It never spoke to her again after the night it said it was the Devil. Melly thought it might be embarrassed to have made such a claim, or possibly embarrassed to have provoked her angry response, like an overtired child who doesn’t realize he’s being obnoxious until he goes a step too far and his mother yells at him. She did not feel that the spirit had ever been angry with her; in retrospect, even making the crucifix stick to her back seemed little more than a desperate way of getting attention. Why it had wanted her attention so badly she didn’t know, nor did she wish to ponder the question.
The nights of rapping and banging came farther apart; there would be two in a week, then one, then none for two or three weeks. When they did come, the raps and flying objects seemed weaker somehow, as if the force behind them were winding down. No further scribbles appeared in Rosalie’s drawing pad. Gary, though he was talking a blue streak now, said nothing more about a lady.
As Melly lay in bed one night, she felt something strange happening in her viscera. At first she thought she was bleeding, but there was no wetness, only a sensation of something warm draining from her. She put her hand on the concavity beneath her breasts, but it began to tingle unpleasantly and she took it away again. A few minutes later the sensation stopped. She felt wonderfully relaxed. It was as if she had been in pain for a long time, and had gotten so used to it that she no longer noticed the pain until it stopped.
After that night there were no more noises, no more strange happenings at all. For some time there was an undercurrent of tension in the house and among the family, as if they were bracing themselves for another assault. None came. “I miss the ghost,” Henry said at the dinner table one night.
Mary Rose turned on him. “There was no ghost in this house, young man! Say anything like that again and I’ll warm the seat of your pants for you!”
Henry’s mouth fell open, affording everyone an unlovely view of half-chewed braciola. Poor Henry, Melly thought. That was probably the most exciting year of his life, and Momma’s never even gonna let him talk about it.
She didn’t want to talk about it either, though. Henry would have to sift through his memories alone.
Another year passed. Melly grew a couple more inches, but nothing like the rapid stretch she’d experienced just before the odd events began. Gradually she stopped fearing that she was going to be a circus freak, the Giant Lady. She’d probably gotten some extra height from Elmer, that was all. She joined the math club at school, went out on a few dates, got involved with Saints Peter and Paul’s youth group. All she wanted in the world was to be a normal teenage girl; she wanted that so badly that she thought she could taste acceptance, sweet on her tongue, when other kids treated her as just one of them. Kids who had no idea that a crucifix had once clung to her back like it was a magnet and she was iron, kids who never suspected that something possibly dead had once knocked on her bedroom wall.
When the scratching started up again, so soft and sly that at first it might have been her imagination, she thought for one black moment of just putting a bullet in her head. Elmer didn’t like guns, but crime in the neighborhood had begun to spiral upward, and he had one on the high shelf of the bedroom closet. Melly knew where the bullets were kept. But she didn’t want to die, and she wasn’t going to let this stupid mindless thing tempt her into it. She rolled over and went back to sleep.
At breakfast the next morning, the saltshaker rose off the table and floated across the kitchen. Henry’s face lit up, and he began to say something. As Mary Rose’s eye fell upon him, he shut his mouth with a snap. Everyone else ignored it, even Gary, who at three was exquisitely sensitive to the feelings and wants of his family. He got along with everybody, and wouldn’t dare mention the floating saltshaker once he’d observed that the others didn’t want to see it. Melly could see that Henry still wanted to say something, but she added her own glare to Mary Rose’s, and he wilted.
There were a few more raps, a few more scratches. Then the sounds stopped again, and for a few days there was a distinctly injured air to the house, as if some unseen presence felt rejected. Then there was nothing except the usual vibrant atmosphere of a house full of children.
Melly had skipped Saint Joseph’s Day last year, but this year Gary and Rosalie were going to be angels in Teresa’s tupa-tupa, the ceremony in which the Holy Family entered the home and were fed from the altar. She couldn’t stand to miss that, so she squared her shoulders, steeled her spine, and accompanied the family to Teresa’s house.
