by Ishbelle Bee
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B
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BITCHES
IV: Queen of the Underworld, What Will Become of Me?
I told Aunt Eva about the sex. I told her everything. She was not surprised. We waited three days. We remained in the cottage. We stayed quiet. He remained imprisoned in the tree. The ink spirals on my face and arms became smudged like a child’s drawing. I was a messy picture book. Aunt Eva didn’t let my mother see me. She kept her away with pretty lies. She was too convincing. “So your Mother won’t worry,” she said and she was right, yes, she was right.
“I am frightened. What’s going to happen?”
Aunt Eva looked up, as though she was reading the marks on the ceiling, her eyes staring into something. She reminded me of a crocodile, glassy eyed, guarding the entrance to a pyramid marked with hieroglyphs. She had teeth. She replied, ‘He’s very angry. I don’t think that tree will hold him much longer.”
I was crying then. He would kill me, I knew it. And she put her arms around me, circled me with her hair which smelt of cinder and she whispered, “Do not be afraid.”
“Can you see into the future, can you see what will happen?”
“Only glimpses, Pomegranate. But I will fight for you. You have been unlucky. Your father sold you to a shit.” And we both laughed. For there was nothing else left to do but laugh. And she stroked my face with her cool hand.
“Have you ever been in love, Aunt Eva?”
“No,” she said. “But I was hurt once and I never let it happen again.”
“Tell me about it,” I asked. “If only so I can forget for a while.”
And she told me the story. She was seventeen and she had a secret. She had met a young aristocrat riding in the woods one day. She said his horse was as white as wedding dresses. She never knew his name. Sometimes she thought he never really existed, as though he were formed from her imagination, summoned on dandelion wishes: spongy fairy wings blown into the wind to stop her loneliness. He used to gallop around her, throw flowers in her hair and blow her kisses. He used to tell her he loved her, over and over. He used to play games with her, toy with her, stir her up. This happened for weeks and weeks.
One day Aunt Eva found him in the woods, playing games with another girl. And he saw Aunt Eva watching him. And he tried to smile. He tried so very hard but the look on her face was something he hadn’t seen before. It wasn’t anger or jealousy. It wasn’t sadness or heartbreak. For Aunt Eva was smiling. She was smiling the most terrible smile. Like a crocodile.
“He was a coward,” she said. “He was the most terrible coward.”
“What did you do?”
“I took my revenge,” she said quietly.
“How?”
Her words were so soft. Her teeth were so sharp. “I burnt his ancestral home to the ground. I killed his parents and his sister. I hunted him down, played games with him, toyed with him, butchered him and ate his heart.”
“Do you think that was perhaps an overreaction?” I said, stupefied.
“He cried at the end. He cried so much. The fucking coward.” She was deep in her memories. And then she looked sadly at me. “Pomegranate, listen to me. If a man hurts you – cut him down. If a man humiliates you – cut him down. If a man plays games with you – cut him down.”
“What are you going to do with my husband?”
There was a knocking at the door. Aunt Eva turned gently towards me, smiling. “Something worse.” She opened the door and my husband entered and sat himself once again at the kitchen table. I stayed where I was on the sofa.
“Let me tell you what is going to happen now, ladies,” he said with the utmost control, the teapot on the table exploding into pieces. “I am taking my ugly wife Pomegranate back to the Underworld where I will put her through a variety of experimental degradations. As for you,” he glanced at Aunt Eva, “I am going to have you put in a cage where I can watch you starve to death.”
“I would very much like to see you try, you little turd.”
He stood, screaming “I AM THE LORD OF THE UNDERWORLD AND YOU WILL DO WHAT I SAY OR I WILL TEAR YOU APART!”
The cottage shook, the walls shook, the windows exploded. Aunt Eva looked at me, “Run back to your mother, go now!”
And I ran out of the house. I could see her turn into fire. A burning goddess. A wall of flames. I ran down the path. I could see the cottage on fire, an inferno. The cottage was sinking into the earth, forming a crater as if a meteorite had struck.
