Shadow Girl

by Mael d'Armor

‘Dead . . . Dead you see that?’

  ‘See what?’ asks Jenny.

  ‘The guy . . . That guy shod have died. He shod have . . .’

  ‘I think his harness saved his life.’

  ‘He didn’t have a whoreness, I swear.’

  ‘Course he had. Look, there’s the rope still hanging from the scaffolding. Must have slowed down his fall and slipped off him just before he crashed.’

  Sandra is shaking her head.

  ‘But I swear . . .’

  ‘Must be the afternoon heat,’ cuts in Yaouen. ‘All that hot, shimmering air. Plays tricks on the eyes.’ He takes Sandra’s hand. ‘Ah well, best to move on.’

  They resume their brisk walk.

  13

  They have been striding along a backstreet for about two minutes when Yaouen pulls her into a cramped lane and halts in front of what appears to be a café. The words ‘Le Triskel’, and under that, ‘Salon de Thé’, are stretched across the smoky glass of the window in elegant, expansive golden letters.

  Funny, she had never heard of Le Triskel before. Nor does she remember ever walking into this lane.

  She stares at the shop’s name, hoping this might jog her memory. The font is old-fashioned, with some letters ending in long flowing spirals. No, she has never been here.

  ‘They sell the best sablés in Sydney,’ informs Jenny in a conspiratorial whisper.

  Sandra gives her a blank look then turns her attention back to the café. She has trouble locating the door — a mere outline upon the glass — and she can see no handle. She squints at the dark panel, hoping to make out some movement on the other side.

  Yaouen has been standing quietly by her side.

  ‘Fancy a cup of Chocolat Suprême with a side serving of tuiles aux amandes?’ he asks. ‘It’s to die for.’

  To die for?

  She looks at him warily. Her life has taken such a perplexing turn since she met him that instinct tells her anything new should be approached with caution. Still, the risk factor should be fairly low with words like chocolate or almonds.

  She musters a timid smile.

  ‘It sounds yummy-tummy-tempting.’

  ‘Perfect.’

  Yaouen places both palms on the door and says something under his breath. Summoned from beyond the glass, a motif glitters into view between his hands.

  ‘A triskele,’ he comments. ‘Three spirals flowing from a common centre. An ancient Celtic symbol steeped in legend and mystery.’

  He is watching her intently, perhaps waiting for her to question him on the pattern. Or ask him why on earth they are standing in front of a coffee shop with no obvious door looking at a design with no obvious purpose.

  But she does not say anything, for she is thinking of that cup of cocoa with cookies he mentioned. She had not realised how hungry she was before he spoke. She could do with a sugar boost.

  ‘Come on, Yaouen, quit acting all mysterious,’ teases Jenny. ‘Can’t you see the poor girl is starving?’

  Yaouen returns his gaze to the triskele, places a finger on its heart and presses. The door slides open with a chime.

  ‘After you,’ he offers, stepping aside to reveal a gaping hole. There is not much light inside. She hesitates.

  ‘We haven’t got all day,’ he suggests.

  She peers into the gloom and takes a tentative step. She is being silly. If he had wanted her to come to harm, he could have arranged for that to happen a thousand times before. He clearly has the power. All those inexplicable things. Her instant command of French, her hyperbolic sex drive, the curious projection in the hotel room, the guy back there on the building falling but not dying. She has to trust him, at least for the moment.

  She takes a long breath and walks in.

  She is in the middle of the room. At least she thinks so, for it is so dark in there she can’t even see the walls properly. Only a scattering of light points around her. Candles maybe, she is not sure, for they flicker and move a little. Is this really a café?

  ‘Look what the cat dragged in!’

  The voice has snapped out of the shadows and she almost jumps out of her skin.

  A short pause, then all hell breaks loose.

  ‘Dishyyyyy!’

  ‘Peachyyyyy!’

  ‘Hot bod!’

  ‘Oh come to me, baby!’

  ‘Can I kiss those titties?’

  ‘Can I jog those perkies?’

  ‘They’re so squishable!’

  ‘And so kneadable!’

  ‘Look at that derriere!’

  ‘Shaped like the perfect pear!’

  ‘Can I squish that too, honey-poo?’

