And on the same day, she made the biggest mistake of her life.
She accepted.
She was going up north for Christmas to visit her family who had moved there.
She wanted me to go with her, but I had family commitments of my own. And besides, I wanted her to break the happy news to her folks whilst I was a couple of hundred miles away. I spent Christmas Eve, Christmas Day and Boxing Day in the bosom of my family. I told them the glad tidings just before I left, and split to leave them to mull it over in their own time.
I got back to my flat at lunchtime on the 27th, and Louise was waiting for me.
Talk about ‘Hell hath no fury’.
She was well pissed off, and even old Percy spat at me. And I’d fed the little bugger for years.
‘I knew it,’ she screamed. ‘I knew you’d do something stupid.’
‘Hey, listen,’ I said back. ‘You’re dead. I don’t even know if you’re a figment of my imagination. So don’t get all aerated with me.’
‘Try this for a figment,’ she said, and cleaned my clock with a right hander. It hurt too. ‘If you marry that bitch, I’ll be gone. I know it. She’ll want babies and shit like that, and you’ll forget me, and I’ll be gone.’
‘I told you, Louise,’ I said as calmly as possible under the circumstances, holding a cold flannel to my throbbing nose, I’ll never forget you.’
‘And you want me to stay?’
What could I say, after all we’d been through? It was time to shit or get off the pot. Cast the die, and to hell with the consequences.
‘Yes,’ I said. And with that single word I invoked the chaos theory. A butterfly spread its wings in Venezuela, and it rained in Somaliland.
Louise calmed down then, and Percy rubbed his fat, furry self against my leg. She even cooked me dinner. A most acceptable lamb chop, mashed potatoes and peas.
Later on, when I was smashed on a bottle of port that one of my authors had sent me for Christmas, I broached the subject of sex.
We were watching the late-night movie. A stalk, strip and slash exploiter from the late seventies.
‘Do you still fancy it?’ I asked.
‘No,’ she replied. ‘That’s all over. Just as well really.’
I had to agree, but didn’t vocalize the thought. Necrophilia had never been a fantasy of mine.
Louise stayed until the end of the film, then she blew me a kiss, collected Percy and left.
She stopped in the doorway as she was going, and asked, ‘Did you really mean what you said?’
‘What?’ I’d said an awful lot that night.
‘About me staying.’
‘Of course.’
She smiled a brilliant smile. ‘Good,’ she said. ‘See you around.’
But after she went, I remembered the story about the man who wished for something, and got exactly what he’d wished for.
Jules came back for New Year, we went out and celebrated, and surprise, surprise, Louise didn’t show.
I was amazed. At the very least I’d expected her to pop in and wish me the compliments of the season.
In fact I didn’t see her for months. And as the wedding plans advanced, Jules and I visited both sets of parents, God was in his heaven, and all was right with the world. At least our little piece of it. I even cut down on cigarettes, and started to put on weight.
Then, on the sixth anniversary exactly of Louise’s death, I got home from work to Jules’ place where she’d promised to cook me dinner, and it had all come on top.
Of course I had a key to the flat, and the first thing I saw when I’d let myself in through the front door was Percy giving himself a quick wash and brush-up by the foot of the stairs.
I looked at him, he looked at me, and I knew that this was a bad news day. I’d known it since I’d woken up, and his being there confirmed it.
I walked down the hall to the kitchen. The door was ajar, and there was a light on inside the room.
I pushed the door all the way open, and for a moment I thought that Jules had redecorated the white walls.
In red.
But it wasn’t Dulux vermilion gloss that coated every surface.
It was blood. Hot, scarlet blood. Already turning brown in the air. Jules’ blood. My wife-to-be. And she was lying on the black and white checked vinyl floor in a pool of the stuff, with more gushing from the multiple wounds that Louise had stabbed in her body.
Louise was still bending over her, and when she saw me, she stood up, wiped the blade of the kitchen knife she was holding on her skirt, and stuck the point of it into the butcher’s block that rested on one of the work surfaces.
‘Hello Paul,’ she said. ‘Supper’s nearly ready.’
I went straight to Jules, but it was too late. She was dead. I knelt in her blood and tried to revive her, but all I managed to do was to cover myself in the stuff. Big mistake number one. Too much blood, I thought. Too much blood for her to have in such a small body.
When I realized it was useless, I stood and tore the knife from where Louise had stuck it, and went looking for her. Oh yeah, I can hear you say it. A stupid thing to do. But I did it anyway. Maybe you would’ve done the same thing under the circumstances. Big mistake, number two, you might say.
Of course she was gone. Percy too. So I did what any good citizen would do at a time like that.
I called the emergency services.
You see I’ve always prided myself on being a good citizen. Big mistake number three.
