She took a step closer. Her breath was also perfumed. Roses and wormwood. The chemical smell caught in the back of the throat. But he could smell it too on the surface of her skin, in her hair. She looked closely into his eyes and whispered, “Aren't there ... far more immediate dangers?"
"What do you mean?"
But the others returned, led them to a box above the stage where a girl served wine and sugary cakes. Eliza's face matched the glass of plain water handed to her. She thanked her brother courteously.
He said, “Now you do understand, Eliza, that you must behave with dignity during the performance."
"I shall be the only one, then. This is the opera."
Will went straight to the front of the box and looked down. Every seat was taken, but latecomers had been allowed in to stand at the edges of the stage, making enough noise to drown the orchestra, who were tuning up, readying to play. A handful of wags strutted up and down the aisles, calling out greetings, flashing the silk of their coats.
A selection of extracts from Italian opera seria began, with a little of the lighter comic opera buffa mixed in for variety's sake. After the first two pieces, Dr. Bishop announced that he had business to attend to and retired to one of the side rooms, where he joined in a game of cards.
Will thought of his brother Robert. One day they would come to the opera together, fluent in the Italian language and able to talk knowledgeably about the stories the operas told. And everyone would know them for their great works of art and epic poems, wanting to shake their hands.
Eliza said, “Isn't it wonderful?"
Startled, Will said, “It is amazing."
She leaned over to him and said quietly, “Don't imagine that I trust you!"
He was taken aback.
She said, “If I show weakness, it will all come out of me. None of us can afford that."
He started to say, “I don't understand.” But then Eliza noticed Jane Marks watching her, and she returned her attention to the stage.
Through the rest of the performances, the artists dazzled and the louts fretted and shouted. They enjoyed one of the comic interludes but grew restless when the more serious tone resumed, the characters stiff and the story rather dull. Then the noise exploded, an uproar of shrieks and protests. A gang of young rowdies in the boxes began spitting at those below. The offending performance could not compete. But a lone tenor sang out an aria of such sustained passion that the noise fell away. Will was enchanted. But part way through, a small, fragile hand slipped into his. Eliza stared at the tenor, her head tilted like a sparrow, but her face went an odd dead white and a shadow fell across her.
Something seemed to take shape in front of them, or rather an absence of shape; an emptiness where there should have been form. When Will had been five years old, the void had taken his brother Richard soon after birth. He had forgotten, but recognised it now. The floorboards underneath them began to shake, but Will said calmly, “No, you cannot have anyone here."
And the crowd were applauding the tenor on the stage. Confused, he was not holding Eliza's hand any more. Jane seemed to be unaware of anything unusual having happened. Charles Bishop had rejoined them, Will could not remember when.
"Come along,” Bishop said. “It is late and Eliza needs her rest."
Will's head began to ache. Eliza's peculiar odour made him nauseous. Sensations jumbled and then fragmented, a moment's déjà vu. What had he seen? He twitched his feet, itchy with pins and needles. Everyone was leaving.
A carriage waited in the street below. First Will was delivered to Soho. In the darkness of the interior, Eliza seemed almost to vanish. When he opened the door to leave, a little light shone in. As it played across her face, she mouthed two words. He thought they were “Thank you” but he could not be sure.
He called out, “Goodnight,” and his own “Thank you."
The carriage pulled away. At the end of the street it turned, quickly vanishing into the darkness.
* * * *
Eliza sits with the cat in her lap. The creature is sleek, black and white, its face thrust into the warmth of her thighs, purring beneath her hand. Eliza is tired. Her body aches, the flesh on her arms shrinking away. Her hand, in the soft coat, is strung with bones. Years weigh heavy, but she is only sixteen. The boy before her, poring over his sketch, looks very young and wholesome. Despite herself, and despite his association with Charles and Edgar Marks, Eliza warms to him. At the opera—yes, at the opera he had plucked her back. The creature had listened, heeded him.
Will looks up, clearing his throat. He wants to talk about it too. She nods.
"When I was ten,” he says, “I saw hosts of angels in a tree in Peckham Rye."
