The Hellbound Heart

  Her very sanity was at stake here; she had no choice but to fight back, and quickly.

  Before Frank had a chance to press his suit any harder, her hands went up to his face, fingers gouging at his eyeholes and mouth. The flesh beneath the bandage had the consistency of jelly; it came away in globs, and with it, a wet heat.

  The beast shouted out, his grip on her relaxing. Seizing the moment, she threw herself out from under him, the momentum carrying her against the wall with enough force to badly wind her.

  Again, Frank roared. She didn’t waste time enjoying his discomfort, but slid along the wall—not trusting her legs sufficiently to move into open territory—toward the door.

  As she advanced, her feet sent an unlidded jar of preserved ginger rolling across the room, spilling syrup and fruit alike.

  Frank turned toward her, the bandaging about his face hanging in scarlet loops where she’d torn it away. In several places the bone was exposed. Even now, he ran his hands over the wounds, roars of horror coming as he sought to measure the degree of his maiming. Had she blinded him? She wasn’t sure. Even if she had it was only a matter of time before he located her in this small room, and when he did his rage would know no bounds. She had to reach the door before he reoriented himself.

  Faint hope! She hadn’t a moment to take a step before he dropped his hands from his face and scanned the room. He saw her, no doubt of that. A beat later, he was bearing down upon her with renewed violence.

  At her feet lay a lifter of domestic items.

  The heaviest item amongst them was a plain box. She reached down and picked it up. As she stood upright, he was upon her. She loosed a cry of defiance and swung the box-bearing fist at his head. It connected heavily; bone splintered. The beast tottered backward, and she launched herself toward the door, but before she reached it the shadow swamped her once more, and she was flung backward across the room. It came in a raging pursuit.

  This time he had no intention beyond the murderous. His lashes were intended to kill; that they did not was testament less to her speed than to the imprecision of his fury.

  Nevertheless, one out of every three blows caught her. Gashes opened in her face and upper chest; it was all she could do to prevent herself from fainting.

  As she sank beneath his assault, again she remembered the weapon she’d found. The box was still in her hand. She raised it to deliver another blow, but as Frank’s eyes came to rest on the box his assault abruptly ceased.

  There was a panting respite, in which Kirsty had a chance to wonder if death might not be easier than further flight. Then Frank raised his arm toward her, unfurled his fist and said: “Give it to me.”

  He wanted his keepsake, it seemed. But she had no intention of relinquishing her only weapon.

  “No,” she said.

  He made the demand a second time, and there was a distinct anxiety in his tone. It seemed the box was too precious for him to risk taking it by force.

  “One last time,” he said to her. “Then I’ll kill you. Give me the box.”

  She weighed the chances. What had she left to lose?

  “Say please,” she said.

  He regarded her quizzically, a soft growl in his throat. Then, polite as a calculating child, he said, “Please.”

  The word was her cue. She threw the box at the window with all the strength her trembling arm possessed. It sailed past Frank’s head, shattering the glass, and disappeared from sight.

  “No!” he shrieked, and was at the window in a heartbeat. “No! No! No!”

  She raced to the door, her legs threatening to fail her with every step. Then she was out onto the landing. The stairs almost defeated her, but she clung to the bannister like a geriatric, and made it to the hallway without falling.

  Above, there was further din. He was calling after her again. But this time she would not be caught. She fled along the hallway to the front door, and flung it open.

  The day had brightened since she’d first entered the house—a defiant burst of sunlight before evening fell. Squinting against the glare she started down the pathway.

  There was glass underfoot, and amongst the shards, her weapon. She picked it up, a sou-venir of her defiance, and ran. As she reached the street proper, words began to come—a hopeless babble, fragments of things seen and felt. But Lodovico Street was deserted, so she began to run, and kept running until she had put a good distance between her and the bandaged beast.

  Eventually, wandering on some street she didn’t recognize, somebody asked her if she needed help. The little kindness defeated her, for the effort of making some coherent reply to the inquiry was too much, and her exhausted mind lost its hold on the light.

  She woke in a blizzard, or such was her first impression. Above her, a perfect whiteness, snow on snow. She was tucked up in snow, pillowed in snow. The blankness was sickening. It seemed to fill up her throat and eyes.

  She raised her hands in front of her face; they smelled of an unfamiliar soap, whose perfume was harsh. Now she began to focus: the walls, the pristine sheets, the medication beside the bed. A hospital.

  She called out for help. Hours or minutes later, she wasn’t sure which, it came, in the form of a nurse who simply said, “You’re awake,” and went to fetch her superiors.

  She told them nothing when they came.

  She had decided in the time between the nurse’s disappearance and reappearance with the doctors that this was not a story she was ready to tell. Tomorrow (maybe) she might find the words to convince them of what she’d seen. But today? If she tried to explain, they would stroke her brow and tell her to hush her nonsense, condescend to her and try to persuade her she was hallucinating. If she pressed the point, they’d probably sedate her, which would make matters worse. What she needed was time to think.

