The Room Beyond

by Stephanie Elmas

  ‘Why can’t you help her? I thought you’d done this before!’

  ‘I have, many times. But Madame is so weak, I am afraid for her.’

  The brown lines on the walls sprung into zigzags. ‘Oh Jesus Christ, Lord, not again!’ And there it was, no longer an invisible blade but a clawed hand now, reaching down towards her from the sky... ‘No!’

  Too late. It plunged headlong into her stomach, gripped at her intestines and screwed them into mush between its talons. The sound of her own whimpers curdled in her ears. If only she had the strength to scream. She clenched her feet and hands, trying to force the pain into them for as long as it attacked her.

  The claw retreated, gone to lick itself clean before coming back for more.

  ‘The medicine, please, just a drop... Tristan knows where it is.’

  ‘I have no medicine Madame. A doctor is coming. I think your baby is in the wrong place, let me sit you up, it will help.’

  ‘Noooooo!’

  The claw came back snarling. It plunged and plunged, blood dripping, ripping her to tiny shreds.

  ‘I... I’m dying!’

  ‘No Madame no.’

  Over and over again it came and each time it took part of herself away, burying it deep underground, lost forever.

  A man was suddenly bending over her. He had a lined face, glasses, and a mournful heavy jaw that was mouthing something to her in a language she didn’t understand. Too late.

  The claw had a face this time, a face with beautiful blue eyes.

  ‘I loved you so much.’

  And it smiled softly back at her. It kissed her on the mouth with the most caressing lips she’d ever touched and then it plunged straight in. Daggers, scraping and sliding her insides clean. The lower parts of her body were exploding beneath her. Nothing to do now but let it happen.

  She was sinking backwards, water was streaming up her nostrils.

  ‘I’m in the lake again. I’ve fallen in the lake. It’s alright, Daddy will save me, just like he did last time.’

  She peered up through the green water but no one was there, no silhouette reaching down towards her this time.

  What was that? A baby’s cry?

  And then darkness.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Bone I believe? My name is Miranda Whitestone, I live next door. Do forgive me for not having introduced myself sooner. My husband has been ill you see and I’ve been rather taken up with looking after him.’

  The pretty woman was all blonde ringlets and saucer eyes. She was wearing a pale blue bonnet and a cape to match, an unexpected slice of spring against the grey winter air.

  ‘How lovely to meet you. It’s funny but I didn’t think that anyone was living next door. I knew it was being decorated and that the previous occupant had left...’

  ‘Oh yes you’re right, but that’s number 36! I live at 34, next to you.’

  Mrs Bone jerked her head back across her shoulder towards the houses, her delicate eyebrows knotted together.

  ‘I’m sorry, I think I must have got a little muddled. I...’ Her lips toyed with a polite smile but she still seemed confused, looking back and forth at the houses again.

  Miranda tried to smile back. ‘I hope you’re settling in well. It’s a lovely road.’

  ‘Oh yes! We’re so happy, it’s such a blessing to be married!’

  ‘Yes. Please do excuse me. It was very nice to meet you.’

  Inside Minerva dashed up to her, squeezing her purring body against her ankles.

  ‘Hello lovely Puss. Where’s Mrs Hubbard, in the kitchen?’

  The shopping was getting rather heavy, cutting a line across the palm of her hand.

  ‘Ah, fresh tea. How do you always know exactly when to make it?’

  ‘Too many years of being a cook I suppose.’ Mrs Hubbard eyed the shopping bag. ‘You got everything you needed?’

  ‘I think so. Bandages, yet more disinfectant. And some ointment that’s supposed to help but goodness knows. Is Dr Blythe still up there?’

  ‘Oh yes, doing his electricity business on Mr Whitestone. Silly waste of time if you ask me.’

  The warm tea caressed her throat. ‘I met Mrs Bone outside, for the first time. She seemed to be confused about who I was, thought she lived next door to Mrs Eden’s house.’

  ‘I wouldn’t concern yourself about her, she’s still on her honeymoon as far as I can tell. Have you seen how they walk along together, all wrapped up in each other’s arms as if they’d got stuck like that!’

