Between

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  “You’re saying I keep thinking about that damned explosion,” nodded Sven. “That’s what you mean, isn’t it? I’m stuck in the clothes I died in because my mind’s still stuck with it. I ought to be forgiving and forgetting.”

  “I’m not your guide,” nodded Darial. “I will not interfere with your development here.”

  “Oh well, I’m not a dummy,” said Sven. “I can add up two and two. So – who’s my guide? Will he help me climb up a plane to the sixth?”

  “Your guide is Merima,” Darial said. “She will certainly help you in every way, if you accept her guidance.”

  “A female guide?” said Sven. “Well, no disrespect, but that’s a bit of a prejudice with me. I mean, well, women. It’s not the same thing, is it? They just can’t understand how a man thinks. I mean, even the church with all its silly ideas, knew that men were the ones with a bit of common sense.”

  “Perhaps you are blocking her arrival for that reason,” Darial suggested. “Remember, there are no mistakes on the Summerlands. Your guide is always the spirit who most accurately reflects your needs and the imminent direction of your path ahead. She will be able to help you in ways no one else could.”

  Sven sniffed. Rita was scowling and Georgia was now rather bored and fiddling with her fingers. Rita said, “I didn’t know you felt that way about women. No wonder your girlfriend left you. I reckon we’d better have a long talk after this lot go.”

  “Inga didn’t leave me,” insisted Sven. “We died together. She was nuts about me on that holiday, couldn’t leave me alone. Then her father came in all that glittery stuff and took her off. It wasn’t my fault.”

  “You might have to wait a bit before moving up to the sixth if you keep talking about fault,” brooded Georgia. “Anyway, I’m going. Mum – I’ll come again soon.”

  “Don’t let my young man put you off,” said Rita quickly. “I’ll sort him out. Darial can sort me out and I’ll sort him.” She had not noticed that Georgia had called her Mum for the very first time.

  “I fancy a bigger house when we get to the sixth,” said Sven, affectionately patting Rita’s shoulder. “And a nice garden. I used to live by a lake. I’d like to do that again.”

  “I believe I’ll have a word with Merima,” smiled Darial.

  “Do you remember dying?” demanded Primo.

  It wasn’t the question Daisy had expected. She had hoped Primo might be jealous of Gregorio, and she knew he resented Sam and might object to her new adopted son. She rather missed the conversation she had prepared herself to join. She said, “Of course I do.”

  Primo sighed very deeply as if an enormous weight of confusion was blown away. “Thank fuck. So – go on – what?”

  Daisy hovered on the cliff edge, looking over the edge, concentrating on the spinning tumble of the water fall and its magical song. “You mean I have to tell you details? What if I don’t want to?”

  Primo sighed again, for a very different reason. “You don’t remember at all, do you?”

  “Maybe not clearly,” she admitted. “I remember the blue and the gold. Everything was real pretty and real quiet. Then there was birds and the light got so bright I had to shut my eyes. I remember that. But then I saw just the same, as if my eyes shut or open made not one jot of difference. That was exciting. Then there was the tunnel.”

  Primo interrupted. “I don’t mean that stuff. I mean how you actually died. What killed you? Heart attack? Car accident?” Pause. “Murder?”

  Daisy shook her head. “That’s real blurry. I’m not sure at all. Does it matter?”

  Primo paused. “Maybe it does, maybe it doesn’t,” he said at last. “I’ve got this guide, see. He thinks I have to go back and remember things I’ve forgotten. Seems I forgot them on purpose. Maybe you have too.”

  “Oh – guides,” said Daisy, pursing her lips. “I thought you didn’t like do-gooders. Who cares what they want? You’re doing alright aren’t you? You got yourself up from the third and now you’re halfway through the fourth. You’ll be on the fifth soon. You don’t need a guide.”

  “What I need’s my fucking business,” scowled Primo. “Now, about dying. Just try and remember.”

  Daisy shook her curls. “I don’t think I want to,” she said. “Thinking about that makes my head hurt. I don’t have to if I don’t want to. I don’t have some bossy guide telling me what to do. When those glittery people turn up, I get rid of them quick.”

