“I was quite young, I never dreamed anything bad would happen to them. Anyway I wasn’t paying too much attention to what mum was saying, I remember I moaned about not having enough money and stuff like that, but I do remember that she briefly described them to me. She said that he was a big African, leader of some tribe or cult, while she was white, that struck me as surprising at the time, and apparently the woman was exquisitely beautiful and went under the name of Madame Eve…” She paused and they all heard the bubbling of the coffee percolator from the galley.
Walther rose quietly and made liqueur coffees while she continued, “…Well basically that was the last time I ever spoke to my mother…” Her face, already a mask of emotional pain, hardened even further, “…I got a message some days later saying she was dead and that dad was critical in some hospital or other. After that everything happened in a kind of haze, I was in shock for months. I flew down to be with dad and had to identify mum's body. What was left of it. I had to bury her there, dad was too ill to travel home...” She finally broke, the tears rolled down her cheeks in hot wet streams. Richard also found it difficult to hold back his own tears as she continued, “…Dad never fully recovered, I got him home and had to drop out of Uni to look after him. He died six months later…” her breathing was in ragged jerks as she tried to hold back her tears, “…mad and deliriously drunk most of the time. After he’d gone I left the family home, I, I, just locked the door and never went back. It still belongs to me, but I don’t know what sort of state it’s in. All their research is still there. But don’t ask me to go and get it. I couldn’t.” She finally stopped, unable to continue, shaking with desperate sobs. Richard held her close for a few moments until Walther spoke,
“Perhaps we should conclude at this point and meet again tomorrow, yes?” They nodded their agreement, grateful for the chance to leave.
*
London, Hammersmith - 2000
Earlier that same evening, while Richard and Susan were enjoying Walther’s goulash, girl-shy Philip Leach sat in Eve’s boudoir vigorously sipping wine. He had naively mistaken her flirtatious manner for something more and now sat red-faced after she had slapped him. She felt his discomfort and played with him a little,
“I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong impression…” she gave him an apologetic smile, “… it is just my continental way…” she stood before him and leaned down, “… we can be very, er, touchy-feely…” she drew him up from the seat, “… and kiss each other all the time…” she kissed him lightly on both cheeks, “… but this is not how we kiss in the heat of passion…” she pushed his empty wine glass aside and pressed her lips to his, her body fitting snugly against him from her toes to her breasts, “… we do it like this.” The kiss was long and wonderful. Philip, confused as he was, let his arms encircle her as the embrace continued. Eventually Eve peeled away, slightly exhilarated by Philip’s runaway passion for her. Thinking that she’d teased him enough, it was time to let him go.
And then he dropped the wine glass. A small thing to lose your life over. It shattered into many crystal fragments. In his embarrassed haste to retrieve the pieces he sliced a deep cut into his middle finger,
“Yow!” He hissed. The pain was sharp. And it hit Eve like a mainline fix. Her playful smile fell away forgotten. She reached out for his hand, he offered it, she held him by the wrist, and jammed her fingernail into the gash. Philip yelled in shock and pain, trying to withdraw. She held his wrist tightly, spun him around and threw him down on his face. In a second she had his arm twisted behind his back as she reached between her legs for her dagger. Philip was scared and yelling, his head twisted to one side. She spoke quickly into his ear, each word as cold and jagged as the broken glass,
“Shut up or I will slit your throat.” She pressed the knife point to the side of an eye, Philip’s shouts fell to whimpering. In moments she had cut away pieces of his shirt, some she jammed into his mouth, a longer piece she used to secure his hands behind his back. Minutes later the discomfort of his cut finger paled beneath the agonies she put him through as he endured the last moments of his life. Towards the end of his ordeal he realised that she was actually getting off on his torment. Each agony he suffered brought her closer to some sort of climax, he knew he was doomed. The realisation brought little comfort as he screamed his way into oblivion.
Disposal of his remains was easy. Once she was sated, Eve summoned the twins Margaret and Philippa, the mad, bastard offspring of the housemaid and Sir Clive, the results of a careless fling more than twenty five years ago. They arrived, black plastic sacks at the ready, bickering as usual,
“You chose omelette last night, so now it’s my turn to choose!” They stuffed Philip’s gory remains into the sacks and lugged him down to the Victorian cellar, then returned upstairs to clean Eve’s boudoir. Later, with kitchen knives and saws, they took him to pieces. Working through the night they drained his blood into the bath and cut him into manageable chunks, finally disposing of him in four weighted sacks dropped from Hammersmith Bridge.
As usual, Eve had been very careful to leave little or no evidence that might connect her to Philip. She’d instructed Franco to move Philip’s car to a pub several miles away and there were no records of her at the office; she was quite certain of that, having ‘asked’ Philip while he was under the knife. He would be reported as ‘missing’, the absence of a body relegating the police inquiry, ‘missing’ being not nearly as serious as ‘murdered’.
On his return, Franco reported that he’d left Philip’s coat in a pub as she’d ordered,
“Thank you Franco.” She favoured him with a warm smile as he bowed and turned to go, his old but still firm features as inscrutable as ever. Unconsciously her mind slipped back through the years to 1937. When he was a homeless beggar-child on the ruined streets of Guernica,
“You were such a brave, handsome boy.” She whispered to his departing broad shoulders.