Eliza laughs. She presses her hand to her mouth, seeing his face.
"Peckham Rye?” she asks. “Why would angels visit Peckham Rye?"
But he is afraid she is making fun of him.
"Will,” she says. “You must help me."
Then he looks very grave.
"The spirits are preying on me,” she says. “Do you understand? My brother thinks to use me to contact the spirits, because he is too blind and cloddish to see them himself. He imagines he can make me his medium."
Will still stares.
"What did the angels say?” she asks.
Will opens his mouth, closes it again. Eliza can see the thoughts running like mice in the burrows of his brain.
"Nothing,” he said. “Not to me. They were singing.” Then—"Are you sure?"
The medication lies heavily in her stomach. In the morning, she swallowed it without a murmur, but the fluid corrodes her body. Her chamber pot is marbled with threads of blood. The doorways of her mind bang open and shut. Her gums ache, and her tongue is slick and sweet. She is too weary to talk. But she must.
"Your brother is afraid you have a mental malady, which he is trying to correct."
She loses patience.
"Do you believe that?"
"Eliza—what can I do?"
"Help me. Help me escape."
Will stares. His hands are shaking. He puts down his charcoal, glancing over his shoulder at the door.
"Where would I take you? What would you do?"
"You would not take me anywhere. All I need is your help to escape the house."
For a moment she thinks he will agree, but footsteps thud along the passageway and his face closes. Hurriedly he takes up the charcoal again.
The door opens abruptly. Charles wears about him a cloak of spirits, if only he could see it. A patchwork of capons and cocks, lambs, suckling pigs, hogs, pigeons, pheasants, white calves, and swans. They bulge under his skin.
"Eliza, dear Eliza,” he says. “How are you this morning, my darling?” He peers over Will's shoulder and frowns.
"It is not a pretty picture,” he says. He lifts the sketch and turns it about.
Eliza sees a gaunt white face on the paper, an ancient, with black about the eyes. She looks at Will, and for a moment their eyes lock.
He does know. Yes, he knows. Eliza is seized by a moment's bright hope. But Will turns away, murmurs with her brother. The walls creak. The house is breaking up.
Then they are alone again. The barred window cuts up a vista of blossom and roses in the patchwork of gardens, the river a dull bronze glint between the trees. Swallows skim past. Distantly, she hears shouts, the rumble of carts. Beyond the houses fields unfold, the river slips into the sea. The tall ships drift, black and white, on the salt-water swell, and the seagulls shriek."
"Eliza—Eliza.” Will is speaking to her. She switches back. Her poisoned body is locked up in the yellow room. The barriers in her mind are breaking down, but the locks about her physical self are absolute. Despair rises in a tide.
The cat digs one claw through her dress, into skin. Pain pricks.
"Have you seen my cat?” she asks.
"Of course.” Will nods. “See—I have drawn him into the picture."
She lifts the cat from her lap, the w
arm, curled ball of it. She takes the cat's chin in her hand, lifting its face towards the boy.
"Look,” she says. And William sees.
"It was my brother's idea. He wanted to know if the cat's dreams originated in its mind, or if it could see spirits beyond the limits of a man's vision. He wanted to know what would happen if he dosed the cat with opium. Would it still hallucinate once its eyes were plucked out? Charles is a cruel man, but he is also a coward. He hadn't the stomach for the job, but he instructed Edgar Marks, who has fewer fancies, but fewer qualms too. Marks put out the cat's eyes and stitched the lids shut. When I cried, Charles told me the lesser creatures were insensible to pain. He told me they reacted to the stimulation of physical damage like an automaton."
Will's face has paled. He is shocked. He licks his lips. His breath has quickened, and he runs his hand through his hair. Eliza understands how much the revelation has disturbed him. She is acute to the sensitivity of his feelings, and his outrage.
"You must help me,” she says again. “Will, you must help me."
* * * *
The pebble arced away from his hand, cast out into the Thames, plopping into the glassy surface with a robust sploosh. He remembered drawing her mouth, the shape of thin lips when she said, “Help me.” So convincing. Angrily he hurled another stone out into the water.
