The Deepest Cut

by Conor Corderoy

  It was noon when I reached Snowdonia National Park and started snaking down into the Afon Tryweryn river valley, toward Lake Celyn. Wales is probably one of the most beautiful countries on the planet. It isn’t the insane beauty of Switzerland or Peru, which blows your mind. Like England, Wales manages to take prettiness to a level that makes you wonder how anything can be that perfect. The lake was stretched out, deep blue-black, reflecting the sun in sudden flashes. Surrounding it were the green hills of the Afon Valley, segmented and broken up by long, uneven hedgerows, like slow streams of billowing green smoke. On the western end of the lake, massive, gleaming and sterile white, was the monstrous shape of the Llyn Celyn fusion reactor—the generator of limitless clean energy that would lead humanity into the new millennium, into the New Order and the New Age.

  My mind went back to the hippies and to Hesperus. I wondered what it was about us as a species that made it so hard to adapt to our own planet. Of all the creatures on Earth, we were the only ones who could not be satisfied with what the planet gave us. We needed clothes, buildings, go-faster vehicles, more energy. We behaved like a virus in an alien organism. We needed hope, all right.

  Then I sighed and shook my head. Next thing, I’d be wearing sandals and eating lentils.

  Ten minutes later, I was pulling into a large parking lot outside the huge white dome of the reactor. A flash of yellow and orange caught my eye and caught me up short. The VW camper I’d seen on the road—or an identical one—was parked a few rows ahead, near the outer fence of the reactor. I ignored a couple of empty lots and cruised to a space near the van. I parked, climbed out of the TVR and strolled over to the VW. I put my hand on the grill. It was cold, which meant it had been there a while. Hendrix was watching me from the side, and Che, in psychedelic negative, was advertising a revolution he would probably have preferred to suppress with guns and electrodes. I closed my eyes and tried to recall the registration plate. It had been some kind of joke.

  KAL15T. It was the same van. I hadn’t stopped and I hadn’t dropped below seventy mph. Most of the way, I’d been doing more than one hundred and twenty. How the hell had they got ahead of me?

  The voice came from behind me. It was as hard to believe as the VW camper that was sitting in front of me. “Hey, man, you diggin’ the love bus? Is she beautiful? She has beautiful karma, man.”

  The only way to describe the way he walked was ‘sloping’. He sloped toward me on the longest, skinniest legs I had ever seen on a human being. He was smoking a joint and had a headband holding his long, dirty hair out of his eyes. I recognized him as the guy who had called to me on the highway.

  I nodded and said, “She’s beautiful. What have you got under the hood, a dilithium crystal?”

  He did a thing that sounded like a car with a half-dead battery trying to start. I realized he was laughing.

  “You got it! Yeah… Dilithium, man.”

  I pressed the point. I was thinking he was familiar, but not just from the van. I said, “My ride has a V12 with three hundred fifty horsepower. I overtook you doing a hundred and thirty miles an hour. How’d you get here ahead of me?”

  He smiled apologetically and moved the hair from his face with the backs of his fingers. “Actually, dilithium crystals are only in fiction. This is more like Adams’ improbability drive.” He laughed, like what he’d said was silly. “Only we don’t use cups of tea!” He did the dying battery thing again.

  I didn’t laugh. I tried to hold his gaze, but his shades kept reflecting extremely vivid images of the lake and the hills behind me.

  I said, “I’m serious. How’d you do it?”

  He laughed some more and shook his head then said, “Oh, man,” a couple of times. Then he extended both hands toward the camper and said, “Do you want love? If you want love, you can come with us. Love is waiting for you inside, man!”

  I told myself some things in life were just inexplicable. I shook my head and said, “Thanks. I’m fine,” and left him standing by his flower-power re-enactment machine. I made my way through the car park in the glaring heat, to the barrier. There was a uniformed guard with a platinum crew cut and eyes as blue as the kind of ice you stick to when you touch it. He was six foot six of solid muscle. He was Frederick Nietzsche’s wet dream and his face said he knew it. In fact, that was about all I thought he did know. That, and the fact that he’d spent his life expecting trouble, and I was the trouble he’d been expecting.