* * * *
So naturally the coppers arrived with the ambulance. They took one look at me and hustled me into the living room to wait for the CID.
Ten minutes later, a pair of plainclothes police got to the house, and the fun really began.
Have you ever tried to explain to the law that your ex-girlfriend, dead exactly six years to the day, had turned your current fiancé into steak Diane on the kitchen floor? Or steak Julia in this case.
Don’t bother.
It doesn’t wash.
They cautioned and charged me when I’d told them my full name, and they drove me to the station, where, after being processed through, I was taken to an interview room. One of them, the youngest, put on a tape recorder, and they started.
What made it worse was that just then, Louise walked into the room, carrying Percy like a baby, sat down in an empty chair in the corner, crossed her legs and joined in.
So the conversation went something like this:
‘Well, Paul,’ said the oldest of the two coppers. ‘No “Mr”. Just “Paul”, all the time. ‘This is a bit of a mess, isn’t it?’
I agreed that it was.
‘So what happened?’
I told him. From the moment I walked through the front door and saw Percy until the two policemen arrived.
He seemed quite amused by the notion. I’m sure he was the life and soul of the police social club.
‘They’re never going to believe you,’ said Louise.
I didn’t answer. I figured I was in enough trouble as it was.
‘Come on, Paul,’ said the young one. ‘You don’t really expect us to believe all that.’
‘See,’ said Louise.
‘It’s the truth,’ I said.
‘Why did you kill her?’ said the older copper.
‘I didn’t.’
‘Was it a lover’s spat that went too far? Or was she playing away? Or you?’
‘It was nothing like that,’ I replied. ‘I’ve told you what happened. And that’s all there is to it.’
‘Right,’ said the young one. ‘Let’s run this by one more time. You’re telling me that last year, your girlfriend Louise Spenser, who at this time had been dead for five years, came to visit you.’
I nodded. ‘Yes,’ I said for the benefit of the tape.
‘With her cat? Who is also dead.’
I nodded again. ‘Yes.’
‘And since then, although you had since become engaged to the deceased, she’s been visiti
ng you on a regular basis.’
Nod three. ‘That’s correct,’ I added for something different to say.
‘With her cat,’ said the older guy.
‘We mustn’t forget the cat,’ said the young one.
‘I know it sounds ridiculous,’ I said.
‘No,’ said the young cop. ‘We get this sort of thing all the time.’
‘Told you,’ said Louise.
‘Will you be quiet?’ I blurted.
‘Who me?’ said the young one.
‘No,’ I replied.
The older guy, who was a bit more suss, said, ‘She’s here now, isn’t she?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Where?’
‘Sitting in that chair.’
He sighed, got up and walked towards it. But Louise was too quick for him, and got up. He sat down on the seat she’d vacated, and said smugly. ‘Still here, is she?’
‘No,’ I said.
‘I think it’s time for a refreshment break,’ said the young one, and the interview was suspended.
* * * *
That went on for the next twenty-four hours.
I got a lawyer who advised me that I make no further comment on the charges. But the evidence was overwhelming.
I was found covered in Jules’ blood, the knife had my fingerprints all over it. I was famous for going off the rails with drink and drags, and to put the tin lid on it, I was telling a preposterous story about the ghost of my dead girlfriend.
My brief advised me to go for a plea of temporary insanity.
I stuck to my story.
I was banged up in the remand wing at Brixton, but kept separate from the other prisoners.
Louise and Percy came and went like they owned the place. It was okay. They were a bit of company for me.
Of course no one else could see them, so I made a bit of a name for myself as being totally mad.
Radio Rental, the screws called me - mental.
The case went to trial at the Old Bailey. I pleaded not guilty, but as I had no defence, the case only lasted for a day. Every paper in the land covered it fully, and Louise and Percy sat with the defence counsel throughout.
The jury convened for less than half an hour, and when they came back, they brought in a guilty verdict.
So that’s my story. Not the happiest one, I agree.
But things have worked out okay. I’ve got a nice room. No sharp corners, and lots of cartoons on cable.
Louise and Percy never go away now, and that’s how it was always meant to be.
The three of us together. No worries about the mortgage, or where the next meal is coming from.
Daffy Duck is on now, which is kind of ironic. And there’s liver and bacon for supper.
I’m not mad, you know, whatever they say. Louise will tell you that, won’t you Louise?
Well, she would if she was in the mood.
