House of Bells

by Chaz Brenchley

Grace, though? Grace was a survivor.

  Full of guilt, overflowing with confession: even so.

  Grace ducked and dived. Ducked under the fiery hands as they groped for her; dived sideways, past the candle in its jar, to where the ship’s bell stood in its frame there on the floor, bulky and awkward and out of the way.

  Snatched at it with her right hand, her good hand; gripped the rope and swung the clapper, struck the bell.

  Struck it again and again, clattered it back and forth, sound and fury.

  Felt her other wrist rip itself open against whatever stitches had been set there; felt the blood pulse out one more time.

  And she had so little to start with, hardly enough; and even so.

  She rang the bell for herself, wildly, raucously. And bled coldly, achingly; and heard Mary’s puzzled laugh, and heard her say, ‘You don’t imagine that’s going to call people in, do you? Those doors won’t open for anyone, whether they try or not.’

  No, she didn’t think it was going to call people in. If it did, she didn’t think they could possibly come in time. Those hands were feeling for her again, and never mind the nonsense of the gods: Mary was frowning in concentration, her own fingers stretching and curling as she pictured them around Grace’s throat. The immaterial hands she’d conjured matched her moves exactly, following Grace down, stretching, curling . . .

  She wouldn’t burn as Kathie had. These had only the heat of two distant candles behind them, not the concentrated impulse of a bonfire. They looked hot, but their touch was cold, an icy wire against her skin as one brushed across her shoulder. She flinched, and tried to roll underneath their sudden grab. But Mary was quicker now, getting the hang of this unexpected puppetwork, or else Grace was just too slow. Weak and hurt and afraid, not fierce enough, not quite.

  One of those hands had a grip on her arm, like a tangle of bitter wire; the other was insinuating itself around her throat. She flung her own hand up to fend it off, tried to tuck her chin deep down into her chest; but there was nothing there to fight against, nothing but the tight wire feel of it around her neck, nothing for her fingers to scrabble at.

  She’d seen a rabbit in a snare one time, on an early country walk with one of her squires. She must look like that to Mary, she thought: snared and caught, eyes bulging and legs kicking helpless across the floor . . .

  Not so helpless. Grace was no ready easy victim. Her foot caught what she was kicking for, the candle in its jar. Caught it and spilled it and sent it spinning across the bare boards, breaking the thread of flame at its source, unravelling its whole hand so that its grip melted away.

  Too bad that it was the wrong hand, the one that had held her by the arm, not the one that was choking her still.

  Too bad also that it was only one candle out of dozens. The flame of another immediately rose like a snake on a string, questing towards her, starting to weave itself into another hand.

  She could see that in the corner of her eye, just where her vision was starting to blur and sparkle. She couldn’t breathe, she could get no air; all her neck was sore already, and this constriction was worse than the waxy strangling hands of before, like half a dozen wires cutting deep into her flesh.

  She couldn’t fight what she couldn’t touch. She couldn’t reach Mary either, safe on her sofa, too far away. But the bell was still humming, resonance throbbing through her head; blood was soaking the bandage on her wrist. She couldn’t do more to summon her baby. He always came to the sound of bells. It was what she was banking on.

  It was all she had.

  It was nothing.

  It was there, he was there: a nothingness so profound he seemed to suck down light itself, a darkness that glowed more vivid than any candle’s flare.

  Mary hadn’t seen it yet. She had risen to her feet in the tension of the moment, taken a step or two away from the sofa; her hands worked as though she wanted to squeeze and crush Grace’s throat herself, to feel soft flesh and tough cartilage buckle and yield beneath her rigid fingers.

  She wasn’t actually close to actually touching, but she was very close to getting what she wanted else; no more Grace and just her body to dispose of. Grace was dizzy in her head, and her sense of the world was diminishing, black curtains closing in. The pain in her chest was fading, even; air didn’t seem so important any more. Nothing worth fighting for.

  Maybe she was giving up at last. Not a survivor after all, not any longer. Sorry, Tony.

  She could do that, she thought. She could give up now – if it had only been her. She needn’t hang on for ever, waiting for things to get justifiably worse. If she could never be punished enough, why be punished at all? Why not just be free of it, out of it, gone . . .?

