Crime, Thrillers & Mystery / By Dint of Darkness (Part 3 of 3)

The phone rang at half past five on the last morning Wilfred would ever see. Which was of course before the last afternoon he would ever see…the afternoon when Sigmund would come to fix the mirror to the wall. 

“Hello?”

        —Hi, it’s me. I knew you’d be up.

        "Oh hello Stella, dear.” Wilfred checked the clock above the piano and frowned. Is everything alright?”

        —Yes, of course. Everything’s fine. How are you doing?

        "Me? Oh you know. The same.”

        He regarded his free hand as if needing to confirm his response. He mostly gave the same answer to everyone, except his doctor. He knew that nobody really wanted to know how he was. They could mostly guess anyway, especially her, she knew his intonations.

        —Never mind…it’ll be over soon.

        Everything drew to the centre of his face. “What?”

        —Hmm?

        "What do you mean by that?” He already knew that this was her illness speaking, she had never been the insensitive type and had no reason to start being so now.

        —Oh…you know what I mean!

        "No. I don’t.” He knew he should just drop the issue, but something wouldn’t allow him to. Something demanded clarification.

        —Do you really want me to say it out loud, Wilf?

        "Stella…”

        —Oh. Oh dear…Wilfred? I think I’m going to run out of…

Klik

“Hello?”

        He pressed the little knob on which the handset normally sat.

Klik

“Stella?”

Klik klik

He replaced the handset and returned to his armchair.

 

Ludmilla rolled in half an hour later at six o'clock. That was the time of day she always started. Wilfred's creative energy was best then, whether he had slept or not.

Normally, she slept in the spare room, but she had to collect some items for her holiday from her parent’s house.

Wilfred sat reasonably still, waiting for her in the Chesterfield armchair that backed onto the kitchen wall, and faced the lounge window.

        "Have you been up long?” she panted, as if she had used the stairs rather than the elevator. She dumped her bag on the sofa.

        "OhJustsincethreeo'clock,” he frowned at himself. His right foot clenched and released inside its slipper.

        She stopped and looked at him in the middle of unpacking her laptop. “Okay. So you're festinating today, are you? Should be a short session then.”

He laughed…at normal speed at least. Her dryness always amused him. 

“I'll make you your tea and then we can get started, okay?”

“No. Noteatodaythankyou. Wellonlyifyouwantsome.”

He paused and concentrated, fighting the overwhelming psychological urge to spit the words out as fast as possible.

Ijusthaveafew…I. Just. Haveafew. Changes…to make to the short story.”

        He waited for her to catch up. She was so kind to him, though she rarely openly showed it. For instance, the natural response now was for her to squint or frown, and turn her head slightly, as she tried to figure out what he had just mumbled at light speed…but she had retrained her natural responses. She just bent over, seemingly using her bulbous breasts as counterbalances to the apparent power of her lower back and buttocks muscles, and snatched up a tuft of Gerdi’s hair from the floor while mentally unravelling Wilfred’s words. Once she had done so, she stood with her hands on her hips, which pulled her dress even more taut across her belly, and said: “Well, then! We’d better get to it!”

        She sat at the computer, and they began.

 

        An hour later, the phone rang. Ludmilla took the opportunity to go to the toilet.

        "Wilfred Gustafsson.”

        —It’s me again, Wilf.

        "You ran out of money?”

        —Yes. I actually forgot I was overseas. Can you imagine? I don’t know, sometimes I forget where I’ve put my head.

        "We’re allowed to, we’re old.” He checked the clock again. “Aren’t you supposed to be in the air now?”

        —That’s what I was calling about earlier. My plane has been severely delayed, and seeing as it was going to be a late night return, the next available flight only arrives in the morning. I’m so sorry Wilf.

        A niggling pang struck his centre.

        "That’s okay. I’m sure nothing will happen over the course of one night.”

        —That’s right. Nothing will happen, because you’re going to call up that agency and get someone over, aren’t you?

        "Yes. I will.” He sing-songed.

        —Promise me.

        "I promise. Of course I will.” Still sing-songing.

