Falling Into Heaven

by SIMS, MAYNARD

  I had decided salmon for the main meal, with asparagus to start and a chocolate tart to finish. There was wine of course, different for each course, and naturally the new bottle; my friends wouldn’t mind that it wasn’t a virgin.

  Preparing the food always put me in a good mood. I love the feel of the different textures on my fingers, the aroma of the spices and herbs, the sauces slowly cooking on the hob. I desired a third glass, there would be plenty for all, and so at a convenient juncture in preparation I conducted the ritual again. With the glass in my hand I wandered through to the bathroom and began to pour a bath.

  My bath time routine never varies, as dependable as my lists. I leave the glass on the side of the bath, the steam from the hot water dusting the sides of the glass with mute moisture. In my bedroom I undressed with sensuous purpose, even though I was physically alone. It added to my anticipation of the evening. My dress I unzipped behind me, then turned to the mirror and smiled, letting the shoulder straps drape down while holding it in place over my breasts. Then I turn away and let the dress pool at my feet, stepping out of it with a minimum of fuss. My bra is low cut and emphasises the size and shape of each breast, pushing them together slightly as if by a man’s hands. I turn back to face the mirror and pull one strap down, then the other. Turn away again and unfasten the hooks at the back; face the front once more and drop the bra, keeping each full breast covered with my arm. The swell of each breast against the skin of my arm is already enjoyable. Then the arm moves slowly away, caressing my stomach and beyond, while the nipples of my breasts harden and seem to darken in the half-light of dusk. My panties, like the bra, are black, and cut very high in the leg, and with their thin strap at the back they disappear between my buttocks, accentuating the curves of my legs and bottom. I position myself so the mirror can see me from the rear and then bend forward, grasping my ankles, swaying my hips for a few seconds before standing, facing the mirror and pushing one hand into the panties at the front, touching and parting. Often I leave it there, unfinished business, but tonight I feel will be special and I seductively remove the panties, throw them at the mirror with a blown kiss, and go for my bath.

  Any time for relaxation is always a good opportunity to list. I can generally lie in the bath for a good half an hour and finish the whole rota. Tonight I finished in about twenty-five minutes and I took that as an omen for the evening. It had been a while since my bottle was drunk and the re-filling was overdue.

  I dried my body and dressed in a loose linen shift that allowed warmth and light to invade and left me feeling like a slave girl from ancient Rome. When I was first taken into hospital I made the mistake that many who are new to something make, I believed what I was told. I believed it when they said they were only there to help me, that it was for my own good, that I should tell them everything as that was the only way they could help me. So I did. I told them about father, and how I ate parts of him as his body dissipated. I told them about the friends and occasional enemies that come into my head when I least expect it. Obviously I don’t always do as they tell me, but when they suggest something that seems like fun, well, there’s only me to account to isn’t there?

  Once, and only once, I told them about absinthe and the rituals. I don’t just mean the actual pouring into the glass, the sugar and the spoon; I mean the evenings I share with my friends. The emptying of one bottle and the rebirth of the other. I could see they were beginning to draw conclusions from what I was telling them, and there was no progress to be made by doing that. I tried to divert their attention away from what I was sharing with them by donning another persona, and I think it worked. I was in the hospital for two years.

  The salmon was cooked to perfection, and I prepared and arranged it on the plate. The asparagus was crisp and I left it next to the sauce so that people could have a choice, to pour or not to pour. I laughed aloud at that and tried out a few more Shakespearean cooking phrases. The chocolate tart had risen to the occasion and with the sauce for that next to it I thought the kitchen had a calm and serene atmosphere to it. Wine was chilling or warming as appropriate and so I turned to the dining area.

  The apartment isn’t large and so a small alcove at the side of the sitting room serves as a convenient dining area. A small table extends and easily seats the maximum six people I usually invite. Not the same six people, though some of them are my regular friends. It is usually a good mix, especially on a ritual evening, to have a couple of newcomers, or at least not regulars. The green cloth was decorated with small black stars; the star motif echoed by the candles and their holders. I lit the candles to fill the room with their scent. Cutlery was laid out, glasses placed next to place mats. I pressed ‘play’ on the CD player and muted classical music began to reverberate around the room. I think we were ready.

