The Final Testimony of Raphael Ignatius Phoenix

by Paul Sussman

  ‘Yes,’ I croaked into the darkness beneath. ‘Who’s there?’

  ‘Raphael?’ came a familiar voice. ‘Raphael, are you up there?’

  ‘Emily? Is that you?’

  ‘Of course it’s me. Come on down and let me in. It’s cold out here.’

  I leaned over the battlements to try to get a glimpse of her, but aside from a hint of golden hair I could make out nothing in the gloom. My old heart thudding with excitement, I therefore fumbled my way downstairs, switched on the hall light and heaved open the castle’s front door. She was standing on the doorstep, swamped inside a large duffel coat with a newspaper sticking out of one pocket, as beautiful and youthful as ever. Her nose, I noticed, was red with the cold, and I ushered her in immediately.

  ‘What a wonderful surprise,’ I said, leading her into the kitchen. ‘What brings you to this neck of the woods?’

  ‘Oh, I was just passing.’

  ‘No one just passes here, Emily. There’s nowhere to pass to. It’s the middle of nowhere.’

  ‘Well, I thought it would be nice to see you. It’s been a long time.’

  ‘It has indeed,’ I said, pouring her out a glass of red wine. ‘It’s always a long time. Here, this should take the edge off the chill.’

  ‘I’d prefer a cup of tea if you’ve got one,’ she said.

  ‘Of course, of course. I’ll boil some water.’ I took back the glass and downed it myself, moving across the room and switching on the electric kettle.

  ‘You look well,’ I remarked, searching in the cupboard for tea bags. ‘Just like you always do. It never fails to amaze me. Most people, if you didn’t see them for 15 years, would have changed at least a bit in the interim. But you look just the same. Always have looked just the same. You never change. It’s extraordinary. Is it some sort of cream you use?’

  She laughed.

  ‘Not that I’m aware of. I guess life’s been kind to me. You look well too, Raphael.’

  ‘Don’t patronize me, Emily,’ I said, still searching for my tea bags. ‘I neither look nor feel well, and you damned well know it. I’ve grown old these last few years. Very old. My joints ache, my eyesight’s going and it’s as much as I can do to get out of bed in the morning. Look at all these frightful wrinkles. It’s like I’m cracking up. Now what on earth have I done with the tea bags? I’m sure they were in here somewhere.’

  She stepped forward and, reaching over my shoulder, removed a box of Earl Grey from the shelf directly in front of me.

  ‘See what I mean,’ I sighed. ‘I’m going senile.’

  ‘Shall I make the tea?’ she asked, laying a hand on my arm.

  ‘I think it might be best. Milk’s in the fridge. Don’t worry about me. I’ll stick with the wine. God, it’s good to see you. I’ve missed you terribly. I only really feel alive when I’m with you.’

  She gave me a kiss on the cheek, and then made her drink. It was chilly in the kitchen, so we trooped upstairs to my bedroom, where we switched on my old bar heater and sat down in front of it, side by side on the edge of the bed. I sipped at my wine, and lit a cigarette. Emily took off her duffel coat with the newspaper in the pocket, as she did so removing a gift-wrapped parcel with a ribbon tied round it from an inner recess of the coat.

  ‘I almost forgot,’ she said. ‘I brought you a present. Christmas and birthday combined. I hope you like it.’

  I laid aside my glass and, with unsteady hands, removed the wrapping paper. Inside was a purple silk shirt, its fabric shimmering in the crimson light of the heater.

  ‘A purple shirt,’ I said. ‘Thank you. Just what I’ve always wanted.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to try it on?’

  ‘Not just now,’ I coughed, folding the gift and putting it on my pillow. ‘I can’t be bothered to change. Maybe later.’

  She took my withered old hand in hers, and stared into my eyes.

  ‘Are you OK here in the castle, Raphael?’ she asked. ‘Perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea you coming here. It seems to have worn you down.’

  ‘It’s not the castle,’ I sighed. ‘And by the way, thank you for letting me stay here. No, it’s me, Emily. Like I told you, I’m getting old. It’s all catching up with me. It had to happen eventually. If it hadn’t been here it would have been somewhere else. You can’t go on for ever. I think I’m coming to the end.’

