Thanks Music,
Looking into it now and will let you know.
Crime, Thrillers & Mystery / By Dint of Darkness (Part 2 of 3)
Mao only had a general idea about what was a lot, and what was not, but she did know that her Being had been gone for a long time. She missed his kind wide-eyed gaze, and the hair over his eyes―eyebrows―which seemed to hover a little from his face, and the crooked smile he’d give her when she sat in his lap purring.
There was a new Being. She looked a lot like the old one―the same thinness, same face―but she smelled and sounded differently, and had more hair. She was more still too. She tried to be like the old one, bless her, but Mao knew better.
Mao lay curled into the tightest and most comfortable ball on the piano bench, thinking. Sunlight through the broad lounge window singed the dense white fur on the back of her neck, teasing the scent of her hot pelt around her nostrils. The lounge was her favourite place in the apartment. She liked hiding behind the piano, whether there was something to hide from or not. The goldfish, in the glass bowl up on the shelf, was good to watch and dream about. The leather sofa and armchair were great to lie on; she and Raau liked to claw them just to be naught…
No.
That wasn’t right.
Where had that come from? She did it because it felt good, because it helped her to stretch and to flex her claws, not to be…naughty. She didn’t even know what the word meant.
Mao un-tucked her head and gave it a little shake, making her bat-like ears flap a little; that should have set her straight.
The other Mao-Being, Raau, lounged on the rug. Even he was spending more time in the lounge than usual. He had wondered where their Being was too. They’d discussed it a little, not too long ago…a little, because seconds afterwards all Raau cared about was climbing on Mao’s back again and trying to get inside her. She wasn’t interested when he tried it the very first time, but nowadays she was even less into it. In fact, she had taken to running from him lately. Luckily he was too fat to fit behind the piano.
He glanced up at her…and kept glancing.
"Nao!" she snapped. She tucked her head away again next to her tummy, and then covered it with her bushy tail. The lack of eye contact would hopefully put him off.
The last thing Mao remembered about their Being was the return of that scent, like the time he took her to get fixed. She had a name for that smell now: fear. On the last night that she saw him though, it was so much stronger, and it had nothing to do with Mao swallowing an olive seed either.
She remembered seeing the interloper―not the other cat, that was just her own stupid reflection. No, by interloper she meant the Being that had crept into their apartment with a key, in the dark. The one that had then crept into her Being’s bedroom and…
No.
She had done it again.
Why couldn’t she think straight these days? She didn’t remember seeing an interloper at all. How could she if she was hiding behind the piano at the time? What she did remember for certain was running for dear life after hearing a noise. Raau was right behind her. Their claws scratched the wooden floor of the hallway and lounge as they slipped, and Mao dashed madly to safety behind the piano.
Mao had then cautiously padded into the bedroom once it was silent, and jumped up on the bed. Her Being slept…deeply. So deeply, that he was completely still, which Mao found strange. She had never seen him still before. A dry, salty fear coated him; she knew this because she had licked him a little.
This other Being came during the next light, the one that was with Mao and Raau now. She cried. Then so many other Being’s came that Mao had to hide behind the piano for longer than ever. When they were all gone and she eventually came out again, the apartment was empty. Her Being had gone too.
The other Being had been taking care of them since then. She busied herself most days changing the smell and the surface of everything. Even right then Mao could see her through the kitchen doorway on her knees, making it smell of disinfectant. She wasn’t strong enough to pull the piano away from the wall though…lucky for Mao.
All these Beings lately, she was terribly confused. Mao didn’t know about Raau, but she wanted her Being back, not the…doppelgänger…that was there now. No. That wasn’t quite the right word, Mao, thought. Ersatz was much better. Yes, ersatz. Damn straight.
*
Wilfred sat cross-legged and satisfied in his Chesterfield armchair, on the last afternoon he would ever see. A few hours earlier, he also said what would be his last goodbye to Ludmilla.
He slipped off the blindfold he used for daytime writing, having made some final alterations to his short story about Gerdi. The tale struck him as, well, a little skittish maybe, but it was enough to pass someone’s half hour.
His Dictaphone lay on a small Victorian side table next to the sofa. After only four tries he managed to jab the square red stop button. He’d had to substitute his computer for the little device a couple years back, the price of deterioration.