  ‘We’ll be your personal trainers!’

  ‘And your booty counsellors!’

  ‘Take our advice and arch your back!’

  ‘And roll your hips!’

  ‘And pout those lips!’

  ‘Wrap your legs around my neck!’

  ‘Juicy Lucy you’re so racy!’

  ‘And so boobalicious!’

  ‘And so hooter-scrumptious!’

  ‘And so damn butt-munchous!’

  ‘Simply lick-all-overous!’

  The whole room has erupted in a saucy cacophony and Sandra is rooted to the spot. What is this place? A madhouse? The halfway saloon to hell?

  Palms clap behind her, three times.

  ‘Enough, good people!’

  Yaouen’s voice has soared over the rumpus, which soon dwindles to a trickle of whispered comments — though those are still audible.

  ‘Jesus, what a bloody party pooper.’

  ‘Yeah, who does he think he is? Spoilsport!’

  ‘Shhh. Remember what happened to Loenan?’

  ‘Come to think of it, I haven’t seen Loenan for a wee while.’

  ‘Does he still have his donkey’s ears?’

  ‘And his monkey’s tail?’

  ‘And his spider’s whiskers?’

  ‘Poor fella.’

  Yaouen ignores the murmurs.

  ‘My friends, such brouhaha ill befits you. I would appreciate it if you gave the lady here a more courteous welcome. She has been through rather a lot lately.’

  He snaps his fingers. Small coloured-glass lamps hidden in recesses along the walls come alive, pulling the room out of its gloom. The whole place is now bathed in muted golden light.

  ‘A much cosier ambiance,’ he approves.

  He turns to Sandra, who stands thunderstruck next to him.

  She is still coming to terms with the scene around her. The lights she saw when she came in are not candles. They are eyes. The eyes of gnomes with big heads, long ears and cartoon-like noses. With body types ranging from short and scrawny to short and portly.

  Some of those strange dwarfs are bald, some are bearded. Some are both bald and bearded. Others are wearing floppy hats or quirky headgear made of woven tree leaves.

  There must be a score of them, all sitting at gnarled, heavy wooden tables. All holding grotesque mugs engraved with faces that mirror the drinkers’ moods. And at present those mugs, like their owners, are displaying strong gourmand interest in her. Eyeing her like she was the last strawberry in a dessert bowl. A strawberry with a zero chance of making it whole to the next meal.

  ‘Didn’t I just say to give our guest a polite welcome?’ growls Yaouen. ‘If you can’t, then at least give her a break.’

  There is something in his tone that will bear no contradiction. The golden glow of the lamps turns cold for a second — a warning perhaps — and the gnomes return hastily to their drinks and conversations.

  Yaouen turns to Sandra.

  ‘You must excuse my Korrigan friends. They lack subtlety sometimes but their hearts are mostly in the right place. You’ll get no more grief from them, I assure you.’

  Sandra is still in shock. Korri what? This can’t be right. She must be dreaming. This is Sydney for God’s sake. She is going to wake up and find herself tucked up in her plush bed across the harbour.

  S
he closes her eyes tight, fighting off the urge to pinch her arm. Then she lifts a chary eyelid. There is no sign of her bed. The gnomes are still here, with their ridiculous ears and inflated noses, chatting over the rim of their animated mugs. She has walked straight into a fantasy book.

  She shakes her head in an effort to refute the irrefutable, then tries to calm her breathing. Easy, Sandra. Keep your wits about you. Maybe she is missing the cameras. Maybe someone will step out of the shadows any moment now and cry ‘cut’ and everyone will relax, take off their latex masks and start talking about the last beach barbie they went to.

  She waits. And waits some more, still hyperventilating.

  No one steps out of the shadows.

  So this is the real deal then. It has to be, because if it is not, her senses have thrown her the mother of all curve balls. What she sees has crazy bloody magic plastered all over it. Wizardry. Weird-as parallel-world kind of stuff.

  ‘Wet is all this?’ she asks, trying her best to keep the shake out of her voice. She looks at Yaouen with awe. ‘And woo are you, really? And please don’t cowshit me, cause you sure aren’t jist some sort of language whizz-kiddo.’

  Yaouen lays a finger on her lips.

