Chapter 2
“Your fear is my strength...”
A roadside campfire, England
Shielded from the busy road by a knot of trees, the Asian man, Tsuba by name, once again stared into the glowing remains of his campfire. Earlier, the old hag had staggered drunkenly back into their shared home and means of transport, a converted London bus; she snored loudly in the background but, as ever, it never bothered him. Sitting alone in the dark, breathing in the smoke from certain herbs thrown onto the fire, he succumbed to the warm peaceful feeling and allowed the tiny dancing flames to draw him in.
He saw the world through those flames. Saw it and through it, and saw the people on it. And even though he had faced death and atrocity a thousand times, and killed in his turn, he still loved it and all the people on it. Once again he set his mind free to roam the astral plane, searching, searching for her.
London, Windsor
Susan's revelation knocked Richard for six. He had always, or so he convinced himself, respected her silence when it came to talking about her family, believing that one day she would open up to him. That it came out now, in such unexpected fashion, and on top of everything else, threw him into a state of total confusion. Walther suspected as much and melted into the background. Susan stared into Richard's eyes, an imploring look, begging for understanding. They all jumped when the telephone rang. Walther picked it up,
“Walther Von Vohberg speaking.”
His conversation was brief and it was obviously to do with his father's funeral, after he had finished the call he turned back to them, his voice weary with sadness,
“Please, I am very busy, perhaps you could visit me tonight? On my father’s boat?” Richard looked to Susan for confirmation, she nodded,
“Yes, good idea.”
Walther wrote down the address and showed them out politely,
“At seven? I will prepare a little dinner.”
“No please, don't go to any trouble.”
“It will be no trouble. I look forward to not dining alone for a change.”
They left him at the shop door and made their way back to the office,
“I just want to see that everything is okay, then I'll take the rest of the day off.” Richard called out, peering round the print-room door looking for Philip.
“He's gone again…” Cyndy announced, “…Finished those books, and then just took off. Says he'll be back tomorrow.”
Richard pounded the door in frustration;
“Damn it what the hell is he up to?” He mused aloud and Cyndy picked up on it,
“I don’t know Rich, but, well…” She hesitated for a second, “…I’m worried about him. You know how he gets when he meets a girl.” Richard knew all right, Phil always fell head-first for the wrong girl, and they always ended up hurting him. He sighed, feeling helpless, remembering the last one,
“Let’s just hope he doesn’t get hurt like the last time.”
London, Windsor
Richard took Susan to lunch in a nearby café, one of those old-fashioned tea-rooms popular with tourists and old people. They got the last vacant table. He had a hundred questions to ask but it was Susan who initiated the conversation,
“I'm sorry Rich, for springing it on you like that. I suppose you're pretty pissed off about it, but I, well...” She dried up, still unable to open up to her husband. They sipped at coffees and picked at toasted sandwiches, quietly incommunicado.
Richard was an orphan, fostered around several times during his childhood. His last 'parents' were by now quite elderly and he rarely visited them, they were just old people to him. Philip Leach had been his anchor during his teenage years, keeping him from going too far off the rails, and when he met Susan she opened his mind to love, she became everything and everyone to him. But he didn't talk about his past, his childhood, and neither did she. They were two broken people thrown overboard and clinging to each other for survival. He realised with a sickening feeling that he might be losing the only two people who ever meant anything to him. It was too painful to dwell on, he blocked the thoughts, closed down his mind to focus on the mundane,
“Maybe I'd better get back to the office...” He eventually suggested, “...Meet you at home later.”
“Yes all right then.” Their conversation at a complete standstill.
The house in the Countryside
Cairo stepped out suddenly from the dark beside a large wooden wardrobe, a black cross on her ragged white frock, a shadow cast from the attic window. She moved silently to the iron-framed bed against one wall and lay down. Apart from herself, the bed and the wardrobe, the unused attic room was completely empty.
Wind whistled through the trees outside and she wondered what it would be like to go outdoors. She shivered in the cold, her breath frosty in the moonlight, her bare feet like blocks of ice. Her ever-present imaginary friends were unhappy,
“It's too cold up here.”
“We should go back to your bedroom.”
“Go to the kitchen first.”
