The Hellbound Heart

  He said again: “No bed.”

  “What’s wrong with the floor?” she replied.

  “The floor?”

  “Take off your jacket. You’re warm.”

  “I am,” he agreed, but did nothing, so she moved across to him, and began to slip the knot of his tie. He was trembling, poor lamb.

  Poor, bleatless lamb. While she removed the tie, he began to shrug off his jacket.

  Was Frank watching this? she wondered.

  Her eyes strayed momentarily to the wall.

  Yes, she thought; he’s there. He sees. He knows. He licks his lips and grows impatient.

  The lamb spoke. “Why don’t you . . .” he began, “why don’t you maybe . . . do the same?”

  “Would you like to see me naked?” she teased. The words made his eyes gleam.

  “Yes,” he said thickly. “Yes. I’d like that.”

  “Very much?”

  “Very much.”

  He was unbuttoning his shirt.

  “Maybe you will,” she said.

  He gave her that dwarf smile again.

  “Is it a game?” he ventured.

  “If you want it to be,” she said, and helped him out of his shirt. His body was pale and waxy, like a fungus. His upper chest was heavy, his belly too. She put her hands to his face. He kissed her fingertips.

  “You’re beautiful,” he said, spitting the words out as though they’d been vexing him for hours.

  “Am I?”

  “You know you are. Lovely. Loveliest woman I ever set eyes on.”

  “That’s gallant of you,” she said, and turned back to the door. Behind her she heard his belt buckle clink, and the sound of cloth slipping over skin as he dropped his trousers.

  So far and no farther, she thought. She had no wish to see him babe-naked. It was enough to have him like this—

  She reached into the jacket pocket.

  “Oh dear,” the lamb suddenly said.

  She let the knife lie. “What is it?” she asked, turning to look at him. If the ring on his finger hadn’t already given his status away, she would have known him to be a married man by the underpants he wore: baggy and over-washed, an unflattering garment bought by a wife who had long since ceased to think of her husband in sexual terms.

  “ I think I need to empty my bladder,” he said. “Too many whiskies.”

  She shrugged a small shrug, and turned back to the door.

  “Won’t be a moment,” he said at her back.

  But her hand was in the jacket pocket before the words were out, and as he stepped towards the door, she turned on him, slaughtering knife in hand.

  His pace was too quick to see the blade until the very last moment, and even then it was bemusement that crossed his face, not fear. It was a short-lived look. The knife was in him a moment after, slicing his belly with the ease of a blade in overripe cheese. She opened one cut, and then another.

  As the blood started, she was certain the room flickered, the bricks and mortar trembling to see the spurts that flew from him.

  She had a breath’s length to admire the phenomena, no more, before the lamb let out a wheezing curse, and—instead of moving out of the knife’s range as she had anticipated— took a step toward her and knocked the weapon from her hand. It spun across the floorboards and collided with the skirting.

  Then he was upon her.

  He put his hand into her hair and took a fistful. It seemed his intention was not violence but escape, for he relinquished his hold as soon as he’d pulled away from the door.

  She fell against the wall, looking up to see him wrestling with the door handle, his free, hand clamped to his cuts.

  She was quick now. Across to where the knife lay, up, and back toward him in one fluid motion. He had got the door open by inches, but not far enough. She brought the knife down in the middle of his pockmarked back. He yelled, and released the door handle. She was already drawing the knife out, and plunging into him a second time, and now a third and a fourth. Indeed she lost count of the wounds she made, her attack lent venom by his refusal to lie down and die. He stumbled around the room, grieving and complaining, blood following blood onto his buttocks and legs. Finally, after an age of this farcical stuff, he keeled over and hit the floor.

  This time she was certain her senses did not deceive her. The room, or the spirit in it, responded with soft sighs of anticipation.

  Somewhere, a bell was ringing...

  Almost as an afterthought, she registered that the lamb had stopped breathing. She crossed the blood-spangled floor to where he lay, and said:

  “Enough?”

  Then she went to wash her face.

  As she moved down the landing she heard the room groan—there was no other word for it. She stopped in her tracks, almost tempted to go back. But the blood was drying on her hands, and its stickiness revolted her.

  In the bathroom she stripped off her flower-patterned blouse, and rinsed first her hands, then her speckled arms, and finally her neck. The dowsing both chilled and braced her. It felt good. That done, she washed the knife, rinsed the sink and returned along the landing without bothering to dry herself or to dress.

  She had no need for either. The room was like a furnace, as the dead man’s energies pulsed from his body. They didn’t get far. Already the blood on the floor was crawling away toward the wall where Frank was, the beads seeming to boil and evaporate as they came within range of the skirting boards.

  She watched, entranced. But there was more.

  Something was happening to the corpse. It was being drained of every nutritious element, the body convulsing as its innards were sucked out, gases moaning in its bowels and throat, the skin desiccating in front of her startled eyes. At one point the plastic teeth dropped back into the gullet, the gums withered around them.

  And in mere moments, it was done. Anything the body might have usefully offered by way of nourishment had been taken; the husk that remained would not have sustained a family of fleas. She was impressed.