  ‘What would life be without its mysteries?’ he says, his eyes sparkling. ‘A fruit without pith, a kebab without spice, a buckwheat crepe without black trumpets. Dry and bland and repetitious.’

  She does not fully grasp the last reference, but it does not matter for his touch has again turned her will to rubber. Thankfully, this time, it has also calmed her considerably — a definite improvement on her previous state of mind. She sighs, savouring this respite from the roller-coaster emotions, and leans towards him in search of a comforting hug. Her eye catches Jenny simpering in the background.

  But Yaouen is in no cuddling mood, it appears.

  ‘Tempting as it is to move beyond the bounds of our contract,’ he whispers in her ear, ‘I cannot cross that line. Sorry, darling.’

  His hands move to her shoulders and he holds her there, at arm’s length, not unkindly but with polite firmness. She looks into his face. Searches for a promise of something else, though she can sense this will yield little. The shifting colours in his eyes give away nothing, like the surface of a pond glazed by the evening sun. Dazzlingly attractive but impenetrable.

  She would like him to kiss her. Properly kiss her. In three days of rampant sex he has not kissed her at all. Not on the lips. Is it too much to ask for a little tenderness at this point? She feels a twinge of disappointment.

  He releases her with a wink.

  ‘Now, about that fancy hot chocolate.’

  He takes her hand and, navigating smoothly between the tables, leads her over to the back of the café. There, another Korrigan with an unkempt black beard is waiting behind a bar. His ears are as large and ruffled as cabbage leaves and his nose could be mistaken for a giant potato. He is drying wet mugs with a towel. The mugs don’t seem to like it much and are scrunching up their tiny faces like babies cringing away from the bath flannel.

  ‘Three Choc Supremes, the tuiles special and a pinch of telepeek carob powder.’

  The Korrigan grins, baring two rows of sharp, gleaming teeth.

  ‘The Supremes and the tuiles are on the house, but the powder is a rare item, so it’ll cost you a kiss. Not from you. From the naked lady here.’

  Sandra winces. She feels she has been bopped on the head with a mallet. Her piece of mind did not last long.

  ‘Fist of all, I’m not neighkid,’ she protests.

  ‘A proper kiss,’ informs the barman. ‘With the tongue and all. I am in need of some TLC.’

  ‘No way,’ counters Yaouen. ‘It’s cash or nothing.’

  ‘Nothing then, but you’re not getting the powder.’

  Yaouen casts the Korrigan a threatening look.

  ‘Do not test my patience, Karadeg.’

  ‘I’m not kussing him,’ hisses Sandra, looking at Yaouen. ‘Not him. And not eeny meeny miny of the other moes here.’

  She looks at Jenny behind her, hoping for some moral support.

  ‘Don’t look at me,’ says Best Friend of the Year. ‘I had to plant him a big fat one once, to get I forget what. He is the keeper of powders and potions and we need his services from time to time. It wasn’t too bad actually, the kiss I mean. Tasted of root beer and basilisk, with a tinge of ginger.’

  ‘Can we compromise?’ says Yaouen to Karadeg. ‘We are all reasonable people here. How about you kiss Jenny twice instead?’

  ‘Hey, thanks for checking with me first,’ says Jenny. ‘If you really want to know, that kiss sucked. I just wanted to make Sandra feel better.’

  But the barman is sticking to his guns and his half-dried mugs.

  ‘One kiss from the bimbo. Take it or leave it.’

  ‘I’m not a bim—’

  ‘Shush!’ says Yaouen. He addresses Karadeg again. ‘One kiss and I get the powder? You swear?’

  ‘You know me, I may be small but my word is larger than a dragon’s butt.’

  The Korrigan swivels on the high chair he was perched on, opens a drawer and rummages in it. He spins back to face his guests, holding up a small vial.

  ‘One kiss for this.’

  He climbs on the bar and, leaning towards Sandra, proffers a pair of bulging lips. There is something swollen and slimy sandwiched between them. His tongue, it appears on closer inspection.

  Sandra looks at the offering, horrified.

  Yaouen gives a shrug.

  ‘Fine, Karadeg. As you wish.’ He claps his palm on the bar and the barman explodes into a thousand specks of light.

