by M. Suddain
Roxy considered what I’d said for a long while. Stared deep into me. Then said. ‘Is OK, suppose. This man has ten fingers.’ She gestured at Beast’s hands, for reasons we couldn’t fathom at the time.
We followed Roxy across the bar to a door marked STAFF ONLY, keeping low.
‘It says STAFF ONLY, Boss.’
‘I see that, Beast.’ A serving area with steel benches and hot lamps. A busy kitchen, roughly thirty people working, silver blades making the air sparkle, gunshot sounds of knives on boards, and heat. Who could they be cooking for? ‘Come!’ Roxy drove her way between the hulking, tattooed cooks – some of whom were bigger than Beast.
‘Holy fuck, Boss, are you kidding me?’
Shaven heads revolved slowly to track us as we passed, hands dicing immaculately even as their owners’ eyes looked down at us, and faces twisted into smiles. The smells were intoxicating. We squeezed among them, feeling heat from their bodies – ‘Hello, good day, nice to see you’ – passed from the kitchen to a storeroom.
‘It says STRICTLY STAFF ONLY: NO ADMITTANCE, Boss.’
‘I see that, Beast. Roxy?’
‘This way!’
We passed through a room stacked with boxes, then through a set of revolving doors with rubber seals, and into a freezer room.
‘They have got to be fucking with us.’
‘Is OK, sir, no fucking, this way. Shhhhhhhhhhh. There, you go through there. Straight. And I will bring you drinks.’
‘The sign says ABSOLUTELY –’
‘Yes, I see it, Beast!’
‘You must be carefully quiet. If the Shark finds you, he will try to mark you for sure.’
‘The Shark? Oh, you mean Shabazzniov.’
‘So. And goodbye!’
‘Wait!’ But she didn’t.
The next room held a forest of swinging carcasses, marbled red and white, and the headless birds, and beyond we could see a dim passage. Gladys set off, unafraid. We exchanged looks, then followed, down the passage and through another set of rotating doors with rubber seals, then out into blinding whiteness. At first I thought we’d gone into another giant freezer.
‘OK, fuck, Boss, this has definitely gone too far.’
We stood on an ice field: several ballrooms’ worth of ice field. There were sweeping blade marks in the luminous blue sheet. A love heart. A trail of rose petals led off across the ice. On the margins of the rink stood gleaming ranks of carved ice beasts. Beyond the edges, a forest: soft-lit secret grottos with fur-covered benches, ringed with miniature conifers dressed in real snow falling from machines hidden somewhere high above. Stuffed beasts lingered with curious expressions near the grottos: deer, rabbits, bears. One great black-furred beast reared up on its hind legs near a love-bench, showing his teeth to a rabbit, while his mate gazed at her reflection in a small artificial stream.
‘Jonathan?’
‘Yes, Gladys?’
‘Did you happen to mention to a certain someone that I liked ice skating?’
‘Don’t know what you mean. Do you like ice skating? Wow! Look at this place!’
‘Keep your voice down, Jonathan.’
As I skud off to see the delicately carved ice sculptures I immediately sensed wrongness. There were objects suspended in the ice: crooked digits stumped in red; palms held up in warning; a man’s entire foot. ‘OK, no good!’ In the belly of an ice dragon was an entire head. The head was shaved bare, but I recognised him as the idiot son of the chemical baron Wallace Songbreaker. He looked different without his eyeglasses. And, indeed, his eyes. Beast was far behind, struggling to push his bulk across the slippery surface. Ahead we saw steps leading up to private grottos. The caves looked like they’d formed naturally over millions of years. ‘I don’t even know why you guys had to come,’ said Gladys.
‘There’s a message here somewhere. It could be urgent.’
‘I’ve already found the message. See?’ She held a small scrap of frozen paper in her pink-knuckled hand. I took it, read the childish script.
You are beautiful. We are yours. We want to turn you inside out like a snack packet and make you clean. The Enchanted Huntresses.
She shrugged. ‘I have absolutely no idea. Can we go now? I’m freezing.’
‘What about all this fuckery?’ I gestured vaguely to the trail of rose petals which went up the steps and into the candlelit maw of dimpled rock.