  She was silent for a moment, and then said:

  ‘Well, at least your face is better. Last time I saw you it was all covered in bandages.’

  ‘Yes,’ I admitted, ‘at least my face is better.’

  We supped our respective drinks, and warmed our feet at the fire, and, after some further small talk, began, as we always do when we’re together, to mull over the old days. My present with Emily has always, in a sense, been a step backwards into the past, and tonight was no exception. We recalled old dragon Wasply, and the garden at White Lodge, and our time together on the Scythia (‘What were that old American couple called?’ she asked. ‘The ones we played quoits with?’ ‘The Flumsteins,’ I replied), and a host of other shared memories, drifting back through time whilst around us time itself moved forwards to the faint tick-tick of my watch. I chain-smoked, and soon the atmosphere was thick and hazy.

  I don’t know how long we’d been talking for, although it must have been a while, because I was nearing the end of my second bottle of wine, when Emily suddenly asked, a propos of nothing:

  ‘Do you remember that old pill, Raphael? The poison pill, the one we switched with the mint?’

  She couldn’t have surprised me more if she’d ripped off her clothes and done a handstand right there in front of me (now there’s a thought!). Since the day we’d stolen it all those many years before there’d been no mention whatsoever of The Pill between us. Not even a flicker of a mention. So silent had Emily been on the subject, indeed, that I’d convinced myself it was somehow taboo, and had avoided ever bringing it up. That she should ask about it now, so suddenly, and after so long, really took me aback. And delighted me too. It was, after all, a part of our shared experience.

  ‘Do you?’ she asked again. ‘Do you remember it?’

  ‘Of course I do,’ I said. ‘In fact, I’ve still got it. Look.’

  I dipped my fingers into my pyjama pocket and removed The Pill, holding it out on the flat of my palm. It looked to all intents and purposes exactly as it had that day I first saw it in the poisons cabinet of Mr Emilie’s pharmacy, way back at the start of the century. As it did then, it seemed to exude a faint hum. It was almost as if it was pleased to see Emily.

  ‘What on earth makes you mention it now?’ I asked. ‘After all these years?’

  ‘I was just curious,’ she smiled. ‘Fancy you keeping it all this time. Can I hold it?’

  ‘Of course you can.’ I dropped The Pill into her outstretched hand. ‘I thought you’d completely forgotten about it. Or didn’t want to talk about it. I thought perhaps you felt guilty that we’d stolen it. It’s one of the few things I’ve kept from those days, you know. I never let it out of my sight.’

  Emily weighed The Pill in her palm. It was, I noticed, almost the same colour as her skin, so that it seemed to be a part of her, like a small white pimple.

  ‘Isn’t it funny?’ she said. ‘Here we are talking about the past, and then an actual piece of it suddenly appears. A tiny blob of our youth. Why have you kept it all this time?’

  ‘It’s hard to explain,’ I sighed, lighting another cigarette and blowing a halo of smoke over my companion’s golden head. ‘I don’t really understand it myself. It just makes me feel . . . secure. It’s something to cling to. To hold.’

  ‘How very eccentric you are, Raphael,’ she laughed, standing up. ‘You and your little ways. You’re a law unto yourself.’

  She was still for a moment, examining The Pill, and then, suddenly, shaking her hair and giggling, she cried: ‘Catch me if you can!’ and disappeared out of the bedroom on to the landing.

  ‘What are you d
oing, Emily?’ I called after her. ‘Where are you going?’

  There was no reply, however, just a loud ‘Oooooooo!’ such as ghosts make, followed by a faint patter of feet on the stairs.

  ‘Emily, stop this!’ I shouted. ‘I’m an old man! I want my pill.’

  I struggled to my feet and went out on to the landing. The castle was very dark and silent.

  ‘Emily? Emily?’

  No reply.

  I crossed to the top of the stairs.

  ‘Emily?’

  ‘Ooooooooo!’ came a ghostly wail from below. ‘Oooooooo!’

  I was annoyed at her for teasing me like this – I was nearly a hundred years old, for God’s sake! – and yet at the same time couldn’t help smiling to myself. The challenge, the receding patter of feet, the silly noises, the hunt – it took me back to the days of my youth, when Emily and I would chase each other for hours around the dark, dusty recesses of White Lodge. I felt, for a moment, like a child again. I felt the excitement of the game.

