The Scream of Angels

by David Haynes

  Blair wafted the cigar under his nose and closed his eyes, “Where on earth did you find these?”

  “I have a man who is very clever at obtaining the more exclusive items. It costs me dearly, but then again, I am not a poor man.” He held the oil lamp to Blair’s cigar and lit his own before sitting beside Bishop on the old settee.

  “As you have seen, Robert, I am attempting to bring this theatre into the twentieth century. Parisians are experiencing this Belle Epoque or golden age, whatever you choose to name it. And whilst Le Grand Guignol is no Palais Garnier it is a theatre of art, nonetheless. Is what you have seen tonight any less beautiful and beguiling than say a composition by Debussy or Satie? Of course not!”

  Bishop could hear the passion in his voice and it was mesmeric.

  “Can you not hold the reader in the palm of your hand and let their minds slip through your fingers like grains of sand, only to catch them again when a few grains have vanished in the wind. To watch a man lose his mind and become a murderous animal is powerful and disturbing and yet it is compulsive to watch. As long as he does not escape the stage and attack the audience, of course,” he paused and placed the cigar in his mouth. The only sound was the carefully rolled tobacco leaves crackling into life under the irresistible heat. He closed his eyes for a moment before releasing the smoke in a thick lavender plume.

  “Have you ever heard a scream, Robert? A real scream of terror?”

  “I do not believe so.”

  “It is a true opera to my ears. It is our job to find the scream within all of them, and when we do, we will have found true beauty. I believe you and Alexander will find it together. How much is your rent?”

  “Five hundred francs,” he held the brandy to his nose and inhaled the astringent vapour. He was unable to take even the smallest sip, “and I am paid in full until the end of the year.”

  “Then you will have that amount from me and a further five hundred to pay your expenses.”

  Bishop gasped. It was a significant amount of money, “And in return?”

  “You write!” he stood and walked to his desk. “You write only for me and everything you write comes to the theatre. Then, when you have written, you collaborate with Alexander and produce the most beautiful screams I have ever heard,” he came back to Bishop with the francs in his outstretched hand. “Is this not a compelling and attractive proposition?”

  “I should say so!” exclaimed Blair excitedly.

  Bishop stared at the money and then once again at the flawless countenance of Victor Cresswell. Was this what he desired? The scenes and imagery of his mind translated onto the stage in barbarous clarity? He took the francs, “Thank you, I should be glad to accept your offer.”

  “Bravo!” Blair took Bishop’s brandy from his hand and consumed it in one gulp.

  *

  Later that evening, Bishop and Blair sat outside one of the quieter cafés, away from Boulevard Clichy and the tumult of Montmartre. Bishop ordered a café au lait much to the consternation of Blair who desired to drink the night away in Le Moulin Rouge again.

  “How are you acquainted with Lord Cresswell?” he asked.

  Blair became sombre, “We served together in Africa,” he puffed his chest out. “As you know, your father and I were officers in the first battalion, twenty fourth foot. Lord Cresswell was part of the regiment and we were among the only three hundred to survive the massacre at Isandlwana. The stripped and mutilated torsos of our comrades are a sight I shall never forget. It is a sight none of us will ever forget. That damned fool Chelmsford left us for dead, you know? Our ammunition had almost gone and we sent word, yet he left us there. Left us to the warm embrace of a Zulu spear, or a sickening blow from a club.” Blair paused leaving Bishop to change the subject but he let him continue for it was clear the matter still held rancour.

  “On they came, fearless and savage with hatred in their hearts, and we met them with fury. Our fury was not with the Zulus, but with our comrades who left us there to die. And when the ammunition had gone and our sabres too slick with blood to hold, we fought with our hands.” Blair looked at the back of his fists. “We were like animals, baring our blood stained teeth and crawling through the scrub grass. But we lived and the others were slaughtered like helpless children. There are the screams of those who are frightened and there are the screams of men who see murder in the eye of another and know there is no escape. That is the scream of Isandlwana and it is a cry your father, Victor and I have felt in the throats of men we have killed.”

  Bishop was shocked. He had never questioned the association between Blair and his father nor had he sought to enquire into his father’s past, yet here it all was, laid out in the blood soaked dust of Southern Africa. He wanted to ask questions; he wanted to know how many men they had slaughtered but he remained silent and allowed Bishop to continue.

  “It has a grave effect on a man. Some more so than others and although we were fortunate to escape with our lives, the toll for Victor was worse than death. The man you saw tonight was not always so. When we returned to England, his life was beset with anger and grief, and it was only his father’s influence which kept him from prison. Inevitably the anger turned to violence and after a brutal encounter with a stranger on the street, he was sent to a hospital for the insane. Whatever happened to him in that godforsaken place, I cannot say, but he returned as the man he had once been. By then he had been discharged from the army and had alienated so much of society that he chose to come and live in Paris,” Blair stretched his arms to their full width, “and who can blame him? You are a young man, Robert. A young man in your prime as we were back then but I wish never to return to that time.” He leaned back and looked to the dark night sky. “I fear I have revealed too much. Although there are those who would wish to hear more, I am quite sure you are not one of them. Pah! Listen to me! This damned café au lait has loosened my tongue swifter than La Fee Verte!”

