by Anne Billson
In Shepherd's Bush, while we were stopped at a red light, I stumbled out of the car and stuffed Bags Number Seven and Eight into some cartons of rubbish awaiting collection outside an Indian restaurant. Bag Number Nine went behind a pile of rubble on a small patch of wasteland in White City; by that stage we were too tired even to dig a hole. Relief washed over me as we drove away. Grauman would have his work cut out. He would be too busy to think about having us tortured and mutilated. And he'd be wet.
Violet was history. Not even her Hatman could put her back together again now.
Neither of us wanted to go back to Duncan's that night. And, although I knew he hadn't been keeping count, I had no intention of letting him spend the rest of that night with me. I wanted to get home with Bag Number Ten before he found out it was still in my possession.
I tapped him for cash, left him on the sofa at Matt's place, and staggered to the nearest mini-cab office. In the car, on the way, I dozed off. At Camden Town, the driver woke me, and leered suggestively, and said I looked as though I'd enjoyed the party, and maybe I'd like to go to another one. Then he saw the bloodstained teatowel and asked if I'd hurt my hand. I said yes, I'd hurt it punching a mini-cab driver in the face.
I let myself info my room and collapsed into bed. My hand was still throbbing, but I gulped down a couple of Valium and slept for nine solid hours. There were nightmares, strange shadows which moved through the deepest parts of the forest, but by the time I woke up, the details had faded. I made myself a cup of tea, and then I spread an old newspaper over my bed and opened Bag Number Ten. For a long time, I gazed at the wizened, waxy object which looked like something you might find suspended from a hook in the window of a Chinese restaurant. The crimson nail varnish was chipped and messy, though not as messy as the scraps of muscle and ligament at the wrist. I peeled the teatowel away from my own left hand and compared them. Mine was bigger, but I thought it every bit as elegant as Violet's. My nails were better shaped, even though at that moment they were caked with blood and dirt. A good bath and an even better buffing would see them right. But there wasn't much I could do about the little finger. That really spoiled things.
Later that day, I dropped into the out-patient department of my local hospital. I told them I'd been chopping paper the night before, and had caught my finger in the guillotine. They ticked me off for not having rushed to them immediately with the missing joint - they could have sewn that back on, they said - but they cleaned up the gooey mess that was left, gave me some antibiotics to clear the infection that had set in, and dressed it without asking too many awkward questions about why the guillotine had left me with a chewed-up stump instead of a nice clean slice.
For the next few days, I carried Matt's Teddy boy flick-knife around with me, just in case. I did a lot of looking over my shoulder, but after a while I started to believe we really had got away with it. We really had rubbed her out. Grauman didn't come after us, though I dreamt once or twice that he did. I phoned his hotel and was told he had checked out. He hadn't left a forwarding address, the receptionist said, but she remembered him ordering a taxi to Heathrow. She remembered his departure because there had been a lot of luggage, and he'd been in an enormous hurry, but he'd been generous with his tips.
I went into college and acted as if nothing had happened, though Ruth kept giving me funny looks, and once or twice provided me with free drugs and hinted I could confide in her any time I wanted. I didn't want, of course. She was curious about the big dressing on my little finger, and even more curious when at last it was taken off and she saw the joint was missing. I told her I had shut it in a car door, and she seemed to accept that, although on several occasions afterwards I caught her staring at the stump with a sort of thrilled fascination.
Meanwhile, I kept Violet's hand wrapped up in my room. On the first day, I sketched it. On the second day, I was drawing it again when I thought I saw the fingers move. On the third day, I came home and found the bag empty. After a nervous search, I finally found it clinging to the back of the curtains, fingers gripping the fabric so tightly the knuckles had gone shiny with tension. I prised it loose, wrapped it in a dozen layers of polythene, and put it in an old biscuit tin, sealing the lid with Sellotape, masking tape, electrical tape, and any other tape I could find. That night I lay on my bed, trying to sleep but unable to do anything but lie in the darkness, listening to the muted metallic tunka-tunk of soft but persistent rapping from the inside of the tin.
