They walked into the hotel, and how wide the lobby seemed. It was not crowded but full of people. No one glanced her way. Or if they did, by chance, happen to look in Camilla’s direction, they appeared to see nothing. By the time they reached the desk, she was feeling disquieted, and strangely weary, as if that short walk had been a long trek across empty tundra. Camilla’s progress through the human world has been, for so long, a continuous sip, sip, at the nectar of attention. Full-blown seduction is an occasional indulgence (she’s not an addict, like Sheridan!). Her eternal beauty, everlasting youth, is nourished by subtler means. She doesn’t even have to think about it, she is so used to eliciting the response. The admiration that comes back to her, from almost any human being, male or female, young or old, is her daily bread, the air she breathes. Beautiful people feed like this. The rest are there to be fed upon. That’s the law of nature.
All the way up to their room, Sheridan placidly silent and indifferent beside her, she could not stop herself from peering at the glass walls of the lift, at a passing chambermaid, at the bellboy waiting for his tip. Nothing. She might as well be invisible. What’s happened to me?
“What’s wrong with you, Cam?”
“Nothing,” she says, sitting in the middle of the vast acreage of their room, on the king-sized bed, sumptuous with pillows; the white sheets crisp and fragrant. But where’s Noreen, with her humble, hungry eyes? “I think I’ll have a shower.”
She went into the bathroom.
As long as you can look at yourself in the mirror, you’re not too far gone. That’s what Sheridan says. One day all the mirrors will be empty, and sometimes, tired of the endless repetitive toil of her delicate feeding, she has looked forward to the day when there will be no more subtlety, when they will have no choice but to be monsters. Really, neither of them wants to cross that borderline. It will be a kind of death. It’s a fate they prefer to put off as long as possible. But this is something else.
A fair-haired woman’s face looks back at her, naked and weary: a little pale, a few fine lines, a few faint broken veins in the cheeks. There’s nothing unusual about this reflection. It’s neither old or very young, neither beautiful nor ugly: there’s certainly no mark of immortal evil. Oh God, she whispers—the redeemed, the newly mortal. What’s happened to me? She turns her face, she turns her face. It’s no use. Wherever she looks, every light is coming, pure and clear, straight from the north.
JACK
Connie Willis
Connie Willis made her fiction debut in 1971 in the magazine Worlds of Fantasy, but only began appearing regularly in the genre in the early 1980s. The author of such recent novels as Blackout and Crosstalk, some of her finest short fiction can be found in The Best of Connie Willis: Award-Winning Stories.
She has won more major awards than any writer, including multiple Hugo Awards and Nebula Awards, and she was inducted into the Science Fiction Hall of Fame in 2009 and named as a Grand Master by the Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers of America two years later.
About the following novella, she reveals: “I became fascinated by the Blitz the first time I went to St. Paul’s in London. It seemed impossible to me that the cathedral hadn’t burned down that night in December (it still seems impossible), and I began doing research for the story that eventually became ‘Fire Watch’ (1982).
“In the course of my reading, I kept seeing references to ‘body-sniffers,’ people who worked on the rescue squads who had an unusual knack for finding bodies. On a rational level, I knew that this was probably because they had exceptional hearing (everybody was practically deaf from the continuous din) or were good guessers, or else were exceptionally lucky. It did occur to me, though, that there might be another, more sinister reason …”
THE NIGHT JACK joined our post, Vi was late. So was the Luftwaffe. The sirens still hadn’t gone by eight o’clock.
“Perhaps our Violet’s tired of the RAF and begun on the aircraft spotters,” Morris said, “and they’re so taken by her charms they’ve forgotten to wind the sirens.”
“You’d best watch out then,” Swales said, taking off his tin warden’s hat. He’d just come back from patrol. We made room for him at the linoleum-covered table, moving our tea cups and the litter of gas masks and pocket torches. Twickenham shuffled his papers into one pile next to his typewriter and went on typing.
Swales sat down and poured himself a cup of tea. “She’ll set her cap for the ARP next,” he said, reaching for the milk. Morris pushed it toward him. “And none of us will be safe.” He grinned at me. “Especially the young ones, Jack.”