  A Bloody Night In Pigalle

  It was with a degree of inevitability that some of those treated at Heath House had their destinies etched into the cold tiles at Bethlem. It was also inevitable that their treatment would not be as moderate or voluntary as it was under Dr. Cunningham’s care.

  “Now, tell me which of these instruments would be your favoured tool in separating a person from his life?” Cunningham unfolded a tattered leather folio revealing a selection of intricate but terrible looking apparatus.

  He took one of the instruments in his fingers and replaced it quickly. The metal was cold and sterile without a trace of humanity. “I would use none.”

  He had found love now. Or at least as close as he would ever come to knowing what love really was. He loved a woman he thought he would never have, a woman he had loved from the moment he had set his weary eyes upon her. And yet now he had her, he would not dare to stay by her side, for he knew her blood was as fragrant and delicate as any other.

  The doctor drummed his fingers across the table, “Come now, in order to conquer your darkest desires you must face them and reveal their beauty. It is nothing to be afraid of.”

  “But I would not use these instruments since I have never seen them before nor know their purpose. In my dreams I see only the bloody flesh of my fingers around the throats of those I dispatch.

  “Truly barbaric. Tell me about how that feels.”

  “It feels like this,” he raised his hands to the doctor’s throat, stopping only a breath way from his neck. Cunningham did not flinch or move away; he remained utterly passive.

  “I do not wish to sedate you, Victor. Please lower your hands.”

  Victor lowered his hands and touched the cold steel shaft of the scalpel, “Perhaps I should consider one of these instead.”

  *

  Bishop arrived at the theatre promptly at nine o’clock. Visiting a theatre in the daylight was something of a novelty but it served only to add to his anxiety about his first day of employment. The acerbic brush with Metier had preyed on his mind and
he now regretted the manner in which he had conducted himself. If he was to work with the man, they needed, at the very least, to be capable of common courtesy.

  He banged loudly on the huge wooden doors with his fist and was not made to wait long until Victor welcomed him in.

  “How wonderful to see you again so soon, Robert! Come in.”

  He was ushered into the foyer. “I have brought these with me for you to read.” Bishop nervously pushed a bundle of papers tied with string towards Victor. “They have not yet been published of course and you may find them agreeable.”

  He took them, “Oh there is plenty of time for business. I wish you to meet the rest of my comrades. They are a wonderful group,” he lowered his head and whispered, “and not at all like Metier.” He straightened and laughed before striding toward the entrance to the auditorium, “Come along now, we are rehearsing for this evening’s show!”

  Bishop followed at once.

  It may well have been the middle of a long winter’s night inside the auditorium for there were no windows to allow the daylight to enter. Were it not for the oil lamps posted about the stage it would be a place of perpetual darkness.

  “Where’s Alexander?” Victor called.

  “I am here,” Metier appeared from the wings.

  “Come down and meet Robert properly. We shall pretend last night was just a terrible misunderstanding.”

  Metier opened his mouth to reply but instead elected to lodge his spectacles further up his nose. He walked to the edge of the stage and crouched to allow Bishop to take his outstretched hand, “I must apologise for my rudeness last night. I have not been feeling quite myself since the show opened.”

  Bishop took his hand and shook it, “I too must apologise. My behaviour was inexcusable. Your writing and the show were a triumph.”

  Metier stood again, “Ah yes but it could have been better! We will talk again later but for now I must attempt to make them understand what I have written.”

  Cresswell lowered his head, “I have convinced him his inclination to be prickly is not always appropriate. Now let me introduce you to the Lily in my bouquet of daisies, “Eve? Will you come and meet my newest addition, Robert Bishop. We shall change his name of course but do try not to seduce him as quickly as you did Alexander, please.”

  A tall, slender lady strode slowly and confidently toward them. Her jet-black hair was pulled mercilessly away from her face and it gave her a severe expression. She was not pretty compared to the dainty dancers in the Moulin Rouge but she was certainly striking. She held her hand out for Bishop who took it and bowed his head.

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Monsieur Bishop. Do not listen to this fool, he is jealous because he cannot have me, that is all. Nevertheless, our little group remain committed to fulfilling his sordid dreams.”

  Bishop smiled but said nothing until she had returned to her position on the stage. He was unsure of her age but her confident swagger and manner caused him to regard her as being much older than he.

  “What do you mean, we will change his name?”