  “Yeh, well,” said Primo, “that because you’re stupid. But I don’t care about any of that. I’m here to do my own thing, that’s all, and I said I’d do it, so I will. What if I said we were stuck together all that time for a real good reason?”

  “I told you we were,” said Daisy, animated for the first time. “You wouldn’t listen, but I just couldn’t get you out of my head. I had to keep following you. It’s only since I’ve had Sam I feel peaceful.”

  “Shit,” said Primo, “that’s not what I’m talking about. And it’s not karma either. Or maybe it is. Anyway, fucking listen. What if we were tied together because I was some shit sick killer and it was me did you in?”

  Daisy stood very still for a minute and then gave a nervous giggle. “Don’t be silly, Primo. That’s just silly.”

  “What if it isn’t?” Primo demanded. “Don’t you remember anything?”

  “No,” Daisy shook her head again, slightly desperate. “And I don’t believe it. You’re not the type. If your guide told you crap like that, you should get rid of him. He’s warped.”

  “Well,” decided Primo, “that might be true. But it makes no difference. It’s me that’s been remembering. I mean, I’m not the type now. The whole putrid idea makes me puke. But I remember things. Perhaps I got the shit knocked out of me by Pigseed’s lot, so I’m over it now. But when I was alive, I murdered people and strangled them. I don’t actually remember killing you to be honest, but I reckon I did. I must have. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

  “But that’s what it doesn’t do,” objected Daisy. “It doesn’t make any sense at all. And I choose not to believe it. So that’s that.” She turned abruptly and marched back indoors. She took another helping of mashed potato and began eating at once. “And I think you’d better go now,” she said, mouth full. “Both of you. Come back another time when you want to talk interesting stuff. Nice stuff.”

  “Oh shit,” said Primo and walked off.

  Outside, he took off directly from the cliff edge and flew vertically over the chasm. The harpy, caught unawares, almost lost balance and then with a hiss and a ruffle, spread her wings and soared upwards.

  Wilmot followed. “I suppose you think that was a waste of time.”

  “Well, wasn’t it?” demanded Primo, wind in his words.

  “Time,” said Wilmot, “being an illusion, cannot be wasted. Indeed, nothing can. Especially when I have programmed it.”

  Arms tight to his sides, Wilmot did a neat upward spiral, rather like a penguin under water. It made his nipple rings jingle. Primo glared and copied, coming alongside. He took a deep breath and said, “Go on then, tell me.”

  “Close your eyes,” said Wilmot. “I am going to take you somewhere.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  The fire was spitting where the cauldron had boiled over, chunks of spilled carrot producing strange twists of pink smoke. Pigseed, shoving a wandering log back into the flaming centre, muttered to himself. “There’s not a fuck’s worth of rabbit in this pissing gruel,” he said to no one in particular. “Might as well give up eating altogether. All the fucking fun’s gone out of death.”

  “The evening meal is nearly ready to be served,” pronounced Father Martin, hitching up his habit and sitting cross-legged beside the smouldering branches, head bowed. “So we will now form a united group of brethren and say grace. Altogether now.”

  The voices were desultory but obedient. A murmuring and muttering spread around the seated circle, with a general thanks for what they were about to rec
eive and a few added requests for something a bit better next time.

  “Now, I suggest an orderly queue this time,” said Father Martin sternly as he approached the bubbling cauldron with his wooden ladle. “None of the scrabbling and squabbling we had yesterday. I myself shall dish up today, and that way the portions will be fair and equal. Now, Abbot Pigseed first of course.”

  Pigseed straddled the sizzling ashes. “You fucking call me a fucking abbot again,” he pronounced through clenched jaw and gritted teeth, “and I’ll rip your scrawny fucking neck off of your scrawny fucking shoulders. Then you’ll fit in the pot yourself and we’ll have stringy fucking monk stew instead of rabbit, and I’ll thank the lord for your fucking stringy bones as well.”

  Since this sort of conversation was not new to Father Martin, he remained undisturbed. “Bowl?” he said.

  Pigseed, in spite of a belligerent red eyed glare, passed his bowl. Father Martin filled it and passed it back. Pigseed sank back to the ground and, with mouth and fingers, emptied the dish rather quickly. The other gang members were fidgeting in the queue. Being orderly felt somehow unnatural.