What next?
The doctors had given him a year; he had given himself less. There were many reasons why Wilfred had judged his remaining days so harshly, but the only one that mattered was how difficult it had become to switch on and off his Dictaphone. It was like a cripple having a violent allergic reaction to walking sticks. One time recently, the simple action of pressing the button had somehow transformed at the last moment into slapping the thing off the table. It clattered to the floor and slid halfway across the room.
Wilfred was sat on the opposite side of the lounge to the only window, which was supported by a deep sill. As he often did, he remembered his niece and nephew playing there when they were of an age at which it was acceptable to do so. Now, the sill was home to a jumble of hardbacks with not a truly white, or geometrically shaped page between them, and the children had lives of their own somewhere else on the planet. The books were mostly classics, but also some guilty frivolities like a few Ian Fleming’s and a Ludlum or two.
The piano held its eternal position backed up to the right wall, and was there for nothing more than the memory of the woman who used to play it, the only woman he ever loved. Time had removed her from the picture far more cruelly than it would him. Seven years had passed, yet the image of her, minced under the wheels of that truck, stayed with him in bold relief. His ability to visualise with outstanding clarity was not always a benefit. He raised his eyebrows and blinked several times.
A set of long shelves, recessed into the left wall, hung above his desk supporting hundreds of reference books, papers and general ‘stuff’ that he always promised himself he would sort through. He never did and knew he never would.
The computer took centre stage on his desk of course. In actual fact it was Ludmilla’s desk, not his. She was now his hands and eyes in his creative world. It would take more than some paltry nerve-deteriorating disease to stop him; he’d write until the day he died, no matter how hard it became.
His determination had no effect on the quality of his output though. It couldn’t…by law. Only a few of his novels pleased him―earlier ones―but he was implored to write the way he did now, sometimes even urged. Once, he had even been ‘reminded’ about what had happened to his one-time friend and fellow fiction novelist, Ulrich.
He glanced up at a flat black cardboard box on those shelves, as he always did at such moments. It was the size of a ream of five hundred sheets of paper, but a fraction larger in width and length. After sealing the contents within, he had tied it finally in rough twine, forming a cross on the top and the bottom of the box. He walked over to the shelves now and tapped the box gently, smiling. Over the past few years, for every thousand words he wrote for the others, he would always write a hundred for this one. Now, after the last ten of those, he finally had one of these: a gem.
He had made a phone call a couple hours earlier regarding that gem, a phone call that he made whenever he felt a little uncertain about things, a phone call that made five in total, this century, to the same office. As soon as the secretary put him through the man on the other end began speaking and did not stop until he was through. He assured Wilfred that even if he did write his novel before his death―as one would suppose he did―the stipulations outlined in his last will and testament would take precedence over the fact that the novel was written under a previous contract. So yes, the patient gentleman added, the nominated beneficiaries would be legally able to select a publishing house of their choice and issue the work under Wilfred’s name.
Wilfred then said, ‘Hello’ and asked the man how his five-year-old girl was coping with her first year of school.
Wilfred’s entire skeleton had suddenly turned leaden; it would seem reminiscence and worry used up a great deal of energy. He shuffled down the corridor and entered the bedroom, then came back out; he had almost forgotten, again, what he should always do before going to bed. He moved along to the bathroom to find Rodger as a grey ball on the heated tiles, while Gerdi perched alert on top of the washing machine tracking him.
Wilfred backed himself up to the toilet and slipped his elasticated trousers down. Then his underpants. He grabbed both aching knees, but just before he lowered himself completely, something dropped out of the pocket of his purple polo shirt. It made a slightly echoing ting on the limestone tiles. Gerdi locked her gaze on it and dropped into hunt mode. It was the spare key that Ludmilla had returned earlier that morning, before leaving to go on holiday. Wilfred reached over and placed the key on the glass shelf over the sink, then continued his interrupted descent to the toilet bowl.
He only wanted to pee, but had for a long time found it to be less messy this way. While sitting there, waiting for his system to crank up, he slid his feet out of his slippers then removed his socks. He planted his bare feet on the tiles and appreciated the homely warmth of the under-heated floor.
