The girl looked up, studied Brigham silently, and then said, “I don’t have anywhere else to go.”
“You came to Venice without a hotel reservation?”
“No. I came to Venice without any money.”
“That’s even worse.”
“Tell me about it.”
He took money from his pocket and approached her. As he came near, a figure sprang from the shrubs behind the benches and hit Brigham with a club. A trap. The girl and her boyfriend were working the park to steal money from unfortunate strollers of the night.
The club glanced off his head, stunning him for a second but doing no damage.
What was this city coming to? It was supposed to be safe, yet he had been accosted twice in the same night. He turned to look his attacker in the eyes. The boy froze for a moment, then raised the club to strike Brigham again. Before the club could be delivered to the top of Brigham’s head, he freed the blade from his cane and slashed the assailant’s throat, sending a spray of blood over Brigham and the girl, painting the young man’s face with surprise. The girl sat as though paralyzed. The boy fell back, dead.
“Now,” Brigham said, “is that any way to treat a poor old man who was about to give you some of his hard-won money?”
The girl said nothing and did not move.
“What has happened to the youth of this country?” he said, bending over with his hands on his knees. His head hurt and his ribs ached.
He caught his breath. The girl hadn’t stirred. He took her by the hand and led her into the darkness of the garden, where, among the misty vines and pleading statues, he defiled her living corpse.
BRIGHAM RETURNED TO HIS STUDIO. Dire as his condition was, in spite of being constantly inebriated and somewhat of a burden and danger to society, he relished the idea of having a solo exhibition and intended to do his best work for it. Although seemingly contrary to his present circumstances, Brigham saw no contradiction.
He washed up from the exertions of the night and sat down to paint. It was 3:00 a.m.
Then Pink Jesus spoke. “Been out for a stroll?”
Brigham stopped painting and held the brush still on the canvas. “I thought you had left me.”
“No, you’re too… how should I put it? Entertaining. I just didn’t have anything to say.”
“And now you do?”
“Some things have come to mind after watching you for the past couple of weeks.”
He resumed painting. “Let’s have it, then.”
“We could start with the poor souls who had the misfortune of making your acquaintance tonight.”
“You judge me unfairly. If you know about these things, you know it was self-defense.”
“The girl?”
“She was a menace and a danger to the public, a blight on society. I should get a fucking medal for that one. Killed two birds with one stone, as it were. Anyway, she started it.”
“And those poor boys?”
“Poor boys? They attacked me. Fucking degenerates. I should track down and kill their entire family to keep that seed from spreading. They probably already have spawn with their sisters.”
Brigham made a few more marks on the canvas, studied it for a moment, then rose to make a pitcher of martinis.
“I must say,” Pink Jesus said, “I have seen you looking better.”
Brigham stirred the pitcher and poured some into a glass over three olives. “Is that so?” He took a sip. “I don’t make a habit of looking into mirrors these days.”
“Prudent.”
Brigham downed the balance of the contents of the glass and poured another. “Now, if you don’t mind,” he said, chewing an olive, “I have work to do. I have a show coming up, and I’m a tad behind.”
“Are you sure that swilling gin at three in the morning is the way to get it done?”
“Absolutely. I have my best ideas after a pitcher of martinis. I thought you knew everything.”
Pink Jesus didn’t speak for the rest of the night. The last thing Brigham remembered was putting a bit of red on the canvas.
THERE CAME A LOUD POUNDING ON THE DOOR. Afraid that Charles had come for revenge, Brigham hunkered in a corner. His head throbbed and he still tasted gin. He sat listening. The pounder of the door called out. It was Mr. Todd.
Shit, he had come to see the progress for the show. Fuck him, it was none of his fucking business; he was only a reporter.
Maybe he should be ignored.
He pounded again.
Ah, well… let him in.