* * * *
Mark Timlin describes himself as a writer of pulp fiction, whose most famous character is private investigator Nick Sharman. This South London sleuth has so far appeared in one collection of short stories and some thirteen novels, the latest being A Street that Rhymed at 3am, published by Gollancz. Sharman was also the titular hero of a television series that Timlin describes as finishing a number of careers and was reviewed by one daily newspaper as ‘a national disgrace’. As the author explains, “‘Everybody Needs Somebody to Love” was originally written for the first One Day Novel Competition in 1994, in which a score or more writers sat for two twelve-hour sessions over one weekend in London’s Groucho Club. It didn’t win for several reasons, and I still subscribe that it wasn’t because it wasn’t the best. I read the winners and the runners-up and they didn’t hack it. Firstly, it isn’t a novel, being something less than nine thousand words long. And secondly, it may have something to do with the fact that I spent most of the second session upstairs in the green room as far away as possible from where the writing was going on, getting thoroughly zapped on free booze and goading a small coterie of fellow writers into excesses of mickey-taking out of the organizers, the other competitors and the club. Anyway, that’s my excuse and I’m going to stick with it. I don’t know why I entered the damned competition in the first place, having already had a load of books published and the prize not being worth a candle. As for the subject matter,’ adds Timlin, ‘that I was serious about, as the first part at least is the story of a true relationship of mine and I’m glad to see it published properly at last. And hey, I’m finally getting paid for it.’
<
* * * *
Sous Rature
JAY RUSSELL
When the phone rings in the middle of the night, most people think: who died?
I know it’s only Klein.
‘I don’t understand this sous rature stuff, Steve. How the hell does the bastard get away with it? I mean, he just crosses the bloody words out and then leaves them there on the page like squashed bugs. Doesn’t that bother anyone? Isn’t there a law? Doesn’t it drive you crazy?’
Our apartment sits just off-campus, in a neatly appointed professorial ghetto. The phone rests on the floor across the room from the bed because the cord won’t reach to the night stand. I don’t know why we haven’t just bought a cordless - or moved the bed - but that’s the way it is.
Elaine sleeps right through the calls. She used to bolt awake and roll off the bed, grabbing the receiver in one smooth motion. It amazed me how she could answer in a crisp, businesslike voice. As if it wasn’t the middle of the night; as if she hadn’t been stone dead to the world two seconds earlier.
Now she doesn’t even turn over.
‘It’s because he’s French, isn’t it? They get away with everything. I can live with Baudrillard’s bullshit, and even that crazy Virilio. But this erasure thing is too much. I mean, it’s up there with Jerry Lewis and Jean-Marie Le Pen. It’s, you know...God, it’s brilliant. It fits.’
I knew I’d regret lending Klein the Derrida books. I knew it would mean a lost night’s sleep.
‘Klein ...’
‘I just, I can’t fully make sense of it. Steve, this is your field. You’ve got to explain it to me. I ... I think I see where it fits - it’s so bloody fractal - but I just can’t quite...I’m afraid I’m going to have to really learn French for this guy, Steve. I mean, not just that oo-la-la crap that got me through Foucault. He’s...’
‘Do you know what time it is, Klein?’
‘Uhhhh . . . hold on.’
‘No, Klein ...’
Too late. I glanced at Elaine. I wondered if the little bug inside her was awake or asleep. The duvet had become twisted around her slightly swollen belly. A thin line of saliva trailed from her mouth, watering the faded flowers on the pillowcase.
‘It’s almost three-thirty.’
‘Klein . . .’ I sighed and stared vacantly at Elaine’s heavy breasts.
‘You really have to go back to Heidegger,’ I began.
* * * *
I started having doubts about fractals and such the day one of my undergrads - a gaunt, black-clad cultural studies major with the unlikely moniker of B. Bronski - came to class wearing a T-shirt emblazoned with the Mandelbrot set on the front and ‘I Chaos’ on the back. This same kid handed in a term paper with the title: ‘The Prosthetic Aesthetic: Fractal Postmodernism in the Cyberpunk/Splatterpunk Imperative.’ After that I figured it was only a matter of time before old Benoit himself performed a turn on Oprah.
Not that I entirely understand the stuff. If poked sternly with a pointed stick I can creditably acquit myself with an explication of strange attractors and sensitive dependence on initial conditions - God knows, I’ve heard Klein go on about it enough - but it’s still something of a strain for me. A lifetime in comparative literature departments has taken its toll on a scientific aptitude which wasn’t terrific to begin with.
Once upon a time, I dreamed about becoming an astronomer - next best thing to astronaut - but Cs and Ds in
physics and calculus quickly stymied such fancies and sent me running for the shelter of Chaucer’s little helpers.
Still, my interest never entirely waned. I kept up with Drexler on nanotechnology, and was hyping VR and cyber-culture long before Wired magazine. Barnsley and Gleick and all the others opened up new worlds for me even as I completed my doctorate in English. I sprang for a top-of-the-line PC and high-res monitor when that kind of stuff was still an arm and a leg, and played with fractal-generating software, staying up into the wee hours, reliving the ‘star-gate’ sequence from 2001.
The Gollancz Book of Horror - [Dark Terrors 05] Page 28