Gladys sighed. ‘I couldn’t give a shit what’s up there. And I have a feeling I know.’
‘I’m going. Could be clues.’
I strode off, stumbling, trying not to look at the ice sculptures we passed.
‘Clues to what, John?!’
Beast followed. Gladys stayed sulking on the ice. On one plinth stood a tall slab of virgin ice. There were carving tools nearby. Suspended in the ice was a compact, twin-headed hatchet. Its handle wrapped in black leather cord. I felt the ground rapidly de-elevate beneath me. There was a note suspended just below the weapon. Handwritten. Crooked characters loosely spaced on corn-yellow paper.
She tasted better than heaven, sweeter than hell.
‘Boss? You getting chill-stroke?’
‘I’m fine. Yes, just the cold.’ It was true, I was beginning to freeze. Beast helped me off my knees. The silent snow fell heavy now. The way back was lost. ‘We’ll die here,’ was my thought. Wind came from somewhere to whip the snowflakes into shivering ribbons, towering ghosts reared up on every side. How quickly things can change in winter. We struggled up the slippery steps to the cave. The rocks were pale, pocked with tiny amygdalae containing a silvery mineral. Inside the cave it was warm. Candles. A love-seat covered in furs. A canister of hot cocoa. A pair of ice skates – her size. A menacing, manly scent. On the table was a package and a note.
Dearest. I hope you can see there’s so much more to me than me. Let me heal you. R.
‘The fuck is this, Boss? Who’s R?’ The slurping sound was deafening.
‘Beast, that could be poisoned.’
‘Hmph, tastes fine.’
‘It’s Doctor Rubin’s work. He’s a fan of G’s. This could go bad. Remember Nettlemeyer?’
‘You know I do.’ Poor Chris Nettlemeyer, peeing in a bag, all because he wouldn’t listen when a woman told him something plainly.
‘Is that what you really think, Boss?’ He took another hit of cocoa. ‘That when we die that’s it? Nothing more? Game over?’
‘What? Oh. Sure I do, Beast. What do you think happens?’
‘I don’t know. Something. Can’t just be nothing. There must be something after. This all can’t be for zero.’
Life is not enough for some people. It never ceases to amaze me.
‘Beast, my friend, you didn’t exist for a forever before you were born. How can you have a problem with not existing for a forever after you die?’
‘Hmmmmm.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. You miss what you had, I guess.’
‘Well, your distant ancestors lived in caves and wore animal skins. You think they’re still stomping round in the everafter?’
He shrugged again.
‘Everything ends, Beast. The stars burn out. UHD will take us all, even Roxy.’ He looked blankly at me, so I said, with as patronising an expression as I could muster: ‘Universal Heat Death, Beast. Read a book. Anyway, if you’re dead you won’t know you ever had what you had. And you’ve nothing to fear from death. Immortality, now that’s fucking terrifying.’
We heard a commotion from outside the cave: noise like a frozen slab being hacked apart by a thousand blades. We slipped out to find a mob of roughly two dozen staff confronting Gladys on the ice. It was the same mob we’d passed through in the kitchen. Some wore improvised snow boots fashioned from nails, cocktail spikes and even jagged chunks of glass. They were armed with kitchen knives and cleavers, but there were also fire axes, broomsticks with cleavers strapped to their tips with electrical tape. This would not end well. The leader of the pack was unarmed, but for his leather diary. He wore lamb
skin gloves, a pair of gleaming-new skates. Shabazzniov opened his diary, peered pretentiously into it, said, ‘Tamberlain and Co. This is a surprise. I don’t have you down for a trip to the Winter Garden.’ He snapped the book shut with a crack which sent up a muzzleburst of snow. It was still coming down heavy.
‘Just a little – hup! – a little side-trip – ho!’ Beast and I slipped and slid our way, like a pair of bad comedians, down the steps to join our protector, who stared grimly at our concierge. ‘We thought we’d go off-piste!’
‘Ah, but I made it clear very recently that you shouldn’t go “off-piste”.’
‘You said – ho! Look out! – you said to stick to the well-lit areas.’ We arrived, finally. ‘This place is very well lit.’
‘Who gave you the key to this place?’
