Between

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  He was back in the car with the old woman. Now he knew the woman was Daisy, but in the dream he did not. He wasn’t Primo, with the weight of a huge eagle snuffling at his side, he was a sad young man driving a dusty flat road, and wondering what it would feel like to strangle the woman who was offering him sandwiches.

  “You should have a girlfriend, good looking young man like you,” said Kate Askey. As she spoke to him, she continued staring straight over the steering wheel at the dry hot road continuing relentlessly before them. Primo wondered if she should be wearing glasses. It didn’t look as though she was seeing that well. She rarely blinked, as though the road might veer away from her as soon as she took her gaze from it. “Perhaps,” she went on, “you still live with your ma.”

  He shook his head. “No mother. No girlfriend.” He didn’t want to talk about himself but it didn’t hurt that much to be polite. He’d learned to be polite. It got him further, in the end.

  “I’d have liked a little boy. Even a little girl. I always wanted a baby. But it wasn’t my fate, after all.” She’d said all that before. She seemed trapped in a repetition of dreary thoughts.

  “You could adopt.” A stupid thing to say. It was just to say something, to keep talking rather than just thinking. His thoughts were as repetitive as the old lady’s remarks.

  She didn’t answer for a while. The silence dropped Primo back into the thoughts he didn’t want. He didn’t want them, but he enjoyed them. He began to imagine in more detail what it would be like to kill her. Her neck was scrawny and his thumbs wouldn’t have to push too far. He would hardly even have to squeeze. The skin wouldn’t feel soft and smooth and lush, but the bones would crack quickly. Brittle bones would sound good. The snap would be loud and sharp.

  He wouldn’t consider raping her of course. That would carry no pleasure at all, with her flabby thin thighs and concave belly. Just thinking about it made him feel his teeth were on edge, like that sort of squeak that chalk made on blackboards, and the top of his head went sour. He shook his ears clear, and smiled to himself.

  No girlfriends. Well, of course not. There had been, but they didn’t last long and he had just the best way of getting rid of them. That fucking rubbish about being a good looking young man, well that was sick pissing old lady talk, flattering him because she was getting all mummsy, or perhaps just because she was blind as a bat. He knew what he looked like even though he always avoided mirrors. Thin face, prominent cheekbones, thin nose, haunted fucking big stupid brown eyes. Eyelashes like a stupid girl’s and silly curls like a girl’s too. He didn’t ever comb his hair and that helped, but he still did his best not to look in mirrors.

  But somehow he always managed to get the girls when he wanted them. The last one had been luscious. He had imagined strangling her for weeks before – before he -well just before. And rape had never been necessary after all because, strangely enough, they had all been just too willing.

  His reverie was interrupted. The old lady said, “So where’s your mother, young man? Hope you visit her often. Mothers are just the salt of the Earth you know.”

  Primo frowned and took a deep breath. He ended with a mouthful of grit. “She’s dead.”

  “Oh dear, dear, dear.” Kate was clicking her tongue, more brisk than sympathetic. She never took her eyes from the road through the dusty windscreen. “Now that’s so sad. Tell me about the poor lady. When did she die?”

  Well that was something Primo most certainly had no intention of talking about. “She’s dead, that’s all. A long time ago.”

  “And you all alone since just a little lad? That’s a real shame. And your daddy? Did he look after you?”

  It wasn’t a subject Primo was prepared to consider at all. He said, “I’ll have some more of that lemonade, if it’s okay. It’s a real stuffy day.”

  “I can’t open these windows,” said Kate. “It’s just too dusty. Hotter outside than in I reckon. You help yourself to all the lemonade you want, young man. I can make some more when I get home.”

  Primo took the flask from the basket again. The drink was foul but he didn’t care. It was true he was thirsty, and more importantly, he had wanted to change the direction of the conversation. After drinking, he offered the flask to the old lady. She shook her head, and he fished over the back of the seat and shoved the flask back into the basket. It was a well filled basket and he wondered if there was anything more edible or otherwise alluring in it. He began to imagine strangling her again, and the daydream shifted into discovering that her basket was full of fifty dollar notes, or gold doubloons or some such. Sin, lust, total pleasure and then riches too. Well, everyone said dreams sometimes came true.