  Suddenly, the bulb began to flicker. She looked to the wall, expecting it to tremble and spit her lover from hiding. But no. The bulb went out. There was only the dim light that crept through the age-beaten blind.

  “Where are you?” she said.

  The walls remained mute.

  “Where are you?”

  Still nothing. The room was cooling. Her breasts had grown gooseflesh. She peered down at the luminous watch on the lamb’s shriveled arm. It ticked away, indifferent to the apocalypse that had overtaken its owner.

  It read 4:41. Rory would be back anytime after 5:15, depending on how dense the traffic was. She had work to do before then.

  Bundling up the blue suit and the rest of his clothes, she put them in several plastic bags, and then went in search of a larger bag for the remains. She had expected Frank to be here to help her with this labor, but as he hadn’t shown she had no choice but to do it herself. When she came back to the room, the deterioration of the lamb was still continuing, though now much slowed. Perhaps Frank was still finding nutriments to squeeze from the corpse, but she doubted it. More likely the pauperized body, sucked clean of marrow and every vital fluid, was no longer strong enough to support itself. When she had parceled it up in the bag, it was the weight of a small child, no more. Sealing the bag up, she was about to take it down to the car when she heard the front door open.

  The sound undammed all the panic she’d so assiduously kept from herself. She began to shake. Tears pricked her sinuses.

  “Not now. . . ” she told herself, but the feelings would simply not be suppressed any longer.

  In the hallway below, Rory said: “Sweetheart?”

  Sweetheart! She could have laughed, but for the terror. She was here if he wanted to find her—his sweetheart, his honey bun—with her breasts new-washed, and a dead man in her arms.

  “Where are you?”

  She hesitated before replying, not certain that her larynx was the equal of the deception
.

  He called a third time, his voice changing timbre as he walked through into the kitchen.

  It would take him a moment only to discover that she wasn’t at the cooker stirring sauce; then he would come back and head up the stairs. She had ten seconds, fifteen at most.

  Attempting to keep her tread as light as possible, for fear he heard her movements overhead, she carried the bundle to the spare room at the end of the landing. Too small to be used as a bedroom (except perhaps for a child), they had, used it as a dump. Half-emptied tea chests, pieces of furniture they had not found a place for, all manner of rubbish. Here she laid the body to rest awhile, behind an upended armchair. Then she locked the door behind her, just as Rory called from the bottom of the stairs. He was coming up.

  “Julia? Julia, sweetheart. Are you there?”

  She slipped into the bathroom, and consulted the mirror. It showed her a flushed portrait.

  She picked up the blouse she’d left hanging over the side of the bath and put it on. It smelled stale, and there was undoubtedly blood spattered between the flowers, but she had nothing else to wear.

  He was coming along the landing; she heard his elephantine tread.

  “Julia?”

  This time, she answered—making no attempt to disguise the tremulous quality of her voice. The mirror had confirmed what she feared: that there was no way she could pass herself off as undistressed. She was obliged to make a virtue of the liability.

  “Are you all right?” he asked her. He was outside the door.

  “No,” she said. “I’m feeling sick.”

  “Oh, darling . . .”

  “I’ll be fine in a minute.”

  He tried the handle, but she’d bolted the door.

  “Can you leave me alone for a little while?”

  “Do you want a doctor?”

  “No,” she told him. “No. Really. But I wouldn’t mind a brandy—”

  “Brandy . . .”

  “I’ll be down in two ticks.”

  “Whatever madam wants,” he quipped.

  She counted his steps as he trudged to the stairs, then descended. Once she’d calculated that he was out of earshot, she slid back the bolt and stepped onto the landing.

  The late afternoon light was failing quickly; the landing was a murky tunnel.

  Downstairs, she heard the clink of glass on glass. She moved as quickly as she dared to Frank’s room.

  There was no sound from the gloomed interior. The walls no longer trembled, nor did distant bells toll. She pushed the door open; it creaked slightly.

  She had not entirely tidied up after her labors. There was dust on the floor, human dust, and fragments of dried flesh. She went down on her haunches and collected them up diligently. Rory had been right. What a perfect hausfrau she made.

  As she stood up again, something shifted in the ever-denser shadows of the room. She looked in the direction of the movement, but before her eyes could make sense of the form in the corner, a voice said: “Don’t look at me.”

  It was a tired voice—the voice of somebody used up by events; but it was concrete.

  The syllables were carried on the same air that she breathed.

  “Frank,” she said.

  “Yes. . . ”came the broken voice, “it’s me.”

  From downstairs, Rory called up to her.

  “Are you feeling better?”

  She went to the door.

  “Much better,” she responded. At her back the hidden thing said: “Don’t let him near me,” the words coming fast and fierce.

  “It’s all right,” she whispered to him.

  Then, to Rory: “I’ll be with you in a minute.

  Put on some music. Something soothing.”

  Rory replied that he would, and retired to the lounge.

  “I’m only half-made,” Frank’s voice said.

  “I don’t want you to see me . . . don’t want anybody to see me. . . not like this . . .” The words were halting once more, and wretched.

  “I have to have more blood, Julia.”

  “More?”

