Which just makes it all that much better, doesn't it?
Click here to beginThe quinine stung Bryan’s tongue as he sipped his vodka and tonic. He and Cynthia had just come from Heathrow and their last good-bye to Ellen.
They had taken her away from the mansion in a bag; that was three days ago. Autopsy, inquest, official verdict; death by misadventure. Then bag into box and packed with dry ice, to be flown back to New York and her bastard ex-husband for burial. Bryan and Cynthia would not catch their own flight to LaGuardia until the next day, but they saw Ellen to her plane just the same. First Class over, cargo hold back, he thought, and felt slightly sick.
Cynthia had settled into a dry-eyed, disconnected stare, drinking ice water and studying the menu. He felt her aching; she radiated it.
“How are we going to face Ted at the funeral?” she said.
He shrugged. “Just do it, I guess,” he said. “We’re not to blame, Cyn.”
“Somebody is. Somebody must be.”
He had no answer. Her head dropped back to the menu, and he sighed. A trio of severe, impeccably dressed girls walked by the window, each deep in conversation on her own cell-phone. Fake jazz murmured from the pub’s hidden speakers, somewhere behind the brass and the potted plants. This had been a mistake, coming here after the airport.
His V&T was gone, and their waitress was nowhere in sight. “I’m going to get another,” he said to Cynthia. She scarcely nodded. He wandered up to the bar and placed his order.
As he stood waiting, a woman at the other end of the bar caught his eye. He turned to get a better look at her, but he couldn’t, not really—the crowd at the bar shifted around her, and he caught only glimpses; a shimmer of hair over someone’s shoulder, a flash of creamy skin, eyes reflected and refracted a dozen times over in the tumblers on a waitress’ tray.
The barman brought his drink; he turned away for a moment to pay. When he turned back, the woman was still there, looking at him over the top of her glass. Bar patrons passed between her and Bryan, causing her to flicker in and out of sight like an old movie. He felt uncomfortably warm.
The woman brought down her drink, and ran a perfect pink tongue over her lips. Unbidden, the thought came to Bryan of that tongue running up the length of his cock. Or licking his blood from a straight-edged razor.
He blinked rapidly, then turned to walk to the table where Cynthia waited. He looked over his shoulder several times; the woman was still there, still watching.
“Bryan,” Cynthia said, “I don’t think I want to go shopping today. I think we should just go home.”
Bryan said nothing, hardly heard. He was watching the woman.
Suddenly, the woman at the bar put down her glass, tossed a coin on the bar (a flash of gold, Bryan saw), and turned towards the door. She weaved through the crowd like a mirage, to go out the door and be gone forever.
Without thinking, he rose from the table and walked out of the pub ten steps behind her. He stood on the sidewalk, blinking in the sun, and looked up and down the street until he saw her. Her image came to him in waves—there and gone, there and gone—as the river of people in the street ebbed and flowed.
Bryan watched the woman’s retreating back and felt a clutching sensation in his loins. Spittle, unbiden, flooded his mouth, spilling from his lips and down his chin. He could not let her go. He had to catch her, to speak to her, to throw himself at her feet. He knew that he would not know peace or rest until he had been humiliated, until he had abased himself before her lovely cruelty. He could not rest until he bled beneath the tender whip, until her piss burned his eyes, until he had been starved and beaten and blinded and shamed, so great was his need. He was vaguely aware that Cynthia had appeared at his side, was saying something, but he didn’t hear; he was lost to the woman. Please, don’t let her go. Oh God, he thought, oh God let me die beneath her heels.
He started walking toward her, and found Cynthia’s hand on his arm, holding him back. He balled his fist and struck her, backhanded, without thinking. Cynthia fell to the pavement, her mouth bleeding, and her hand dropped away. Bryan didn’t notice. He moved into the crowd, following the woman’s diminishing figure, Cynthia forgotten already, his mind filling with the smells of leather and smoke and rust, with trickling blood, with the terrible ecstasy of the love that kills.
The Angel was about its work again.
(begin)Mr. Griggs made a great show of delight at seeing them again. “Did you have a nice walk? Oh good. Such a lovely day for it. And you really do have the gardens to yourselves today, don’t you? It’s always nice when it’s a quiet sort of day like this. Of course it’s lovely in the summer too—simply crowds of people. So nice for the children especially, you know, to see the places they’ve read about. Some two dozen books Miss Vollinger wrote, and do you know not a single one of them has ever been out of print. Whole generations, you know, parents and children, growing up on the same books. A tradition, you see. Here, do come inside and I’ll show you the house.”
Ellen followed behind Bryan. The anteroom was filled with rich shadows and shafts of sunlight. “The last of their line they were, Miss Vollinger and her brother Lord Russell. There’s his portrait on the wall, there, with the red hair. Quite an adventurer, he was, but I’m getting ahead of myself. The family came to England with the Norman Conquest, originally...”
They followed Griggs around the rooms and up the winding staircases to the guest rooms and bedrooms, all filled with bygone elegance. In time they climbed the narrow staircase up to the attic room.