‘The key? There was no key. The way is always open to the pure of heart.’ The hell was I talking about? I felt Beast and Gladys turn to look at me. Our concierge spoke quietly: ‘Were you not aware that you were brought here under certain conditions? Were we not clear that most of the hotel is currently off-limits to inductees during the Wild Hunt, and that there is an unpacking of Franz’s murder in progress, and that we are at Stealth Three, and that to ignore our rules at this delicate time is a great risk? That wasn’t outlined in unambiguous detail when you arrived last night?’ The mob shuffled restlessly. I felt Gladys flick the safety off the gun beneath her skirt, saw Shabazzniov’s cold eyes move briefly to her, back to me. The blizzard had eased. We could see the edges. I could see the future. In the distance I saw a flutter of glass panels as the door we’d come through revolved, and a figure in a black dress materialised. I could see our drinks glittering on the tray. I felt an evaporation on the back of my tongue. But Roxy froze and came no further. She took four quick steps back and vanished through the spinning door.
‘May I ask, humbly, again, who let you in here?’ The concierge stood an inch taller in his boots. The perfect silver spikes grinned at us. His goons were frozen in curious expectation. They didn’t even shiver in the cold. Their breathing made no fog.
‘What difference does it make? You’re here to slaughter us. Finally. So let’s get on with it. Considering how long it takes to get a drink around here, I think it’ll be a mercy.’
The concierge’s expression melted, somewhat. ‘Mr Tamberlain, do you think we’re here to kill you? What an extraordinary thing to say. We didn’t know you’d be here. In fact we’re just on our way to the Atlantic Baths.’ I felt Gladys twitch. He angled his head towards her. ‘We’ve heard one of the filter units on the plunge pool is acting up.’ The snow had stopped. All was quiet.
‘Seems like a big squad to fix one filter unit.’
‘Well, the unit is being particularly difficult. Now. You must all return to your apartment until further notice. We will serve an early dinner in your room.’
The small army parted without a word, their toothed boots munching on the ice. I saw that to exit we would have to pass through them. I wouldn’t let them see our fear. ‘Well then!’ We started across the ice, shuffling forward on our inappropriate shoes, passing within inches of the deadly blades dimpled with condensing water, saying, ‘Good day. How do? Thank you for coming out.’ As I passed Shabazzniov, he said, ‘Mr Tamberlain, there is the matter of your bill.’
‘My bill?’
‘This is a ticketed attraction, and I have just had word your credit has been declined.’
‘Declined? Nonsense. Our stay is “comped”, yes?’
‘Your apartment and your food are “comped”. But there are additional charges levied … for additionals. Your audio-visual tour is an additional. Your excursion here is an additional. Not following the rules as laid down in the contract. The one you signed. That, most certainly, incurs additional charges. And as your credit was declined we’ll need the matter settled. Immediately.’
‘Well, I’m happy to have my man here look at things. Just send an itemised bill to my room. Itemised, you hear?’
‘I’m afraid this additional will need to be settled here. I would like the tip of your small finger. Above the first joint.’
‘… My what now?’
‘The tip. Of your …’ He held up his own phantom finger and wiggled it. ‘Finger.’
‘You want me to give you part of my hand. In penance.’
His hand became a fist. ‘You seem to dislike me, Mr Tamberlain, and I cannot fathom why. I have welcomed you like a brother. We shared La Bestia. You are popular among the staff. There is talk. I have tolerated Management’s incomprehensible decision to allow you to keep your staff. I have tolerated your flouting of our rules. So now it seems as if the only way to imprint the rules on your mind is to extract a penance that will forever remind you of them. And I’m afraid I really must insist.’ A man stepped forward at his shoulder. He held a pair of garden shears. Brand new. Bright and beaded as their guardian’s eyes. ‘The cost of not settling your account is, I’m afraid’ – the concierge looked directly at Woodbine – ‘considerably higher.’
It was an expression I could not fail to understand, Colette. A finger for Beast’s life. Not even an entire finger. I had to admit that from an administrative perspective alone it was probably better to lose the tip of one finger than a person who performed vital services for me, for a cut of my earnings, and who I am also somewhat fond of.