  Everyone in the room goes dead quiet.

  When the dust settles, there is a toad with fat blistery lips where the Korrigan sat. Yaouen reaches over, picks up the creature and holds it up to Sandra.

  ‘Now kiss him.’

  ‘Are you real-serious? You think this’ — she has trouble hiding her disgust — ‘is an improvishment?’

  ‘At least you won’t have to get acquainted with his tongue. He does not know any better now. A simple peck will do.’

  ‘Come on,’ says Jenny. ‘We all have to make sacrifices sometimes. Think of the Chocolat Suprême. That’ll wash off the taste.’

  Sandra shoots her a resentful look. She will definitely have to hold this good friend to account one day. For she is running up quite a tab.

  She looks at the toad again and shudders. Then, screwing up her face, she brings her lips closer to the creature with more caution than if she were negotiating a minefield. She is trying very hard to think of Yaouen’s sexy bits.

  Twenty pairs of eyes are glued to her and you can almost hear the collective holding of breath in the room.

  Peck.

  There is another flash of light, then a voomp and a wham and a fizzlewhatsit, and the toad reverts to being a Korrigan.

  The whole café bursts into rapturous applause.

  ‘Well done, Sandra. You clearly know how to bring out the best in our pimply friend.’

  Karadeg’s hair and beard are fuming and sticking out at odd angles from his head. His potato nose has lost its potato-ness and looks for all intents and purposes like a carbonised pancake. He has the air of someone who has collided with a runaway train.

  He raises a shaky hand, to check if he still has a head.

  ‘You had your kiss, good sir,’ says Yaouen. ‘Now, if you please, three Choc Supremes. And this, I believe, is mine.’ He grabs the vial. ‘Don’t worry about the facial, by the way. It wears off in time.’

  14

  Twenty minutes later, all three of them are licking the last drops of Supreme off their lips, looking as close to satisfied tabbies as is humanly possible.

  ‘Divine,’ says Jenny, pushing her mug to one side. ‘Don’t know what Karadeg puts in this but it seems to improve every time I come here.’

  ‘And how many oftentimes would that be?’ asks Sandra, fishing. ‘You never-in-all-forever told me
about this drink-place. Or about your other hush-hush life.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have been interested probably. You were too busy rising in the world.’

  ‘Well, licks like I’ve gotten all the elapse of day at this point.’

  ‘But we don’t,’ says Yaouen.

  ‘So we have time for the Supremes,’ challenges Jenny, ‘but not for a friendly catch-up. Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘That is exactly what I’m saying. There is always time for chocolate, in whatever shape or degree of cocoa content. I don’t think you’ll disagree. Now, your tablet.’

  He is holding out his hand.

  ‘My lord.’

  My lord? Sandra wonders if her friend is being serious. She couldn’t pick up any irony in her tone.

  Before she can ponder this any further, the Paris nude is floating again in midair above their table. A finger snap, and the café lights dim to virtual obscurity. The Korrigans in the room have gone quiet, though one or two are finding it hard to keep their comments to themselves.

  ‘Take a gawp at that! Wish I could tell my missus to strike that kind of pose.’

  ‘You don’t have a missus.’

  ‘That’s beside the point.’

  ‘So what is your point?’

  ‘My point? My point is I can see myself taking an interest in art that’s as big as those knockers.’

  Yaouen clicks his tongue to quash the cheeky observations. Then, opening the vial, he pours some powder on his palm, brings his hand to his lips and blows softly. The powder rises in slow motion and begins to glow, and then to swirl around the nude like the gases of a nebula.

  Some in the audience find it impossible to muzzle their enthusiasm and begin to oooo and aaaah and clap their hands.

  As for Sandra, it is not clapping that she has a sudden urge for. Her demon has woken up, as in the hotel room, and begun anew to beg for pleasure.

  The call is stronger this time, magnified maybe by the swirling starlight. So sharp it seems to be hollowing out her loins. Tugging at them like a platoon of moons at spring tide.

  Her eyes, fixed upon the floating nude, follow the harmonious flow of the statue’s arm.

  She gets a shock. The fingers that were spread over the stomach have moved unequivocally to the crotch. And appear to be engaged in a slow massage.