  All of this she’d worked out before they arrived, so that when they asked her what had happened she had her lies ready. It was all a fog, she told them; she could barely remember her own name. It will come back in time, they reassured her, and she replied meekly that she supposed it would. Sleep now, they said, and she told them she’d be happy to do just that, and yawned. They withdrew then.

  “Oh, yes. . .” said one of them as he was about to go. “I forgot. . .”

  He brought Frank’s box from his pocket.

  “You were holding on to this,” he said, “when you were found. We had the Devil’s own job getting it out of your hand. Does it mean anything to you?”

  She said it didn’t.

  “The police have looked at it. There was blood on it, you see. Maybe yours. Maybe not.”

  He approached the bed.

  “Do you want it?” he asked her. Then added, “It has been cleaned.”

  “Yes,” she replied. “Yes, please.”

  “It may jog your memory,” he told her, and put it down on the bedside table.

  “What are we going to do?” Julia demanded for the hundredth time. The man in the corner said nothing; nor was there any in-terpretable sign on his ruin of a face. “What did you want with her anyway?” she asked him. “You’ve spoiled everything.”

  “Spoiled?” said the monster. “You don’t know the meaning of spoiled.”

  She swallowed her anger. His brooding unnerved her.

  “We have to leave, Frank,” she said, softening her tone.

  He threw a look across at her, white-hot ice.

  “They’ll come looking,” she said. “She’ll tell them everything.”

  “Maybe...”

  “Don’t you care?” she demanded.

  The bandaged lump shrugged. “Yes,” he said. “Of course. But we can’t leave, sweetheart.” Sweetheart. The word mocked them both, a breath of sentiment in a room that had known only pain. “I can’t face the world like this.” He gestured to his face. “Can I?” he said, staring up at her. “Look at me.” She looked. “Can I?”

  “No.”

  “No.” He went back to perusing the floor.

  “I need
a skin, Julia.”

  A skin?

  “Then, maybe. . . maybe we can go dancing together. Isn’t that what you want?”

  He spoke of both dancing and death with equal nonchalance, as though one carried as little significance as the other. It calmed her, hearing him talk that way.

  “How?” she said at last. Meaning, how can a skin be stolen, but also, how will our sanity survive?

  “There are ways,” said the flayed face, and blew her a kiss.

  Had it not been for the white walls she might never have picked up the box. Had there been a picture to look at-a vase of sun-flowers, or a view of pyramids—anything to break the monotony of the room, she would have been content to stare at it, and think.

  But the blankness was too much; it gave her no handhold on sanity. So she reached across to the table beside the bed and picked up the box.

  It was heavier than she remembered. She had to sit up in bed to examine it. There was little enough to see. No lid that she could find. No keyhole. No hinges. If she turned it over once she turned it half a hundred times, finding no clue to how it might be opened. It was not solid, she was certain of that. So logic demanded that there be a way into it.

  But where?

  She tapped it, shook it, pulled and pressed it, all without result. It was not until she rolled over in bed and examined it in the full glare of the lamp that she discovered some clue as to how the box was constructed.

  There were infinitesimal cracks in the sides of the box, where one piece of the puzzle abutted the next. They would have been invisible, but that a residue of blood remained in them, tracing the complex relation of the parts.

  Systematically, she began to feel her way over the sides, testing her hypothesis by pushing and pulling once more. The cracks offered her a general geography of the toy; without them she might have wandered the six sides forever. But the options were significantly reduced by the clues she’d found there were only so many ways the box could be made to come apart

  After a time, her patience was rewarded.

  A click, and suddenly one of the compartments was sliding out from beside its lacquered neighbors. Within, there was beauty.

  Polished surfaces which scintillated like the finest mother-of-pearl, colored shadows seeming to move in the gloss.

  And there was music too; a simple tune emerged from the box, played on a mechanism that she could not yet see. Enchanted, she delved further. Though one piece had been removed, the rest did not come readily.

  Each segment presented a fresh challenge to fingers and mind, the victories rewarded with a further filigree added to the tune.

  She was coaxing the fourth section out by an elaborate series of turns and counter turns, when she heard the bell. She stopped working, and looked up.

  Something was wrong. Either her weary eyes were playing tricks or the blizzard-white walls had moved subtly out of true.

  She put down the box, and slipped out of bed to go to the window. The bell still rang, a solemn tolling. She drew back the curtain a few inches. It was night, and windy. Leaves migrated across the hospital lawn; moths congregated in the lamplight. Unlikely as it seemed, the sound of the bell wasn’t coming from outside. It was behind her. She let the curtain drop and turned back into the room.

  As she did so, the bulb in the bedside light guttered like a living flame.

  Instinctively, she reached for the pieces of the box: they and these strange events were intertwined somehow. As her hand found the fragments, the light blew out.

  She was not left in darkness however; nor was she alone. There was a soft phosphorescence at the end of the bed, and in its folds, a figure. The condition of its flesh beggared her imagination—the hooks, the scars. Yet its voice, when it spoke, was not that of a creature in pain.