“I’m safe,” I said. “I’m being called up soon. Twickenham’s the one who should be worrying.”
Twickenham looked up from his typing at the sound of his name. “Worrying about what?” he asked, his hands poised over the keyboard.
“Our Violet setting her cap for you,” Swales said. ‘Girls always go for poets.”
“I’m a journalist, not a poet. What about Renfrew?” He nodded his head toward the cots in the other room.
“Renfrew!” Swales boomed, pushing his chair back and starting into the room.
“Shh,” I said. “Don’t wake him. He hasn’t slept all week.”
“You’re right. It wouldn’t be fair in his weakened condition.” He sat back down. “And Morris is married. What about your son, Morris? He’s a pilot, isn’t he? Stationed in London?”
Morris shook his head. “Quincy’s up at North Weald.”
“Lucky, that,” Swales said. “Looks as if that leaves you, Twickenham.”
“Sorry,” Twickenham said, typing. “She’s not my type.”
“She’s not anyone’s type, is she?” Swales said.
“The RAF’s,” Morris said, and we all fell silent, thinking of Vi and her bewildering popularity with the RAF pilots in and around London. She had pale eyelashes and colorless brown hair she put up in flat little pincurls while she was on duty, which was against regulations, though Mrs. Lucy didn’t say anything to her about them. Vi was dumpy and rather stupid, and yet she was out constantly with one pilot after another, going to dances and parties.
“I still say she makes it all up,” Swales said. “She buys all those things she says they give her herself, all those oranges and chocolate. She buys them on the black market.”
“On a full-time’s salary?” I said. We only made two pounds a week, and the things she brought home to the post—sweets and sherry and cigarettes—couldn’t be bought on that. Vi shared them round freely, though liquor and cigarettes were against regulations as well. Mrs. Lucy didn’t say anything about them either.
She never reprimanded her wardens about anything, except being malicious about Vi, and we never gossiped in her presence. I wondered where she was. I hadn’t seen her since I came in.
“Where’s Mrs. Lucy?” I asked. “She’s not late as well, is she?”
Morris nodded toward the pantry door. “She’s in her office. Olmwood’s replacement is here. She’s filling him in.”
Olmwood had been our best part-time, a huge out-of-work collier who could lift a house beam by himself, which was why Nelson, using his authority as district warden, had had him transferred to his own post.
“I hope the new man’s not any good,” Swales said. “Or Nelson will steal him.”
“I saw Olmwood yesterday,” Morris said. “He looked like Renfrew, only worse. He told me Nelson keeps them out the whole night patrolling and looking for incendiaries.”
There was no point in that. You couldn’t see where the incendiaries were falling from the street, and if there was an incident, nobody was anywhere to be found. Mrs. Lucy had assigned patrols at the beginning of the Blitz, but within a week she’d stopped them at midnight so we could get some sleep. Mrs. Lucy said she saw no point in our getting killed when everyone was already in bed anyway.
“Olmwood says Nelson makes them wear their gas masks the entire time they’re on duty and holds stirrup pump drills twice a shift,” Morr
is said.
“Stirrup pump drills!” Swales exploded. “How difficult does he think it is to learn to use one? Nelson’s not getting me on his post, I don’t care if Churchill himself signs the transfer papers.”
The pantry door opened. Mrs. Lucy poked her head out. “It’s half-past eight. The spotter’d better go upstairs even if the sirens haven’t gone,” she said. “Who’s on duty tonight?”
“Vi,” I said, “but she hasn’t come in yet.”
“Oh, dear,” she said. “Perhaps someone had better go look for her.”
“I’ll go,” I said, and started pulling on my boots.
“Thank you, Jack,” she said. She shut the door.
I stood up and tucked my pocket torch into my belt. I picked up my gas mask and slung it over my arm in case I ran into Nelson. The regulations said they were to be worn while patrolling, but Mrs. Lucy had realized early on that you couldn’t see anything with them on. Which is why, I thought, she has the best post in the district, including Admiral Nelson’s.
Mrs. Lucy opened the door again and leaned out for a moment. “She usually comes by Underground. Sloane Square,” she said.