Eve remembered how she’d been fighting on the side of the Nationalists and entered the city just days after the German bombers had levelled it, the fires still raged, paled only by the fire she saw smouldering in Franco’s youthful eyes. He had saved her life, dragged her to safety from an ambush attack.
She took him into her care, to fight alongside her and the Nationalists. He learned the skills of war quickly, and found killing an easy way to channel his anger. He went from small boy to man with nothing in between. Once the revolution was done they settled for a while in Madrid. Eve insisted on his catching up with some schooling while she polished his education in every other way. The Second World War split then up for a time, Eve drawn to the misery of northern Europe like a moth to a flame. But Franco always knew she would return. And when she did, it was to give him the best best time of his life. For years they were inseparable, but further heartbreak was to come to him. She left him again in the 1960's, this time drawn to the horrors in the east. He heard nothing from her for so long that he knew it was over. And so he was surprised when she returned, as beautiful and deadly as the day she left, and pregnant with Cairo. This time she was so very different. So much younger, but in truth it was simply he who had aged. Their relationship had become like mistress and servant. He became her bodyguard, on oath to preserve her secrets. During his life he had made love to her first as a child, then her lover, then as a devoted servant. They trusted each other implicitly, and no one else.
“Franco?” She called after him, very quietly, and was surprised when he stopped and turned, his old and lined face weary but not weak,
“Yes mistress?” She held his gaze for a fleeting second,
“Come...” she asked gently, “…play with me.” And gestured elegantly towards the chess table. He was pleased to join, and to the accompaniment of Barbieri’s opera music they played throughout the night.
Gaul - AD61
The gladiatrix was hungry. But it was not food for the stomach that she hungered for. She hungered for the pain and suffering of men. She h
ad been travelling through Gaul with a group of merchants protected by four mercenaries. They’d each vied for her favours and she played them off each other for amusement. They could see she was a fiery young woman but had no idea of her true nature.
At a hostelry on the edge of a growing village that offered a ferry crossing, they paid for food and lodgings. Eventually, with the aid of plenty of wine, she goaded two of them into fighting over her. Their half-hearted wrestling soon became a fight to the death and she cheered as they drew swords, their leader however was less than impressed and intervened, dragging them outside.
She glared at him with eyes like daggers, thinking, “You will be the first.”
Later that night she crept up to him as he slept,
“Come with me…” She roused him and led him unobserved outside, the night was cold and she pressed herself against him, he could tell she was naked beneath her robe,
“Carry me.” She asked him as she nodded towards the woods. Only one set of footprints left the lodgings. Once out of sight and deep in the woods, he threw her down and roughly cast aside her robe, her pale skin inviting to his touch. Their copulation was brief but rewarding, and then afterwards the gladiatrix had her own way.
She stunned him with a stone, quickly bound his hands behind his back and sewed his lips together with four looped stitches of hemp. They were too far from the village for his muffled bellowing to be heard.
She worked on him for some time, compelled by his agonies until she was finally sated. Feeling invigorated she made a trail to the river and cleansed herself thoroughly before sneaking back to the lodgings.
In the morning there was much ado, as it was believed the evil spirit known to the locals as Magwyrm had taken Pietro. They quickly buried his mutilated corpse and hurried onwards on their journey to Rome.
*
London, Windsor - 2000
On their way home from Walther's houseboat Susan felt the old insecurities rise up again; washing over and through her, the worthlessness, that vile impotence. How could she express her guilt? How could she ever be worthy of anyone’s love? Had she any to give?
“Poor Richard…” She regretted. “…Do I really love him? Does he love me?”
They talked little on their way home, neither noticing the passing cars or the piercing crescent moon.
In her mind she whirled and swooped around in a world of regret and guilt.
While his mind was lost in confusion, “What the hell is going on?” he tried to rationalise the bizarre twists in recent days. He held on to her arm, caring and wanting her close, and completely unaware that she was oblivious to his touch.
Neither of them heard the enthusiastic shrieking of the teenagers that they crossed the road to avoid, or even the begging whine of the homeless door-sitter. Susan was solely focused on the death of her mother and father, and the role that the strange woman called Eve might have had in it,
“I’ll find you.” She whispered without realising. Her unconscious words went unnoticed by Richard, drowned out not just by the hubbub as they walked by the open door of a pub, but more by the labyrinthine suppositions whirling around his mind.
At home, like automatons they prepared for bed. Each unconsciously observing their usual bedtime rituals, neither totally aware of each other. Dreams came to both of them, at least they thought they were dreams.
Richards dream:
He awoke, stared at the slightly fluttering curtains ahead,
“Why are they red?” his confusion multiplied as they began to part, pulled aside like cinema drapes.