        —Okay. I have to go now.

        He waited, even though he knew it was unlikely that she’d remember.

―Wilf?

        "Yes. Okay, Stella. You have a safe flight now. Lots of love.”

        —Lots of love to you too. Bye now.

        He stared at the phone for a while, wondering.

 

An ideal day for him was spent just writing. He didn’t care if he never saw another human being, or the outdoors, ever again…except for the two women in his life, of course. So, the couple of hours that he and one of those women had just spent writing, passed by like runny honey: smooth, sweet, and quite swift, especially since he was writing what he wanted to write.

Gravity started to have twice the effect on him, mostly on his eyelids and his head. It didn’t matter though, because its timing was perfect. Ludmilla had transcribed everything and it was nearly time for her to leave.

“Thank you so much for coming over,” he said. Writing always calmed his tongue. “…I know you must have preparations to make for your holidays.”

His tremors were at their least noticeable too, but although he felt better, it seemed that Ludmilla didn’t…at least not since he had asked her to make some changes in his cat story. He wondered if he had perhaps depicted her badly.

        Her back was to him as she prepared her bag.

“So you’ve got enough meals in the fridge to last you until tomorrow morning, okay? They’re in their usual colour coded containers.”

“It’s very sweet of you to prepare extra.”

        "Well you never know, her plane might be delayed and then we’d be in trouble.”

        "He hadn’t told her that Stella’s flight had indeed been delayed.

        "I’ve given you your L-Dopa tablets, and Stella will be here to give you tonight’s along with all the others you need to take.”

She was talking, not for the sake of it, but to confuse or distract him. It was obvious to him because she had either never done it before, or was normally very good at it. He didn’t know why she was doing it at all though.

“You know, don’t you Ludmilla, that none of the characters in this story are representative of real people?”

He waited, but it didn’t work.

“Well,Ithoughtthatwasamusing,” he muttered.

No. This was not the time for festinating. He closed his eyes, concentrated.

He had already noticed her hand go up in the area of her face, performing a wiping motion, and now she did it again.

“Ludmilla? What’s wrong?”

She turned.

        "Nothing.”

“Come on. Speak to me,” he made to push himself up out of the armchair, but only got as far as putting his hands on the arms of it before she was in front of him, coat buttoned up, bag on shoulder. The skin around her eyes was flushed.

She took each of his hands and clasped them together in hers.

“It’s just…I’m worried about you,” her voice, now, reminded him that she was almost forty years his junior, even if her body never did.

        "Luddy, is this about what we’ve just written?”

        Her eyes answered, reflecting every candela of light in the lounge, even if her mouth remained tightly shut.

        The poor thing didn’t have much of a life. That was why he had chosen her. The advert specifically stated: Strong young person needed to assist weak old man. Must be a loner and have no social life or hope of ever having one in the near future. Typing skills and mild obsessive-compulsive behaviour required.

Must love cats.

The specificity of the wording had worked. She was exactly what he’d described, and better. That was proven in the fact that a year and a half later, this was the first holiday she was taking that was over a few days long. Even so she was taking it because he had insisted that she do so. Who could have guessed that he would turn our to be the focus of her OCD?

“It’s just a story, Luddy. Come on now. It’s not as if I can tell the future, is it? I’ll be fine.”

Those candelas were now reflecting from thin streams running down her cheeks too.

“Well,” she said, nearly losing control, then releasing his hands and wiping her face again, “I never know exactly what goes on in that complicated head of yours, do I?”

He shifted an eyebrow. “Complicated? You mean creative, or intelligent, or astounding, don’t you?”

This time his humour worked and she spluttered at him while blowing her nose with a handkerchief. When she was done, he took her hands this time. They were hot and pliable like freshly baked bread, a little wet too, but he pretended not to notice.

“Look, the only thing that goes on in this complicated head of mine is the creation of good, solid, interesting fiction...”

“You mean like your escapades with Sophia Loren…according to what I’ve just transcribed?”

“Yes,” he grinned. “Like my escapades with Sophia Loren.”

“A twenty-year-old Sophia Loren, even.”