  “It’s called the Lemarchand Configuration,” it said, pointing at the box. She looked down; the pieces were no longer in her hand, but floating inches above her palm. Miraculously, the box was reassembling itself without visible aid, the pieces sliding back together as the whole construction turned over and over. As it did so she caught fresh glimpses of the polished interior, and seemed to see ghosts’ faces—twisted as if by grief or bad glass—howling back at her.

  Then all but one of the segments was sealed up, and the visitor was claiming her attention afresh.

  “The box is a means to break the surface of the real,” it said. “A kind of invocation by which we Cenobites can be notified—”

  “Who?” she said.

  “You did it in ignorance,” the visitor said.

  “Am I right?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s happened before,” came the reply.

  “But there’s no help for it. No way to seal the Schism, until we take what’s ours . . .”

  “This is a mistake,” she said.

  “Don’t try to fight. It’s quite beyond your control. You have to accompany me.”

  She shook her head. She’d had enough of bullying nightmares to last her a lifetime.

  “I won’t go with you,” she said. “Damn you, I won’t—”

  As she spoke, the door opened. A nurse she didn’t recognize—a member of the night shift presumably—was standing there.

  “Did you call out?” she asked.

  Kirsty looked at the Cenobite, then back at the nurse. They stood no more than a yard apart.

  “She doesn’t see me,” it told her. “Nor hear me. I belong to you, Kirsty. And you to me.”

  “No,” she said.

  “Are you sure?” said the nurse. “I thought I heard—”

  Kirsty shook her head. It was lunacy, all lunacy.

  “You should be in bed,” the nurse chided.

  “You’ll catch your death.”

  The Cenobite tittered.

  “I’ll be back in five minutes,” said the nurse. “Please go back to sleep.”

  And she was gone again.

  “We’d better go,” it said. “Leave them to their patchwork, eh? Such depressing places.”

  “You can’t do this,” she insisted.

  It moved toward her nevertheless. A row of tiny bells, depending from the scraggy flesh of its neck, tinkled as it approached.

  The stink it gave off made her want to heave.

  “Wait,” she said.

  “No tears, please. It’s a waste of good suffering.”

  “The box,” she said in desperation.

  “Don’t you want to know where I got the box?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “Frank Cotton,” she said. “Does the name mean anything to you? Frank Cotton.”

  The Cenobite smiled.

  “Oh yes. We know Frank.”

  “He solved the box too, am I right?”

  “He wanted pleasure, until we gave it to him. Then he squirmed.”

  “If I took you to him . . .”

  “He’s alive then?”

  “Very much alive.”

  “And you’re proposing what? That I take him back instead of you?”

  “Yes. Yes. Why not? Yes.”

  The Cenobite moved away from her. The room sighed.

  “I’m tempted,” it said. Then: “But perhaps you’re cheating me. Perhaps this is a lie, to buy you time.”

  “I know where he is, for God’s sake,” she said. “He did this to me!” She presented her slashed arms for its perusal.

  “If you’re lying”—it said—“if you’re trying to squirm your way out of this—”

  “I’m not.”

  “Deliver him alive to us then . . .”

  She wanted to weep with relief.

  “. . . make him confess himself. And maybe we won’t tear your soul apart.”

  Rory stood in the hallway and stared at Julia, his Julia, the woman he had once sworn to have and to hold till death did them part. It had not seemed such a difficult promise to keep at the time. He had idolized her for as long as he could remember, dreaming of her by night and spending the days composing
love poems of wild ineptitude to her. But things had changed, and he had learned, as he watched them change, that the greatest torments were often the subtlest. There had been times of late when he would have preferred a death by wild horses to the itch of suspicion that had so degraded his joy.

  Now, as he looked at her standing at the bottom of the stairs, it was impossible for him to even remember how good things had once been. All was doubt and dirt.

  One thing he was glad of: she looked troubled. Maybe that meant there was a confession in the air, indiscretions that she would pour out and that he would forgive her for in a welter of tears and understanding.

  “You look sad,” he said.

  She hesitated, then said: “It’s difficult, Rory.”

  “What is?”

  She seemed to want to give up before she began.

  “What is?” he pressed.

  “I’ve so much to tell you.”

  Her hand, he saw, was grasping the banister so tightly the knuckles burned white.

  “I’m listening,” he said. He would love her again, if she’d just be honest with him. “Tell me,” he said.

  “I think maybe. . . maybe it would be easier if I showed you. . .” she told him, and so saying, led him upstairs.

  The wind that harried the streets was not warm, to judge by the way the pedestrians drew their collars up and their faces down.

  But Kirsty didn’t feel the chill. Was it her invisible companion who kept the cold from her, cloaking her with that fire the Ancients had conjured to burn sinners in? Either that, or she was too frightened to feel anything.

  But then that wasn’t how she felt; she wasn’t frightened. The feeling in her gut was far more ambiguous. She had opened a door— the same door Rory’s brother had opened— and now she was walking with demons. And at the end of her travels, she would have her revenge. She would find the thing that had torn her and tormented her, and make him feel the powerlessness that she had suffered. She would watch him squirm. More, she would enjoy it. Pain had made a sadist of her.