He woke with a start to the throttled tones of Beethoven’s 5th, as depicted by his cheap doorbell, another gift from Stella. Gerdi launched herself in a graceful arc from his lap to the bathroom floor. She then stood at the bathroom door half in, half out…half curious, half terrified. All noises beyond that door received the same treatment.
Wilfred fought his underpants and trousers up then slippered himself and flushed, thinking: slippered really should be a verb…at least for people of my age or ailment.
Beethoven was as indomitable in death as he was in life.
“I’m coming!” he shouted from the washbasin, not masking his frustration.
He opened the front door still drying his hands with a towel.
“Hello Wilfred,” Sigmund’s blonde-haired, youth stunned Wilfred every other time he saw it. He always seemed as though he should have had blue eyes with hair like that, but they were brown, like his father’s.
"Hello Sigmund. Come in, come in.”
Wilfred assumed the young man had just come from work at the timber yard, as his navy blue overalls on top of a chequered shirt was scruffy. He carried a large blue metal toolbox.
"Is this it?” The youngster asked. He stepped up to the long flat object wrapped in brown-paper that leaned against the corridor wall. He dropped his toolbox on the polished wooden floor…from too great a height for Wilfred’s liking.
"Yes that’s the one…and that’s the position too, please.”
"Okay. Shouldn’t take long.”
He wasn’t the best handyman, Wilfred even knew of a couple that were cheaper, but the cheapest or the best was not the point here. Wilfred just felt it was his duty to help.
Sigmund ripped open the package as if he was about to rape its contents; Wilfred guessed it wouldn’t be going back in the same wrapping then. Gerdi immediately got herself involved in the mess of paper, but Wilfred knew what inquisitiveness and carelessness was a recipe for; he remembered the olive seed episode well.
"Gerdi?” He said quite sternly, pointing down the corridor. “Lounge. Now.”
Gerdi stared at him, then at the tip of his finger. She crept off to the living room, head lower than shoulders, as it always was when she felt she’d done something wrong.
"I still think that’s a weird name.”
Wilfred just shrugged.
"Sometimes there’s no explaining why people choose the names they do. It can just come to them, as Gerdi’s did to me. Although I do know exactly what her name means. It’s Old Norse…”
"I see.” Sigmund eyed the mirror. “You know…this is more a sheet of mirrored glass with four holes drilled in it than a proper mirror. I mean…there’s no frame, and the edges aren’t smoothed down. I’d say this was a bit of a hazard for an old man like you.”
Wilfred wasn’t surprised. Stella gave him a bedside lamp for his sixty ninth birthday, having first taken out not only the bulb, but also the fuse in the plug. She had removed the eyes of a doll she’d given to her own daughter once because the buttons matched those that were missing from a horrible lilac cardigan of hers. He couldn’t imagine what she would want with the frame of a full-length mirror though.
"Oh it’ll be okay. It’s only going to be up for a few days.” Then he added: “Trust me, suffering the repercussions of not putting it up will cause me more pain than falling and cutting myself on it!”
Sigmund just looked at him. Wilfred cut his smile short.
"Drink?” He hoped the lad would say ‘yes’.
“I’m okay.”
So Wilfred was obliged to stay.
"How’s your novel coming on?” Sigmund asked in a monotone. He didn’t look at Wilfred when he asked this, instead concentrating on pressing the mirror to the wall with his knee and placing a spirit level on the top edge.
“Oh, you know. Fine. Just fine.” Wilfred preferred to cultivate an air of difficulty, rather than tell the truth.
“You don’t sound too enthusiastic.”
Shrug. “It’s not always a smooth process.”
Sigmund glanced at him. Wilfred cringed inside when he realised what he’d said and whom he’d said it to.
Wilfred had been using him on and off for three years now, just after Sigmund’s father, Ulrich, was diagnosed with liver cancer.
“And how’s Ulrich doing?”
The mirror slipped from the top edge of the baseboard and hit the floor so hard that Wilfred was amazed it didn’t crack.
“We’re just throwing money down the drain now…” Sigmund lifted it back into position. “…paying the hospital to prolong it.”
Wilfred had always thought it strange that he and Ulrich, who had once been so close, were now coming to the end at nearly the same time. It was as if their one-time friendship had injected a slow poison into the both of them, then left, knowing the toxin would eat its way to their cores at approximately the same rate.