‘Fine. Let’s do it.’ I took my jacket off, handed it to Woodbine, felt the cold instantly attack my ribs. I undid the buttons on my cuff and rolled up the sleeve past the elbow. Worse than losing a finger would be to get blood on my only shirt. What else can we do in life but conduct ourselves with dignity? I took two steps forward, said, ‘Mr Shabazzniov. Never in my career have I seen such an astonishing lack of service, care and basic refinement in an establishment. Perhaps an arbiter is what you need, because from what I’ve seen, the Empyrean’s standards of service are barely higher than a drunkard’s dosshouse. I have wandered into semi-derelict subterranean titty-houses with more refinement than I’ve seen here. You, as concierge, ought to be – and I don’t know any other words to use – completely fucking mortified.’
I’m afraid there’s also no other word for the look on our concierge’s face.
‘Maybe I can’t legally publish a review of your establishment. But I will be writing a lengthy letter to Management, and I will be dropping a lengthy note in your Suggestions box – once all the tongues have been removed – and I can promise you, it’ll not be flattering. Now let’s get this done.’ And with that I calmly presented him my finger.
NOTES ON THE DEVELOPING EVENTS
I knew I’d never hear the end of that finger. We wrapped it in a handkerchief. Shoved it in a bucket of ice behind the bar. Tip down. Though the thing is all tip, really. We’d be drinking warm drinks for the next hour, but sacrifices must be made in war. A surgeon will reattach Beast’s digit with near-full functionality, once we finally get out of here, and if we can manage to keep it on ice the whole way. And I still have faith we will get out of here. And even if the brave finger doesn’t make it with us there are some superb prosthetic options. It’s amazing what modern medical science can do, Colette. Beast doesn’t play an instrument (though his singing can smash tiles in a shower stall). So his ordeal is less consequential than it seems, really. A small gesture, in the scheme. My point, Colette, is that it should have been my gesture.
When the large boy with the shears stepped forward, and I looked into his glazed eyes, and smelled boot-black, I knew exactly who he was.
‘Massimo, is it?’ A stocky man with a strangely shaped body. His legs were too short for his torso, and he had an extraordinarily large forehead. He resembled a cave idol whose eyes had been painted recently, and his nose had been broken at least once. That nose was red and glazed with winter snot. He said nothing. I didn’t care. When I felt the cold steel close around the top joint of the small finger of my right hand, heard the springs of the instrument croak, I experienced a feeling of
calm. I heard my other voice say in my head the words he always says in such situations:
Let him take your finger. There’s more enlightenment in that finger than he’ll ever know. This is a domain of monsters. Drink everything they pour for you with pure grace and calmness. Be better than them, Jonathan. Be great.
I felt better than I’d ever felt. I felt that the snowy wind was a tropical convection. I felt invincible. I felt as if the blades of the shears would shatter against my flesh. And then Beast had to step in and fuck everything up.
‘No, no. Stop this. Stop it now!’ He shoved my coat in Gladys’s arms. Amazingly, G looked half bored. My head was so engorged with blood and fear that I hardly heard him say, ‘As Mr Tamberlain’s legal representative I cover all his costs until such time as he can reimburse me. You can have my finger.’ And he too gave me a look I couldn’t fail to understand. Beast is never without an angle. I saw instantly how much this would cost me when we came to renegotiate. I knew that giving my own finger to the shears would have cost far less than what I’d have to pay once his had been removed. But now that my moment had passed, my will was numb. The Beast offered the end of his finger to the shears, allowing his eyes to angelically flutter shut, and all I can remember thinking is:
This will cost, Jonathan. This will cost.
Daniel won’t ever bring it up directly. But he has his ways. There will be something different, maybe an enhanced brotherliness towards me. Maybe he’ll let me catch him gazing at me with a meaningful expression. Perhaps he’ll adopt a different way of holding his knife and fork. Perhaps, when he comes to count points on his fingers – which he does often – he’ll pause for a blink when he comes to that missing digit. I can’t predict the specifics. But know this: he will make me aware of the sacrifice he made for me. Because even as those blades crunched through the bone and sinew of the tip of his finger, even as a part that was once a part of him dropped from the domain of the living into the domain of the inanimate, even as it spun through the air towards the sugary white surface of the arena, I knew he would have been calculating the upside. ‘What will this get me? Another 2 per cent? Another 3.5?’