Mr. Todd stepped inside the door and took in the chaotic scene before him. Easels everywhere, paint and tubes of paint covering the floor. Papers, books, canvases, boxes of odds-and-ends, clothes, bottles, and God-knows-what lay strewn from one corner to the next. The stench of puke, rotten food, and turpentine could make one’s nose run. Mr. Todd raised his eyes, producing the familiar and disgusting wrinkling of bald head, as he beheld the disaster of a person that stood in front of him.
“Brigham,” Mr. Todd said, “what’s happened to you?”
Brigham’s lips tightened into not quite a smile, and he indicated for Mr. Todd to come in. “I couldn’t begin to tell you,” he said, pointing Mr. Todd to one of the chairs. “If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me. Yet you can see that there has been a change; a metamorphosis. But not of the caterpillar into the butterfly, rather the butterfly into the leech.”
“Can I offer you a drink?”
Mr. Todd waved his hand. “No, thank you. I’ve just eaten. I couldn’t drink another drop of coffee.”
“Who mentioned coffee? Want some gin?”
Mr. Todd shook his head and waved his hand again. “No, no. It’s too early for me.”
Brigham poured a glass of gin over ice. “It’s too early for me too, but I don’t care. At the same time, it’s too late.”
Mr. Todd smiled wistfully.
“Now,” Brigham said, “why have you decided to grace my doorstep?”
“I thought I would see how you were doing on your paintings for the show.”
Brigham sat at an easel and began to paint. “Of course. Well, look around. Many of the works are sitting on the easels.”
Mr. Todd stood before one of the pictures, hands in his pockets, considering it.
“Brilliant,” he said.
“You Brits toss around brilliant like candy. Not even sure what it means when you say it.”
Mr. Todd laughed. “That’s right. When you Americans say it, it means ‘genius.’”
Brigham swished a brush in turpentine and wiped it on a rag. “That’s right.”
“Then it’s genius.”
“That’s more like it.”
Mr. Todd strolled over to a painting leaning against the wall. Black, blue, red, green, and white, with a set of luscious red lips partially obscured by a fog of white paint. “This one is just as good.”
The bells of the Carmini Church rang the hour. Eight. Brigham said nothing.
“I have great hopes for this exhibit,” Mr. Todd said. “You are a great painter.”
Brigham rattled the ice in his glass and downed a mouthful of gin. “Very kind of you to say so.”
“I must say, though, that you seem to have… I don’t know… declined.”
Brigham smeared paint on the canvas without comment.
“As a friend,” Mr. Todd continued, “I submit that gin at this hour is, perhaps, irregular.”
“You Brits are a paragon of understatement. It’s not irregular; it’s downright fucking obscene. A fucking crime, you might say.”
“Well—”
“But it reminds me of turpentine. Basically the same thing. So I like to drink it while I work.”
“I can see that. But your physical appearance has also declined. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. Eating regular. The picture of health.”
Mr. Todd sat down again, this time on the sofa. “And I don’t mean to be critical—”
“Then d
on’t.”
“But this room might benefit from a sweeping.”
Brigham laughed. “No, this room might benefit from a bulldozer and a power washer.”
“Yes, quite.”
“Look, I know how important this is. I’ll be ready, and I’ll show up and do my duty.”
“Wonderful.”
“But there’s a little something you should know.”
“Oh?”
“I’ve had a certain transformation recently that I need to explain.”
Mr. Todd listened carefully and quietly as Brigham told him everything. When he had finished, Mr. Todd put his chin in his hands and then, with his head resting on his fists, said, “I know others who have experienced what you are going through.”
What? He expected Mr. Todd to laugh, tell him that he was a fucking nut, and leave. “You what?” Brigham asked, looking over his reading glasses.
“I know this condition. It’s nothing new to me.”
Brigham took a swig of gin. “You’re bullshittin’ me.”
Mr. Todd stood up. “No, I’ve seen it before. And I’ll take a glass of that gin now.”
It turned out that Mr. Todd knew of the vampire culture, and knew that there were those, like Gloria, who did it as a novelty, or because the trappings of it appealed to them, and that there were those who were truly vampires. He had heard of shroud eaters, but hadn’t come into contact with one before. As a journalist, it fascinated him, he said, and he asked whether he could go out with Brigham that night.