I ran back to mother, who was baking bread. I had no idea what to say to her.
Mr Fingers and Aunt Eva
F
a
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l
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g
into the Underworld.
Prince Number 9 saw them drop into the black river surrounding the palace. He watched from his turret. He said they were both made of fire, like angels falling. Made a big splosh! They both dragged themselves from the waters, soggy and slipping. And he said Daddy looked really pissed off. We all wanted to know who she was, the lady with the red hair. We were told later she was a witch trying to ruin Daddy’s marriage. She must have succeeded because we never saw his wife again.
So what happened to the witch, you ask? Well at first Daddy didn’t know what to do with her. She was a difficult guest and prisoner. He kept threatening to put her in a cage, but he never did. She in turn had done some real damage to him. She had cut off the entrance to the Upperworld and we were all now trapped.
Prince Number 2 got a clout round the ear for asking Daddy if he would marry the witch. I kept my mouth shut, but I wanted to speak to her. And one day I got my chance.
She was sitting in the garden under an apple tree and she looked rather annoyed. I took the opportunity to introduce myself. “Hello, my name is Prince Number 14, or Loveheart if you prefer,” and I smiled as nicely as I could. She had very unusual eyes – they reminded me of something predatory, something reptilian perhaps. She looked at me carefully, brushing tendrils of red hair out of her face.
“Hello, Loveheart,” she said.
“So, how are you enjoying the Underworld?”
She looked into me momentarily and pointed a finger upwards. “You are also from up there.”
“Yes,” I said. “Daddy kidnapped me and murdered my real father.”
“Sadly, I am not surprised by that remark. He’s not a gentleman, has no idea about good manners.”
“Can you open the doorway to the Upperworld?”
She looked suspiciously at me, “Maybe.”
“So why don’t you do it and go home?”
“I am protecting someone I love. I will not open anything until I know she will be safe.”
“Is the Lord of the Underworld in love with you?”
“Not at all. He is obsessed with me because he cannot control me. That is all.”
“Oh,” I said, not really knowing how to reply.
“He has no understanding of love and he doesn’t like women very much,” and she laughed to herself.
“Why is that funny?” I asked.
“Well, he kidnaps women to be his wives, without much liking them to start with. And then kidnaps children, calling them numbers, again without really liking them at all. What does he actually like, I wonder?”
“He likes clocks,” I said.
“No, he likes the fact that clocks are predictable. Controllable. He has no understanding of time, either. He is rather stupid.” And her eyes wandered off into the distance.
“What are you thinking about?” I asked.
“I was just imagining him in a dress.” And I left her to her imagination under the apple tree and thought her wondrous.
Prince Number 3 spied on her, watched her from the turrets, sent blackbirds out to send
back reports. There was a standoff between Daddy and the witch. Neither would back down. The portal remained shut. And then one day something changed.
Daddy made a mistake.
He slapped her across the face
and I remember
that she was
smiling.
She massacred Princes 1 to 12. Picked them off one by one. Chopped their heads off and put them on Daddy’s dining table. It was then he started to beg. My life and Tumbletee’s were spared. The marriage contract was broken and the portal finally opened.
I want to be just like her when I grow up.
V: September 1887
Detective Goliath Honey-Flower & the People-eaters of Dewdrop Lane
My life before I met Mirror was very different. I was a detective with Scotland Yard for some years in London. A few weeks before I met her, I was assigned to a very peculiar case.
It was autumn in London, great heavy bundles of chocolate and burnt toffee leaves lay across the streets, blown in the wind. The skies, grey and swirling, were streaked with ribbons of violent pink. My detective sergeant, Percival White, had assigned me to a case regarding an elderly couple who lived on Dewdrop Lane, which was a rundown little terraced road in South London, near a boatyard. For weeks the neighbours had been complaining about this elderly couple. Noises in the night, banging and screaming. And strange smells. I had been sent round there to talk to the couple and find out exactly what was going on and to sort it out. It was supposed to be straightforward.