  He blinked back into reality and said, “You live in town then?”

  “Oh yes, near enough,” she said with a vigorous nod. “I’ve lived there all my life. It’s a nice little town, and real friendly. You intending to stay long?”

  “That depends,” smiled Primo after a pause. “Depends on a few things, as it happens.”

  Chapter Thirty

  “Are your olives special or something?” asked Sophie. “I suppose the tree is really old. Is it too old for good olives? I ate one. Sorry, but it was quite horrid. Did I just get a bad one?”

  Romano eyed her in some surprise. The British frequently amazed him. “They need treating first,” he smiled. “They should not be eaten straight from the tree.”

  “Oh sorry.” Sophie went back to the long window that led into the kitchen. Romano sighed and stretched. The twilight was sinking into the first glow of sunset. It would flare in glorious flagrancy between the far cypresses and Romano would stay until the last rosy glow left the sky in greys. He had always considered the sun his friend, whether high and hot, dawning or sinking.

  He was feeling unusually replete. He had slept the sweet siesta of the untroubled conscience, and he had not been alone. He would not discuss his experiences with his young guests, but he would relive the memories in private and the hushed thrill of it would remain with him for a very long time.

  He had rejected the sensations at first for he feared foolishness, self-delusion, and finally disillusion. But it had been too strong, his reluctance to believe was overcome and finally he had known it was true.

  For months he had eaten little and drunk a little too much, but it helped sleep, which was an escape less demeaning than other indulgences might be, and sleep was healing except for the dreams. But then, lying on the wide white bed, eyes closed but mind awake, his doubts had been kissed away and he had felt her so close, her breath warm and her body vibrant. He had felt her kisses against his eyelids, and a soft humming as if something vibrated against and then within him. She touched inside his head, her knowledge of him stroked the length of his body, her arms tight around his back. He felt touched by rainbows, he drowned in the smell of her and drank in the warmth of her. Then his consciousness drifted away like a blown candle flame and he sank into dreams, redolent of her presence.

  Now he watched the sunset and let his mind course future plans, almost as if he himself were absent, still lost in languid happiness. He would, he thought, involve himself again with the family business. He would take the wine to England, since he already owned a house there, spoke the language and knew the people. He would enlarge the export market, and expand necessary contacts into new friendships. And while he was there, for Georgia’s sake but also because he had begun to like her, he would encourage Sophie and offer her the support she undoubtedly needed. He would adopt responsibility and become busy. It would help pass the time. It might even make time pleasurable after all.

  Ayakis held the bowl up to his mouth and drank. The water tasted of ashes. It never quenched thirst or cooled his throat. To the others he shouted about Paradise, but silently he knew, with all his heart, that he was in Hell.

  The surface of the sooty water, oozing from the cracks in the clay drinking bowl, reflected, though distorted, the bitter anger Ayakis felt within himself. He had been betr
ayed by death and it was the ultimate betrayal, for it was Almighty God’s rejection. He could see, looking down and stilling the water, the reflection of the open red flesh of his nose, the welts and raised scars around his eyes, the puckered wounds around both cheeks and the dreadful fleshless scabs of his lips. Everything hurt. These were the judgements and punishments of hell.

  It was not such a terrible hell as he had been taught to expect. It held some pleasures and far fewer tortures, but the true Heavenly rewards were withheld. Something had gone wrong. It had also gone wrong for the other passengers of the bus, for they were not all with him and not all suffering as they should. As he did. Most had been met by their deceased family and taken into a sweet, welcoming light, a glow of seeming happiness. Now even the fat bus driver had got away. It was possible of course, sometimes he told himself it was probable, that all these had been swept off to a place far worse, the deepest Hell of the afterlife, and were now burning in the disease ridden flames of eternal damnation. But it was rare that he could convince himself of this, and rare that he didn’t admit, reluctantly, that they were all happy in Heaven while he was not.