  ‘Must be nice to be so in love.’

  ‘Hmmm.’

  And yet Mrs Bone hadn’t been the first to show some confusion about the house. Tristan’s father had said something odd about it too, about how he’d almost walked straight past it at first. And he’d said that it was dark. Dark? It had had a fresh coat of white paint only last year. And its windows glimmered far more cleanly than most in the road. The bottom of her cup stared up at her. Dark.

  Dr Blythe was already tripping downstairs with his case as she began dragging her feet up to Tristan’s room.

  ‘Any luck doctor?’

  He smiled thinly. ‘Time will tell. He gave me a fair old fight today,’ and he turned his head to reveal an angry looking scratch along his right cheek.

  ‘How did he achieve that? I thought we’d tied him down securely this time.’

  ‘Oh he has his ways. I’ll be back first thing to check on him.’

  Tristan’s eyes were wide open when she tiptoed in, but he was staring at the ceiling. He seemed to be tied down well enough, although the new shackles were clearly making his ankles sore: the skin had gone red and flaky where they had been rubbing against them.

  ‘He’s shaved your head again. That’s good, it’ll be easier to put this ointment on. It’s a new one, I’ve been told it doesn’t sting.’

  ‘I hate you,’ he snarled.

  ‘I hate you too. Come on dear.’

  It was hard to know where to start. The infection had now spread across the top of his head, down along his shoulders, over his chest and nearly to his stomach. It was mainly yellow and pustular, almost green in some places; an expanse of volcanic bubbles where the skin had once been. Hard to recognize the man beneath it at all.

  She reached for their secret flask on the top shelf. Tristan’s mouth was already open, waiting for it obediently, and when the brandy trickled in he slurped away at it, grunting like a famished wolf. When it was her turn she swigged more than a modest mouthful and let it swish about it in her mouth until it was almost numb.

  ‘Mooore!’ he groaned.

  ‘Oh go on then, open your mouth. But don’t tell the good doctor because you’ll get me into trouble alright?’

  However hard she tried to rub it in, the new ointment seemed to do little more than sit in puddles on his skin. He scowled and yelped beneath her hands, thrashing about with his mouth as if he was trying to bite her. All that thrashing made one of his sore ankles far worse. It began to bleed angrily, the shackle digging into the wound.

  Perhaps if she unlocked it, just for a minute or so, then she could wrap a bandage quickly around the sore area. His wrists were well enough tied down, as was his other foot.

  The key to the shackles was in a dish on the window sill. She sneaked it into her hand without him noticing and then she prepared the bandage and something to wash the wound with, waiting for him to calm down.

  His shrieks petered out into small grunts as his body settled. Soon he was quite still again, flinching only occasionally with nothing more than the mildest of spasms.

  Click

  The metal hinge sprung open around his ankle. All calm. Her hand remained steady but she could hear own short sharp breaths as she ran the wet gauze back and forth over the wound. Still not a twitch. The bandage unravelled itself to the floor, enough to wrap a mummy in. She drew it round and round the ankle and reached for the scissors on the table. But as she did so the bandage came loose and suddenly she was all fingers and thumbs, trying to do
two things at the same time.

  Ping

  The scissors crashed to the floor.

  Tristan’s foot approached her face like a battering ram. She screamed, began a hasty retreat, but not fast enough for a clean break. The flame of his blow swept through her shoulder and she hit the wall with her other side.

  ‘Mrs Hubbard! Help!’

  His heel punched away at the air, the force of his body pulling the mattress up. The entire bed was shifting towards the window.

  The door swung open. ‘What’s happening!’ Mrs Hubbard cried, ‘Where’s his shackle gone?’

  ‘I unlocked it for a minute, just to wrap his ankle up,’ she panted back.

  ‘You should know better than that by now. Are you alright?’

  Her shoulder was throbbing but she could still bend and flex her arm with little difficulty.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Come on then, let’s sort him out.’

  For a small slim woman, Mrs Hubbard had a surprising degree of strength in her. She poised herself at the thrashing leg as if it were a wild creature that needed grappling by the scruff of its neck and then, when the moment was right, she dived in with both hands, thrust the limb back down on the bed and sat on it.