"Damn them all!” he said, his young face set hard.
The busy ferry boats moved back and forth across the river. At the bank below him, an empty boat waited for passengers. Its bow bobbed, splashing the shallow water.
Earlier that day he had resolved to help Eliza Rose. Even if it cost him his future, the apprenticeship he deserved.
"You must help me,” she had said. Then Bishop had appeared in the doorway. Eliza pressed her lips shut, and hummed.
"That's enough for today, young William,” Bishop said. “Come with me."
As he left her, Will looked back at Eliza, tried to convey that she could trust him. She smiled.
On the stairs they passed Jane Marks. Will noted a darkness around her eyes, a certain fatigue. The fingers of her left hand covertly brushed against those of Bishop's as they passed each other.
In the garden, Edgar Marks collected flowers. The pruning shears glistened.
"The best flowers come out in the spring,” he said.
Charles Bishop waved a hand, dismissive.
Will asked, “How is one flower better than another?"
Marks raised an eyebrow. “My God. A philosopher!"
He snipped another stem and raised the flower to his nose. He slit the calyx with a scalpel, and pressed the bisected stem in a book.
"We plant a garden for our pleasure. Yet the pleasing forms and fragrance are designed to entice insects. That is all."
"Yes, yes,” Bishop said impatiently, “that's all very interesting, I'm sure. But now then, Will."
Bishop sighed, composed himself. He dabbed his face with a white shirt-sleeve, but sweat glistened on the powder.
"Will, you take an interest in my patients. I am wondering if I should involve you in a new procedure. We have made preparations. Our grandest experiment yet—yes."
Will said, “I do not think I care for your experiments."
The sharpness of tone took Bishop by surprise.
Marks turned his attention from the plants.
"What's troubling you?"
"So what did you use to cut out the cat's eyes?” Will burst out.
Will had surprised himself, but the greater surprise was the look of astonishment that appeared on the face of Edgar Marks.
"Dear boy, what do you think of me? I did no such thing. Do you think us monsters?"
Will looked nervously from Marks to Bishop.
Bishop seemed unsure how to respond.
Confused, Will asked, “Then what...?"
Marks began to speak but faltered, apparently unable or unwilling to say.
"No,” Will said hesitantly. A new, colder thought rose in his mind. “Not.... She wouldn't have...."
His tongue felt still and heavy in his mouth.
Marks and Bishop exchanged a glance.
"It was one of the first symptoms of her deteriorating mental state,” Marks said at last.
Bishop appeared to be in pain, pressed a hand against his belly. “This talk does me no good,” he complained. “Say no more, Edgar."
Will felt his knees would buckle.
Bishop laid a hand heavily on the boy's shoulder. “Do not think badly of Eliza. Edgar is painting an unpleasant version of the truth. It is my belief, my strong belief, that she is not responsible for her actions. There is a darkness inside of her. An alien spirit has taken residence, consumes her from within. All my efforts are directed towards evicting the demon. I will draw it out if it takes every ounce of my strength and knowledge. I am determined to free her and I promise you I will succeed."
Will nodded, trying to take it all in. “You said that you plan a new experiment?"
Bishop said, “I think, perhaps, in your current frame of mind, it would be better not to involve you. Eliza has confused you. Perhaps it is even the work of the demon again. I require someone focused and resolute."
"But if it is to help Eliza...."
"No. My mind is made up. We can use Edgar's sister, Jane. She may not have your flair for depicting scenes from the imagination. But she is a competent artist. And she will do whatever I ask of her."
"Will you at least tell me what you have planned?"
"No. I think not. You are very young and it was wrong of me to burden you. Clear your mind of it. Go home to your family."
And so he had been rejected. He went to collect his things. the upstairs window he saw that Bishop and Marks were arguing. He strained to hear their words. He ran down the stairs and through to the kitchen at the back of the house. Quietly, he opened the door a fraction.
Marks was speaking. “...involve my sister. Risk your own life if you must, but not hers!"
"She can make up her own mind."