  “I don’t eat this stinking rabbit muck,” announced Ayakis from the back of the line. “You will give me just the vegetable.”

  “It’s not real rabbit, stupid prick,” remarked Blister, whose recent religious conversion had not altered the habits of many years.

  “Shame on you brother Blister,” called Father Martin from the front. “Remember, the Lord watches and listens at all times, and expects each of us to modulate our language. And dear brother Ayakis, please do remember patience. We must all have our turn at choosing our favourite meals, and your turn comes on Wednesday.”

  Blister was blushing and Ayakis had hung his head, but Pigseed, having licked his bowl clean and set it aside for future helpings, was indignant. “All this fucking peace to God stuff may be all very well in its place,” he said, stomping up, “but brethren this and abbot that - it’s too fucking much for a decent man to stick. I’ve warned you before to keep inside the limits I agreed on. Besides, you’re a fucking cheat. When the fuck’s Wednesday for shit sake? There aren’t any proper days. There aren’t proper weeks. You just say it’s Wednesday when you feel like it.”

  “Today’s Tuesday,” said the monk firmly. “Tomorrow’s Wednesday and it’ll be brother Ayakis’s turn to choose dinner. He’ll want roast lamb and dates as usual. I’m very partial to roast lamb myself.”

  “Ayakis doesn’t even believe in God,” objected Pigseed.

  Ayakis yelped at once. “How dare you?” he demanded. “I’m a martyr to the Lord. I died for my faith.”

  “Yes, well the less said about that the better,” interrupted Father Martin quickly. “But as I’ve explained many times, it’s all the same Lord our God, whatever church you used to attend and whatever name you used to call Him. As the great Saint Norwen spake unto me when he came to visit me specially last week and was seen in his holy brilliance by all of us, having cometh from those great high realms at God’s right hand just to speak unto me, it is wicked to divide into denominations here. We must all unite in peace and pray together to glorify the Lord God’s hallowed name, in whatever language.”

  Ayakis sniffed. “I’ve accepted that,” he muttered in a subdued sulk. “I’ve got the point. Everything I did, all my suffering, has been rejected here. Instead of being carried straight to the highest strata of Heaven, I’ve been dumped in the low places. But I still can’t see why I can’t have roast lamb when I want it. After all, I can summon it up myself if I’m left to concentrate a bit.”

  “It’s important to learn tolerance,” said the priest with fervour. “Selfish individualism just isn’t acceptable. You must act as part of the group and join in as we all do. You’ll get your fair turn like the rest of us. Abbot Pigseed chose rabbit. He must have his righteous share.”

  “They don’t want me,” Ayakis’s voice sank further. “Abbot Pigseed doesn’t like me.”

  “Now, now,” said Father Martin, “you know that isn’t true. We are all learning to love each other.”

  Pigseed, overhearing the discussion, opened his mouth to make the obvious remark but a stern glance from the monk silenced him. He stomped off to the further trees, muttering loudly to himself. Father Martin went back to sharing out the rabbit stew and obediently Ayakis collected his half-filled bowl and sat meekly to eat.

  After the meal was over, they gathered closer to sing hymns. Father Martin had composed a new one of his own. The voices he had been given to mould were not the stuff of Heavenly choirs, but he did his best. He liked to think they were all improving. Warl managed a fair contralto. Blister had a nice bass, and he considered his own voice to be a very fine tenor. He could even produce a good echoing affect if he concentrated and wasn’t interrupted by the frequent bickering.

  Pigseed stood under the distant pines, glaring through the long striped shadows. Nothing was going the way he wanted. It was time to move on after all. He might even have to call up his long ignored guide.

  He knew he was asleep but he felt the heat on his face and the dust up his nose and in his eyes and against his parched tongue. He’d finished the lemonade and the sour taste had seemed increasingly unpleasant, but the silly old dear was doing her best and when he asked how much further it was into town, she said not long now.

  He was tired too. To Primo it seemed absurd that he was deeply asleep, and yet also aware that he was tired. He was tired as a man is when he’s slept too little for days and days, and as he feels when that little sleep he’s snatched has been disturbed by heat, and hunger, and scarlet splashes of wild terror ridden nightmare.