  He looked at me like he’d enjoy watching me drown and not care while he did it, then said, “Thus us a restricted area.” He had a heavy South African accent.

  I said, “I heard they did guided tours. I came all the way from London.” While I was talking, I noticed he had a sidearm, which is unusual in the UK.

  He eyed me up and down and said, “Hev you booked?”

  I shook my head. “No.”

  His eyes smiled unpleasantly without letting his mouth in on it. “What’s your nem?”

  “My nem? My name’s Murdoch, Liam Murdoch. Why?”

  I could feel a hot pellet of excitement in my belly. My gut was telling me I had found something, but I didn’t know what. This guy had been expecting me. I knew it.

  He said, “I’ll put your nem on mah list and we’ll contect you for the next tour. Where are you staying?”

  I pulled a face, like I wanted to be evasive. “I haven’t found a room yet. I might stay in Wrexham. I can call back.”

  His face took on the kind of stony expression, like nothing much is happening. He said, “You should book.”

  I smiled. “Yeah…” I shrugged a few times, pulled a face and thanked him for his help.

  His eyes smiled frost at me again and he said, “We’ll see you again, Mister Murdoch. It’s easy to book.”

  I’d gone four paces when he called after me, “Mr. Murdoch?”

  I stopped and turned.

  He said, “Try the Dragon’s Head at Ysgol Bro Tryweryn. Ah’ve heard they give a very”—he smiled like a hungry wolf that thinks your cries for help are amusing—“warm welcome. Ah think you might find what you’re looking for there. You can book the tour from there, too.”

  I nodded and left.

  The Dragon’s Head was an old inn a mile southeast of the lake. I drove there thinking everything had been too easy. It was like Russell and Hook had written the script and it was being acted out for my benefit.

  I pulled into the gravel parking lot and stepped through to the cool shade of the wood-paneled reception. There was a counter with a brass bell. I thumped it and, after a minute, a small, plump guy in a tank top came out, dabbing his mouth with a napkin.

  Before he could swallow, I said, “I’d like a room for the night.”

  He danced his head around a bit, smiled apologetically and chewed fast while he tapped at a computer. He said, “Yumph, be haff ung womb avaiwable,” and swallowed. “Three-o-four, on the top floor, with views of the lake.”

  I told him that would do fine, took the key and climbed six flights of stairs I recognized from a Tim Burton movie to the third floor, where I found four doors.

  The room was small, with an en-suite shower room you had to squeeze into and a sloping ceiling. There was a sash window that gave a view across green hills and hedgerows, with tall red-brick chimneys poking out of them like masts in a green sea fog. In the distance was the harsh, silver sheen of sun glaring off Lake Celyn. I suddenly felt exhausted. My body ached with stored anxiety about Maria. Her certain death suddenly loomed in my mind. I had to fight it off. He would not kill her. I had to believe that. If I let the shadow of her death enter my mind, I would go under.

  I threw my jacket on a chair by the window, pulled off my shoes and socks then took off my shirt. I lay on the bed and closed my eyes. A voice in my head kept repeating the phrase. If I let the shadow of her death enter my mind, I will go under. I could see the shadow entering through the bedroom door and moving into my head. And I would go under. I could see myself going under. But under what?<
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  There was darkness, deep and impenetrable. It was cold and dense, though it moved like water. A voice in my head told me it was quicksilver. It felt cold and metallic, like quicksilver. I was naked and standing in it up to my waist. And if the shadow of Maria’s death entered my mind, I would go under, into the cold metallic darkness of quicksilver.

  The door opened a long way off on my right. A wedge of yellow light leaned into the room and there was a shadow silhouetted in the light. The shadow was watching me and Maria’s voice said, “Liam?”

  I tried to call her, to tell her I was there, in the darkness, but my mouth was paralyzed with weariness and I could only make a moaning sound.

  It was not loud enough for her to hear and she said again, “Liam?”

  The door opened a little farther and her shadow warped and twisted and contorted in the yellow light. She was walking toward me—urgently, purposefully.