Wilfred had always felt guilty that his career as a novelist had taken off just when Ulrich had been released by his publisher. It was worse that Wilfred was signed to the very same one too. He thought that perhaps he too would break contact with Ulrich and plunge into a life of pure alcohol consumption, if their positions had been reversed.
The spirit level told Sigmund that the mirror was fine again so he stuck it in his back pocket. The point of his pencil snapped when he tried to mark the top edge.
"Shit!”
Then he dropped the mirror again.
"Fuck it!” He pulled his hand back sharply, and scowled at a slit on his palm. A glistening carmine bead rose languidly from it.
“Oh dear me! Here,” Wilfred ushered Sigmund to the bathroom, “I have plasters and antiseptic wash on the shelf over the sink.”
Sigmund didn’t quite shrug Wilfred’s hand off his shoulder, but Wilfred clearly felt that he was an impulse away from doing it.
“It’s okay,” Sigmund snapped. “I’ll take care of it.”
Rodger sniffed a splat of blood on the limestone floor on his way out.
“Alright,” Wilfred kept his hands to himself. “Well…if you…if you want to leave it until another day then…”
“I’ll do it…alright? I’ll do it. Just let me sort this out…myself.”
“Oh. Okay then.”
Wilfred stood out of view outside the bathroom, shaking, wondering if he could do any more to help.
He didn’t know whether he was meant to hear it or not, but when Sigmund added in a low voice, “Besides…I need the money, don’t I?” Wilfred heard it quite clearly.
He caught his reflection in the still freestanding mirror, seeing that his profile resembled a walking question mark even more than normal. The old man lowered his head further, and guilt prodded him towards the living room to join his cats.
*
Mao watched the two women from the high, regal comfort of the Chesterfield’s back, legs out straight with her head resting on top of them. Tail gently fanning up and down as if it were made entirely of a gossamer fabric. These days she seemed to take great pleasure in stretching herself out to the maximum. It was like she hadn't done it in ages, since before she even existed. She did it now, easily maintaining her balance on the narrow edge, and drew out the action for as long as she could, capping it with wide pink yawn.
It was nighttime. Rather than versions of Beings, Mao now called the women, Stella and Ludmilla respectively, just as she had taken to calling her Being, Wilfred. Ludmilla sat crying on the windowsill with all the old books while Stella comforted her. They had been taking turns all day.
As well as the two women, Mao was also watching a third entity: a small light brown suitcase at the foot of the table that held the fishbowl. She hadn’t looked at the Veiltail goldfish once since the packed suitcase came into the picture.
Mao knew it was packed because she had watched Stella filling it a little while earlier, in the bedroom. She had long since decided that she would follow it wherever it went, because the contents were quite strange. She had watched Stella fill it with: a small towel; a large towel; vests; boxer shorts; a bottle of skin cream; lots of socks; grey flannel trousers; and his favourite shirt. His being Wilfred’s. Wilfred’s favourite shirt. It was all Wilfred’s.
Mao thought this very strange…but she still needed to eat. She had lost interest in ‘cat food’ lately, and couldn't say why. When Stella realised this she began to share her own food with Mao. It was even better now that Ludmilla was back from holiday, because she liked to eat mostly dairy products and meat.
Mao jumped from the back of the sofa, to the seat, then to the floor. She padded off towards the kitchen door in-between the two Chesterfields, only to hear paw steps running up behind her. Before she could escape, or even cross the threshold into the kitchen, Raau had her pinned. He buried his teeth into the back of her neck and spread his legs over the back of hers. At the same time he curled his back downwards in an attempt to get inside her, but because Mao didn't want it―for more reasons than she could presently comprehend―she didn’t arch her back upwards as other Mao-Beings―cats―would do to make entry easier. Also, before Raau could get anywhere near Mao’s…entrance, she thrust her bushy tail between her legs so far…that she was able to bite the end of it if she wanted to. Raau growled long and deep, but Mao held her position and ignored him.
Ludmilla didn't ignore him though.
''Rodger!'' Mao could hear two forms of distress in Ludmilla’s voice. One of them was the source of her tears.
Raau ignored her. Mao couldn't see, because Raau had her pinned down firmly, facing the kitchen, which meant that he was also inadvertently protecting her from harm. Mao heard it coming, flapping through the air, so Raau must have heard it too, but he still didn't move. The small hardback caught Raau full on the head with a tremendous whack. Mao knew this because she heard it, and because Raau's head pushed hers down at the exact moment of impact.