  Now the endless scorched dun miles through the windscreen were making him drowsy. He blinked and coughed, clearing his throat. Although he had slumped down a little in the passenger seat, Kate Askey’s ear was on a level with his eyes. It was a small ear, which, since she was a small woman, seemed understandable enough but Primo thought it was a nice little ear too, shell like with all its curly little twists, clean and pink under a soft down of silky blush. Her hair around it was wiry and grey turning dirty white, like singed bristles when you swept up the hearth around the fireplace and the hot ashes caught the nylon. He watched her drive.

  The idea of killing her was beginning to fade. Old skin, old bones, that stringy tough frizz of permed hair would be rough against his hands. Her neck would twist and grind like a turkey’s. Old lady-strangling would never bring the pleasure of ripe youth. There could be no rape. It would be as if his mother had come back to life, and that would be the biggest nightmare of all.

  It was one quick lightening flash and it brought his mother’s face staring into his thoughts. Behind her was his step-father, his little brother’s father. Then everything was tumbling around him and open mouths with little teeth were shouting and eyes staring. Dead eyes. Glazed, myopic, like the old lady’s. She just looked straight ahead at the road over the steering wheel and she didn’t even know his mind was driving him mad, just as slow and sure as she was driving the car.

  Planning the killings kept the terrors away. With a click in his brain as loud as the crunch of old road gravel under the tyres, Primo switched back to safe thoughts. The next killing. It wouldn’t be the old lady after all. It would be someone he’d find in town, a pick up from the nearest bar, a waitress at a take-away, or just some kid wandering the streets. Not a prostitute. That would take the fun away. It had to be someone totally innocent, who’d stare at him with young, innocent eyes. Like his brother had.

  “Wayne’s gone,” said Sophie.

  Romano was out at his brother’s. Julian was curled in the old wicker chair on the back patio, watching the swallow-swoop of early morning. A fly buzzed, caught in the dust of long sunbeams. The wicker creaked as Julian sat up suddenly.

  He stared at Sophie. “What do you mean? Gone?”

  “What I said,” nodded Sophie. “Just that. Packed and gone. I went to look for him and he wasn’t anyw
here.”

  “Gone out shopping with Romano,” said Julian.

  She shook her head. “So I went to his room. It’s cleared out. There’s not a thing left. He’s entirely gone. Why didn’t he even say goodbye?”

  Julian had gone pale beneath his suntan, now quiet, eyes lowered. “Perhaps that’s exactly what he didn’t want. Saying goodbye.” He unfolded from the chair and stood staring out across the countryside, squinting into the sunshine. “He’d outstayed his welcome, hadn’t he? Romano hinted so much the other day. He’d been invited to stay a few days and it ended up a few weeks.”

  Sophie shook her head. “It’s hurtful. He could have managed a goodbye.”

  Julian didn’t turn round. “He could have. Seems he didn’t.”

  Sophie didn’t say anything for a few moments. She stood beside Julian, watching the swallows. Then she said, “It’s especially hurtful because, well, we had a secret. Wayne didn’t want me telling you or Romano, and I never liked that, but perhaps he was ashamed of me. The way he’s just walked out, it seems pretty likely he was. But you see, I was sleeping with him.”

  Another pause. The breeze was gentle above the cypresses, little flurries of green in the tree tops.

  “So was I,” said Julian.

  There had been windows and now the windows were no longer there. The wall of arched openings was made of sunshine, a barrier of blazing energy. Primo opened his eyes and felt, inexplicably, as though he had never opened them this way before. Either the eyes, or the manner of opening them, was new. It was unique to him, and felt invigorating. Beyond even that, it was incredibly exciting.

  Primo watched the sunlight pattern in the air between his bed and the beginning of what could be described as outside. Directly above him the cool shadows remained. A small canopy of coolest pastels sheltered him, aware that he was not yet strong enough to align himself with the light. Someone was sitting beside his bed, watching over him. Primo was surprised that anyone would stay close to him like that. She was a plump and elderly woman, dressed in a bonnet like a hand knitted tea cosy. Under the hat was a neat silver arrangement of aged hair in large pink rollers. The old lady regarded him with a mixture of concern and beady humour.