  The first guest arrived between eight and nine. By five past nine we were all assembled. I had known most of the girls for several years; some I had met at hospitals. Only one was a newcomer, met through a neighbourhood watch meeting.

  Suzy was mid-twenties, very pretty, and worked as an illustrator for children’s books. Her flat was filled with pictures and half started sketches of fairies, woodland scenes and unicorns, she liked unicorns.

  We sampled the asparagus first, drunk with a light Chenin. As the girls helped me clear away the dishes, and we stacked them on the drainer by the sink, anticipation seemed to enter through the doors from the garden as though an uninvited guest had made an appearance.

  Everyone assembled in the sitting room, and I brought in the bottle and the glasses on a wooden tray. Suzy was sitting between Val and Jenny; Val was softly whispering in Suzy’s ear, while Jenny was stroking her leg, the skirt slipped up so that I could already see the stocking top. Wine over first course had relaxed everybody and a hand had been caressing my thigh from the second glass. Nicola and Jill had kissed as we stood from the table.

  The spoon was coated in sugar six times and six times the green liquor was poured through it and into the ice filled glasses. Shrieks of delight were only slightly forced as the green turned milky white, streaked with emerald. The bottle was emptied with the last glass and exaggerated groans accompanied the theatrical tipping upside down demonstration of the bottle.

  ‘That one’s dead,’ Jill shouted.

  ‘Now to drink its blood,’ Val murmured and squeezed Suzy’s shoulder.

  I think she was becoming a little uncomfortable at this stage but Val knew what she was doing and sat away from her a little to prevent her feeling crowded. Jenny took the chance to move closer, and to allow her hand to slip under the skirt.

  ‘A toast,’ I announced as we all raised our glasses. ‘To the lifting of the veil.’

  ‘La Fee Verte.’

  The absinthe was sipped, slowly at first, the essence coating our throats with a husky flavour. Then with more abandon, as glasses were drained and ice rattled emptily as if with regret as the final chords of the sensation flowed into her mouths.

  I had been watching Suzy; she was quietly nervous at first, encouraged by Jenny’s hand, approaching the drink as if it was something distasteful, as if allowing it to enter her was as obscene as if she was penetrated by a man. Gradually, as the hallucinogenic qualities began to tantalise her, I saw her visibly relax, even going so far as to pat Jill on the bottom.

  I cleared away on my own as the others took their places at the table in readiness for the salmon. Served directly onto plates we all busied ourselves taking vegetables and sauces. More wine with this course, a Merlot, strange with fish I know but after the absinthe the juxtaposition of the flavours was invigorating.

  My foot was fondling Nicola; quickly advancing along the stockinged leg to meet the warm, silk covered promise. Val was holding Suzy’s breast through her blouse in one hand and spooning fish into her mouth with a fork held in the other. Jill had her dress pulled to her waist and her blue panties were no barrier to Jenny’s fingers. The scent from the candles was now mixed with a musky scent of arousal
and impending pleasure.

  More clearing away, more wine, and the dessert course was met with roars of approval, and Suzy opening her blouse, disposing of her bra, and coating her nipples with the chocolate sauce. Chairs were knocked over in the rush to lick, but I merely smiled in the knowledge that this dessert was only the beginning.

  Laughter was paramount, the chocolate tart consumed with delight and little finesse. Clothing was partially discarded as bodies, and what clothing was left, became messy with food, drink and kisses.

  For coffee we left the table and moved into the sitting room where everyone pressed against the nearest body, stroking where they could, tasting what flesh they could reach. In the kitchen I made the coffee, and while I waited for it to brew I readied the bottle.