When I arrived at the home of the Crumb siblings, it was raining so heavily that my umbrella broke under the weight of the painfully big wet splodges of rainfall, and lay in my hands like a drowned blackbird. Disposing of the umbrella in a convenient bin, I approached the small terraced house and knocked on the door. My knuckles were bruised, for in the evenings I had been boxing, something my father had trained me to do in Egypt.
I could hear a soft shuffling from within, a pair of slippers moving over a carpet, approaching slowly. That morning I had been reading a letter from my father. The pages were folded like a handkerchief in my pocket, near my heart. He had begun an excavation in Cairo on the tomb of an Egyptian princess. It would take many months to complete, but he was overjoyed. He was hoping I would come back to Cairo and stay with him, something I had promised. My father’s handwriting was swirling and beautiful, with hieroglyphics dotted about the corners: magic symbols.
I missed him. I missed Egypt. He had sent me some of his sketches of the finds near the entrance to the tomb and of the wall engravings. Red and black ladybird-like creatures dancing over the entrance, sketched hurriedly. Comical drawings of priests wearing insect-like masks lined the walls in some sort of procession, each carrying a jar containing something belonging to the princess. Each of these priests displayed with a ceremonial dagger and a mirror. My father had told me they carried mirrors to catch souls within, and they also acted as doorways into other worlds and as divination tools. I wondered about the princess and the power she held over these men. How far would they go for her? Was there a limit at all?
The door opened with a slight creak and Dotty Crumb, a tiny woman dressed in a pink dressing gown and oversized fluffy slippers, peered curiously at me.
“Good afternoon, Miss Crumb. My name is Detective Goliath Honey-Flower. I’m here about the complaints.”
Her lips curved into a crescent moon, her eyes were very pale, egg-like. “Oh yes, do come in,” she chirped. Her voice reminded me of a child; it didn’t belong in her body. I followed her into the hallway, where a shabby birdcage hung, now empty. “I’ve made jam tarts, they are Mortimer’s favourite,” she said, patting me gently on the shoulder. In the small kitchen sat Mortimer Crumb, long and lean, almost skeletal, wearing a long, brown oversized coat. He had a small bird-like face and very large, long teeth.
I was guided to a seat by Dotty, while a cup of tea was poured for me out of a cracked teapot and a jam tart plopped on a plate in front of my eyes. Mortimer extended his hand towards mine, “A pleasure to meet you, sir.”
The kitchen was small and dark with tobacco-stained wallpaper and a framed picture of Her Majesty Queen Victoria, wearing a grimace, hanging lopsidedly over the sink. Glancing outside the window, there was a tiny garden overrun with weeds. Behind Mortimer was another hallway leading to a staircase, and beneath that a green door, which I assumed must lead to the basement. What caught my eye was the ornate gold lock on this door.
Mortimer wiped jam from his lips and spoke. “May I ask where you originate from, Mr Honey-Flower?”
I took a sip of the tea, which was very well stewed. “I was born in Egypt, but my father was English.” The chair underneath me creaked with my weight. I caught my reflection in the mirror; my beard was damp and dishevelled. I looked like a great bear that had fallen into the river. The siblings stared at me mischievously.
“For the last few weeks we have been receiving complaints from your neighbours about noises at night coming from your house. Screaming and banging, mostly. Can you explain any of this?”
Mortimer scratched his nose. “We have a problem with this house. We believe that there is a malignant presence here.”
“Malignant presence?” I replied.
“Yes, we’ve been hearing strange noises, and we have heard our names called out on several occasions.”
“And don’t forget the smell, dearie,” said Dotty. “A terrible whiff, like burning pig flesh.”
“Are you suggesting your home is haunted?”