My nerve cracked. I couldn't live with this thing any longer. The next day, I took it into college and late in the afternoon, when all but the most dedicated students had abandoned their easels, went up to the deserted etching department - setting of that first historic glimpse of my late rival and consequently, I thought, an appropriate place in which to dispose of her last remnants. I opened the tin and found the hand nestling on a cushion of shredded polythene. For ten minutes I sat and stared at it, but it didn't move a muscle. I began to wonder if I'd ever seen it moving in the first place; perhaps I was hallucinating after all the sleepless nights. But I wasn't going to take any chances. I didn't fancy waking up to find those fingernails doing to my face what they'd done to the polythene.
Carefully, with tongs, I lowered it into the etching bath. I'd always wanted to see what hydrochloric acid would do to human flesh. Inhuman flesh was the next best thing, but the immediate effect was disappointing - not, as I'd imagined, like a shoal of piranhas latching on to a chunk of meat. There was no thrashing at all. It was nothing more than a lump of dead matter covered in tiny bubbles. But, after an hour or so, I saw that the outline was less distinct, that the bubbles were eating into it. I didn't dare go home and leave it, so I turned the lights off and lay low until the night watchman had done his rounds.
It took most of the night. By first light, the flesh had dissolved, but the bones were still resisting. I dried them off, wrapped them in a shoebox, and mailed them to the Smithsonian Institute. I didn't bother marking the parcel with a return address.
As for Duncan and me, things didn't exactly turn out the way I'd planned. He seemed fine for a couple of days - friendly enough, though neither of us made any reference to what had happened, and he avoided catching my eye. But after that he did a U-turn and started sinking. He'd been off college a lot after meeting Violet, but now he stopped attending altogether. A rumour began to circulate that he'd either dropped out of - or been dropped from - the course. I tried to reach him on the phone once or twice. When I hadn't seen him in a fortnight, I had a bad feeling and went round to the flat. He was there, and he let me in, but I could tell he was on a downward spiral. There was nothing I could do about it; I was feeling rather peculiar myself, and I didn't want him dragging me down. I wasn't even sure I fancied him any more, not when he was like this. It wasn't the discoloured teeth that put me off, nor the scraggy beard he'd sprouted because he could no longer be bothered to shave. It was the smile I didn't like. It was the smile of someone who had lost his grip.
There was nowhere to sit because he had thrown out most of his furniture. The floor was spread with dust-sheets, and he had started to repaint some of the walls, but sloppily. He didn't talk much, and when he did, he mumbled, so it was difficult to catch what he was going on about. His gaze kept flicking past my shoulder, to something that wasn't there.
'It wasn't murder, you know,' I said. 'She wasn't human.' It was the first time I'd brought the subject up.
'I'd rather not talk about it.'
I found that I didn't want to talk about it either. So that was that. He said he wanted to be left alone for a while, and by the time I popped back, a few days later, he'd gone. There was someone else in the flat - a short, stocky man with a sand-coloured moustache, who told me Duncan was in Scotland. 'Edinburgh, I think. I'm not sure.'
This was the first I'd heard of it. 'When will he be back?'
The man with the moustache shrugged. 'Haven't a clue. He said I could stay here as long as I wanted.'
Had he
left a forwarding address? No, he hadn't. Any idea how I might get in touch? No, none at all. I thought about travelling up to Scotland after him, but I didn't think about it for very long. I wasn't sure I had enough money for train fare, let alone for food or a hotel, and I had no idea how long it might take to track him down.
In the end, I had to admit I was relieved he was out of the way. Now he could have his breakdown, or whatever it was he was having, hundreds of miles away from the scene of the crime, and I wouldn't have to endure the spectacle of him cracking up. I knew he would come back to me, eventually. He was mine now. He would always be mine. The tip of a finger was a small price to pay.