  ‘Bitch! Evil evil bitch!’ spat Tristan.

  ‘Yes yes, I know. Quickly, put the shackle on.’

  Miranda snapped it firmly back around his leg. She was still panting fast and the blood was lapping warmly about in her shoulder. It would be blue by the morning.

  The key to the shackles burned in her hand; she almost threw it back into its dish.

  ‘You’ll be alright tonight on your own with him?’ Mrs Hubbard asked, brushing her apron smooth.

  Tristan had gone rigid again, his eyes now squeezed tightly closed against them.

  ‘Of course I will. Thank you.’

  ‘No more untying or unlocking. However much pain he might be in?’

  ‘Absolutely not. I promise.’

  ‘I’ve prepared a tray for you downstairs, I’ll be off home now. You must try hard to sleep tonight.’

  ‘Yes I will.’

  She collapsed into a chair. Sleep wasn’t any good. It just brought nightmares and that awful moment on awakening when the world feels fresh and new and then real life suddenly comes screaming in through it all.

  ‘Miranda,’ said Tristan.

  His voice almost sounded normal again.

  ‘Let me talk to you.’

  His eyes looked alert for once, not glazed but vibrant with blueness like they used to be.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Unlock me tonight and I promise I won’t harm you again.’

  ‘How stupid do you think I am?’

  ‘Unlock me tonight and you’ll be rid of me forever.’

  The moon was brighter than usual. It lit the street, reflecting against the frost, almost fooling her into thinking that it was a sunny day outside. Tristan was sleeping deeply now; the escapade with the shackle must have exhausted him.

  And yet she couldn’t quite bring herself to make that journey back to her own bedroom. She’d watch him for a few more minutes, just to make sure. The key to his shackles lay safely in its tray. She picked it up, solid and cold. It felt even safer in her hand.

  A draught swept down the fireplace with a dull whoosh that sent the shivers up her. She pulled a blanket up around her neck and curled up in the chair. Her shoulder was throbbing like distant thunder. It would be stiff in the morning.

  Her eyes flickered closed for barely a second when all at once her chair seemed to be swept away from beneath her... she was tumbling, hurtling down. She landed hard, although it didn’t seem to hurt, and a moment later she was back in her chair again, yawning and digging her fists into her eyes.

  ‘I have to go to bed,’ she groaned.

  Tristan looked so harmless lying there. Not a twitch. Nothing more than a mound of foul-smelling meat under a blanket. He was rotting. He always had been, even when she’d first fell for that handsome face. Mrs Hubbard had seen it, perhaps Jane had as well. She was the fool, along with that woman in India and Lucinda Eden of course. Where was Lucinda, now?

  ‘I’m here.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Don’t be scared. Tell yourself you’re dreaming.’

  She was wearing that sapphire blue dress again, the one she’d worn on the night of the dinner party and peacock feathers glimmered in her hair.

  ‘You’re beautiful again!’

  ‘I know, that’s what happens when you die. Give me the key.’

  ‘Which key?’

  ‘The one that you’re guarding so faithfully.’ Lucinda nodded towards her clasped hand, her lips so plump and red, set in a cupid’s bow of a smile. ‘Well if you’re not going to give it to me then I’ll just have to take it for myself.’

  Swish swish. The silk dress brushed against the floor towards her, bathing her face in its blue shadow and Lucinda’s neck rose so poised and swan-like above it. The key slid out from her palm.

  ‘What are you going to do with it?’ she whispered.

  Lucinda twisted a silky tendril of hair with her fingers and then tucked it back up behind the feathers.

  ‘I’m going to make you happy. Close your eyes. Go back to sleep.’

  Swish swish. The train of her dress slithered towards the bed like the tail of a magnificent blue dragon, the back of her neck white and faultless. No wonder he’d wanted her so badly.

  ‘Ouch!’ her shoulder creaked with pain, far worse than she’d imagined it might be. Morning light washed over her face and she raised herself up in the chair. She tried to rotate her shoulder carefully in small circles; it was enough to make her grit her teeth together.