  “And soon.”

  “How much more?” she asked the shadows. This time she caught a better glimpse of what lay in wait there. No wonder he wanted no one to look.

  “Just more,” he said. Though the volume was barely above a whisper, there was an urgency in the voice that made her afraid.

  “I have to go . . .” she said, hearing music from below.

  This time the darkness made no reply. At the door, she turned back.

  “I’m glad you came,” she said. As she closed the door, she heard a sound not unlike laughter behind her, nor unlike sobs.

  Kirsty? Is that you?”

  “Yes? Who is this?”

  “It’s Rory . . .”

  The line was watery, as though the deluge outside had seeped down the phone. Still, she was happy to hear from him. He called up so seldom, and when he did it was usually on behalf of both himself and Julia. Not this time however. This time Julia was the subject under discussion.

  “There’s something wrong with her, Kirsty,” he said. “I don’t know what.”

  “Ill, you mean?”

  “Maybe. She’s just so strange with me.

  And she looks terrible.”

  “Have you said anything to her?”

  “She says she’s fine. But she isn’t. I wondered if maybe she’d spoken with you.”

  “I haven’t set eyes on her since your housewarming.”

  “That’s another thing. She doesn’t even want to leave the house. That’s not like her.”

  “Do you want me to. . . to have a word with her?”

  “Would you?”

  “I don’t know if it’ll do any good, but I’ll try.”

  “Don’t say anything about me talking to you.”

  “Of course not. I’ll call in at the house tomorrow—”

  (“Tomorrow. It has to be tomorrow.”

  “Yes. . . I know.”

  “I’m afraid I’ll lose my grip, Julia. Start slipping back. ”)

  “I’ll give you a call from the office on Thursday. You can tell me what you make of her.”

  (“Slipping back?”

  “They’ll know I’ve gone by now.”

  “Who will?”

  “The Gash. The bastards that took me...”

  “They’re waiting for you?”

  “Just beyond the wall. ”)

  Rory told her how grateful he was, and she in turn told him that it was the least a friend could do. Then he put down the phone, leaving her listening to the rain on the empty line.

  Now they were both Julia’s creatures, looking after her welfare, fretting for her if she had bad dreams.

  No matter, it was a kind of togetherness.

  The man with the white tie had not bided his time. Almost as soon as he set eyes on Julia he came across to her. She decided, even as he approached, that he was not suit-able. Too big; too confident. After the way the first one had, fought, she was determined to choose with care. So, when White Tie asked what she was drinking, she told him to leave her be.

  He was apparently used to rejections, and took it in his stride, withdrawing to the bar. She returned to her drink.

  It was raining heavily today—had been raining now for seventy-two hours, on and off—and there were fewer customers than there had been the week before. One or two drowned rats headed in from the street, but none looked her way for more than a few moments. And time was moving on. It was already past two. She wasn’t going to risk getting caught again by Rory’s return. She emptied her glass, and decided that this was not Frank’s lucky day. Then she stepped out of the bar into the downpour, put up her umbrella, and headed back to the car. As she went she heard footsteps behind her, and then White Tie was at her side and saying:

  “My hotel’s nearby.”

  “Oh . . .” she said and kept on walking.

  But he wasn’t going to be shrugged off so easily.

&nb
sp; “I’m only here for two days,” he said.

  Don’t tempt me, she thought.

  “Just looking for some companionship...”

  he went on. “I haven’t spoken to a soul.”

  “Is that right?”

  He took hold of her wrist. A grip so tight she almost cried out. That was when she knew she was going to have to kill him. He seemed to see the desire in her eyes.

  “My hotel?” he said.

  “I don’t much like hotels. They’re so impersonal.”

  “Have you got a better idea?” he said to her.

  She had, of course.

  He hung his dripping raincoat on the hall stand, and she offered him a drink, which he welcomed. His name was Patrick, and he was from Newcastle.

  “Down on business. Can’t seem to get much done.”

  “Why’s that?”

  He shrugged. “I’m probably a bad salesman. Simple as that.”

  “What do you sell?” she asked him.

  “What do you care?” he replied, razor quick.

  She grinned. She would have to get him upstairs quickly, before she started to enjoy his company.

  “Why don’t we dispense with the small talk?” she said. It was a stale line, but it was the first thing that came to her tongue. He swallowed the last of his drink in one gulp, and went where she led.

  This time she had not left the door ajar. It was locked, which plainly intrigued him.

  “After you,” he said, when the door swung open.

  She went first. He followed. This time, she had decided, there would be no stripping.

  If some nourishment was soaked up by his clothes then so be it; she was not going to give him a chance to realize that they weren’t alone in the room.

  “Going to fuck on the floor, are we?” he asked casually.

  “Any objections?”

  “Not if it suits you,” he said and clamped his mouth over hers, his tongue frisking her teeth for cavities. There was some passion in him, she mused; she could feel him hard against her already. But she had work to do here: blood to spill and a mouth to feed.

  She broke his kiss, and tried to slip from his arms. The knife was back in the jacket on the door. While it was out of reach she had little power to resist him.

  “What’s the problem?” he said.