  ‘I’m going to get you!’ I cooed softly. ‘Fee fi fo fum!’

  I crept down the stairs and into the front hall, moving from room to room, hunting my quarry.

  ‘Come out, come out wherever you are!’ I sang. ‘I’m going to find you!’

  I heard a faint footfall in the kitchen and rushed in, but she somehow managed to slip out behind me and scurried up the stairs again.

  ‘Too slow,’ she called, laughing. ‘Too slow, old man!’

  I followed her upstairs again, and then down, and then up, and then down, and all round the castle. She always managed to keep one step ahead, however, laughing and goading me and then slipping away into the darkness, and eventually I gave up chasing altogether and instead crouched down in the shadows at the foot of the roof stairs, remaining there in total silence until, uncertain where I’d gone, she crept cautiously back into my bedroom again, whereupon I leapt out with a roar of triumph, seized her and threw her on to the bed, collapsing beside her, both of us laughing till we were red in the face.

  ‘I got you!’ I cried. ‘I got you!’

  ‘That wasn’t fair!’

  ‘Why wasn’t it fair?’

  ‘You laid a trap, you sneak!’

  ‘Traps are fair! There’s no rule that says I have to chase you all the time.’

  ‘You’re a cheat,’ she said, pinching my arm.

  ‘And you’re a bad loser,’ I replied, pinching hers. ‘Where’s my pill?’

  ‘I think I dropped it downstairs somewhere.’

  ‘Emily!’

  She laughed, and opened her hand. There it was in her palm.

  ‘Do be careful with it, won’t you, Raphael?’ she said, handing it back to me. ‘Remember what father said about it being so dangerous?’

  ‘One and a half grains of strychnine, one and a half grains of arsenic, half a grain of salt of hydrocyanic acid and half a grain of crushed ipecacuanha root,’ I smiled, returning The Pill to my pyjama pocket. ‘How could I ever forget?’

  ‘Oh Raphael, you are silly.’

  We fell silent. I can’t recall her ever looking quite as beautiful as she did at that particular moment. She’s always been beautiful, of course, but there, then, in the rich glow of my old bar heater, her pale face slightly flushed with laughter, her perfection reached its peak. (Question: Can perfection reach a peak, or is it by definition already there?) I reached out my withered old hand and stroked her golden hair, and tickled her downy earlobe and then, leaning forward, went to kiss her on the lips. As I did so, however, she raised a finger and touched it to my chin.

  ‘It’s over, Raphael,’ she said gently.

  I moved back a little.

  ‘What’s over?’

  ‘It’s time to go.’

  I sat up and, fumbling for my cigarettes, lit one.

  ‘When will I see you again?’

  She came up beside me.

  ‘I don’t think you will see me again.’

  ‘Look, I’m sorry if I’ve upset you, Emily. I didn’t mean to. Really, I didn’t. I shouldn’t have tried to kiss you, I know I shouldn’t. I just couldn’t help it. I love you so much.’

  She took my withered hand in hers. Cupped between her two perfect white hands, it looked, I thought, like a piece of stale luncheon meat.

  ‘It’s not because of the kiss, you silly billy,’ she said. ‘It’s just time. It was time long ago. Time to let go.’

  ‘What are you saying, Emily?’ I said, my voice rising slightly. ‘I don’t understand you.’

  ‘Don’t you, Raphael?’

  ‘No, I don’t. I damn well don’t.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Yes, sure. Why do you always have to be so damn . . . so damn . . . cryptic, Emily? What do you mean, it’s time to let go? It’s you who always comes looking for me, remember. I never come looking for you. I never know where the fuck you are. How can I let go of something I never manage to hold on to in the first place, eh? Tell me that!’

  She stroked my head, and smiled.

  ‘Poor Raphael.’

  ‘Don’t “Poor Raphael” me. I want to know what you’re talking about. Why won’t I ever see you again?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Look in the paper, Raphael. It explains it all in the paper.’

  For a moment I didn’t know what she was talking about. Then, however, I remembered the newspaper in the pocket of her duffel coat. I leaned over and pulled it out. It was The Times.