“A Sophia Loren at any age would do!”

She laughed with him again. Then, just like that, it faded, that joviality he’d worked so hard to wring out of her that he could now feel sweat stinging the pores of his armpits.

“I have to go,” she leant over and smacked a kiss on his forehead. In a flash, she was in the corridor.

He had figured it out now. He knew what she was doing, and couldn’t allow it.

“Many people insult me, making the mistake of thinking that my mind is a mess too, because I’m an old man, physically decrepit and whatnot…”

She turned slowly.

“…I know your not one of those people, Ludmilla. Please don’t pretend.”

There was a little less light there, but he could just see her mouth move, as if she was thinking of contesting it. He guessed that, looking at him, she could see that he wouldn’t let her leave without handing it over.

She returned, reluctantly. Holding her bag strap with one hand while the other was buried in her coat pocket.

“I have to take it with me,” she said in almost a whisper.

“I need it. I have to give it to Stella,” he had always been a good liar.

“But if I give it to you then Sigm…”

“Ludmilla. It’s just a story.”

Her hand rose out of her pocket as if she was revealing a small gift for an infant, slowly, to keep them in suspense.

She handed him the key. He dropped it in the pocket of his purple polo shirt.

She waddled away down the corridor, chaperoned by Gerdi, but stopped at the mirror. It was leaning against the wall, still wrapped up. She looked as if she was considering smashing it before leaving. She moved on, and glanced back sadly at him, through teary eyes, before pulling the door closed behind her.

 

Mao(Gerdi)/Stella

 

One day, Stella returned from being out. Mao had noticed that she was out a lot, at least every other day, and she was always sad when she returned. On that particular day, Stella returned, removed her coat, then dropped herself on the Chesterfield next to Mao. She began to cry.

Stella wasn’t as affectionate as Wilfred, so when she reached over and stroked Mao it was a surprise. The thin woman then held Mao up and rubbed noses with her. At that proximity, Mao thought she looked even more like a discus fish with the hair of the Queen of England. Then Mao wondered where she had ever seen the Queen of England before.

“Mao?” Mao asked.

Before she received an answer, a familiar scent rose up her nostrils. It came from Stella’s hands: it was the smell of Wilfred.

Mao writhed and fought herself out of the woman’s grip, then sprung to the floor. She turned and confronted her, asking her repeatedly where Wilfred was.

“Mao? Maaa-oo?”

        Stella stared blankly at her. Mao jumped back on her lap and sniffed the woman’s hands again, not because she needed clarification, but because she wanted to give the woman a sign, as she plainly couldn’t understand what Mao was clearly asking her. Raau came and sat quietly watching the scene from the middle of the lounge floor. It was his form of support.

Stella seemed a little afraid. She lifted Mao off her lap and plonked her at the other end of the sofa.

 

Two days later, Gerdi―as the cat had by then begun referring to herself―watched Stella slipping on outdoor shoes and a robust coat in the corridor. Gerdi stood between Stella and the door and repeatedly suggested that the woman should take her with her. Roger even told Gerdi to shut up, that he was trying to sleep, and that the Being couldn’t understand her anyway.

Gerdi replied that the Being’s name was Stella. Then she told him that all he cared about was sleep, food and the other thing. Roger asked her to tell him something he didn’t know, and said that was what cats were supposed to do. Gerdi continued. Stella just stood there bewildered, looking almost like that time when Wilfred brought up the topic of euthanasia fifteen years ago.

        Gerdi almost grew hoarse before the look on Stella’s face finally and dramatically changed. The woman hurried back inside to get a black holdall that was just big enough to smuggle a cat into a hospital.

 

She kept the cat in the bag on the passenger seat, but with the zip undone just enough for Gerdi to keep her head out.

When they arrived, before they left the car, Stella said something to her repeatedly in a reassuring tone while pressing Gerdi’s head down gently with her bony hand, but of course Gerdi didn’t understand what it was. What she knew was that the woman was pulling the zip closed over her head.