"You make up other people's minds for them. How I ever let you drag me into this I cannot fathom."
"I will free Eliza from this possession by whatever means necessary."
"She is the only one among us who still has a mind of her own."
"Calm down, Edgar. Don't be ridiculous. The demon corrupts her mind."
"And which demon are we considering now?"
"Edgar, I do not care for your tone!"
"All right, that was uncalled for. But surely we need a considered scientific approach. Have you abandoned rational thought? Perhaps we should try blistering. It worked for Mrs. Aykebourn. A constant discharge of fluids from the neck and head."
"I'll hear no more. The creature that possesses her is not a creature of science. I am convinced of it now more than ever. Science has led us so far, but now we must employ other powers. My mind is made up. Help me or stay out of my way."
Will heard heavy footsteps on the gravel pathway, coming closer then moving away. He dared to glance through a window and saw Bishop striding off. Quickly he closed the door and moved to the front of the house. Bishop almost tripped over him as he entered.
"Are you still here?"
"Y-yes, Dr. Bishop. I am sorry for what I said earlier. Perhaps you might reconsider, and...."
"Go home!"
He had wandered for hours, trying to make sense of it all. He threw another stone into the river, unsettling a gull.
There was no way to know who to believe. If he had not challenged Marks and Bishop, they would have involved him, and at least he would have known their plans. Now he could not distinguish truth from deception, sane from insane. He looked upwards to the heavens and asked for guidance. The gull swooped down towards him, then flew off towards Soho. For a moment his thoughts lifted with the bird, throwing great wings back from his shoulders. Imagination fired, his feet lifted from the ground, and he soared into the sky. A cool breeze came up from nowhere, carrying him in the direction of h
ome.
* * * *
They take her in the night. The house creaks, rafters shifting; the stones turn and contract. The other lunatics sense the fractures in the walls and she hears them moan. Somewhere a woman is crying. On the second floor, Mr. Scott spells out a semaphore with his fingers. Worms run in the beams beneath her feet. The still surface of the house does not disguise the restless unravelling.
"Come along, Eliza.” Charles is nervous. His face is white as the moon and his hands are icy on her arms. The women are faceless behind her. They usher her up and up, to the topmost room. She is sat upon a chair, and her hands are bound behind her.
"No. No.” Charles has a bottle. She can smell the poison. Her body reacts, a convulsive panic.
"No more, no,” she repeats. But Charles cannot see her any more. He doesn't hear. He thrusts the neck of the bottle between her lips and one of the women grips her chin.
"There,” Charles says. “It is done.” He dismisses the women. Then he leaves the room, locking the door behind him.
Eliza waits. The shutters are fastened but moonlight presses through the chinks in the wood. Beneath her bare feet, the rough boards are soft and warm. The liquid congeals on her chin, thick as treacle. Her teeth ache, as though the poison is eating her gums. Her tongue and lips are very cold. Her heart-beat races, and slows. So slow. The space between each beat begins to stretch.
In the corners of the room, the darkness gathers. Voices whisper but she cannot hear what they say.
"Speak up,” she says. “You are of no use to me.” Then, timidly, “I am losing my hair and my fingernails are yellow. What would my mother say?"
The voices hiss. The shutters rattle impatiently.
"Untie me,” she says. “Untie me.” Fear crawls over her, threatening to swallow her whole. But she is beyond fear.
"Now,” she barks. And they crawl from the corners. They press their bodies to the floor, not daring to look at her. Quick fingers work at the rope. It drops to the floor, something dead.
Eliza walks to the window. The moonlight, tangible now, claws between the panels, the wood splintering. She steps through, past the bars and locks.
Down in the garden, an unnatural darkness reigns absolute. In front of her, the lantern moon swings back and forth. The leaves of the fruit trees rattle. She knows where to go when the streets branch away. Two men sleep on the pavement by a sedan chair, their mouths open. A carriage passes, but the hooves of the horses make no noise. A child in a house wakes up with a bad dream and roses in a garden fold their petals when she passes. Too many shadows.
GUD Magazine Issue 0 :: Spring 2007 Page 6