“That’s correct, Mr Honey-Flower,” said Mortimer, helping himself to another jam tart. “We have had a very quiet life, my sister and I. We have lived in this house since we were children and there have never been any problems. The first occurrence happened at Christmas, when Dotty was preparing dinner in the kitchen and she heard something call her name. I also heard a voice. I was reading the paper. We had a cat and a song thrush in a little cage, and both disappeared soon after.”
“Anything else?”
“My sister and I don’t dream any more.”
There was a queer silence. Mortimer was munching on his jam tart. Dotty tapped her bony finger against her cheek. Mortimer suddenly laughed and Dotty giggled like a schoolgirl. I found them both somewhat unnerving.
Mortimer adjusted his coat, which was spotted with jam, and leaned forward towards me.
“So, are we being haunted, Detective Honey-Flower? Have we offended a dead relative?”
“Yes, perhaps Great Aunt Margery,” Dotty said slyly. “She never liked us as children, do you remember the incident with the tea cosy?”
The chair beneath me creaked painfully. I could feel one of the legs wobble nervously. “I am not an expert on the paranormal.”
“What are we dealing with, detective?” Mortimer said, gazing into me. His eyes were small glimmering things, like faerie gold.
“What is behind the green door?” I said, without realising the words had left my mouth. I could feel the letter in my jacket; it was like a hot water bottle over my heart. I could smell a rich sweetness in the air, a thick heavy scent that was overpowering and covering up the stink of something else.
“That will be the tapioca pudding ready then.” Dotty gleefully spooned a huge mass of frog spawn creamy steaming pudding into three bowls and handed one to me.
“Oh really, I couldn’t manage any more.”
“Don’t be silly. A big bear man like you. You like sweet things, don’t you dear?”
Mortimer interjected, “Dotty loves to feed people.” Squeezing a large splodge of tapioca into his mouth. “And as for the green door, it leads to the cellar. I would be happy to show you. You should really see the whole house, get a sense of the place.”
I sat and ate my pudding silently. I kept thinking of the fairy story of Hansel and Gretel, the letter still hot on my chest. And yet I did not leave. They watched me while I ate. When I had finished, I thought suddenly of my father when I was a boy, and he was warning m
e not to step too near sleeping crocodiles, because they are not sleeping, they are waiting to catch you.
On the shelf, a beautiful clock caught my eye. It was silver and engraved with fairies dancing round the face. It hummed delicately like an insect.
A dampish hand patted my head, and I looked up at Dotty.
“Come on then, dearie.” My head was fuzzy.
I followed her down the hallway and we began to ascend the staircase. Again the brown tobacco-stained wallpaper, a running décor theme throughout the house. A small framed picture of a grey cat called Mr Pickles, no doubt the missing pet, hung near the landing window. And the smell that was lingering in the kitchen but covered up by all that sweetness was much more pungent here. A deep, burnt fatty smell.
Dotty led me into her bedroom. “Here you are, ducky.” The room smelt sour. It was again a small room with a large bed with a floral cover. Floral wallpaper and a bedside mirror that had broken.
“Sometimes I hear voices in the walls at night. Chanting and grunting.”
The carpet was filthy, cat turds and dust. A framed sepia photo hung above the bed. It was of Dotty as a young girl, tap dancing on Brighton Pier. She looked like a little pixie, a bob of blond curls and twinkling eyes. I got on my knees and looked under the bed. Again, more cat turds, and something else. I reached for it and pulled out a piece of dried human skin with a few hairs sticking out from it.
“Ooh,” said Dotty, edging closer, “I wonder what that is. You are staying for dinner, Detective Honey-Flower? I’m making apple pie. Isn’t that your favourite?”
“Yes, yes it is my favourite, how did you know that?” I turned to look at her. The piece of dried skin rested like a leaf in the palm of my hand.
“You look like an apple pie sort of man. All big and strong and sweet.”
Mortimer popped his head round the corner of the bedroom door. “Found anything interesting?”
“Human skin,” I said, holding it out towards him. He glanced down at it momentarily, his eyes then fixing upon me. “And what does this mean for us?”