  I unstoppered my bottle and I swear as I took out the stopper and placed it on the work surface I heard distant whispers from inside. It was as though previous recipients were calling out to me. I strained to hear the voices, even going so far as to put the bottle to my ear. Then I got a bit frightened and I put it down quickly, bringing the recently purchased and now empty absinthe bottle and placing it next to my turbulent bottle. I could barely hear the whispers from inside my bottle but I was certain they were calling to me to stop. I didn’t want to hear that message; they were unwelcome reminders of how it had all began.

  I had left a little of the green liquid in the new bottle, and this I now let drip into my dry bottle. No more than four, possibly five drops fell from one bottle to the next but almost instantly my bottle was half full with an emerald green liquid more radiant than any absinthe than can be found today. As I watched, transfixed, as always, the level inside the bottle rose, and soon it was almost full to the brim; all but bursting for release. I placed the stopper back on it. As I did so, the new bottle cracked and shattered, the pieces spreading out over the dark green work surfaces and the kitchen floor. The coffee was ready; I could tidy things away later.

  In the sitting room the atmosphere was sultry, yes, that’s the right word. The windows were open and a cooling breeze was infiltrating from the darkened garden. I could hear the night sounds, some real but most perceived; a bat calling, an owl hunting, and other secret sounds that lived only in my imagination. Val and Nicola were kissing on the sofa, their hands clasped together as if in mutual prayer. Jill and Jenny had both removed their tops and the breasts that pressed together seemed as if they were rolling against each other like boats bobbing in a harbour. Suzy was sitting on the floor, alone, her head in her hands, chocolate still staining her fingers and shoulders, her skirt half pulled along her thighs.

  All of them, apart from Suzy, looked up as I brought in the tray. There were mints and cheese with biscuits but I knew from the half closed eyes and hungry smiles that little of it would be eaten.

  I knelt beside Suzy and whispered in her ear, letting my tongue play with the lobe. ‘Are you all right?’

  She nodded and fumbled for my hand. I squeezed hers and let my other hand roam over her left breast. The nipple was sticky but erect. She mumbled something deep in her throat but I couldn’t hear what she was trying to say. I was very conscious of my own arousal, partly sexual of course, but mainly from the anticipation of the ritual, the secret part of the evening. It was almost a solitary act but for the beginning I needed someone to assist. I needed the latest in a long line of Suzy’s to provide the catalyst for the ceremony.

  Some of the reason I was so conscious of my own arousal is the physical way my body is made. My clitoris is quite pronounced, standing out quite prominently from my vulva even when I am not excited. The vaginal lips are full, not hanging down because that sounds almost ugly, but apparent. The result is that they are constantly stimulated, my underwear moving sensuously against my sex throughout the day. I have tried going out without underwear but the sense of incompleteness is too much for my ordered mind to cope with. I tried it only last month, thinking I might have progressed enough to succeed, but after about ten minutes I had to run home. The whole day was spent speaking aloud the items in all the drawers of the house.

  Jill made an effort to pour coffee but Jenny was moving her fingers too invitingly under her skirt for her to concentrate. Val and Nicola made no pretence at any interest in the tray. I took Suzy’s hand and helped her to her feet.

  My bottle was on the bedside table, lit from behind by the muted green lamp. The colours of the room were pale by comparison to the contents of the bottle and yet I knew with unbearable elation that the liquid within would soon be even more vivid, even more intoxicating.

  Suzy needed no prompting to lie on the bed; in fact I think she flopped down on her own while I was still lighting the seventh candle. The other six had been burning for some time, lit at half hourly intervals during the evening.

  I helped her slip off her blouse; the bra was long gone. She raised her bottom from the bed to allow me to undo and pull down her skirt. Smiling in her innocence she took the narrow waistband of her panties and pulled the material taught into her vagina, emphasising her mound.

  She lifted up her arms to embrace me but I gently pushed them aside. I took the stopper from the bottle, laying it reverently onto the silver mat on the floor. I swear I heard a sigh escape from the bottle as the stopper came off, like a person loosening tight clothing might make, as a prisoner might utter before their last dawn.

