“Eve,” she said uncertainly, “… and the door’s always open. We can’t close it.”
Paterson nodded slightly. “In that case, I’ve come to see your father. I think I can help him … or perhaps both of you.” A small black and white cat rubbed itself against Paterson’s legs.
Eve smiled, coolly. “Hmmm. Let’s go and find him, then.” Paterson spent the time they were searching admiring Eve. Her precise, swift walk and the curve of her back where it met her buttocks made him imagine how she must move during lovemaking. It was certainly a distraction, but a pleasant one.
They finally found the old man in his study. He was seated behind his desk, shuffling through papers and absent-mindedly stroking a cat in his lap. Now and then, he ran his fingers through the wispy white hair that clung to the sides of his head.
“Father. This gentleman has come to see you.”
Framehr lifted his gaze and peered at Paterson. “Hmmm. Hello. What is it you want? I’m not buying anything, if that’s what it is.”
Paterson stepped around Eve and extended his hand; it was ignored. “I’m not selling anything, sir. My name is Paterson and I understand from your daughter that you need some help with the house. I’d be very interested in helping you.” He was aware of appearing over-eager.
The old man looked at him oddly. “You want to help with the problems we’ve been having with this house?”
Paterson nodded. “I believe I can help, yes. I’m an engineer.”
Picking the cat up from his lap and placing it on the floor, Framehr took a step towards the younger man. He nodded. “Well, why don’t you stay for dinner? We can talk about it then.”
Over dinner, after essaying the basic problems facing the house, it was clear that Framehr wished to discuss ‘terms’.
He leaned forward. “So are you a successful engineer, Mr Paterson?”
Paterson finished chewing another mouthful of the frugal meal. “Well, I’m an engineering student. But I’m in the Honours class and I’m about to graduate. I’m a huge admirer of Van Epps’ work, you see.”
The old man smiled. “Yes, yes. You said.” Framehr looked at his daughter and she gazed back at him, almost as if they were speaking to each other without words.
Framehr sighed and spread his hands in front of him, as if indicating to his visitor that he had nothing to hide. “I have no money to pay for any repairs, Mr Paterson. I spent most of what little wealth I had commissioning Van Epps to design and build this house. Now there is nothing left.”
Paterson smiled at him. “I’m not asking to be paid, sir. All I ask is that you let me take some photographs of the repair process in order that I may write a book about it. It would be a prestigious project for me. And the payment from any publisher for such a book would more than meet my costs.”
Nodding and smiling, Framehr lifted his glass and tipped it slightly in Paterson’s direction. “With pleasure,” he murmured and then drained it dry. From across the table, Eve parted her thin red lips and smiled at them both.
The next morning, Framehr showed Paterson what he grandly referred to as his library. The small room had a built-in table and chair with a few bookshelves recessed in the walls.
Paterson spent some hours perusing three yellow-covered volumes written in Van Epps’ distinctive handwriting. He then unfolded the mechanical diagrams that described how the house worked. But none of it revealed what Paterson was really interested in and what he had come here to find.
An initial inspection of the house proved unsatisfactory, too. He knew from the books that the main structure of the house was cast iron; he wasn’t expecting it to have been applied in such elaborate and imaginative ways, but that couldn’t be the whole story.
After he had finished poring over the books and touring the house, he fetched his lamp from his leather bag and descended to the basement. It was a large room with the usual discarded suitcases and household clutter lying around. After moving some boxes, he found the steel access plate to the heart of the house – the machine pit.
Once he’d got the plate off, Paterson put his head through the opening and held his lamp over the open space below. A cursory glance around the machine pit told him that his pretence of fixing the house’s mechanisms would have to be just that; the corrosion and wear were considerable. There was a ladder fixed to the wall just inside the opening but he didn’t feel like descending into that rust-flaked sinkhole just yet. The most he could hope to do was to replace one or two minor parts and grease some of the more accessible gears. It should be enough to convince the old man that he knew what he was about.
Yet he was puzzled. Parts of the house rotated to follow the sun, while there was a complex system of vents and ducts to regulate the temperature inside. But there was no evidence in the machine pit of the advanced hydraulics that would be necessary to power these systems. And he doubted if questioning Framehr would bring him any answers. He would have to search harder, pry deeper.
Over the coming days Paterson made sure he appeared before Framehr or Eve from time to time with his shirt sleeves rolled, holding a spanner or some other useful-looking tool, and with an appropriate amount of rust or grease smeared over his face and arms.
This, together with statements like “Well, Van Epps might have been a genius but he counted without the corrosive properties of this salt air”, were a necessary sleight of hand. It served to head off any awkward questions about his ‘progress’ in repairing the house.
In his last few interviews Van Epps had referred to his greatest creation being within the house. He’d used tantalisingly unclear phrases like ‘my greatest creation’ and ‘the promise of a new beginning’. Yet nothing Paterson had seen so far came anywhere close to the hyperbole of the architect’s words.
Some innovations were impressive – like the furniture that rotated into the walls for storage, or the ‘stored sunlight’ lamps used in the bedrooms – but he was certain they weren’t what his employers were paying him to find. The cabal of wealthy collectors and eager museum curators had been unable to tell Paterson exactly what he was looking for but, based on Van Epps’ comments, he was sure it was sufficiently impressive that he’d know when he found it.