  “Liam?”

  I was in bed, stripped naked. The bedcovers were tucked in tight and I couldn’t move. The light from the open door had gone but there was a milky white glow in the air. She said, “Liam,” then leaned over me. Her face was so close it was almost touching mine. Her hair was loose and fell across her cheeks. I wanted to reach up to her and touch her, but the covers held me back. She smiled and stroked my face with her hand.

  I said, “Where were you?” but no sound came out of my mouth.

  She smiled and stood and I thought I heard her say, “Everything is fine, Liam. We will be so happy now.” She unbuttoned her blouse and dropped it on the floor. Her skin looked cool and milky. She pushed down on her jeans and wriggled out of them like a snake. I heard her say, “We are going to make love.”

  Then she was completely naked. The bedcovers were gone and I was naked, too. I looked down and saw that I was stiff and rock hard. I had a crazy feeling in my head and in my body. I desperately needed to feel her skin on mine. I tried to reach for her but my arms wouldn’t move.

  Then she was climbing on top of me, lowering herself onto me. Her hair was on my face and her lips and her breath moist on my ear.

  She whispered, “But only biting. No kissing. No licking. Just biting.”

  And her teeth sank into my neck. A tickle of electricity ran through my skin and I arched to her. Our skin touched. Her belly was on mine and her breasts skimmed my chest. I groaned. The pleasure was too intense. Somehow, I knew that as long as our skin was touching, I could move. My head was pounding and my breath was hot and ragged. I put my arms around her and crushed her to me too hard. She whimpered in my ear and the hair from her bush brushed against me, then pushed.

  I bit her shoulder. It tasted salty. I sucked hard, clenching my teeth. She arched, pushing, grinding her hips into me. Her teeth were on my neck—biting, digging deep, dragging across my skin. The pain was sharp, but it surged and ran through me like electricity, becoming a pleasure that was intolerable. I moved my mouth and bit her neck. The bite was savage. I wanted to draw blood and, as I bit, I screamed into her muscles and tendons.

  Then she was sitting astride me, clawing slowly at my chest. She bent forward and bit savagely, dragging her teeth over my flesh. I roared with the pain that was pleasure. I wanted it to stop but I needed more. I sat up and hurled her on the bed. She laughed. I fell on her and plunged my head between her legs, taking big, sucking bites at the tender white flesh of her inside thigh, moving to where her legs met. I grabbed her ass in my palms, like a great drinking bowl, and buried my face in her bush, taking huge, soaking mouthfuls of her. She screamed. She tore at my hair and I bit harder with a feverish madness hot in my head. Her thighs crushed me so I could hardly breathe. I was sinking, sinking into her, and she was engulfing me. Then she was thrashing and writhing like a snake. She was wrapped around me, crushing my whole body. I raised my head and saw her looking down at me. Her body seemed to enfold mine in a warm, moist, suffocating envelope. She sighed. The quiver of a pulse ran through her. She screamed and the pulse quickened to a spasm, and I came. We came, biting at each other with quick, pecking bites. And it wouldn’t stop. The stronger the electric, pulsing spasms grew, the more savagely we bit, until we were clenched to each other and screaming. Then we collapsed and lay, drenched in sweat, with an exquisite, stinging, moist burning, where I was still hard inside her.

  I was in blackness. I could feel her skin under my hand. I murmured, “Where were you?”

  She breathed in my ear, “At the power station.”

  I tried to open my eyes. I said, “How come you’re here? How…?”

  She laughed and said, “She’s not.”

  My heart thrashed. I struggled to sit up and open my eyes. She was by the window. Outside, there was the dark light of a moon glowing on her skin. I couldn’t make out if she was inside or outside the window. She was naked and her skin was smooth and milky. Her face was a gentle triangle and her eyes were slanting and luminous blue. Her hair was short and blonde. I knew her but I couldn’t remember how.

  She said, “Under the power station.”

  Then there was absolute blackness.

