When he returned to London there was a parcel waiting for him. It looked like a hatbox, although he knew he hadn’t purchased a hat; he picked the box up, and with a cold thrill he knew what it must be. He took it into his study and opened it immediately.
Inside there was a rock. Presumably it had been put in there to weigh the box down. He lifted the rock, and he supposed that yes, it was about the same basic shape as a young boy’s skull. Underneath the rock there was a sealed envelope. Inside, a simple, typed message:
“Not Dead Yet. But Coming Soon.”
The following year the convention was in Johannesburg. It was a disappointing convention. At auction Marklew bought some bones, some skeletal fragments, a jar of pickled skin. In the bar on the Sunday night he asked whether anyone had seen the solicitor. He did so, evidently, with increasing volume. It was eventually requested that he retire quietly to his room.
Some months later his wife died. It had either been murder or a suicide pact, it was hard to be sure. Whatever the details, both she and her Italian lover were dead, shot in the head at point blank range, and maybe it didn’t really matter which one had pulled the trigger. Marklew was not invited to the funeral. On the day his wife’s body was laid to rest, he received another hatbox at his house. Once again it weighed like a skull. Once again there was no skull inside, just a rock. The rock was wet to the touch, and Marklew fancied it was covered with bubbles of solid spit. The bubbles wouldn’t burst when he pressed down on them. The message inside the envelope, too, was the same. Maybe it was the type size, or maybe the font, but it seemed a sadder message this time: “Not Dead Yet,” it apologized ruefully. And then, brighter, a cheery promise: “But Coming Soon!”
Marklew by rights inherited his wife’s estate, but there was some little legal difficulty about it: her Italian family were claiming a substantial share. Marklew knew that the matter would resolve itself in his favour eventually, but in the meantime was obliged to let several of his staff go.
He still liked to hold dinner parties before going to a convention. He didn’t attract as many guests as he once had, and the ladies seemed much more reluctant to fuck him. Still, he would show them his favourite skull, he’d talk to them of ritual sacrifice, and he’d invite them all to put their fingers between the cracks. The night before he flew to Buenos Aires he gave a dinner party and no one wanted to touch his cracks at all. And he was telling them some anecdote or another that seemed to be heading toward no discernible ending, when his one remaining maid interrupted him to say there was a young man at the front door to see him.
“I am not expecting any more guests,” said Marklew.
“He says he is your son.”
Marklew asked that he be shown into the drawing room.
His son was pale and shivering, but Marklew was pleased to see he had at least availed himself of a haircut. Marklew asked what he wanted. The boy helped himself to a brandy without even asking; his hand was shaking as he poured it. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry. I don’t know who else to turn to.”
Marklew told him at least to sit down.
“Oh God,” the boy said. “Do you ever feel that someone is watching you? I mean, all the time. It’s there in the shadows, waiting for me. Oh, not just in the shadows, oh God. It’s there when I wake up, I wake up so frightened I think I’ll have a heart attack. Do you feel this? Does anyone else feel this? Is it just me?”
Marklew asked his son if he were taking any drugs. The son said he was, a bit. Marklew suggested he should stop.
And suddenly angry, getting to his feet: “What is all this bloody stuff? Why do you want this bloody stuff?” And he was at the shelves now, he’d picked up one of the skulls, he was grimacing at it as if the very touch appalled him. “What do you want with all this death?” And he raised it high, he raised it so he could smash it down upon the floor.
“Put that down,” said Marklew. “Put that down, very, very gently.”
His son froze, and he was like a little boy again, and Marklew suddenly had a memory of him, of them playing together, or having a picnic, how old would his son have been, six or seven? “I’m sorry,” said the boy. “Really.” And he put the skull back on the shelf. And he burst into tears.
“If it can take me whenever it likes,” he sobbed, “what’s it waiting for?”
Marklew wanted to get back to his guests. He told his son he was flying to Argentina the next morning, and he had no time to deal with this right now. The boy asked if he could stay in the house whilst his father was away. Marklew pretended to consider, but he knew he couldn’t have his son there, he couldn’t trust him around all his fragile things. Did he have any money? He could give him some money for a hotel. The boy said he didn’t want money, he already had money. “Here, take some money,” said Marklew, and his son did.
“Well,” said Marklew.
“Well,” said Marklew’s son.
“You’ll be all right,” said Marklew.
“Can I see you once you’re back home?” asked his son.
“Yes,” said Marklew. “Maybe. In time. Once you’ve straightened yourself out.”
“I’ll do that then,” said his son. “I’ll straighten myself out.”
The convention in Buenos Aires was dreadful. At auction Marklew didn’t buy anything at all.
On his return he found his maid had left the hatbox in the study. The rock inside was wet again, and perhaps just a little sticky. The note was very enthusiastic. “Not Dead Yet. But Coming Soon!!!!!!!”
There was also a message from the police, asking him to get in contact immediately. They had tried to reach him abroad, but the maid had given them a hotel name that was untraceable. Marklew’s son had committed suicide, and had hanged himself with such force that he’d been virtually decapitated. The police expressed sympathy for his loss, and Marklew thanked them, but told them that he hadn’t known his son well.