The more he saw of Eve over the following weeks, the more he realised that he didn’t wish to rush his task. He found her precise movements alluring, yet she was only ever pleasant but cool towards him. This added to his fascination with her.
She always wore simple dresses that showed off her body without being exactly inviting. He sometimes waited around corners simply in order to watch her walk towards him or away from him, admiring her curves as she passed near him.
Soon his sleeping hours were filled with lustful dreams of Eve. He was sure she was a virgin; locked up here with her father, she never seemed to go further than the garden.
He wanted her and knew he might have to resort to some sort of subterfuge in the first instance.
Paterson thought first of hiding in her room in order to surprise her, but the clockwork locks on the bedroom doors were fiercely difficult to work out and resisted his best efforts to pick them. They could only be opened by the room’s occupant, it seemed. But he wasn’t going to give up, convinced that once he was within Eve’s hideaway she would accept him as her master, if only for one night.
One afternoon Paterson was examining the door to Eve’s room, searching for any weakness in the design, when, before he knew anything, she was at his elbow.
“Mr Paterson?”
He felt his heart stick in his throat. “Oh, Eve. Hello.” He forced the words out past the obstruction.
She seemed completely unconcerned at his presence outside her bedroom door. “I’ve been looking for you. I want to show you something. Out in the garden.”
Paterson was sure he was blushing. “Oh, right. Yes.”
They descended the broad curved staircase side by side and Eve led Paterson through the large doors at the back of the house.
Though h
e desired her, he hated her mystery; the atmosphere of the arcane she tried so hard to weave around herself. The act of the unattainable virgin, the unstained waif devoted to her arts and to her ageing father, made him sigh audibly as he followed her.
She glanced over her shoulder at him. “What’s wrong?”
Raising his eyes to meet hers, Paterson found himself entranced by a dance of unexpected movement and colour. The bright, lovely garden came as a surprise after the harsh and measured interior of the house.
Eve had turned to face him. “Are you alright?”
“Yes, mmm.” His eyes struggled to drink in the variety of forms and textures that met them. The garden was vivid with movement in the light breeze, and the colours seemed too intense for the weak spring sunlight.
As he followed Eve towards an oddly-shaped structure partly hidden at the bottom of the garden, Paterson caught a glimpse of something shining among the flowers and plants.
He stepped closer to where the light had caught his eye, reaching forward to part the leaves of a rose bush, cautious to avoid the cruel thorns.
“What are you doing?” Eve had retraced her steps and was standing just behind him.
Paterson started. “I thought …”
“Yes, I see. The plants are just weeds - they sowed themselves, you know.” It was obvious that Eve thought her explanation full enough and continued on her way to the strange building.
Paterson took the opportunity to peer more closely at what hid in the foliage. There, among the burning colours and lush greenery, stood rows of neatly-aligned steel stalks. Their heads were made of burnished petals studded with bright gems. A metal garden! Of course, thought Paterson. It made sense that Van Epps would extend his architectural theories to the grounds as well as the house.
But he could not think how the metal and the precious stones remained untarnished and bright among the organic lushness that surrounded them.
Paterson quickly caught up with Eve. She turned as he touched her on the shoulder.
“Weeds? You said the flowers were weeds?”
She blinked at him but her expression remained unchanged, as if she was dealing with a slow child.
“Yes. There were none when the house was built. The garden looked lovely when it shone in the sun. But now …” She looked around at the generous growth sadly. “It’s been choked. I thought you knew. You said you could help.”
None of the books or architectural monographs Paterson had read had even mentioned the garden. Architects! Now if the volumes had been written by horticulturalists … but then again …
“I didn’t know. I-it’s incredible,” stumbled Paterson.
Eve smiled slightly at him before turning away to continue her journey.
Once they’d reached the unusual gazebo at the end of the path, they sat each side of a small wooden table covered with a dark cloth and some wind-gathered detritus.
Eve reached inside her dress pocket and removed a set of large cards. She spread the cards on the small table before her, ignoring the leaves that covered part of it.
“What’s this?” asked Paterson.
“They’re cards.”
Paterson sighed with soft impatience. “I can see that. If you want me to play, you’ll have to teach me the rules. I’m not big on card games.”
Eve gave a short laugh. “It’s not a game. Well, a game of sorts, I suppose.”
Still puzzled, Paterson directed his best quizzical look in her direction.
Eventually she responded. “They’re for cartomancy … looking into the future, if you like.”
“Witchcraft, now?!” he snorted.
Eve shook her head, looking slightly hurt. “No, no. I’m no witch, just a sensitive, that’s all.” She smiled at him, then flipped the first card. “‘The Huntress’.”
She turned the second. “Ah, ‘The Lost Island’,” she said with mild concern.
Paterson looked from the cards’ hand-painted designs to Eve’s intent small face. “Well?”
“It means that you may not get all you hope for. But the later cards could put a different complexion on things. Let’s see.” She plucked absent-mindedly at the front of her dress as she spoke, inadvertently releasing one of the buttons.