  Suzy struggled into a seated position, certain I was offering her a drink. In a way I was. I splashed three drops on top of her head, flicked two more on each breast, and pooled some into her navel. She laid back down anticipating some erotic play. The portion of liquid I poured into the ornate glass was carefully measured. At first I had needed a measuring cup to get the amount right but long experience meant I could judge it to perfection by hand and eye.

  I put the glass to her lips and she closed her eyes. That added to the sense of occasion I thought. She sipped some of the special absinthe. It took a few seconds but then the scream she emitted filled the room. Her flesh burned and boiled where I had poured the drink onto her body. I emptied the rest of the glass into her open mouth and before she could think to swallow I covered her mouth with mine, drinking in the mixture of green fairy, of her saliva, of her fear and, eventually of her soul.

  I ripped off my clothes and as she lay on the bed, twitching, I laid my body across hers and pressed us together. When she was still I transferred the contents of my mouth into the bottle. With the small pair of scissors I like to use I took some hair from her head and from her pubis and put them in the lip of the bottle. The stopper began to rock slowly on the silver tray on the floor. Finally I scraped skin from her eyelids and when that was in the bottle I took the stopper, put it firmly in place, and shook the bottle savagely.

  I could hear groans and sounds of eruption from the sitting room and knew that the shared part of the evening was drawing to a close. The liquid in the bottle was raging against the ancient glass sides, roaring with tidal fury, foaming with a passion that would be so intense I felt weak at the thought of the months of enjoyment ahead.

  Another hour and the four girls were gone. They would assume Suzy would sleep over, and by the morning she would be gone. All gone.

  My bottle was strongly anchored in its place in the kitchen. With the door to the garden open a wall of night black insinuated inside but with my immediate future safe I had no fear of the dark, no voices calling from inside me, no need to worry about what I had, where it was, no reason to worry at all.

  Eventually the bottle would empty. Eventually a new bottle, a new evening with friends. Not for months yet, my supply would be used sparingly, but I knew that eventually I would need a new bottle of absinthe.

  I couldn’t visit Elvis again; he would likely be sacked before long anyway, but perhaps there was another shop somewhere, another step onto the slide.

  CRITICAL PRAISE

  "After experimenting with different ways of producing shivers in their previous collection Incantations, the authors have
reached a new equilibrium in their writing style, cleverly manipulating hard material with a delicate touch and effectively blending different shades of terror into a deliciously frightening potion. Drink up, dear reader, you won't regret it!" THE ALIENONLINE

  “Maynard & Sims. The names are now inseparable and it cannot be too long before they are a permanent fixture on the shelves of the more discerning bookshops...this collection shows that they have really come of age. Maynard & Sims may write traditional horror stores but that is no mean feat; they are restrained when others attempt to achieve the shock factor.” BRITISH FANTASY SOCIETY

  It could be that the best thing to do would be to give as little information about this amazing collection as possible. Hints of plot and glimpses of setting are unnecessary once this book is in your hands. Even if your intention is only to dip into a few brief stories or just to get a taste of it, Falling Into Heaven will have you, ever so gently, by the throat; what started as a quick skim will find you hours later, eyes glued to the page, fingernails gouging into the magnificent cover. Maynard and Sims will have you and it is useless to struggle. LISA DUMOND

  Maynard & Sims are seasoned entertainers, and like all such they know how to bring down the curtain. The last story in the book, ‘Sliding Down the Slippery Slip’, is a showstopper and one of the finest horror stories I’ve read recently. The first person narration of a disturbed soul, its obliqueness brings to mind the rituals and ceremonies of Machen’s classic tale The White People, but tainted with a perverse sexuality that is thoroughly modern, the story made all the more effective by the narrator’s unreliability, with the hint that much of what happens could just be in her mind. It is a virtuoso performance, insidiously suggestive and rich in ambiguity, the ideal note on which to close this collection and proof of what these much underrated writers are capable of producing when at their best. PETER TENNANT