SUCKERS
Part Three
Chapter 1
I caught the Bakerloo line from Lambeth North to Oxford Circus, and I went shopping. This is what I bought: one pair of silver crucifix earrings; two gold charm bracelets with assorted attachments in the shape of tiny football boots, piglets, and crucifixes; one diamante crucifix; one black plastic crucifix with a hologram of Jesus Christ on it; one black plastic rosary. On the way home, I stopped off at the supermarket and bought three dozen heads of garlic, a couple of jars of garlic salt, and some packets of dried garlic slices. I also stopped off at the timber merchants and snapped up all their dowelling offcuts for a knock-down price. I even remembered to stock up with some replacement blades for my Stanley knife.
Back at the flat, I launched into a frenzy of activity: sprinkling garlic salt around the doors and windows, peeling cloves and hiding them at strategic points, digging out my old crucifixes and hanging them on the walls. I decked myself out in some of my brand-new knick-knacks and offered a silent prayer to Madonna Louise Ciccone for achievements in popularizing the crucifix as an acceptable fashion item. I would be attracting curious glances in the days to come, but only because my choice of accessory was now considered a little passe. This whole business would very likely end up ruining my reputation as a person with her finger on the pulse of fashion.
There were one or two things which continued to puzzle me. I couldn't understand why Violet had gone to so much trouble over Patricia Rice, of all people. What was the point of prolonging such a wretched existence? Why hadn't she just ripped out the jugular and got it over with? The idea of an undead Patricia made me come over all shivery. Worse, I realized I was envious. Why her and not me? What had she got that I hadn't? But I knew the answer to that. She had her name on the Multiglom hit list, and I'd been the one to put it there.
I'd almost forgotten about Duncan. It was nearly midnight when he phoned. He sounded out of breath. 'Did you get my messages?'
'No.' I looked down at the counter on my answering machine. I'd been so busy, I hadn't thought to check it. There were four messages, and all of them turned out to be from Duncan.
'Dora, she's still not back.'
There was a tingling in my missing fingertip. 'She hasn't rung?'
'No, and it's not like her to go all incommunicado like this. Do you think I should call the police?'
'She's probably pissed off at you for getting drunk and staying out all night. Did you ring Multiglom?'
'I tried. They were all at lunch.'
'When was that?'
'Three o'clock, and again at four and five.'
'Some lunch,' I said. I had already decided not to tell him what I'd seen that morning. There was no point in worrying him unnecessarily.
'Christ,' he said. 'If only we hadn't got arseholed, I would have got home in time to stop her. I could have shown her the negs.'
'Negs? What negs?'
"The ones you half-inched from our friend Francine. I printed them up.'
I'd forgotten all about Dino's negs. I'd left the envelope in the car. 'And?'
'I think you should come round and take a look.'
'Can't it wait till tomorrow?'
'No, this is urgent.'
I sighed loudly enough for him to hear. I didn't feel like going out, especially after having spent half the day making my flat secure.
'Please, Dora...'
'All right.' I would just have to hope Violet wasn't out on the razzle in W11. I prepared as best I could and set out into the night, stinking of garlic and jingling with junk jewellery. There were plenty of people around, but they weren't the sort of people you wanted to bump into at that time of night. Just off Westbourne Grove, I saw a small mob moving with a great deal of laughter and shouting along the opposite pavement. One or two heads swivelled in my direction, and somebody shouted, 'Hey little girl!', but I pretended to ignore them and they swept along the street. A little further on, I heard the sound of bottles being smashed, and screaming, but I didn't think it was the same crowd; the noise seemed to be coming from the opposite direction. Fights were nothing unusual - not in that area - but I clutched my crucifix and walked faster.
Duncan let me in, reeling back in mock shock as he smelled my breath. 'Blimey. You've been picking up social tips from Francine.'
'Garlic for supper,' I said. He could talk, I thought. Put a match to the alcohol on his breath and he'd go up like a Christmas pudding.