  I woke up in a wild panic. My heart was pounding hard and a sharp pain was constricting my chest and my breathing. The room was dark, but a faint glow of dusk was filtering in through the window. As my breathing slowed, I made out voices. Laughter. Conversation. The chink and clatter of plates and glasses. I was at an inn—The Dragon’s Head. There were people dining downstairs and drinking.

  I switched on the light. It was stark and harsh. Stupidly, I looked around for Maria—or the woman with the weird blue eyes. There was nothing. It had been a dream. Checking my watch, I saw it was eight-thirty. I’d slept for six hours. I swung my legs off the bed and realized I was naked. My brain ached and I struggled to remember. I was sure I’d lain down with my pants on. After getting to my feet, I walked unsteadily to the bathroom, feeling groggy. I turned on the shower and caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror. There were big bruises on my neck and shoulders and four parallel scratches down my chest.

  I stepped into the shower and turned the water to cold.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The place was busy, with the warm noise of people talking, eating and drinking. The dining room, which had been closed and dark when I’d arrived, was now open and bright with art deco lighting, and across the busy room a bank of French windows stood open onto a lawn with more tables. I figured people must come from a long way to eat here. The guy in the tank top was at reception and I stopped to talk to him.

  “When I go up, can you have someone collect my clothes and have them cleaned by morning?”

  He smiled and made a note. “Of course, sir.”

  I was about to walk away when I saw a stack of brightly colored leaflets. I picked one up. It had a big picture of the Llyn Celyn reactor on it and was advertising guided tours. There was a paragraph about cutting-edge technology and their latest generation eye-scanning security systems. Below the phone number it read ‘Call any time to book a tour. Twenty-four-hour answering service.’

  I studied it a moment then made to move toward the dining room. The receptionist was watching me, smiling.

  I said, “Thanks.”

  He pointed to the dining room and said, “It’s a wonderful night, and we have plenty of free tables outside.”

  I nodded, crossed the dining room then stepped out into the garden. It was a broad lawn surrounded by flowerbeds, with flaming torches placed at intervals around the dining area. The moon was rising over the hills to the east and I could just make out its translucent glow on the water of the lake to the west. Most of the tables were taken, but I could see a couple that were free. As I was about to move toward one, a waiter in a burgundy waistcoat with a bow tie approached me.

  “Table for one, sir?”

  “Yeah.”

  He indicated with his hand and led me to a table near the flowerbeds. Two tables away there was a couple seated by one of the torches, their faces half hidden by wavering shadows. The
waiter was talking to me. He was asking if I would like a drink.

  I frowned at him a moment then said, “Yeah. A Martini, very dry.”

  He went away and I stood looking at the couple. The woman caught my eye and smiled. She was the woman who had been in my room—in my bed, in my dream, if that was what it had been.

  The man was Serafino del Roble.

  She said something to him and he turned to me.

  He smiled in a way that was not a smile and gestured to a chair opposite him at his table. “Mr. Murdoch, what a pleasant surprise. It has been far too long. Won’t you join us?” His Spanish accent was there, but his English was flawless.

  I began to pull out the chair and paused. “How do you manage to make everything you say sound like a cheap line from a tacky movie?”

  He ignored me and gestured to the woman with him. “Allow me to introduce—”

  I interrupted him, “We’ve met. Back then, she was called ‘Maria’.” I turned to her. “What’s your name now, sugar? Let me guess. Cherry Brandy? Peachy Bonds? Or maybe the more subtle Amber Truelove?” I turned back to Serafino, pulled out the chair then sat. “How about you, Serafino? You still Serafino del Roble? Or are you now Ben Dover or Neil N. Takem?

  Serafino’s face was a picture of distaste, but the woman was giggling like a kid.

  He said, “That is quite enough, Murdoch. Your jokes are in very poor taste.”

  I pulled a Camel from the pack, flipped the Zippo and lit up. I allowed the smile to ride up the right side of my face as I breathed out smoke through my nose and said, “Fuck you.”

  He seemed genuinely surprised then shrugged as though I had confirmed his opinion of me. He turned to the woman and said, “You see what I mean? He has a total disregard for social convention.”