  Mrs Hubbard was probably preparing breakfast downstairs. She had to get Tristan cleaned up for the doctor, but unravelling herself from the chair was no mean feat. Her ribs appeared to be pounding as well, probably from when she’d knocked them against the wall.

  ‘Time to wake up! Tristan? How are you today?’

  Gone.

  The pain stopped. Her heart stopped. The room went white. Gone.

  And then, in a vast wave, everything came gushing back in. The bed. The four shackles lying empty. The key, idly tossed aside in the middle of the sheet. Her blood flying through her veins.

  ‘Tristan!’

  Her feet thundered down the stairs, the skin on her palm sparking against the banister.

  ‘Tristan!’

  She collided with something.

  ‘Dr Blythe, it’s you! You have to help me, Tristan’s escaped. I fell asleep and he must have got hold of the key. It was lying in his bed.’

  His bag landed with a thump on the floor, he clutched at her arms.

  ‘When did it happen?’

  ‘I don’t know!’

  ‘Did you unlock any of the shackles after I left yesterday evening?’

  ‘One yes, but I thought I’d locked it back up properly again. It was on his ankle, how could he possibly have escaped from that?’

  ‘Because he’s clever. I’ve seen it before.’

  ‘Aaaaaah!’

  The shriek came from the kitchen.

  ‘Mrs Hubbard! Quickly Dr Blythe, quickly!’

  The cook was standing stock-still in the middle of the kitchen floor, her fingers clenched tightly in her apron and her face like ash.

  ‘Where’s Tristan? Have you seen him, where is he?’

  Mrs Hubbard uncurled her hands slowly and raised a pointed finger towards the larder. Its door was hanging open.

  ‘It’s the place where I hang the game from,’ she stammered. ‘He used an old piece of rope, on one of the hooks in the ceiling.’

  Just within the entrance of the cold little room two feet dangled in mid-air, long and blue now and one ankle bandaged up.

  Mr Fairclough’s office smelt of leather and wood polish. Its ceiling was higher than the room was wide and its long windows were set so far up the walls that it was impossible to see an
ything through them apart from clouds. It seemed as if the entire room, and everything in it, had been stretched upwards, including Mr Fairclough himself.

  ‘Mrs Whitestone,’ he said with a solemn voice, elevating his long angular body from behind the desk. ‘My deepest condolences. I really do wish you had let me come to you.’

  ‘I am well aware of that, but I prefer to be out of the house as much as possible. Keeping busy is the best thing for me.’

  ‘Naturally.’

  Miranda fought back a tickle in her throat. It really was a very dry room and Mr Fairclough a very dry sort of man.

  ‘Now that the funeral is over with I wish to discuss two urgent matters with you,’ she continued. ‘Naturally there will be much more to consider presently, but at the moment I have some pressing concerns that simply can’t wait.’

  ‘Of course,’ replied the lawyer. ‘How can I be of assistance to you Mrs Whitestone?’

  ‘Ah, funnily enough you have just unconsciously fallen across the first point which I intended to raise with you: the issue of my name. I would rather not be known by that surname, Whitestone, anymore you see. I never really liked it in the first place!’

  Mr Fairclough raised his eyebrows.

  ‘From this point on I would prefer to be known as Miranda White. It’s not my real name, I know, but it feels comfortable. So from now on I would much rather be referred to in all manners by my new name, Mrs White. I’m sure I can leave the whole legalistic side of that in your capable hands.’

  Mr Fairclough raised his eyebrows even further. He seemed to be about to speak but then scratched a private note down with his pen instead.

  ‘The second reason for my visit concerns the house in Marguerite Avenue. I want to get rid of it, as quickly as possible.’

  ‘I see. You would like me to assist you in its sale.’

  ‘Absolutely. There’s very little money left and I certainly don’t need to live in anything so large and ostentatious. It also carries with it some very painful associations.’

  ‘Why of course it does. Now that your husband has gone.’

  A ray of sunlight fell across the desk revealing a swarm of dust motes spiralling through the air.