The following year Marklew didn’t receive an invitation to the convention. It would usually come in the autumn; this year the leaves turned brown and fell from the trees, and then there was the cold; and then, snow.
Richard Marklew rented a four-room flat in Lambeth. A bedroom, a kitchen, a bathroom, and one room left to do with whatever he pleased! Some days he even quite liked the flat. His landlady was called Mrs. Gascoyne. She never smiled much, or said anything very nice, but she had a heart of gold. Mrs. Gascoyne didn’t like him moving in with all his dead things, she said it was unnatural. But she agreed to turn a blind eye if she upped Marklew’s rent, and refused ever to do any of the cleaning. Marklew agreed, and a happy bargain had been made.
Of course, there wasn’t room for all of his collection. He had to get rid of the gossamer wire puppets from Mexico, and his coffin lacquered with bone. He might have got a good price for them at auction, but the convention had never invited him again. As it was, he was able to donate some pieces to the British Museum. A lot had to be binned.
Marklew filled all the wardrobes and cupboards with what artefacts he had left. There wasn’t much room left for clothes, but Marklew didn’t need many clothes. Two complete skeletons lay spread out in his bath, one balanced on top of the other, and sometimes it seemed to Marklew that they were making love, and sometimes that made him laugh. On good days he’d open up all the cupboards and pull open all the drawers, and he could see his collection all around him. This expression of who he was, somewhat diminished, and in borrowed circumstances.
If the weather were fine he might take the omnibus into the city. He’d walk by the Thames, by St. Paul’s, sit in Green Park. If the weather were bad, he’d stay at home.
At night he would lie in bed, and stare into the shadows, and fancy that they rippled.
Dear Mrs. Gascoyne had no choice but to raise the rent again. He wrote to the six biggest collectors of memento mori in Britain, men he had shared drinks with at the conventions, men who were very nearly old friends. Tw
o of them replied. Between them they bought his shrunken heads, his canopic jars and death masks, his skulls. They paid so much that he could now pay the rent for four whole months, and he treated himself to a steak dinner too. No one wanted the cracked skull, though; they said it was damaged.
Most of all Marklew liked getting the omnibus to Waterloo Bridge. It was his favourite bridge. He liked to stand at the midpoint; he’d paced the length of it to find out precisely where the midpoint was. And he would tilt his body over the rails, as far as it would go, and stare straight down into the Thames. He could stare into the Thames for hours. Sometimes he saw shadows moving in there. He wondered whether they were the same shadows from his bedroom.
One day he took his cracked skull on an expedition into London. “You’ll enjoy this,” he told it on the bus—only a whisper, he didn’t want people thinking he was mad! He took it to the midpoint of Waterloo Bridge, and dropped it over the side. He thought it would make a bigger splash. It somewhat disappointed him. The skull went straight down, it didn’t even struggle for air. He watched for ages to see if it might float back to the surface, and then it began to rain, so he gave up, and went home.
The shadows in his bedroom reached out some nights and stroked him, and their touch was so very soft.
And one day he was on the omnibus, and it was very crowded, but nevertheless Marklew managed to get a seat, people always gave up their seats when he came near—and for the life of him he couldn’t remember whether he was going to Waterloo bridge or was coming back from it, and that was funny, but he was sure he’d work out which one when he got there!—and suddenly, by the doors, he saw him.
He had never expected he’d be able to recognize the man. There had never been anything remotely distinguished about his features, nothing that Marklew could ever recall to mind. But there was no question. He looked no older. But still cool, still stiff, his face a pose of professional blandness. Wearing a suit that was smart but not dear, not tailored but practical.
And just as soon as he’d seen him, the doors were opening, and the solicitor was getting off the bus. “Hey!” called Marklew. “Hey!” But the crowd was surging forward to fill up the little space that the solicitor’s body had taken, and the bus was starting to move. “Hey! No, stop!” He was pushing his way through the other passengers now, and they were pushing back, they were angry. And he was pulling at the door, but the door wouldn’t open, and then the driver brought the bus to an abrupt stop, and the doors freed, and Marklew hurled himself forward and tumbled out onto the street.
The crowds were no easier here than they had been on the bus, it seemed the whole world was out in London that day. “Hey! Stop! Stop!” called Marklew, but he wasn’t even sure whom he was calling at anymore. And then—and then he saw him, the solicitor was maybe twenty feet further down the pavement, and he was moving fast, how could he move so fast in all this crush? “No, please!”, and Marklew was running too. “Please!” Elbowing people away, waving his arms, breaking into little sprints on the spot when he got blocked and could advance no further. Marklew jumped off the pavement. Horns. Screams. The screech of tires. He was running down the road. He was catching the solicitor up.