A terracotta-paved street stretched away from him, heat blasted up from the sun-baked stones. He turned suddenly at the sight of buildings to his right, ancient stone crafted and temple-like,
“Is this Rome?” He walked towards the largest temple and passed between the columns, into the grunting melee of an orgy. Men and women of all ages indulged themselves shamelessly, in pairs and in groups, switching from one to another. As he watched he realised that there was one girl in particular that everybody had to have. As if she was an offering to them all. A pretty dark-haired child, obviously not of age. She accepted it all as if resigned to her fate. Except for her green eyes that shrieked of revenge. Throughout her ordeal, he noticed, her piercing hate-filled eyes never strayed far from the man on the gilded couch who seemed to be orchestrating her defilement. Soul stealer.
To his confusion Richard felt himself propelled, by unseen hands, towards the girl, as if it was now his turn,
“Do with her as you wish.” The voice came from the man on the gilded couch.
Richard woke as Susan slapped his face, the bedroom came back. She knelt on the bed next to him, the quilt on the floor, she seemed annoyed,
“Sorry Rich, but I had to wake you. You were moaning so loud.
“Shit, I'm glad you did.”
“Was it the same as last time?” He didn't want to tell her the contents of the dream,
“Yeah, sort of, it's faded already.” Once again he lied and said that he could not remember what the dream was about.
Susan didn't mention that she had had a dream of her own. She had dreamt of a castle in a forest. A castle inhabited by a black beast, it bellowed her name from high windows while she stared from the safety of the trees. She had woken quickly and had lain awake listening to Richard’s increasingly noisy slumbering.
The following morning, before they bot out of bed, Richard phoned Phil,
“No answer.” He hung up, despondent. Susan announced,
“I’m going to phone in sick…” She lay on her back, not facing Richard, “…And I’m going in to work with you, I need to know that Phil’s okay and I’d like to be around if Walther shows up.” Richard readily agreed, he was deeply rattled. He hoped that Phil had simply gone into work very early, but he doubted it.
They drove to work, aware that they might need the car later on, and arrived at around 7:45. No sign of Phil. They waited nervously, sipping coffee. Cyndy arrived breathlessly as usual at 8.50. By 9.15 they were back in the car heading towards Phil’s house in Maidenhead,
“He’s dead isn’t he?” Susan made the question sound like a statement. Richard couldn’t reply, fast losing his patience with the stop-start traffic and his own mounting dread. They saw immediately that Phil’s car wasn’t in its usual spot on the driveway. Richard was out of the car in a second and almost running to the front door. Susan held back, watching him, knowing he was about to lose his cool. He rang the bell and hammered to no avail,
“Let’s try around the back, he might be in the garden.” She dutifully followed him through the wrought iron gate and across the crazy paving, aware that it was a preposterous notion but allowing him the moment of action. Of course there was no answer. Richard eventually punched the door one last time and abruptly stopped,
“She's got him.” He muttered through clenched teeth. Susan took his arm and started to lead him back towards the car,
“Let’s go and find Walther, he’ll know what to do.” Richard turned on her angrily,
“Fuck him, I’m going to the police! It’s what I should’ve done in the first place, we’re crazy thinking we can go up against some kind of fucking mutant psycho. We’ll all end up-” Susan put a finger to his lips,
“No Rich, not yet. We have to speak to Walther first...” She opened the car door and sat him on the passenger seat, “…We'll go to his boat and wait for him if necessary.” Richard sat quietly while she drove, an angry determination growing within his mind. Mental pictures flashed inside his eyes, pictures like the cruelly rendered bodies in the little book, only this time with Phil’s face on them, “You won't get away with this. I’ll get you...” He thought, realising that maybe it wasn't a job for the police at all, “...No, it’s down to me. You were my friend, my mate.” an unexpected tear appeared at the corner of his left eye, he wiped it away before Susan could notice. She looked at him a second later, a grim smile before she turned her eyes back to the road.<
br />
It was a grey noon when they reached the boat, Walther came stooping out of his cabin to greet them as they arrived on deck,
“I am just preparing coffee.” They could hear the cheerfully bubbling percolator as they descended into the luxurious room. Minutes later Susan had related their story, Richard ominously silent, Walther nodded and shook his head appropriately,
“I am sorry, I am afraid we shall have to assume the worst consequence...” He paused only for a moment, “...I believe your friend to be dead. It would be most uncharacteristic if he were to now turn up safe and well.” Richard glared at Walther as if he somehow blamed him, Susan watched uneasily, well aware how difficult to handle Richard could be when he lost it. Even she was surprised when he spoke, so bitter and angry were his words,
“So just how and when are going to kill this fucking bitch?”
Walther raised an aristocratic eyebrow and a finger to his chin before making his reply,
“Tomorrow is my father’s funeral, at 10:00...” Both Richard and Susan cursed themselves for insensitivity as Walther continued, “...I have drawn up a plan for the execution of the Eve creature...” His voice did not hide his annoyance at their lack of propriety, “...I suggest we meet as soon after the ceremony as I see fit to discuss it. Do I have your agreement?” They nodded, although Richard a little absently. Susan again took his arm,
“We should go...” She smiled apologetically at Walther and led Richard out, “…Come on, let’s go home.”
They spent the rest of the day at home, Richard restless and irritable. He kept going on about wanting to do something, but when Susan dared ask,
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