She sat stunned by the blackness for a few seconds before it sunk in…literally. Soon, it had sunk in so much that she couldn’t see as she normally would in the dark. It didn’t only smother her vision either―it shrouded where she was…and why; her name; his name; what she was; and what her perspective of the world was. The black consumed them all, and everything became nothing.

 

Mao woke up expecting the Chesterfield sofa, the back of the piano, or even the thing in the bowl of water. She felt lighter again, the way she did after the olive seed had been taken out.

The bed she was on was strange, as was the man she was lying next to, and the smells too.

“Oh God! You’re okay!”

Mao nearly hit the roof; it was the other Being, behind her. She held Mao and kissed her on the head. Then she turned her to face the man that was lying on the bed, but all Mao wanted to do was look at the lights and paw the tubes that were running down into his body and sniff the place and explore beneath the bed and…her Being! It was her Being!

“Waaoo!”

She jumped on his chest…but then was uncertain. She moved cautiously―stalked, almost―towards his face. There was something wrong with him. He was still.

Mao heard some unknown Being about to enter the room from behind them.

“Please tell me I didn’t just hear a cat in here…and it’s not even visiting hours…”

The other Being would deal with her.

Mao continued her approach, half-crouched. Then edged forward a touch, sniffing at his face a little.

Then…

Wait!

the strangest thing.

Did his nose just move the same way hers did?

 

Wilfred

 

 Beep

 Beep

 Beep

Wilfred was lying face up in a low sphere of light.

Beep

He caught the blurred backs of two people leaving the room.

         Beep

        This time, the gaps between the intermittent sounds were shorter. 

        Beep

This time, the repetitive sounds meant life, not death.

Beep

Confusion found no foothold. He woke clear-headed, knowing exactly where he was and why.

Beep

It was a hospital. He had failed.

He had spent his entire writing life preparing for that night, training himself with each word he committed to paper, each tangible image he had conjured up, only to wake up there, now, a failure. He then realised that all his little nephews were still there. Trembling, twitching, flexing, stiffening.

Why didn’t they pull the plug?

He wanted to go back to his dreams, where he was lithe, agile and charged with energy. In complete control of himself, beyond anything he had ever been in the seventy years he had spent in that shell. But, he remembered, he had not been totally in command; it had been as if he was…sharing.

But it wasn’t real, it couldn’t have been. Surely not?

He felt a pang for his cats. Especially Mao. But figured it was best that they kept their distance from each other, especially if what he was thinking about their proximity was true.

This thought elicited his first voluntary movement since coming round: a frown.

Mao? Who the hell is Mao?

He realised that he shouldn’t waste time; he had to get back…and stay back. It wasn’t because of his craving for that newfound vigour and freedom though, that had just been an added bonus. It was because he had done everything he needed to do in this world, and there was no point in having done all of that, if he was still alive.

A nurse dashed in. He guessed there must have been an alarm. Idiot. Now his job would be that much more difficult.

She looked at his eyes before anything else. Smiled. Welcomed him back.

“I’m just passing by,” he tried to respond, but his tongue and jaw muscles seemed to require the same amount of power he would need to run a half-marathon.

“Just calm down, you may be back, but you still need to rest.”

He had underestimated his mental capacity. His own soul’s desire to live.

“I just met your sister…”

        That same outstanding capacity was what was going to make his attempt successful this time round.

        "And she had a little friend of yours with her…”

        He would need to pull out all the stops this time; he would need to kill himself twice. First, to point himself in the right direction, then again when they tried to revive him.

A walk in the park.

“Strange name that…Gerdi. But cute.”

It’s derived from Old Norse. It means, stronghold, enclosure. 

A second nurse arrived on the other side. “You’ll soon have all your faculties back.”

Faculties? You’ll have to be more specific. My physical ones have been gone for some time; my mental ones, however, never left me. Just you watch.

 

The second nurse removes her attention from the display above and behind me. She turns and places her hands firmly around my neck, then…

No.

She flashed back to the display again. He had lost concentration. 

It was more difficult for him there, in the hospital, than in the quiet and the dark of his room. Too much light made his surroundings too defined, too real. Then there was the nurses’ presence and noise, and plus he was out of practice at creating and giving form to his scenarios. There were too many variables to try using an external stimulus this time. He had to conjure an internal one.