And he reached him at last, and he grabbed him by the shoulder, and he didn’t know what to expect when he touched him: he half expected his fingers would go straight through, or that he’d feel cold to the touch, or burn like fire—but no, no, he felt like an ordinary man. Swinging him around so they were face to face. And that face wasn’t so bland now, it was frightened! He’d lost that cool, that stiff poise was gone for good. Now he had him. Although there was a beard, and there hadn’t been a beard before—and this man’s hair was grey, and he was old, and he was shorter than Marklew had remembered.
“Help me!” Marklew begged him. “You know me! Do you know me?”
“Please let me go!”
“You know me! You know who I am!”
“I don’t know who you are, please!”
Marklew let go of the man, and he thought he didn’t look much like a solicitor at all, not in that cheap brown coat, Marklew thought the man was probably in trade. “Please help me,” said Marklew.
And the man hesitated. As if unsure whether to run, or whether to call the police. And then he said, “Go home. Go home, Mr. Marklew. It’s waiting for you.”
The hatbox was sitting outside on the pavement, where anyone might have stolen it. Still, no one had.
Richard Marklew picked it up, and it felt no heavier and no lighter than the boxes he had been sent before. He tucked it under his arm as he struggled with the keys to his flat, and it suddenly felt like such a disrespectful thing to do to a dead little boy, and he hoped that the front of the skull was at least pointing away from his armpit. He went indoors. He set the box down in the middle of the floor. Gently, carefully. He sat on the floor beside it. He looked at it.
He decided he wouldn’t open the box.
He opened the box.
He saw only the top of the scalp, whiter and shinier than he had ever thought a scalp could be. He prodded it, daintily, with his finger. It was warm. It was cold.
He reached into the box so he could lift the skull out; with one hand he grabbed it by the back of the head, with the other he fingered the eye sockets. The skull was free, but he wouldn’t look at the skull, not for the moment, he looked instead to see if there were another envelope to read, some special message to announce the long awaited arrival. Maybe even a receipt!—There wasn’t. There wasn’t, and all there was was the skull, and he was still holding it, it was in his hands, warm, cold, and he was looking at it at last, he was daring to look.
His heart beat so fast and he wondered if he were going to die. But he didn’t, he just sat there on the floor, and the skull sat in his hands, and they were both touching each other, and yet neither had anything to say. To be honest, it was more than a little awkward.
The skull was perfect. It had not a single blemish. No browning discolouration around the temporal bones, as was common—the mandibles were in immaculate condition. The eyes were two round holes that seemed wide open in innocent surprise, the jaw was intact and allowed the mouth a reassuring smile.
And now Richard Marklew knew why he’d spent his lifetime building up a collection of the dead. He thought he’d known before, what the urge was, why he had to satisfy it, why he had never satisfied it, not ’til now. But he’d been wrong, and now he knew the truth, and the truth made him cry. He was crying with happiness. Was it happiness? Yes, probably.
He didn’t want to let the skull go. He wasn’t sure if he even could have. He got to his feet and his old bones cracked with the effort, but he didn’t care. He held the skull tight, and he swayed a bit because he felt so giddy now, and it seemed to him they were dancing. He went to lie down upon his bed. He was still wearing his clothes. He couldn’t get undressed without putting the skull down, so that was all right, he wouldn’t get undressed again. It was simple.
He thought maybe he dozed a little, and when he awoke the little boy in his hands was watching over him. He felt comforted, he dozed some more. It got dark. It didn’t matter. Some little light streamed in from the window, a streetlamp maybe, or the moon.
The shadows moved around them both, but he didn’t need to look at them any longer.
And there was the crack—just the one crack, running horizontally from side to side, just above the chin. It wasn’t damage, it was a beautiful crack, wide and inviting, and it was studded with bright white teeth like smooth pebbles, not a single tooth was missing. He dared himself to touch the crack. Would he touch the crack? He would. He pulled the crack closer to his face, right against his very lips, and he pushed his tongue inside, past the pebble teeth and onwards, deeper, he pushed his tongue into the smiling crack as deep as it could go.
PATCHES
Mother seemed cheerful about it, but then Mother was cheerful by default. Father was wary, though. �
��If it seems too good to be true,” he’d say, “then it usually is.” He said he’d go over the house with a fine-toothed comb, although the little girl thought he was probably exaggerating. He didn’t find any dry rot, or damp rot, or rot of any persuasion; the plaster wasn’t crumbling, the foundations were sound. Still, Father was wary. He was a man of the world, a man of business—a man, at least, at any rate. He was nobody’s fool.
Mother and Father would ask the little girl what she thought, but they’d never wait long enough to hear her reply. But maybe this time that didn’t matter. The little girl didn’t know what to think. Mother said she’d make new friends at the new school, and the little girl shrugged; it wasn’t as if she’d made any at the old school, so what did she care? And Father promised there’d be more room in the new house for all of her toys and games and books. But the little girl couldn’t help but worry a bit, when her parents packed away her things for the removal men, that somehow putting them into cardboard boxes would mean that her toys and games and books would always seem old to her from now on, that when she took them out of the boxes at the other end she wouldn’t want them anymore. And a new house would mean new creaks on the floorboards to navigate, and new places she’d have to discover when she wanted to hide.
They Do the Same Things Different There Page 26