Brigham considered the idea. Mr. Todd had a car. They could go to Mestre and get a whore. He had always wanted to do up one of these walkers of the street. Only the Albanian mafia would know the woman was missing, and they were not likely to report it to the police. Then it came to him. Mr. Todd could go get a whore in Mestre, bring her back here, and they could have a little party. The son of a bitch was a reporter, though. He surely intended to write about this shit. But not if he were involved. Maybe he was just some kind of sick fuck.
“I don’t know,” Brigham said, “it’s quite dangerous, and I don’t need you writing about this.”
“I’m not interested in it for a story,” Mr. Todd said. “I’m interested in it for… personal reasons.”
Now ain’t that quaint. Personal reasons. This piqued Brigham’s interest. In the process of researching the vampire culture, Mr. Todd explained, he had become directly involved in it and found it invigorating.
“In that case,” Brigham said, “here’s what I want you to do…”
THE PROSTITUTE STRUGGLED against the ropes and whined and moaned through the gag. Why had he not done this sooner?
Mr. Todd was like a different person, or maybe he wasn’t a person but a creature like Brigham. No. While Brigham did his part, Mr. Todd sat back and watched. But when Brigham had finished, Mr. Todd’s interest in the carcass was of a more intimate nature. And whose idea was it to use the body parts as a paint brush? That fact was blurred in memory, but Brigham did it, creating some of the best art of his life.
Brigham washed himself and, not wanting to see Mr. Todd’s filthy nakedness, found an old towel for Mr. Todd to cover himself while they rested from their labors, which lasted into the early hours of the morning. They sat on the sofa, drinking. Mr. Todd, a glass of brandy, Brigham gin.
“That was rather stimulating,” Mr. Todd said.
“Yes,” Brigham said, “there is certainly an element of excitement to it, but it’s a heavy burden.”
“How do you mean?”
Brigham spit an olive pit across the room. “Look what we did tonight.”
Mr. Todd shrugged.
“I have to do that every night.”
“Oh. I see. Right. Hadn’t thought of that.”
Brigham swallowed the gin and poured another glass. “For that reason, I’ve been thinking about trying to reverse my condition.”
“Reverse it? You can do that?” Mr. Todd held out his glass for more brandy.
“I think so,” Brigham said, filling Mr. Todd’s glass. “I have a book that says this thing can be undone, but it stops short of saying how. I have to look into it.”
Mr. Todd raised his brow, wrinkling his ugly bald head.
“On the one hand,” Brigham said, “I have come to enjoy it. I never thought I would, or could. It’s outside my self-image, but I like it. On the other hand, I can see where it might become a tiresome bore or a huge burden.”
Someone knocked on the door. They both froze. Blood and body parts were spread around the studio, and blood covered a canvas. Christ, he should really get a peephole if he were going to go about this sort of business. He went to the door, but didn’t open it. He listened. Nothing.
“Yes?” he whispered.
“Brigham, it’s me,” Gloria said.
He didn’t know what to do. She knew what he was and what he had to do, and she was part of the culture, but he wasn’t sure she had actually seen one of his victims ex post facto. Well, what the fuck?
They greeted each other, and she stood for a moment at the threshold, taking in the scene. In addition to the usual chaos and debris, various bits of the newly reformed prostitute littered the floor, and spatters of blood dotted Brigham’s face, hair, and clothes.
“Good Lord,” she said. “Who’s your friend?” she asked, nodding toward Mr. Todd, who stood pantless, the towel having fallen to the floor when he got up, his body covered in blood where his pants should have been. She scanned the room. “Looks like you two have been busy.”
“Uh—,” was all Brigham could muster.
“Haven’t you heard the phrase ‘Don’t shit in your own house’?” she asked.
Brigham lowered his eyes like a scolded child. Mr. Todd just stared in the direction of Gloria, but didn’t make eye contact. “Well, it is what it is. Now what?”