He tried with the other nurse, who was seeing to whatever the bag of liquid was that hung from a vertical pole above him.

She sneers at me, face contorted into incredible wickedness…

Then she was normal, smiling. It was still difficult, but he knew that this had to be the time to go. He squeezed his eyes shut, tried again.

She sneers at me, face contorted into incredible wickedness. Her hand forms a claw around the bag of liquid, gently at first, as if it were a full breast, but then she gives a diabolical smile and squeezes it almost to bursting, shaking it violently. Not enough to pull it from its connection with the pole, but enough to form bubbles in the liquid. I track one of those bubbles, actually, no…I track hundreds of them. They speed through the liquid, and dive into the tube at the bottom of the bag that leads to the needle in my arm.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

        A doctor arrived and began saying urgent things.

        The other nurse plainly couldn’t understand what she was seeing on the display.

        Yes, that’s right. I’m off… 

        There were noises of distress from both sides of him.

into cardiac arrest…again. My old friend.

        He had to keep busying himself with his reality, not theirs.

Fix me. I dare you.

Eyes squeezed shut again.

        Circulatory system…backing up.

BeepBeepBeep.

Bubbles of air diving into…into…into blood…stream…

        It was working.

        ....clogging art…artery…beaver’s dam.

        An awful pain shot through his arm like injected caustic acid. It forced his eyes open, bringing him back to reality, but his system was already sliding down that precipitous incline. He began shaking, beyond normal, and his eyeballs flicked up into his eyelids of their own volition. That one action signified the medical staff’s loss of the battle.

Yes! Darkness…here again, my canvas….my black…board, my ho…me.

Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee….

 

The second nurse checked that the defibrillator was tuned to just the right voltage. She wasn’t to know that he had already tuned his body to accept the charge as if it were ten times more than it actually was. They didn’t teach how to counteract a vivid imagination at medical school.

“Clear!”

        On contact, the voltage routed through him mercilessly. His upper body arched up to a seemingly impossible extent. One nurse jumped back, the other was propelled. They gasped. It was that gasp that shrouded the sound that occurred at the same time...the sound of something vital snapping in two.

        The coroner would later examine the corpse over a period of days, attempting to discover how a man’s spine could have been snapped in two via administration of a charge from a properly set defibrillator.

 

Mao

 

Mao sat calmly watching her reflection, in the thing that resembled a TV, a door, a window and water.

She heard a noise from the other side of the apartment’s main door, from all the way downstairs at the entrance of the building. She didn’t really care what it was.

Then she heard another noise. It was the same as the one she heard on the night that her Being went to sleep―the first time. It was the same noise that made her run like mad, claws slipping on the wooden floor.

It was Raau.

She knew what that low growl at that particular timbre meant. His smell changed too. The minute he began moving into the corridor from the bathroom, she spat at him and dashed for the lounge. Claws scatting across the floor. Raau was right behind her, just like before. Mao burst into the lounge, slid and whacked her rear on the sofa. She manoeuvred herself around the legs of the three Beings in the lounge and dove straight into the gap between the wall and the piano.

Yes!

She had made it. Panting wildly, she glanced back over her shoulder through the narrow slit and saw Raau circling at the entrance, peering in at her each time. That was fine. She faced forward again, remained backing him and made herself comfortable.

Then:

Whak!

…and the sound of a four-legged thing running.

Mao looked back again and found that a book had replaced Raau. It now lay closed, but facing up. Mao stared back at the gold embossed title…and had no idea what it said, or even that it was meant to say anything. But the light reflecting from it was pretty though.

        Knowing it was safe to at least peep out of the gap now, she stood high and turned on her hind legs. She peeped out. The three Beings were standing near her Being’s desk: the two usual Being’s, and the one who had put the thing on the wall in the corridor. The bigger Being took a flat, black cardboard box that was tied-up with twine from the shelves over the desk.

 

They all stood looking at each other, and at the box, sadly.

 

END

 

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