  ‘So what’s this supposed to tell me?’ I said, flicking through the pages. ‘There’s been a train crash in Scotland. Unrest in Russia. Riots in Delhi. I can’t see the relevance.’

  She said nothing, just raised her eyebrows slightly and tilted her head, as if to say, ‘Keep looking.’

  I went through the whole paper from front to back before I found it, although I think deep down I maybe knew where it was all along and was just trying to put off the moment when I had to confront it, just as at school mealtimes I always used to leave to last the thing on my plate I liked the least. It was only a couple of lines long, if that, and was tucked away amongst a long list of names in a column headed Deaths, wedged between Colgate (Priscilla) of Sheffield Park, Sussex, and Honey (Edward) of Bristol. It read as follows:

  Emilie – On 6th January, at Baker Street, London, of a fever, Emily, beloved only daughter of Thomas and Sophia Emilie. No flowers by request.

  The paper was dated 8th January 1910.

  I sat staring at these words for a long time, my cigarette burning itself out in my hand. When I eventually turned back towards her, she’d already started to fade.

  ‘Oh Emily,’ I said through the tears. ‘Oh Emily.’

  It took about an hour for her to go completely, her skin becoming ever more translucent, her hair ever paler, her eyes ever dimmer, until all that was left was just the very faintest shadow of a person. Not even a shadow. Just a rumour of a person. A faint disturbance of the air. A feeling. I held her hand until the end, and whispered her name, and told her how very much I loved her, and how much better my life had been because of her. I told her she was my angel, over and over. And then, finally, with a whispered ‘Goodbye, dear Raphael,’ she disappeared completely, leaving me alone. So very alone. I’ve always been so very alone.

  I fell asleep quite soon after that. When I woke the following morning I knew for sure it was time to die.

  And so now it’s the end. Having increased the size of my writing slightly (each letter now about the size of a small toy soldier), I have at last brought the note, after so many rooms, so many pens, so much whiteness, all those hundreds of feet of wall, flush up against the doorway to the roof stairs. Not only that, but I’ve managed to do it in purple felt-tip too, although, as you can no doubt see from the faintness of my writing, it was a damn close-run thing. The fact that the note has ended precisely where it was supposed to end, and in precisely the right colour, would seem to confirm the correctness of my decision to go ahead with killing mysel
f. A sign! A sign!

  It took longer than I expected to write the above. Much longer. I found myself lingering over Emily, drawing out each word, holding back from the moment when I finally had to let her go, so that it is now close on midnight and I have no time left to tidy the castle or make my curried mackerel fillets with melted cheese on top. To be honest, I don’t really care. All I want to do now is die.

  The fireworks have started down in the village, so it must have gone twelve. A new century has begun. A new millennium. A new life. A time has been ushered in to which I no longer belong. My world now lies firmly in the past. I need to be going.

  The hammering on the door is more furious and sustained than ever; likewise the hammering in my back. Boom. Boom. Boom. My whole being is reverberating to the thuds. A few minutes ago I heard one of the downstairs windows shattering. I’m beyond caring.

  In a moment I shall pull on a pair of clean trousers and my new purple shirt – might as well keep this purple thing going right to the end – and head up to the dome to take my pill. Before I do, however, I should tell you what I’ve written above my bedroom doorway.

  Over every door in the castle, you will remember, there is now a heading. Above that to the kitchen, for instance, you will find inscribed the words Lord Slaggsby, with a drawing of a cream cake; above that to the bathroom, Luther Dextrus and a crocodile, and so on, and so on. I have yet to tell you, however, what I’ve written over the entrance to the final room of my note.

  It was a difficult decision, and one with which I’ve been wrestling for some time now. I very nearly titled it ‘First Murder, Last Day, New Millennium’, but in the end settled for something just a little less verbose. You’ll see it if you step out on to the landing. No drawing for this last room; just two simple words: ‘The End.’ Which, as my pen goes dry and I run out of space, it now most assuredly is. Ta-ra.

  AFTERWARDS

  THINK OF THE biggest shock you’ve ever had in your entire life, multiply it by 10 million, then square it, then cube it, then multiply it by another 10 million, and another, and another, and you’re still not halfway to understanding how I feel at this present moment.