Brigham feared she would get the police. After all, he and Mr. Todd were guilty of kidnapping and murder, and such other crimes as might be associated with cannibalism, necrophilia, and dismembering and desecrating a corpse. Not reporting this to the police would certainly make her an accessory, and perhaps equally culpable.
“What happens now depends on you,” Brigham said.
“First,” she said, “we’ve got to get rid of what’s left of this body.”
Brigham felt a stone being lifted from his chest. “Now that’s the spirit.”
“You,” she said, looking at Mr. Todd, “need to clean yourself up. And put some pants on. Not necessarily in that order.”
“Yes, right,” Mr. Todd said. “Sorry.”
THEY ALL AGREED that Mr. Todd should go to his hotel and that they would reconvene the next morning at a time and place to be determined. Brigham and Gloria began collecting and disposing of the parts of the prostitute. It surprised even Brigham the extent to which they had dismantled the woman. Why that was necessary, he couldn’t recall.
“You’re taking this all rather calmly,” Brigham said.
“Don’t be fooled. I’m shocked and horrified, but I know what you are, and I suppose this sort of thing can be expected.”
“I’m surprised you’re able to just pick up the parts, like you are.”
“As you know, blood does not bother me. Anyway, I thought at one point I wanted to be a doctor. I’ve dissected cadavers. This is… similar.”
Gloria suggested there was a homoerotic element to the evening’s proceedings.
Brigham, horrified by the notion, denied it vigorously. He knew it wasn’t true, but he had to admit that finding the two of them alone in the studio with bits of dead woman scattered about, blood both on Brigham’s face and on Mr. Todd’s lower torso, could lead one to such a conclusion. He assured her, however, that such was not the case and that Mr. Todd’s zeal for the woman’s remains surprised him, but he didn’t crave Mr. Todd or any part of him.
They collected the parts of the woman, put them in a garbage bag, and took it out to find an appropriate place for its disposal.
LATE THE NEXT NIGHT, Brigham, Gloria, and Mr. Todd sat quietly drinking—Brigham, gin, and the other two, wine—all lost in their own thoughts. Mr. Todd would be leaving for London in the morning, so they decided a calm evening at home would be best. This being the hour of Brigham’s need, he hooked himself to Gloria’s vein, although not sure whether he should mix wine with gin.
“After our conversation last night,” Mr. Todd said, “I talked to a friend of mine who knows a lot about vampires and has studied the shroud eaters of Venice. He told me that there are indeed ways to reverse it.”
Brigham took the tube from his mouth. “Oh?”
“Yes. There is an elixir of ancient origin in Venice that may do the trick.”
“In Venice?” Brigham asked.
“Yes,” Mr. Todd said. “It’s called scorpion oil.”
Brigham’s eyes widened.
“The story is that the druggists would drown a hundred scorpions—”
“I know the story,” Brigham said, waving his hand. “ I happen to have some.”
“You have scorpion oil?” Mr. Todd asked. “How did you get it?”
“Long story, but my friend Mauro told me it was used to kill vampires, not cure them.”
“There are two stories about everything in Venice,” Gloria said.
“Maybe both are true,” Brigham said.
“How can they both be true?” Mr. Todd asked.
“Like just about anything,” Brigham said. “A small amount of it may be good for you, but too much will kill you.”
They were all silent for a moment, then Gloria said, “I know someone who may be able to help us.”
XXIV
Rose hadn’t seen Charles since dinner the first night. Breakfast and lunch were always served in her room, or on a veranda outside her room in nice weather. She had done as Charles had suggested and made a list–an extensive list–of clothing she would require. Blue jeans, tennis shoes, slacks in black, dark blue, gray, white, tan, and dark green, a collection of skirts in various colors, and several blouses and pairs of shoes to go with them. She also requested three business suits with skirts (she hated pant suits), although she didn’t anticipate having a need for them, along with all necessary sundry items. She rounded the wardrobe out with a few formal dresses, and dressy outfits for less formal occasions.
A Beast in Venice: (Literary Horror set in Venice) Page 23