  But it wasn’t just her. There was Georgie too, who didn’t deserve any of this; and Mary, who shouldn’t be allowed to get away with it; and Kathie, who was the truly abused innocent; and Frank, who deserved more than smoke and suicide; and . . .

  And above all there was her baby, here was her baby, who hadn’t come all this way just to stand witness. Poor baby, never had a chance of life, never had a chance to do anything . . .

  He could do something now. He could claim Grace, the way he’d been coming to do, coming and coming: given shape by the house, given purpose by her own conscience. Or he could save her. After all, she still hadn’t been punished enough, and what else could he be interested in?

  He could save her, and save Georgie, and justify Frank. Give something back to Kathie, even – even if it wasn’t enough.

  Punish Mary. Even if it wasn’t enough.

  That had to be how it worked. Didn’t it?

  Really, Grace couldn’t decide.

  Which was when Georgie took over. Not for long, just a spasm of stubborn refusal to die like this, for someone else’s fault. If Grace didn’t think her own life worth saving, Georgie absolutely did. Stubborn and scared, she could turn the encroaching, engulfing baby. No, not me, not us; her, take her . . .

  Mary didn’t know, she couldn’t see. Intent on her target, she never thought to look behind her.

  The baby . . . was really not a baby any more. He almost never had been. Not even dead a-borning, he’d never had the chance to grow – but he had grown anyway, hand in hand with his proper time, in his absence. That absence was toddler-sized now, squat and solid. Not really toddler-shaped, no real hint of human: no waving arms or stumping legs, no eyes or dreadful smile. No personality: what chance had he ever had, to be a person? Only the fact of him, the simple hollow absence that he made, indisputable and deadly. Like a whirlpool in the dry, sucking and sucking into nothingness.

  If he had a name, Georgie had never heard it; but he must have had a name, he’d had a funeral.

  Maybe she should ask Grace – but not now.

  Now was only using the moment, the cold and brutal fact of it, using the dead. Grace had called him, and was bleeding herself away to draw him here; she’d done her bit. Georgie could direct him, without guilt. There, the woman who’s killing me. Us. Take her, she’s yours. I give her to you, freely.

  No need to ring the bell again, it was only that she wanted to, one passing knell. She wasn’t even sure who it was who passed, as the last of her little vision closed into black: only that she could see Mary toppling into a dark swirling shadow at her back, she could feel the pressure slacken at her throat, but thought it was probably too late; she thought Grace had gone already and she was going now, sliding away, gone . . .

  TWELVE

  It was something of a surprise, then, to wake up.

  Twice a surprise to wake up whole and singular, particular, herself.

  Sunshine on her face; sheets so clean they were still rough from the laundry; a proper bed beneath her. She was oddly pleased to find herself here, but really had no idea where she was. I don’t think we’re in Kansas any more.

  The third time pays for all, but she wasn’t quite sure whether it counted when she surprised herself with a sudden out-loud giggle, hard and painfu
l in her throat. She really was surprised, as well as sorry; her eyes flew open, nothing faked.

  A proper hospital bed, in a private room. Her one arm lay outside the covers, bandaged more thoroughly than before; a vivid crimson tube disappeared into it. She tracked that back and up to a bottle hanging from a hook above. Someone else’s blood; her baby would probably not be interested in that, not come for that.

  Her baby would probably not come at all, this far from the house. She did have to be far now, she could feel it. Time and distance both; she had a vague sense of days and miles gone.

  She turned her head, and maybe that was the third surprise, because of course there was someone sitting there in the shadows – she was getting used to that: again, the third time – only this time it was Tony’s flatmate Robbo, and she really had not expected that.

  She frowned, just fractionally, which seemed to take an immoderate amount of effort.

  He grinned at her. ‘What am I doing here, is that it?’

  She didn’t seem to have a voice just now, but her head at least was working. She nodded, carefully. Her neck – well, she knew it was there, and she could feel that it had been badly wrenched, but it was hardly more than sore now. Days, then; days for definite.