Raau shrieked and darted into the kitchen. Mao would normally have run too, but instead she froze there, staring at the thrown book that lay open on the floor at its first pages.
She read the lines―
"You only live twice:
Once when you're born
And once when you look death in the face.”
―and recognised it immediately as being from one of Ian Fleming's James Bond novels.
You need to log in to urbis or create an urbis account to review this writing.
Reviews
Sort Reviews by Newest | Oldest | Highest Quality | Lowest Quality | Newest Comments |
WriteUpZ reviewed Version 3 -
Read 11% of the Item
I’m not much of a fan for this genre, I actually really detest the concept of mystery however; this is different. I like the “realness” of your character.
- add/view comments (0)
martykate reviewed Version 3 -
Read 11% of the Item
Urbis is freezing this story and it does not progress beyond first page
music1358 reviewed Version 3 -
Read 11% of the Item
Anthropomorphising is a difficult writing task. I was looking forward to reading the rest but it keeps freezing!!!
Rhonda9080 reviewed Version 2 -
Read 10% of the Item
First page: I’m cruising in Mao/cat’s VP. In my opinion, you do “Cat VP” well. Some people could not pull this off.
I am not 100 percent in love with the first sentence, but I do get it. New owner is “more”. I am in love with all the rest of this page :)
*Ok—after not being able to go to page 2 on review, I’ve pulled this up in a separate window, and will read 100% ‘Cause its that good and worthy people!
Other reviewers, PLEASE NOTE: DID READ 100% (Urbis error they are hopefully dealing with)
Mao on piano paragraph: Lovely! Only word that jarred me: singed, (because I thought it was sing-ed). You know how ADD I am, but then—once I got past my stupidity, I could smell burning fur. Could this be too strong a verb for this context?
Ha! I wonder if Mao makes her shopping list while Raau mounts her? Good way to “humanize” cat VP with something universal. (And it makes us ladies smile).
This sequence, from “fear” all the way to: she wanted her Being back, not the…doppelgänger… Yes, ersatz. Damn straight.
Just Shiny! It works so well, and I am deep inside the VP of a cat, but I can relate… I want to go around with her and hear her introspection. (and we know how introspection can drag or be boring. This doesn’t and isn’t…) Good work!
Now in Wilfred’s VP—man, this is good characterization! He is so vivid! So well-described and his thoughts/introspection, fascinating! I love that he’s using a Dictaphone for his writing. I can’t say enough about what great characterization this is!!!
We respect and admire Wilfred for this: It would take more than some paltry nerve-deteriorating disease to stop him; he’d write until the day he died, no matter how hard it became. This is what you show, then tell us, for icing on the cake. And it confirms our gut-reaction to Wilfred.(maybe I can relate most due to my MS? But it does make me an authority of sorts?) I love this line.
I love the placement and depth of this line as well: Beethoven was as indomitable in death as he was in life.
Not always a smooth process… Boy can I relate! But you’ve made his writing lifestyle (and his life with degenerative disease) amazingly real and comprehensible (even fascinating) to the average reader. Or maybe its me, having both in my life. In that case, I would say that you’ve captured both enormous realities in Wilfred’s life with accuracy. There is “truth” in this character.
plasters are… band-aids, right? Brit-speaking Arab friends call them “plasters” too…
Mao’s VP again, wow! Just well-done all the way. I’m cruising… Raau takes the hit from the book…
Mao can read! I don’t know why I believe you, but I do. (its because you’ve convinced me so well already with believable writing?)
No, No! Not the end already!!! I like the end, but I am frustrated because of the end. I want to turn the page.
Damn. Its almost depressing. You even do cat well. You are the bomb! I don’t know which piece to tell you to get to work on first. Superhuman or Dint?
Its a tough choice.
Write them both.
And hurry!!!
Once again, you’re going to think I’m fantarding, but I gave you all 10s because I found your writing nigh on flawless, characterization impeccable, and any (very) minor flaws are for copy editors to dicker over.
*Can finally see stats on this page (if it goes through)
Showing 1 - 4 of 4
Review item
Add to faves
Ratings & Rankings