“Take care.”
“Right,” Swales said. “Vi might be lurking outside in the dark, waiting to pounce!” He grabbed Twickenham round the neck and hugged him to his chest.
“I’ll be careful,” I said and went up the basement stairs and out onto the street.
I went the way Vi usually came from Sloane Square Station, but there was no one in the blacked-out streets except a girl hurrying to the Underground station, carrying a blanket, a pillow, and a dress on a hanger.
I walked the rest of the way to the tube station with her to make sure she found her way, though it wasn’t that dark. The nearly full moon was up, and there was a fire still burning down by the docks from the raid of the night before.
“Thanks awfully,” the girl said, switching the hanger to her other hand so she could shake hands with me. She was much nicer-looking than Vi, with blonde, very curly hair. “I work for this old stewpot at John Lewis’s, and she won’t let me leave even a minute before closing, will she, even if the sirens have gone.”
I waited outside the station for a few minutes and then walked up to the Brompton Road, thinking Vi might have come in at South Kensington instead, but I didn’t see her, and she still wasn’t at the post when I got back.
“We’ve a new theory for why the sirens haven’t gone,” Swales said. “We’ve decided our Vi’s set her cap for the Luftwaffe, and they’ve surrendered.”
“Where’s Mrs. Lucy?” I asked.
“Still in with the new man,” Twickenham said.
“I’d better tell Mrs. Lucy I couldn’t find her,” I said and started for the pantry.
Halfway there the door opened, and Mrs. Lucy and the new man came out. He was scarcely a replacement for the burly Olmwood. He was not much older than I was, slightly built, hardly the sort to lift house beams. His face was thin and rather pale, and I wondered if he was a student.
“This is our new part-time, Mr. Settle,” Mrs. Lucy said. She pointed to each of us in turn. “Mr. Morris, Mr. Twickenham, Mr. Swales, Mr. Harker.” She smiled at the part-time and then at me. “Mr. Harker’s name is Jack, too,” she said. “I shall have to work at keeping you straight.”
“A pair of jacks,” Swales said. “Not a bad hand.”
The part-time smiled.
“Cots are in there if you’d like to have a lie-down,” Mrs. Lucy said, “and if the raids are close, the coal cellar’s reinforced. I’m afraid the rest of the basement isn’t, but I’m attempting to rectify that.” She waved the papers in her hand. “I’ve applied to the district warden for reinforcing beams. Gas masks are in there,” she said, pointing at a wooden chest, “batteries for the torches are in here,” she pulled a drawer open, “and the duty roster’s posted on this wall.” She pointed at the neat columns. “Patrols here and watches here. As you can see, Miss Westen has the first watch for tonight.”
“She’s still not here,” Twickenham said, not even pausing in his typing.
“I couldn’t find her,” I said.
“Oh, dear,” she said. “I do hope she’s all right. Mr. Twickenham, would you mind terribly taking Vi’s watch?”
“I’ll take it,” Jack said. “Where do I go?”
“I’ll show him,” I said, starting for the stairs.
“No, wait,” Mrs. Lucy said. “Mr. Settle, I hate to put you to work before you’ve even had a chance to become acquainted with everyone, and there really isn’t any need to go up till after the sirens have gone. Come and sit down, both of you.” She took the flowered cozy off the teapot. “Would you like a cup of tea, Mr. Settle?”
“No, thank you,” he said.
She put the cozy back on and smiled at him. “You’re from Yorkshire, Mr. Settle,” she said as if we were all at a tea party. “Whereabouts?”
“Scarborough,” he said politely.
“What brings you to London?” Morris said.
“The war,” he said, still politely.
“Wanted to do your bit, eh?”
“Yes.”
“That’s what my son Quincy said. ‘Dad,’ he says. ‘I want to do my bit for England. I’m going to be a pilot.’ Downed twenty-one planes, he has, my Quincy,” Morris told Jack, “and been shot down twice himself. Oh, he’s had some scrapes, I could tell you, but it’s all top-secret.”
Jack nodded.
There were times I wondered whether Morris, like Violet with her RAF pilots, had invented his son’s exploits. Sometimes I even wondered if he had invented the son, though if that were the case he might surely have made up a better name than Quincy.