He looked at me and laughed. 'Sure you're wearing enough jewellery?'
It's true I was clanking like a suit of armour; I'd dug out my entire collection. 'Just to be on the safe side. Can't be too careful.'
His smile vanished. 'Something's happened, hasn't it? What's going on?'
I said nothing had happened. I told him to show me the blasted photos.
Lulu had been gone three days and already the living room looked as though a bomb had hit it. Duncan poured me a large brandy, poured himself another even larger one, and showed me into his office. He was drunk, but not the way he'd been drunk before. Now he was dogged and forceful; he was going to hammer away until I said exactly what he wanted to hear. I hadn't seen him this animated for years. It was as though he was waking up after a deep sleep. He was getting all manic and obsessive again, and it was frightening me, but it was kind of exciting as well.
'Here we are,' he said, and flung down a pile of black and white prints. I sifted through them; these photographs didn't seem to be part of a regular assignment, they were more a record of an important social occasion. The setting was the same in each; a large room cluttered with antique furniture and a carved mantelpiece, heavy and a little oppressive - not the sort of place likely to be featured in Home Beautiful, let alone Bellini. People were standing around with champagne flutes in their hands, proposing toasts and generally looking rather jovial. One or two had noticed the photographer but were pretending they hadn't; others were mugging shamelessly for the camera. In one picture, a balding businessman was licking the ear of a pouty blonde young enough to be his granddaughter.
Most of the people in the pictures were smiling, and some appeared to be laughing out loud. This was the bit I didn't like. The worst photos were those in which I could see their teeth, because they forced me, finally, to face up to the truth. We were not dealing with a single vampire here. We were dealing with a pack of them.
I was shocked into silence. This put a whole new slant on things. It might not have been Violet who had dropped in on Patricia after all - it could have been any one of the people here.
'Look,' said Duncan, jabbing at the pictures with his finger. 'Here, here, and here. Just look at them, will you. Look at this fat guy - what's this in his mouth?'
'Maybe it's a Twiglet,' I suggested.
Duncan jabbed again. 'And what about the shape on the sofa?'
'What about it?' He pointed, and I looked. In the background of some of the prints was a couch with two women on it. They could have been twins, each with the same blank face and slicked-back hair, each clutching a wineglass, and perched stiffly, head cocked as if listening to her master's voice. I'd seen both of them, before - behind the reception desk at Multiglom Tower.
There was space between them, and in that space a blur. 'Yes, well, that's definitely someone moving,' I said, shuffling through the blow-ups. In each
of the pictures in which the couch was visible, the space between the blank-faced women was occupied by that same blur. You could see there was someone there, but you couldn't make out arms, or legs, or facial features.
'Try this one,' Duncan said, handing me another print - an enlargement of the blur on the couch, blown up so it almost filled the paper. The image was nearly lost in the grain, but you could see it was a woman, and that she had long dark hair.
Duncan helped himself to one of my cigarettes and lit up. He ran his free hand through his hair, leaving it sticking out at odd angles. His spectacles were perched halfway down his nose and he looked completely mad. 'She never did like having her picture taken,' he said.
'Who?' Now I was deliberately being dense. Duncan rolled his eyeballs. He pulled open one of the drawers in his filing cabinet, extracted a folder, and handed it to me. The photographs inside were printed on bromide, not on the modern resin-coated stuff, and the edges had never quite lost their curl. I recognized the locations: Kensal Rise, Highgate, Abney Park. The old cemetery circuit. All night-time views, all taken after dark, with flash.
'You did these at college?' Duncan nodded. There were stone angels, and Grecian urns, and Latin inscriptions, and crumbling dogs, and weeping women, and egg-timers with wings. And in each of the pictures, sometimes flitting through the trees in the background, but occasionally to one side at the front of the frame, I saw the blurred shape of someone who had shifted at the precise instant the shutter had been pressed.