Cousin Angelina was playing the Blessed Virgin Mary. As soon as they got there, Melly saw her standing near the altar, slightly pudgy in a white dress, a light blue headscarf, and her usual pink-framed glasses that made her eyes look a little like a white rabbit’s. She stuck out her tongue at Melly. Melly held her nose and crossed her eyes. “Who’s gonna be Saint Joseph?” she whispered to Mary Rose.
“Well, Teresa wanted Pete to do it, but he said that’d be incestuous since he’s Angelina’s father. So they got some boy from the neighborhood. I don’t know his name.” As she spoke, Mary Rose herded her pair of angels up the driveway toward the carport. They were dressed in white gowns with posterboard wings and tinsel halos. Flashbulbs started going off as if they were walking the red carpet at the Academy Awards. Gary looked a little scared. Rosalie looked smug, as if she’d always known she was destined for stardom.
Drawing closer to the altar, Melly caught sight of Saint Joseph, a tall, slim boy wearing a rough brown robe and carrying a crooked staff. He turned, and she saw that it was the boy who had held her hand in the circle dance two years ago, the boy who looked a little like Paul McCartney. The boy who had seen her crying in the street with the shape of a crucifix embedded in her flesh.
Just as she was about to look away, he gave her a smile so sweet it made her stomach flutter. “How you doing?” he said. “I looked for you last year, but you weren’t here.”
“I . . . I wasn’t feeling too good last year.”
“Well, nice to see you. Maybe you’ll dance with me later, huh?”
“Sure.” Then, before she knew what was going to come out of her mouth, she said, “But I’m staying out of the circle dance!”
For a moment he looked almost shocked, and she was sorry she’d said it. Then something else dawned on his face, a mixture of surprise and admiration. He hadn’t thought she would have the guts to bring it up, she guessed. From the corner of her eye she saw Angelina watching them jealously.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’d do that if I were you. This year the whole altar might just rise up and bash you on the head.”
“You never know.”
He turned away and headed for the house. Behind her, Melly heard Mary Rose urging the angels, “Follow Mr. Joe. Y’all gonna eat soon.”
“I’ll take ’em,” said Melly. She coaxed Gary and Rosalie into the house, dropped them off with the ladies who were coordinating the tupa-tupa, and went into the kitchen to see if she could help with the food.
Aunt Teresa was at the stove fussing over a huge pot of red gravy. She turned and saw Melly, and for a moment fear flickered in her eyes, or maybe just sorrow. Melly wondered if she should have come after all. Then Teresa smiled, held out her arms, and drew Melly to her.
Later, as she was standing with Paul (whose real name turned out to be Tony, but she couldn’t get that first impression out of her head, wasn’t even particularly anxious to do so) looking at the altar, she saw the gold crucifix that had stuck to her back. She could tell it was the same one because there was a big blob of dried glue showing between the figure of Jesus and the cross. A rosary made of painted fava beans was looped over it, and there were oranges arranged around its base. Melly reached out a hand, hesitated, then gently touched the crucifix.
“Good-bye,” she said under her breath, and was relieved when nothing answered her.
REPORTS of CERTAIN EVENTS in LONDON
by CHINA MIÉVILLE
ON THE TWENTY-SEVENTH OF NOVEMBER 2000, a pack
age was delivered to my house. This happens all the time—since becoming a professional writer the amount of mail I get has increased enormously. The flap of the envelope had been torn open a strip, allowing someone to look inside. This also isn’t unusual: because, I think, of my political life (I am a varyingly active member of a left-wing group, and once stood in an election for the Socialist Alliance), I regularly find, to my continuing outrage, that my mail has been peered into.
I mention this to explain why it was that I opened something not addressed to me. I, China Miéville, live on ——ley Road. This package was addressed to a Charles Melville, of the same house number, ——ford Road. No postcode was given, and it had found its way, slowly, to me. Seeing a large packet torn half-open by some cavalier spy, I simply assumed it was mine and opened it.