  He was, since he was now capable of very little else, left mostly in peace. He was not liked, which pleased him, so he was included neither in the camaraderie, nor in the requirements of slavery. He was rarely kicked or beaten by the gang nor ordered to serve, for he was now so obviously weak and ineffectual that further insults made no difference. He made himself silent, and so was almost forgotten. This was a pleasure of sorts but where he had been flayed by the boiling water, the pain remained. It lessened over time but it never left him entirely, even while he tried to sleep. It was a small compensation to see that Francesco, although never touched by the water he himself had dropped, was also in constant discomfort. The scabby old monk however, seemed happy enough; especially now he was busy converting some of the gang with his obscene ramblings.

  The gang were loathsome. They believed only in their own relish of brutality, and practised violence without need of reward or motive. They delighted in power and practised its aimless indulgences in the absence of any other activity to fill their empty minds. The trouble was, and Ayakis recognised it increasingly clearly, his own mind was just as empty. Without the living zeal of his all absorbing goals and the ethnic teachings which had inspired his every action before death, he was as lost as those around him. More so, for they had the power and he was utterly the victim.

  So, when the angel of light appeared, he was convinced without any slightest tremor of doubt that it had come for him at last.

  Gregorio sat cross legged and ate his pancakes with berries and syrup. He ate pancakes quite often, also salads, pasta in tomato and cream sauces and cheese sandwiches. He ate cucumber tzatziki frequently, and occasionally even spanakopitta. Daisy had learned how to cook spanakopitta from him and he was quite proud of the recipe. Frankly it never came out quite the way he remembered it, but he enjoyed it all the same and the little dig of nostalgia was an added pleasure.

  Daisy adored him. That was quite a nice surprise, since it was a fairly long time since he could ever remember anyone even remotely adoring him, but he had more doubts about Sam. Sam was a brat, and as an adopted son, he was both too big and too noisy.

  “But I always wanted kids,” said Daisy. “Sam may look older now, but he was only a little boy when he died. And died so sadly too. Don’t you feel sorry for him?”

  “No.” Gregorio shook all his nice dark curls. He had recently discovered that his receding hairline had begun to grow back and his hair, of which he had once been so proud, was again shooting through his scalp thick and strong. “Why should I? I got murdered too. I was a decent, hard working man with an obedient son. He was taken from me, murdered the same time as me, and then taken by the lights. My old mother came for him but she wouldn’t take me. Now that’s a hard thing for a decent man to swallow.”

  “Poor lamb,” said Daisy. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise. But surely that’s all the more reason for you to want Sam as your new little boy.”

  “He’s not a little boy,” Gregorio pointed out. “He’s a big muscly bugger with a vile temper. And come on Daisy, I’m not an idiot, he was your boyfriend before I turned up. He wasn’t your son at all.”

  “Things here are what you want them to be,” shrugged Daisy. “He’s our little boy now. He’s real happy with the idea, and so am I. So you have to be daddy.”

  Playing mummies and daddies wasn’t really what Gregorio had in mind as the perfect heavenly experience. But then, nothing had turned out at all as he’d imagined. “But the little bastard’s nearly as big as me.”

  “If you make a good daddy,” Daisy said firmly, “Sam’ll get littler. He promises he will. And he says he’ll be a good boy. He didn’t like dying so young. He missed all his proper childhood, poor little thing.”

  “I suppose,” admitted Gregorio, “that I ought to sympathise. I suppose it was rough. It was rough for me too. And how about you? How did you die?”