  ‘Just sitting in. Relax. I’ll fetch him for you in a minute. I sent him off an hour ago, for a cup of tea and a biscuit; I expect he’s fallen asleep again. I keep telling him to go home, and he won’t.’

  Home. That meant London, didn’t it? She frowned again, tried a word this time: ‘Where—?’ It came out as a croak, and as sore as the giggle.

  Robbo interpreted. ‘Where are we? The Dorians’ clinic. Harley Street. It’s nice here, though I wouldn’t want to be a patient. We came up and fetched you, before you ask. Drove up overnight, with Tony in a panic all the way; that car of his is stupid, but it can’t half motor. I got to drive it all the way back, while Tony rode in the ambulance with you. That was, what, two days and two nights ago, and he hasn’t been to bed. Mostly he’s been sitting here, watching you breathe. Making sure. Getting cross with them when they wouldn’t take any more of his blood; not sure if that’s his or not –’ with a nod at the bottle – ‘but you’ve had a couple of pints from him. That’s the other reason for the tea and biscuits; he needs topping up. Fetch him for you, shall I?’

  ‘Please, Robbo.’

  ‘Sure. Here –’ he worked a pedal out of her sight beneath the bed, and she felt her head and shoulders rise – ‘you sit up a little, not to scare him more than he’s been scared already. Try to look alive. Drink this.’ He pressed a glass of something into her good hand; she sipped dutifully and tasted welcome sweetness. Glucose, she thought, stirred into water. ‘At the moment you sound worse than you look, even. Dead and buried and dug up again, that’s how you sound. That’s no good to Tony. He’s been in a bit of a state . . .’

  He looked it, when at last he came: haggard, with deep shadows under his bloodshot eyes and his hair wild. Where was her sleek groomed Tony gone? Left behind, presumably, on that mad drive north. He couldn’t keep up. Never mind; they’d find him again. Polish him up, dress him pretty. That shirt he was wearing now – well, yes. Two days and two nights? She could believe that. It was just that she couldn’t believe it. Not on him.

  ‘Tony, love.’ He’d taken time to splash cold water on his face – or Robbo had told him to, more likely; his hair was damp at the edges, and his collar too. She’d used that same time to do what Robbo had told her to, sipping and swallowing with her difficult throat, getting her voice ready for him. It still sounded jagged and rusty to her ears, it still tore at her on its way out, but she’d done what she could. Made an effort. Much like him. ‘Robbo says you came racing to the rescue.’

  He shrugged awkwardly. ‘Nearly too late, though. It was the police getting through to me, when they’d figured out who Francis was; they wanted to know if I’d sent him up there on a story. That sergeant’s probably still on the line. As soon as I understood, I just dropped the phone and ran. Got Robbo to ride shotgun, and drive when I couldn’t do it any more. God, I was so scared for you. Francis was dead, and I’d sent you after him . . .’

  ‘You weren’t to know.’

  ‘Yeah, I was. It’s my job to know.’

  ‘No, it’s your job to find out. Which is why you have people like Francis. And me.’

  ‘Not you. Not you ever again.’

  Only days ago, she’d been hoping that maybe he would hire her properly. Now he sat there on her bed and held her hand in both of his and promised that he would never ever do that, and her heart surged with warmth.

  At the same time, she cringed from what she had to tell him next.

  Still. She could do it, now. Not the same confession that she’d made to Mary – once was enough, surely? Sometimes one time paid for all – but this one mattered as much, or maybe more; and yet she could manage it at last. She thought she could.

  She said, ‘Tony—’ and stalled all unexpectedly, not as brave as she thought after all.

  He squeezed her hand and misunderstood her entirely, and said, ‘You don’t have to worry. Not any more, not about anything, but especially not that mess back at the house. By the time the police got there, Dr Dorian was thoroughly in charge. He says Mary died of a heart attack, and I’m sure he’s right.’ Which meant that he wasn’t at all sure, he was just riding with the luck of it. ‘Leonard’s not challenging him, anyway, which seems to be what matters. The police are happy enough with a suicide and a natural causes. At any rate, nothing comes back to you. You weren’t even there.’

  ‘Wasn’t I? Who’s writing it up for you, then?’ Frank’s not.

  ‘Nobody,’ he said, one word that shook her world. Tony was forgoing the story, letting it lie. For her sake.

  Now, perhaps, she could do it. She could tell him. If she did it fast.

  She said, ‘Tony, my baby . . .’

  ‘Hush,’ he said, ‘don’t. That’s long gone.’ Dead and buried.

  ‘Tony, he was yours. Your baby. Ours.’

  ‘Hush, I said,’ he said. ‘I know.’

  ‘You know?’

  ‘Of course. I’ve always known. Who do you think it is who leaves the flowers on little Anthony’s grave?’

  She didn’t know that anyone left flowers on his grave. She’d never been, since the day of the funeral. She didn’t dare. Someone was sure to see, and take a photo, and sell it to one or another of the papers, maybe the Messenger, maybe to Tony himself. And besides, she couldn’t bear the bells.

  It had never crossed her mind that somebody else might actually go.

  She seemed to be crying again; and her one hand was no good, all numb and bound up with bandages and drip, and her other hand was entirely tangled up with Tony’s; and besides, she didn’t have a hanky anyway, so what was she going to do, blow her nose on the sheet?

  She sniffed instead, disgustingly, and tried to rub her eyes against her shoulders; and felt his hand disengage from hers and made a little noise of protest before she felt it coming back with something soft, a nice big hanky, ‘There you go, love. Give you a drink, shall I?’

  He was still Tony, after all; he didn’t mean water. She sniffed again and shook her head with a smile at the quarter-bottle of vodka he produced from a pocket, and blew her nose and wiped her eyes and said, ‘I’m in hospital, Tone!’

  ‘I know it. We’ll get you out, soon as the doctor lets us. Home with me, where I can look after you.’ Something had shifted in him, something radical. Of course he didn’t want to say it – he was still a man, after all, even under all the artifice – but it was there, underwriting this sudden determination to take charge of her. A new balance, different priorities, a changed understanding. Nothing had changed in his feelings, any more than it had in hers; only his recognition of them. His confession, perhaps.

  Even so: ‘Tony, no.’ She wouldn’t do it. Not now. Something had maybe shifted in her too.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You nee
d to ask? Seriously? Remember your father, over dinner? Over breakfast?’

  ‘Oh, lord. No, darling, not the family pile. I’ll never take you there again, if you don’t want to go. The flat, I meant, for the moment.’

  The flat, as she remembered it, was rather full of Robbo. Your factotum, and there was his father again. Sneering, in a really nasty way. She said, ‘I don’t think Robbo would like that.’

  ‘Robbo can lump it. He can move out, if you two keep tripping over each other. He’ll be fine; there are half a dozen boys he can stay with, pro tem.’

  ‘Pro what tem?’ She didn’t know if you could really say that, but it seemed to make sense for the moment. Pro tem. Maybe this was why she liked the phrase so much, because she’d learned it from Tony?

  ‘Until we find the place you’d rather be. I think you’re done with Soho, aren’t you, pet? It’s not been kind to you, and it’s not an obligation. There are other places we can live.’

  ‘What about the paper, though?’ This was all too hectic; he’d regret it, as soon as he calmed down. If Robbo couldn’t calm him, it must be up to her. Down to her. Funny how they both meant the same thing, when they sounded opposite.

  Funny how her mind was tripping over words. Maybe there were drugs in the drip, as well as blood. Maybe it was just him, he’d infected her. She had him in her bloodstream now, soaked through all the way to the bone.

  Nothing new in that; she’d always had him right there, deep down. Blood and bone. It was only that he seemed to know it now. Maybe that was all that had shifted. Maybe it was everything.

  He said, ‘Don’t worry about the paper. We won’t go miles and miles away. A little house in the country, maybe. Somewhere I can still run up to town, but you don’t have to if you don’t want to.’

  A little house in the country? Him and her? She thought about cottages, all she knew. Chickens and eggs – or was that farmers’ wives? Roses around the door.

  ‘I don’t think I’d be very good at gardening, Tony.’ Mud under her fingernails. Her broken fingernails. She couldn’t see it.