It took me a good few minutes to realise my mistake: the covering note contained no greeting by name to alert me. I read it along with the first few of the enclosed papers with growing bewilderment, convinced (absurd as this must sound) that this was to do with some project or other I had got involved with and then forgotten. When finally I looked again at the name on the envelope, I was wholly surprised.
That was the point at which I was morally culpable, rather than simply foolish. By then I was too fascinated by what I had read to stop.
I’ve reproduced the content of the papers below, with explanatory notes. Unless otherwise stated they’re photocopies, some stapled together, some attached with paper clips, many with pages missing. I’ve tried to keep them in the order they came in; they are not always chronological. Before I had a sense of what was in front of me, I was casual about how I put the papers down. I can’t vouch that this was how they were originally organised.
{Cover note. This is written on a postcard, in a dark blue ink, a cursive hand. The photograph is of a wet kitten emerging from a sink full of water and suds. The kitten wears a comedic expression of anxiety.}
Where are you? Here as requested. What do you want this for anyway? I scribbled thoughts on some. Can’t find half the stuff. I don’t think anyone’s noticed me rummaging through the archives, and I managed to get into your old place for the rest (thank God you file), but come to next meeting. You can get people on your side but box clever. In haste. Are you taking sides? Talk soon. Will you get this? Come to next meeting. More as I find it.
{This page was originally produced on an old manual typewriter.}
BWVF Meeting, 6 September 1976
Agenda.
Minutes of the last meeting.
Nomenclature.
Funds.
Research notes.
Field reports.
AOB.
1. Last minutes:
Motion to approve JH, Second FR. Vote: unanimous.
2. Nomenclature:
FR proposes namechange. “BWVF” dated. CT reminds FR of tradition. FR insists “BWVF” exclusive, proposes “S (Society) WVF” or “G (Gathering) WVF.” CT remonstrates. EN suggests “C (Coven) WVF,” to laughter. Meeting growing impatient. FR moves to vote on change, DY seconds. Vote: 4 for, 13 against. Motion denied.
{Someone has added by hand “Again! Silly Cow.”}
3. Funds/Treasury report.
EN reports this quarter several payments made, totalling £—[The sum is effaced with black ink.]. Agreed to keep this up-to-date to avoid repeat of Gouldy-Statten debacle. Subscriptions are mostly current and with
{This is the end of a page and the last I have of these minutes.}
{The next piece is a single sheet that looks word-processed.}
1 September 1992
MEMO
Members are kindly asked to show more care when handling items in the collection. Standards have become unacceptably lax. Despite their vigilant presence, curators have reported various soilings, including: fingerprints on recovered wood and glass; ink spots on cornices; caliper marks on guttering and ironwork; waxy residue on keys.
Of course, research necessitates handling, but if members cannot respect these unique items conditions of access may have to become even more stringent.
Before entering, remember:
Be careful with your instruments.
Always wash your hands.
{The next page is numbered “2” and begins halfway through a paragraph. Luckily it contains a header.}
BWVF PAPERS, NO. 223. JULY 1981.
uncertain, but there is little reason to doubt his veracity. Both specimens tested exactly as one would expect for VD, suggesting no difference between VD and VF at even a molecular level. Any distinction must presumably be at the level of gross morphology, which defies our attempts at comparison, or of a noncorporeal essence thus far beyond our capacity to measure.
Whatever the reality, the fact that the two specimens of VF mortar can be added to the BWVF collection is cause for celebration.
This research should be ready to present by the end of this year.
Report on Work in Progress: VF and Hermeneutics by B. Bath
Problems of knowledge and the problematic of knowing . Considerations of VF as urban scripture. Kabbala considered as interpretive model. Investigation of VF as patterns of interference. Research currently ongoing, ETA of finished article uncertain.