“There might be some cake in the larder.” Cairo rose quickly and silently disappeared into the black recess beside the wardrobe.
London, River Thames
At seven o'clock Richard and Susan stood together but slightly apart on the north bank of the river Thames, looking for Walther's boat. It was another clear, cold evening; Susan shivered slightly at the sight of the silver moon reflected in the black water. The riverbank was only dimly lit by the occasional lantern making it difficult to see the boat names,
“There it is.” Richard pointed to a bulky old-fashioned brown timber houseboat, Persephone printed in faded gold on its stern.
“Watch out for the puddle!” The curtains were drawn, Richard stepped aboard the dark planking at the rear and held out his hand to help Susan, they both turned as the cabin door opened with a rush of warm air and bright cheerful light. Walther's voice called out to them,
“Come in, come in, it is cold this evening.” They stepped down into the cabin, squinting as their eyes adjusted to the bright light.
“Welcome to my temporary home...” Walther greeted them warmly as he helped them off with their jackets, “...It was father's pride and joy, this old boat. And now it has come down to me.” Richard and Susan looked around in surprise, the décor was magnificent. Panelled end-to-end in walnut and brass, cupboards and shelves all built-in with ornate architraves and beading. Pretty tapestry curtains, each one different but complementing the next, hung on brass poles over the windows. From a drop-down cupboard Walther produced a crystal decanter of ruby wine and motioned for them to sit on a small but comfy sofa near the warmly flickering gas fire. The aroma of peppers and onion wafted through from the galley, Susan suddenly realised that she was ravenous. Walther sat himself on a leather footstool,
“I would like to apologise for my rudeness this morning, I make no excuses, and I must also confess that I cannot remember if I mentioned providing dinner. And so, in order to be on the safe side, I have prepared something.” The ‘prepared something’ turned out to be a fabulously tasty Hungarian goulash served with salad and bread. Richard and Susan ate well, the combination of food, wine and the warm cabin lulling them into a dreamy, relaxed mood. Walther’s conversation was quiet but witty and they hardly noticed the passage of time, it was nearly ten o’clock before they got on to the subject of committing murder.
“I still don’t understand why we can’t just tell the police.” Richard stated in exasperation,
“We could even do it anonymously.” He added. Walther stared at him for a few moments as if coming to a decision, when he replied his words were clipped, impatient,
“If you inform the police she will escape, I guarantee it. She will then continue to carry out her atrocities elsewhere. She is clever and cautious; do not be under any illusions about her ability to outwit us.” He paused briefly before again wagging his finger,
“As I have said, you do not h
ave to be involved.” Richard, silenced, looked down into his glass, shaking his head slightly. It was Susan, red in the face, who blurted out,
“I’m in!…” She wagged her own finger back at Walther, “…And don’t think that anything you can say will talk me out of it!” Walther sat back quickly, not betraying any emotion but steepling his fingers as if to encourage her to say more, allowing her to continue unchallenged,
“I believe everything you’ve said, even the crazy stuff, and I agree that the police would be a waste of time. I want to be a part of this, I think I owe it to my parents.” Her last few words were spoken more quietly but there was no mistaking the determination in her voice, she wanted in. Richard shook his head again, looking lost and almost helpless for a second, then with an ironic smile he reached out for her,
“Well, I’ll try anything once; even murder I suppose.” He tried to be flippant but despite this all three of them nodded, satisfied that a commitment was made. Walther cleared his throat quietly before addressing Susan with a level gaze,
“Susan, I do not wish to be impolite, but it might be of some help to our cause if you were to tell me the facts behind your parents, er, untimely, er, well what happened to them?” Richard wasn’t prepared for that,
“Oh no, hold on a minute, She’s not ready to make th-”
“Rich...” She put up a hand, “…It’s okay, I think it’s about time I got this off my chest anyway. And besides, having someone else, someone who might not be so sceptical, no offence, to tell it to, might make it a little easier...” They exchanged looks before she continued. “…Forgive me if I ramble a little, I’ve never told this before, and it was ten years ago…” She took a deep breath and sat back in her seat, “…They were in South Africa on a kind of working holiday, doing research on a book they were writing together. It was a study on the legends of the undead, you know the sort of thing, vampires and zombies and stuff. They claimed that they had some evidence that would prove the legends were based on fact…” Walther leaned forward as she continued, “…I was at university and not really interested, I didn’t keep in touch much in those days.” They could hear the regret and guilt in her voice, “…Well one day my mother phoned sounding very excited, she said that they had visited a man, a witch doctor I think, who was living with a devil-woman hundreds of years old. Of course I laughed and wished her the best of luck.” She paused in her narrative, eyes sparkling. It was clear she found the memories painful, Richard felt compelled to speak,
“It’s all right Sue, you don’t have to go on if you don’t want to.” To his annoyance Walther disagreed,
“On the contrary Richard, I believe that Susan will be very glad to finally unburden herself. Is that not so?” He addressed the last remark directly to her, she nodded in agreement and continued,
“I was quite young, I never dreamed anything bad would happen to them. Anyway I wasn’t paying too much attention to what mum was saying, I remember I moaned about not having enough money and stuff like that, but I do remember that she briefly described them to me. She said that he was a big African, leader of some tribe or cult, while the woman was white, that struck me as surprising at the time, I don't know why, and apparently the woman was exquisitely beautiful and her name was Evelina but she was known as Madame Eve…” She paused and they all heard the bubbling of the coffee percolator from the galley.
Walther rose quietly and made liqueur coffees while she continued, “…Well basically that was the last time I ever spoke to my mother…” Her face, already a mask of emotional pain, hardened even further, “…I got a message some days later saying she was dead and that dad was critical in some hospital or other. After that everything happened in a kind of haze, I was in shock for months. I flew down to be with dad and had to identify mum's body. What was left of it...” Her lips trembled, “...She had been mutilated-” She choked back a sob, “...I had to bury her there, dad was too ill to travel home...” She finally broke, the tears rolled down her cheeks in hot wet streams. Richard also found it difficult to hold back his own tears as she continued, “…Dad never fully recovered, I got him home and had to drop out of Uni to look after him. He died six months later…” Her breathing was in ragged jerks as she tried to hold back her tears, “…Mad and deliriously drunk most of the time. After he’d gone I left the family home, I, I, just locked the door and never went back. It still belongs to me, but I don’t know what sort of state it’s in. All their research is still there. But don’t ask me to go and get it. I couldn't do it.” She finally stopped, unable to continue, shaking with desperate sobs. Richard held her close for a few moments until Walther spoke,
“Perhaps we should conclude at this point and meet again tomorrow, yes?” They nodded their agreement, grateful for the chance to leave.
London, Hammersmith
Earlier that same evening, while Richard and Susan were enjoying Walther’s goulash, girl-shy Philip Leach sat in Eve’s boudoir vigorously sipping wine. She was over-compensating for her depression by drinking and flirting with him.
To his shame he had naively mistaken her flirtatious manner for something more, and now sat red-faced after she had slapped him. She felt his discomfort, enjoyed it, and played with him a little,
“I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong impression…” She gave him an apologetic smile, “…It is just my continental way…” She stood before him and leaned down, “…We can be very, er, touchy-feely…” She drew him up from the seat, “… And kiss each other all the time…” She kissed him lightly on both cheeks, “… But this is not how we kiss in the heat of passion…” She pushed his empty wine glass aside and pressed her lips to his, her body fitting snugly against him from her toes to her breasts, “…We do it like this.” The kiss was long and wonderful. Philip, confused as he was, let his arms encircle her as the embrace continued. Eventually Eve peeled away, slightly exhilarated by Philip’s runaway passion for her. Thinking that she’d teased him enough, it was time to let him go.
And then he dropped the wine glass. A small thing to lose your life over. It shattered into many crystal fragments. In his embarrassed haste to retrieve the pieces he sliced a deep cut into his middle finger,
“Yow!” He hissed. The pain was sharp. And it hit Eve like a mainline fix. Her false playful smile fell away forgotten, she was ravenous. She reached out for his hand, he offered it, she held him by the wrist, and jammed her fingernail into the gash. Philip yelled in shock and pain, trying to withdraw. She held his wrist tightly, the dominatrix awakened,
“You've been a naughty boy...” She reveled in his pain, “...And you must be punished.” A huge wave emanated from Philip's confused mind, she quivered, and her smile returned.
In an instant she spun him around and threw him down on his face. In a second she had his arm twisted behind his back as she reached between her legs for her dagger. Philip was scared and yelling, his head twisted to one side. She spoke quickly into his ear, each word as cold and jagged as the broken glass,
“Shut up or I will slit your throat.” She pressed the knife point to the side of an eye, Philip’s shouts fell to whimpering. In moments she had cut away pieces of his shirt, some she jammed into his mouth, a longer piece she used to secure his hands behind his back. Minutes later the discomfort of his cut finger paled beneath the agonies she put him through as he endured the last moments of his life. Towards the end of his ordeal he realised that she was actually getting off on his torment. Each agony he suffered brought her closer to some sort of climax, he knew he was doomed. The realisation brought little comfort as he screamed his way into oblivion.
Disposal of his remains was easy. Once she was sated, Eve summoned the twins Margaret and Philippa, the mad, bastard offspring of the housemaid and Sir Clive, the results of a careless fling more than twenty five years ago. They arrived, black plastic sacks at the ready, bickering as usual,
“You chose Tiramisu last night, so now it’s my turn to choose!” They stuffed Phili
p’s gory remains into the sacks and lugged him down to the Victorian cellar, then returned upstairs to clean Eve’s boudoir. Later, with kitchen knives and saws, they took his body to pieces. Working through the night they drained his blood into the bath and cut him into manageable chunks, finally disposing of him in four weighted sacks dropped from Hammersmith Bridge.
As usual, Eve had been very careful to leave little or no evidence that might connect her to Philip. She’d instructed Franco to move Philip’s car to a pub several miles away and there were no records of her at the office; she was quite certain of that, having ‘asked’ Philip while he was under the knife. He would be reported as ‘missing’, the absence of a body relegating the police inquiry, ‘missing’ being not nearly as serious as ‘murdered’.
On his return, Franco reported that he’d left Philip’s coat in a pub as she’d ordered,
“Thank you Franco.” She favoured him with a warm smile as he bowed and turned to go, his old but still firm features as inscrutable as ever. Unconsciously her mind slipped back through the years to 1937. When he was a homeless beggar-child on the ruined streets of Guernica,
“You were such a brave, handsome boy.” She whispered to his departing broad shoulders.
She remembered how, as Evelina Navaja, she’d been fighting on the side of the Nationalists and entered the city just days after the German bombers had leveled it, the fires still raged, paled only by the fire she saw smouldering in Franco’s youthful eyes. He had saved her life, dragged her to safety from an ambush attack.
She took him into her care, to fight alongside her and the Nationalists. He learned the skills of war quickly, and found killing an easy way to channel his anger. He went from small boy to man with nothing in between. Once the revolution was done they settled for a while in Madrid. Eve insisted on his catching up with some schooling while she polished his education in every other way. The Second World War split then up for a time, Eve drawn to the misery of northern Europe like a moth to a flame. But Franco always knew she would return. And when she did, it was to give him the best best time of his life. For years they were inseparable, but further heartbreak was to come to him. She left him again in the 1960's, this time drawn to the horrors in the east. He heard nothing from her for so long that he knew it was over. And so he was surprised when she returned, as beautiful and deadly as the day she left, and pregnant with Cairo. This time she was so very different. So much younger, but in truth it was simply he who had aged. Their relationship had become like mistress and servant. He became her bodyguard, on oath to preserve her secrets. During his life he had made love to her first as a child, then her lover, then as a devoted servant. They trusted each other implicitly, and no one else.
“Franco?” She called after him, very quietly, and was surprised when he stopped and turned, his old and lined face weary but not weak,
“Yes mistress?” She held his gaze for a fleeting second,
“Come...” she asked gently, “…Play with me.” And gestured elegantly towards the chess table. He was pleased to join her, and to the accompaniment of Barbieri’s opera music they played throughout the night.
London, Windsor
On their way home from Walther's houseboat Susan felt the old insecurities rise up again; washing over and through her, the worthlessness, that vile impotence. How could she express her guilt? How could she ever be worthy of anyone’s love? Had she any to give?
“Poor Richard…” She regretted. “…Do I really love him? Does he love me?”
They talked little on their way home, neither noticing the passing cars or the piercing crescent moon.
In her mind she whirled and swooped around in a world of regret and guilt.
While his mind was lost in confusion, “What the hell is going on?” He tried to rationalise the bizarre twists in recent days. He held on to her arm, caring and wanting her close, and completely unaware that she was oblivious to his touch.
Neither of them heard the enthusiastic shrieking of the teenagers that they crossed the road to avoid, or even the begging whine of the homeless door-sitter. Susan was solely focused on the death of her mother and father, and the role that the strange woman called Eve might have had in it,
“I’ll find you.” She whispered without realising. Her unconscious words went unnoticed by Richard, drowned out not just by the hubbub as they walked by the open door of a pub, but more by the labyrinthine suppositions whirling around his mind.
At home, like automatons they prepared for bed. Each unconsciously observing their usual bedtime rituals, neither totally aware of each other. Dreams came to both of them, at least they thought they were dreams.
Richards dream:
He awoke, stared at the slightly fluttering curtains ahead,
“Why are they red?” his confusion multiplied as they began to part, pulled aside like cinema drapes.
A terracotta-paved street stretched away from him, heat blasted up from the sun-baked stones. He turned suddenly at the sight of buildings to his right, ancient stone crafted and temple-like,
“Is this Rome?” He walked towards the largest temple and passed between the columns, into the grunting melee of an orgy. Men and women of all ages indulged themselves shamelessly, in pairs and in groups, switching from one to another. As he watched he realised that there was one girl in particular that everybody had to have. As if she was an offering to them all. A pretty dark-haired child, obviously not of age. She accepted it all as if resigned to her fate. Except for her green eyes that shrieked of revenge. Throughout her ordeal, he noticed, her piercing hate-filled eyes never strayed far from the man on the gilded couch who seemed to be orchestrating her defilement. Soul stealer.
To his confusion Richard felt himself propelled, by unseen hands, towards the girl, as if it was now his turn,
“Do with her as you wish.” The voice came from the man on the gilded couch.
Richard woke as Susan slapped his face, the bedroom came back. She knelt on the bed next to him, the quilt on the floor, she seemed annoyed,
“Sorry Rich, but I had to wake you. You were moaning so loud.
“Shit, I'm glad you did.”
“Was it the same as last time?” He didn't want to tell her the contents of the dream,
“Yeah, sort of, it's faded already.” Once again he lied and said that he could not remember what the dream was about.
Susan didn't mention that she had had a dream of her own. She had dreamt of a castle in a forest. A castle inhabited by a black beast, it bellowed her name from high windows while she stared from the safety of the trees. She had woken quickly and had lain awake listening to Richard’s increasingly noisy slumbering.
The following morning, before they got out of bed, Richard phoned Phil,
“No answer.” He hung up, despondent. Susan announced,
“I’m going to phone in sick…” She lay on her back, not facing Richard, “…And I’m going in to work with you, I need to know that Phil’s okay and I’d like to be around if Walther shows up.” Richard readily agreed, he was deeply rattled. He hoped that Phil had simply gone into work very early, but he doubted it.
They drove to work, aware that they might need the car later on, and arrived at around 7:45. No sign of Phil. They waited nervously, sipping coffee. Cyndy arrived breathlessly as usual at 8.50. By 9.15 they were back in the car heading towards Phil’s house in Maidenhead,
“He’s dead isn’t he?” Susan made the question sound like a statement. Richard couldn’t reply, fast losing his patience with the stop-start traffic and his own mounting dread. They saw immediately that Phil’s car wasn’t in its usual spot on the driveway. Richard was out of the car in a second and almost running to the front door. Susan held back, watching him, knowing he was about to lose his cool. He rang the bell and hammered to no avail,
“Let’s try around the back, he might be in the garden.” She dutifully followed him through the wrought iron gate and across the crazy paving,
aware that it was a preposterous notion but allowing him the moment of action. Of course there was no answer. Richard eventually punched the door one last time and abruptly stopped,
“She's got him.” He muttered through clenched teeth. Susan took his arm and started to lead him back towards the car,
“Let’s go and find Walther, he’ll know what to do.” Richard turned on her angrily,
“Fuck him, I’m going to the police! It’s what I should’ve done in the first place, we’re crazy thinking we can go up against some kind of fucking mutant psycho. We’ll all end up-” Susan put a finger to his lips,
“No Rich, not yet. We have to speak to Walther first...” She opened the car door and sat him on the passenger seat, “…We'll go to his boat and wait for him if necessary.” Richard sat quietly while she drove, an angry determination growing within his mind. Mental pictures flashed inside his eyes, pictures like the cruelly rendered bodies in the little book, only this time with Phil’s face on them, “You won't get away with this. I’ll get you...” He thought, realising that maybe it wasn't a job for the police at all, “...No, it’s down to me. You were my friend, my mate.” An unexpected tear appeared at the corner of his left eye, he wiped it away before Susan could notice. She looked at him a second later, a grim smile before she turned her eyes back to the road.
It was a grey noon when they reached the boat, Walther came stooping out of his cabin to greet them as they arrived on deck,
“I am just preparing coffee.” They could hear the cheerfully bubbling percolator as they descended into the luxurious room. Minutes later Susan had related their story, Richard ominously silent, Walther nodded and shook his head appropriately,
“I am sorry, I am afraid we shall have to assume the worst consequence...” He paused only for a moment, “...I believe your friend to be dead. It would be most uncharacteristic if he were to now turn up safe and well.” Richard glared at Walther as if he somehow blamed him, Susan watched uneasily, well aware how difficult to handle Richard could be when he lost it. Even she was surprised when he spoke, so bitter and angry were his words,
“So just how and when are going to kill this fucking bitch?”
Walther raised an aristocratic eyebrow and a finger to his chin before making his reply,
“Tomorrow is my father’s funeral, at 10:00...” Both Richard and Susan cursed themselves for insensitivity as Walther continued, “...I have drawn up a plan for the execution of the Eve creature...” His voice did not hide his annoyance at their lack of propriety, “...I suggest we meet as soon after the ceremony as I see fit to discuss it. Do I have your agreement?” They nodded, although Richard a little absently. Susan again took his arm,
“We should go...” She smiled apologetically at Walther and led Richard out, “…Come on, let’s go home.”
They spent the rest of the day at home, Richard restless and irritable. He kept going on about wanting to do something, but when Susan dared ask,
“Such as?” He became furious and threw things around,
“I don’t fucking know; all right!” He screamed. Eventually she went to bed,
“Good night.” Richard ignored her and opened another bottle of wine. She pretended to be asleep when he eventually stumbled into their bedroom, hoping that he would be better in the morning.
The house in the Countryside
The twins Philippa and Margaret, or Pip and Emm as they were more commonly known, lay comfortably together in each other’s arms. They took solace in each other for the yearning of a lover. They had known men; at least, that is, they had been used by their father, Sir Clive. It was not the physical act that so absorbed them, but the almost inconceivable notion that there could be another form of love. They had read magazines and watched soap operas, and at twenty five years old love was something they craved.
Their mother, the housekeeper, had been aware of their incestuous cuddling and had not appeared to disapprove. Nor had she interfered when at nine years old, during one of Eve’s long absences, they were ravaged by the selfish and beastly Sir Clive. Their lives had been woven by violence and violent sex. They knew of other ways to express love, or lust, but had no experience. Oddly though, they were content, happy even, with their bizarre and extreme existence, awe-filled and worshipful of their goddess, Eve. To them she was everything a woman should aspire to be, strong, proud and beautiful. Unlike the petty and shallow whinger, Sir Clive. They were always sad that Eve spent so much of her time elsewhere, dining with princes in exotic palaces they presumed.
Their mother was a disappointment; they thought her weak and careless, knowing nothing of the years of relentless repression heaped upon her by her ‘master’. And never, even as infants had they been allowed to see the scars of his interest on her once smooth skin. In truth, most people they knew were a disappointment to them, why were they not as beautiful and glamorous as the idols they worshipped on the television?
“It’s our birthday soon...” Whispered Emm conspiratorially, “…What shall we have?” Her eyes sparkled and there was a brief pause before they announced together,
“New dresses!” They laughed and hugged each other, happy in their snug world of the insane.