  Victor turned and started walking away. Bishop followed behind, “Of course we will change your name. The French do not take kindly to Englishmen writing their plays. You did not think Metier was Alexander’s real name did you?”

  “I did wonder when his accent was so thoroughly English.”

  “We could not have operated this theatre in London. We would have been censored and closed within a week of the first show, but we cannot function with only French writers. The Belle Epoque is a wonderful age for the artists of Montmartre but the French write only of love and drama and of broken hearts. They do not yet see the elegance in murder. The matter is settled, your name will be Robert Évêque; it is French for Bishop so there is little difference. I shall take you to your office.” He led the way along the corridor they had taken the previous night.

  Since hearing of Victor’s problems and treatment following the war in Africa, Bishop realised he had more in common with the man than he first assumed. His name was not a point on which he would argue, for now.

  “Here we are,” Victor pushed the door, allowing Bishop to step through. “It is as the French would say, bijou.”

  An additional desk had been wedged into the space at a right angle to Metier’s. An assortment of papers and writing implements had been scattered carelessly on the top. Bishop stepped inside and sat at the desk. He was unaccustomed to working in such close proximity to another man, let alone one with whom he was destined to clash.

  “You have never written for the stage before, Robert, so I have asked Alexander to provide you with the technical details. I am sure it is similar to writing books but I have never written either so I cannot say. What I am certain of is that you and Alexander will produce the most spectacular shows Paris has ever seen.” He patted the pile of papers Bishop had given him earlier. “I shall enjoy a spot of bedtime reading later I suspect! I shall send Alexander down when rehearsals have finished but in the meantime, have a look around the theatre. It is a place of mystery and history, none more so that the dressing room of Mademoiselle Bissette. Be sure not to enter without first knocking or you may see something your young eyes are not accustomed to!” Victor laughed loud and hearty then left Bishop to his own company.

  The room was as dark as a tomb, which was in keeping with the rest of the theatre. It would require a degree of adjustment in order to write in something little larger than a coffin but nevertheless, Bishop was excited about the prospect.

  He left the little office and walked along the gloomy maze of corridors which etched their path through the rear of the theatre. He had not the faintest idea of where he was going but it mattered not for the atmosphere was dark and wonderful. Some corridors were lit in flickering gas light and some were unlit. In the darkness, the corridors became the cold dark streets of London.

  After some time spent passing numerous locked doors which all looked the same, he found himself at the foot of a set of steep wooden stairs. He looked over his shoulder and put his foot on the bottom step. Should he be venturing up there? Victor had not said specifically that entry to the upper floor was forbidden.

  He started up the stairs. They were unlit and disappeared into the void ahead. Each step creaked like an old rocking chair and wobbled uncertainly. It felt perilous in more ways than one.

  At the top, Bishop knocked on a heavy wooden door. It echoed from the space within but no response was heard. He pushed the door and stepped across the threshold.

  The room was an unfathomable blackness and peer as he might, Bishop could detect no forms with which to gauge the dimensions. He muttered under his breath and turned to leave. It was probably just an old storeroom anyway. But as he turned his hand brushed against something cold; something made of glass. He looked down and saw the outline of a lamp which must have been on a low table for it was off the floor. He reached down and traced his hand over the glass shade until he touched the brass base, and there beside the base, a box of matches had been placed. No doubt the lamp had been placed purposely to allow whoever used the room to find their way with more ease.

  He lit the lamp; the familiar smell of burning oil drifted upward. The room was large and the lamp could not penetrate the darker corners but it cast a meagre glow on the few steps in front.

  Bishop stepped forward, holding the lamp as a talisman before him. On each side of the room was a jumble of dark shapes; their shadows crept nervously up the wall as he passed.

  A collection of priests’ robes had been carefully hung in one corner. Their vivid whiteness sprang from the gloom like a salacious ghost. There were more paintings, which had been left discarded against the wall. Their tired frames were covered in dust and the eyes of the men they portrayed looked down in shame.

  Tiny paws pattered on the floorboards amid the jumble. Bishop had no intention of venturing into the collection for that was the rat’s domain. The air smelled strongly of ammonia and general decay. />
  A decrepit wooden lectern stood before him in the centre of the path through the chaos. An old heavy bible sat open on top. Bishop held the lamp closer; the pages were unreadable through the dust and starting to perish at the edges. The remains of what Grand Guignol had once been had been discarded so easily, left to the eaten by rats.

  The smell was becoming too strong and the air too oppressive to go any deeper into the room, yet something drove him on. He turned away from the bible and once more held the lamp before him. With each step, the boards beneath his feet groaned in displeasure at his weight.

  After only a dozen more steps, a door took shape in the murk. It was as unremarkable as the others in the theatre, yet the brass door handle reflected the lamp flame brightly like a beacon.