  Daisy frowned. “You know, I’m just not entirely sure. Some things fade so quick.” She paused, stirring the hot milk for cocoa and staring at the tiny simmering bubbles and the whirlpool the wooden spoon made in their midst. “I sort of remember. I know my name. I changed that when I came over, though now I’m not sure why I did that either. I just didn’t like my name I suppose. Kate it was. But there was something about the memories I wanted to chase away, so I chose Daisy instead. I can remember being older too. Well,” she looked up at Gregorio with a quick smile, “not that old of course. Just older than Sam. Frankly I think my life must have been pretty boring. I just can’t remember dying at all. The next thing I remember was waking up in hospital on the third plane. The doctor said I’d slept a long, long time, and that I’d needed it. Then I felt quite fresh you know, and happy to have forgotten most things. But I remember having no kids. I so very much wanted a little boy of my own.”

  “And now you’ve got Sam but a big lout like him isn’t going to curl up in your arms. You can’t sing him to sleep at night.”

  “Oh, can’t I?” said Daisy. “Just you watch.”

  “Well, we’ll give it a try I suppose,” said Gregorio. In all honesty, he seemed to be getting younger himself these days. The bald patch had gone, the waistline was slimmer, the muscles less flabby. He needed a mirror. He had an idea that a handsome young man might stare back at him.

  “Well, it’s my house,” said Daisy, “so what I say goes. And promise you won’t go moving on too quick.”

  “I won’t move,” Gregorio assured her. “I like it here. If you want, I’ll do a few repairs. I used to be quite handy about the house. I could even build us an extension.”

  “I like my house the way it is,” Daisy pursed her lips. If he altered too much, she wouldn’t feel so much in charge. She’d have to share ownership. Then Gregorio would start bossing her around, instead of the other way about.

  “Okay, but it’s very small for the three of us.” It was a simple hut, shabby and rather dull, but he loved the mountains, and he loved the fresh air and the solitary cleanliness. He didn’t really care what the house was like. Home was the snow above and the waterfall with its faint sparkling song, the deep shadowed ravines and the mossy smell of happiness.

  With the gang, there had been no shelter at all. Various gang members had tried building something and others had erected tents. But the winds had blown everything away at once. When kidnapped slaves had been kicked into building some lean-to or hut, the sticks had immediately collapsed so the vicinity of the camp fire and the surrounding piles of refuse had constituted the only concept of home. It had been open and unconfined which should have felt free, but there was nothing remotely free about Pigseed’s gang site. The weather was usually plain and dreary without either storm, rain or bursting sun shine, so sleeping in the open had been painless enough. But it had certainly never felt safe, nor comfortable, nor welcoming. This did. Gregorio blessed his good fortune
. God was remembering his prayers at last.

  Unlike Daisy, Gregorio had forgotten nothing of his past life. He remembered quite clearly beating his wife, bullying his son, and cheating his bosses. Somehow, none of that mattered anymore. On arrival he had feared discovery and exposure of his deep wickedness, had even accepted the first barrages from Warl and Pigseed as rightful punishments for his previous life of sin and meanness. All that was past now. He’d treat Daisy well. And he would try and be a good father to Sam, even though he didn’t like him. Tolerance, that was the word. Living here would make everything worthwhile.

  The three cats sat curled, content on the bed. Primo eyed them with doubt. The harpy, having long abandoned hostility towards the increasingly strange apparitions entertained by her human, perched on the headboard and regarded the three cats with baleful contempt.

  “Alright,” sighed Primo. “I give up. Which one are you?”

  The long haired white Persian blinked china blue eyes and yawned. In the middle, a small tabby was fast asleep, its fluffy tail curled around like a blanket. On the left, a large black and slightly boss-eyed tom stared back, raised one paw, flicked its whiskers, and said, “I do think you should be able to recognise your own guide by now.”

  “That,” said Primo, “would take a genius. And, as you keep telling me, a genius is the last thing I am.”

  The black cat twitched both ears, stood, arched its back, and turned back into Wilmot. Then he sat beside the Persian, stroked it as it purred loudly and majestically, and smiled. “But you are, it seems, becoming accustomed.”

  Primo grinned back. “You’re being nice to me. That presumably means there’s a fucking long lecture coming.”