“‘Dad,’ he says to me out of the blue, ‘I’ve got to do my bit,’ and he shows me his enlistment papers. You could’ve knocked me over with a feather. Not that he’s not patriotic, you understand, but he’d had his little difficulties at school, sowed his wild oats, so to speak, and here he was, saying, ‘Dad, I want to do my bit.’”
The sirens went, taking up one after the other. Mrs. Lucy said, “Ah, well, here they are now,” as if the last guest had finally arrived at her tea party, and Jack stood up.
“If you’ll just show me where the spotter’s post is, Mr. Harker,” he said.
“Jack,” I said. “It’s a name that should be easy for you to remember.”
I took him upstairs to what had been Mrs. Lucy’s cook’s garret bedroom, unlike the street a perfect place to watch for incendiaries. It was on the fourth floor, higher than most of the buildings on the street so one could see anything that fell on the roofs around. One could see the Thames, too, between the chimneypots, and in the other direction the searchlights in Hyde Park.
Mrs. Lucy had set a wing-backed chair by the window, from which the glass had been removed, and the narrow landing at the head of the stairs had been reinforced with heavy oak beams that even Olmwood couldn’t have lifted.
“One ducks out here when the bombs get close,” I said, shining the torch on the beams. “It’ll be a swish and then a sort of rising whine.” I led him into the bedroom. “If you see incendiaries, call out and try to mark exactly where they fall on the roofs.” I showed him how to use the gunsight mounted on a wooden base that we used for a sextant and handed him the binoculars. “Anything else you need?” I asked.
“No,” he said soberly. “Thank you.”
I left him and went back downstairs. They were still discussing Violet.
“I’m really becoming worried about her,” Mrs. Lucy said. One of the ack-ack guns started up, and there was the dull crump of bombs far away, and we all stopped to listen.
“ME 109’s,” Morris said. “They’re coming in from the south again.”
“I do hope she has the sense to get to a shelter.” Mrs. Lucy said, and Vi burst in the door.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said, setting a box tied with string on the table next to Twickenham’s typewriter. She was out of br
eath and her face was suffused with blood. “I know I’m supposed to be on watch, but Harry took me out to see his plane this afternoon, and I had a horrid time getting back.” She heaved herself out of her coat and hung it over the back of Jack’s chair. “You’ll never believe what he’s named it! The Sweet Violet!” She untied the string on the box. “We were so late we hadn’t time for tea, and he said, ‘You take this to your post and have a good tea, and I’ll keep the Jerries busy till you’ve finished.’” She reached in the box and lifted out a torte with sugar icing. “He’s painted the name on the nose and put little violets in purple all round it,” she said, setting it on the table. “One for every Jerry he’s shot down.”
We stared at the cake. Eggs and sugar had been rationed since the beginning of the year and they’d been in short supply even before that. I hadn’t seen a fancy torte like this in over a year.
“It’s raspberry filling,” she said, slicing through the cake with a knife. “They hadn’t any chocolate.” She held the knife up, dripping jam. “Now, who wants some then?”
“I do,” I said. I had been hungry since the beginning of the war and ravenous since I’d joined the ARP, especially for sweets, and I had my piece eaten before she’d finished setting slices on Mrs. Lucy’s Wedgwood plates and passing them round.
There was still a quarter left. “Who’s upstairs taking my watch?” she said, sucking a bit of raspberry jam off her finger.
“The new part-time,” I said. “I’ll take it up to him.”
She cut a slice and eased it off the knife and onto the plate. “What’s he like?” she asked.
“He’s from Yorkshire,” Twickenham said, looking at Mrs. Lucy. “What did he do up there before the war?”
Mrs. Lucy looked at her cake, as if surprised that it was nearly eaten. “He didn’t say,” she said.
“I meant, is he handsome?” Vi said, putting a fork on the plate with the slice of cake. “Perhaps I should take it up to him myself.”
“He’s puny. Pale,” Swales said, his mouth full of cake. “Looks as if he’s got consumption.”
The Mammoth Book of Vampire Stories by Women Page 70