She laid the next two down without comment – ‘The Tattered Banners’ and ‘The Burdened Priest’ – and, even though he didn’t believe in anything that the cards said, Paterson became vaguely concerned.
A further two cards – ‘The Saltimbanque’ and ‘The Morning Star’ – joined the pattern laid out before them. “Hmmmm,” said Eve. “I think I see.”
“And this card,” she flourished it before setting it down, “shows your true desire.” She set it in its place and frowned. Paterson read the words ‘The Mare’s Delight’ at the top of the card and noted the elaborate design of two horses copulating beneath a lunar eclipse.
He smirked at her, but her eyes were intent on the pattern that the cards made on the table. ‘The Seneschal’, ‘The Crowded Cell’, ‘The Hungry Man’, ‘The Smiling Sisters’, ‘The Burning Tree’ and ‘The Almoner’ all came out of the pack and went on to the table.
Eve looked up suddenly and met Paterson’s eyes. She began to laugh.
“What? What is it?” he asked. The girl simply kept on laughing. Paterson let this continue for a few more moments but then began to feel as if he were being made a fool of. He leaned forward and angrily brushed the cards from the table. “Damn the cards … and damn you!” he hissed.
Eve stopped laughing and looked at the cards scattered on the floor with slight disdain. When she lifted her eyes to Paterson, her gaze was cold.
Feeling suddenly ashamed, Paterson picked the cards up carefully and shuffled them into a neat pack once more.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “ I just …”
She lifted her head, her deep green eyes staring straight into his. “Can I be honest with you, Mr Paterson? Shall I tell you what the cards revealed to me?” He nodded, eager to repair whatever damage he had done; he feared it was considerable.
“I don’t think you’ve been honest with us. I don’t think you want to repair our house and to write a book about it at all. You want something else from us, don’t you? I don’t think you should deny it. But should I tell my father or not?”
Paterson felt stunned. Was the question genuine, he wondered. He could simply deny his true intentions, but he was intrigued to find out if he had another way out.
“What do you mean?”
Paterson had never met a woman like Eve before. She’d simply stated clearly and simply what she wanted; no games, no coquettishness. She’d told him that she’d seen the way he’d looked at her and that she wanted him to come to her room and take her virginity that afternoon. That way his secret would be safe with her, she’d said.
He’d been taken aback by her offer. He had no way to know if he could trust her, but he wasn’t about to turn down her offer either. Besides, he reasoned that she probably wouldn’t want her father to find out about their ‘meeting’, so he’d have a hold over her after this.
At four o’clock Paterson stood outside her door. He was about to knock when he noticed it had been left open for him. He entered cautiously. Looking around the room, which was more ornately decorated than the rest of the house, he noticed Eve’s bed in a large recess to one side. It was covered in white lace curtains, which hid it from the rest of the room.
When he drew back the lace he found Eve already undressed and in bed. She smiled at him coyly, with the bedclothes pulled up to her chin. Suddenly she threw back the sheets to show herself to him. Paterson’s breath caught in his throat. He’d only seen four women’s bodies before - and one of those was a saggy old whore his father had hired to ‘break him in’ – but Eve was far more beautiful than any of them. Her body was as pale and promising as he’d imagined it; each curve promised him more than the last.
She seemed neither excited nor dismayed at the prospect of losing her virginity, mer
ely lying there passively. “Now. Please.”
Struggling to control his desires and not make a fool of himself, Paterson quickly discarded most of his clothes and lay on the bed next to her. They began to kiss as he ran his hand over her body. She shivered slightly and he thought perhaps she was cold. She moved her legs apart for him and he moved his body between them, freeing his hard penis from his underclothes at the same time.
At the sudden downward pressure of his body, her belly cracked open in a confusion of cogs and counter-springs.
Paterson gasped in pain as sharp metal cut into his lower belly. He leapt from the bed and grabbed at a pillow, pressing it against the wound to staunch the flow of blood.
Eve looked at him one last time, surprise in her expression as her lips weakly framed the words “I love …”. There was an awful sound of liquids settling and pressure hissing free and then she lay still, her limbs disjointed and awry. A sharp cracking sound accompanied the opening of her body from groin to breastbone as machinery and tubing forced its way out.
Stunned by what he saw, Paterson felt he should bundle the machine girl up as he would a human corpse. Something at the back of his mind told him this was the right thing to do. He grabbed the sheets either side of Eve and pulled them over her, to the accompaniment of further hissing and the odd soft pop.
He dressed quickly, stuffing a bunched pillow case against his wounded stomach, and scooped the exquisite clockwork girl up in his arms. As he carried her carefully down the stairs, he found tears wetting his cheeks and blurring his vision.
She was the marvellous thing that Van Epps had hinted at. The clue had been there in her name all along; she was the new Eve, the first of her kind. And the last.
Paterson eventually found Framehr in the basement, hunting for a box of old papers.
When he saw Paterson carrying something wrapped in a sheet, he stopped what he was doing and walked over to him. “What …?” He reached forward and uncovered Eve’s face.
“She was … mechanical,” was all Paterson could think to say.
Songs From Spider Street Page 4