Report on Work in Progress: Recent changes in VF Behaviour by E. Nugen
Tracking the movements of VF is notoriously difficult. [ Inserted here is a scrawl—“No bloody kidding. What do you think we’re all bloody doing here?”] Reconstructing these patterns over the longue durée [the accent is added by hand] is perforce a matter of plumbing a historical record that is, by its nature and definitionally, partial, anecdotal and uncertain. As most of my readers know, it has long been my aim to extract from the annals of our society evidence for long-term cycles (see Working Paper 19, “Once More on the Statten Curve”), an aim on which I have not been entirely unsuccessful.
I have collated the evidence from the major verified London sightings of the last three decades (two of those sightings my own) and can conclusively state that the time between VF arrival at and departure from a locus has decreased by a factor of 0.7. VF are moving more quickly.
In addition, tracking their movements after each appearance has become more complicated and (even) less certain. In 1940, application of the Deschaine Matrix with regard to a given VF’s arrival time and duration on-site would result in a 23 percent chance of predicting reappearance parameters (within two months and two miles): today that same process nets only a 16 percent chance. VF are less predictable than they have ever been (barring, perhaps, the Lost Decade of 1876–86).
The shift in this behaviour is not linear but punctuated, sudden bursts of change over the years: once between 1952 and ’53, again in late 1961, again in ’72 and ’76. The causes and consequences are not yet known. Each of these pivotal moments has resulted in an increased pace of change. The anecdotal evidence we have all heard, that VF have recently become more skittish and agitated, appears to be correct.
I intend to present this work in full within eighteen months. I wish to thank CM for help with the research. [This CM is presumably Charles Melville, to whom the package was addressed. Clipped to the BWVF papers is this handwritten note: Yes, Edgar is a pompous arse but he is on to something big.]
{What is it Edgar N. is on to? Of course I wondered, and still wonder, though now I think perhaps I know.}
{Then there is a document unlike the others so far. It is a booklet a few pages long. It was when I started to read this that I stopped, frowned, looked again at the envelope, realised my inadvertent intrusion, and decided almost instantly that I would not stop reading. “Decided” doesn’t really get the sense of the urgency with which I continued, as if I had no choice. But then if I say that, I absolve myself of wrongdoing, which I won’t do, so let’s say I “decided,” though I’m unsure that I did. In any case, I continued reading. This document is printed on both sides like a flyer. The first sentence below is in large red font, and constitutes the booklet’s
front cover.}
Urgent: Report of a Sighting.
Principal witness: FR. Secondary: EN.
On Thursday, 11 February, 1988, so far as it is possible to tell between 3:00 a.m. and 5:17 a.m., a little way south of Plumstead High Street SE18, Varmin Way occurred.
Even somewhat foreshortened from its last known appearance (Battersea 1983—see the VF Concordance), Varmin Way is in a buckled configuration due to the constraints of space. One end adjoins Purrett Road between numbers 44 and 46, approximately forty feet north of Saunders Road: Varmin Way then appears to describe a tight S-curve, emerging halfway up Rippolson Road between numbers 30 and 32 (see attached map). [There is no map.]
Two previously terraced dwellings on each of the intersected streets have now been separated by Varmin Way. One on Rippolson is deserted: surreptitious enquiries have been made to inhabitants of each of the others, but none have remarked with anything other than indifference to the newcomer. Eg: In response to FR’s query of one man if he knew the name of “that alley,” he glanced at the street now abutting his house, shrugged and told her he was “buggered” if he knew. This response is of course typical of VF occurrence environs (See B. Harman, “On the Nonnoticing,” BWVF Working Papers no. 5.)
A partial exception is one thirty-five-year-old Purrett Road man, resident in the brick dwelling newly on Varmin Way’s north bank. Observed on his way toward Saunders Road, crossing Varmin Way he tripped on the new curb. He looked down at the asphalt and up at brick corners of the junction, paced back and forward five times with a quizzical expression, peering down the street’s length, without entering it, before continuing on his journey, looking back twice.
{This is the end of the middle page of the leaflet. Folded and inserted inside is a handwritten letter. I have therefore decided to reproduce it here in the middle of the leaflet text. It reads: