

  Gregorio had started to sob. Father Martin patted his shoulder. “The saints will help us, my son,” he murmured.

  Primo laughed. “Forget the saints. Might just as well pray to your favourite football team. Or Marilyn Monroe. Fucking saints are made on Earth. No one knows any over here.”

  “In the higher realms of course,” said Father Martin. “In this pitiful place, no saint would dream of coming.”

  “Very saintly of them,” nodded Primo. “But take my word for it, there aren’t any. Everyone arriving here goes to the level that suits them, that’s all. Indeed,” he smiled to himself with a sudden vision of Wilmot in fishnet stockings, “you’d be surprised at the types you get upstairs.”

  Ayakis was absorbed in the discussion of sainthood. It was the most fun he’d had in days. “See, even you infidels bicker amongst yourselves. You fight over your own lies. None of you admits the truth. You belong in hell, all of you. Your flesh should be flayed forever, boiling oil should burn your blood and skin into festering holes, your bowels should dissolve in the flames and cover you in suppuration and the evil stench of your own excrement. This will happen when they find you. Your evil will devour you in an infinity of pain.”

  Pigseed’s interests, although not nobly inclined towards any religious belief whatsoever, were happily awakened by the prospect of an infinity of pain. He kicked Ayakis hard in the ribs. Ayakis yelped and rolled over. “You, you prick,” announced Pigseed, “anyone dissolves any bowels around here, it’ll be me fucking dissolving yours. Then I’ll make you lick up your own shit, believe me. In the meantime, shut the fuck up.”

  Primo, bored, began to wander off. He wondered if he had yet discovered enough. He wanted his own home and the pristine peace of the forest, the pool and the curtained bed. He wanted silences, and the soft sounds of nature, bird and breeze. He walked over to where the harpy was roosting, her wing arch hunched up across her face, head tucked under, eyes shut. Primo leaned forwards and scratched her lowered crest. The harpy sighed, a small blissful croon like a happy chicken, and settled deeper into sleep. Primo turned back to Pigseed. “Was I this angry then?” he asked, nodding towards Francesco and Ayakis. “When you found me outside the hospital and dragged me back here, was I like them?”

  He remembered it now. He knew he’d been consumed with a bitter rage. He could feel it again as he looked at the gang strung out around the fire, smelled the hot acid of the brewing coffee and the stink of old food and rubbish chucked in among the ashes. Pigseed was grinning. “Too fucking true. You were ripe for us. And as for dragging you back here, you trotted eager as a fucking puppy. No kidnap needed. You nearly licked my feet, you were so keen.”

  Primo almost blushed. He remembered thinking he’d found friends. And they had been friends in a way. They’d fuelled every particle of his fierce resentment and fed him on violence. It was the diet he’d chosen himself. “And these stupid pricks? The new ones? They didn’t even go through the hospital?”

  “They came direct,” said Pigseed. “That happens sometimes. Not fucking often, but sometimes. But I don’t give a pig shit how they come. They come, that’s enough. I take what’s on free fucking offer.”

  Primo nodded. He was losing interest and prepared to leave. It was Francesco who diverted his concentration. Francesco was having what seemed like an epileptic fit. His out flung arm swung though the scalding embers of the fire and tipped up the pan of boiling water. The pan flew. The water splashed in a silver, hissing arc. The kettle spun into the height of the flames, the water spiralled as if by some fantastically intended design and the full force of the liquid heat cascaded into burning rivulets directly across Ayakis, who collapsed, screaming in a fury of squealing, scorching pain. Beside him Francesco still writhed, clutching his chest and gasping. The two men seemed entwined, each separate yet combined.

  Primo jumped back. Pigseed laughed. Gregorio sat forwards eagerly. “You wished boiling oil and all the flames of hell on us, you devil. Well, you brought it on yourself.” Ayakis continued to scream. His skin was puckering, the whole surf
ace of his body shining and virulent.

  “Interesting,” nodded Primo, contemplating the huge welts that erupted in oozing puss across the burned man’s face, neck and hands. “His own curse back fired, did it? I’ve never seen that happen before. Almost makes me glad I came.”

  Ayakis clawed at his fingers as the nails visibly split and began to fall away. The top half of his tunic was peeling into ribbons. Even Pigseed seemed surprised. “Yeh, you’re fucking right,” he said to Primo. “I couldn’t do that if I fucking tried. What d’you call that, then?”

  “Fucking retribution,” grinned Primo. “And what about this other one?”

  Francesco had not been splattered by the boiling water, but he continued to writhe as though burned. “Tied together I reckon,” said Pigseed, scratching his chin. “It’s that fucking karma stuff I suppose.”

  “No, karma doesn’t work that way,” said Primo, delighted to air his own recent education on the subject. “But they must be stuck with each other for some reason or other. One killed the other you said? That stupid fucker blew the other one up? That’ll do it every time.” And then he thought about himself and Daisy and how she’d said she felt tied to him, and he quickly shut up and turned aside.

  Pigseed shrugged. “Call it fucking karma, call it fucking destiny, I don’t give a shit. But they’re stuck like glue. You’re right. It’s interesting. I reckon philosophy can be a right fucking laugh after all.”

  They were standing shoulder to shoulder, Primo and Pigseed, regarding with abstract curiosity the squalling agonies of the two men struggling at their feet, when the clouds above shifted slightly, and several of the gang looked up, listening intently. Primo heard the words very clearly in his head but it wasn’t the voice of Wilmot, or of anyone else he knew. It was the slurred, deep veined voice in resonating slow motion, of a complete stranger, and obviously, from another plane. At first, Primo couldn’t make out what it said.