“This was Miss Vollinger’s writing room, you see. Everything just as it was. We’ve got her desk roped off, over there—I will have to ask you not to touch, of course—and her easel against the wall there. Let’s get a bit of light in...”
Griggs went to the single window and drew back the curtains. Ellen heard herself gasp. The view was exquisite; all the gardens lay below, making subtle patterns of color twined with pathways. Beyond the estate, fields of barley gave way to rolling hills, soft with heather.
“You can see all the way to London from here,” said Griggs. “At least, when it’s a clear day like today. There’s the motorway, you see, and there’s the city beyond. Some nights you can make out the lights in Piccadilly.”
Ellen gaped. It wasn’t like being in a plane, though the patchwork quality of the landscape was similar; she felt close to everything she saw, almost at one with it. It was beautiful. It was breathtaking.
She heard Bryan’s voice. “Coming, Ellie?” She looked away from he window. Bryan and Cynthia were at the head of the stairs with Griggs.
“In a minute. I’m—just going to rest for a while.” She smiled wanly. “You know, enjoy the view.”
“All right. Meet us downstairs.”
Then they were gone, their footfalls and Griggs’ jolly racket spiraling down the staircase. The fields, all green and yellow, held her transfixed. Just visible on the horizon was a black sketch of the city. And there near its center, rising like a golden flame—
—was the Angel.
She saw it, it was there. She did not dare to let her gaze waver. So far away! A tiny gilt speck in the distance, and yet she felt its every detail as if it were engraved in her brain. The fall of its robes, the tornado of wings, the smile with its perfect peace. If only she were a little closer...
Ellen reached down and hoisted up the window. The wood was swollen, and rose with a jerking creak. She put both hands on the sill and boosted her legs out onto the roof, then squirmed through the casement. She sat on the ledge for a moment, staring, smiling, then rose and began to walk forwards.
In the ante-room, Bryan looked away from the portrait of the last Lord Russell and at his watch. Quarter of two. “The gift shop will be open soon,” he said to Cynthia.
“I left my purse in the car,” she said.
He handed her the keys, and she walked out the great doors into the drive. Bryan paced the room distractedly, half-listening to Griggs prattle, wondering what was keeping Ellen. Then he heard Cynthia scream.
He dashed out the door to where she stood, staring upwards in terror. Bryan followed her stare. High above, he could see Ellen moving slowly along the roof. Slowly, precisely. Like a sleepwalker.
“Ellie!” he shouted. “Come down from there! Ellie, don’t!”
Ellen did not look down. Bryan heard Griggs’ heavy tread upon the stairs and knew that he should be running, too, running to help Ellen. But something rooted him to the spot. The pitch of the roof was steep, but Ellen’s step seemed sure and light. Then Bryan heard her speak, very softly.
I can see it. I can see the Angel, she said.
He spun wildly, staring at the spot where Ellen’s eyes pointed, looking to see what she might see. There was nothing; the gardens and fields, the motorway beyond, London’s ugly sprawl on the edge of vision.
With every step, Ellen felt the Angel’s presence nearer. Not just a statue, but the presence of the Angel itself. The presence of divine love, of endless peace, immanent as she walked on. Right foot. Closer. Left. Closer still.
From the ground, Bryan watched Ellen edging ever further out along the shingles and flashing. So delicately she walked. One foot. Then the other. So precise. Now Cynthia was running for the stairwell; Griggs the caretaker had boosted himself out the casement and sat awkwardly on the ledge, shouting at Ellen.
“Miss! For God’s sake, Miss, come back ‘ere!”
But Ellen didn’t seem to hear. Steady as a mountain she walked on, face turned to the view of the city, her eyes fixed on something that Bryan could not see. He watched her, transfixed, as she stepped forward again, stepping like a circus aerialist; and then she brought her foot down, and there was no more roof beneath it.
It seemed to Ellen that she fell very slowly, turning gently like thistledown. As she fell, she was content with the sight that she’d wanted to see for so long; the Angel’s face. Its gaze, its loving smile, filled up her head, crowding out anything else.
Then the smile fell away, and Ellen saw, behind the Angel’s face, another—the true face of the thing that had led her on so far; but by then, it was much too late to scream.
...
Click here for the epilogue
The killer about serializing a story on the blog is that, due to the format, it all unfolds backwards, Memento-stylee. If you're just coming in, click here to begin...Ellen did not arrive at the office until ten-thirty the next morning, hair still wet, her eyes those of a bloodshot raccoon. The office manager looked at her in disbelief, then informed her that Bryan had called twice already.
Bryan. Oh, God. What she had done yesterday, the terrible things she’d thought, all rushed back to her. She did not know if she could bear to speak to him—or hold it together in the face of his patient kindness. How could she apologize? How could she make him understand? It was too much.
Ellen went into her office and sat down. As she swiveled her chair towards the window, the phone rang. It was Bryan.
“Ellie, is everything okay? What happened yesterday?”
Hearing his voice threw her off-balance. Her throat began to close. “Oh, Bryan, I just—I just couldn’t.”
His voice was warm with concern. “What’s wrong, love?”
“Everything.” The tears were coming now, as she had feared. “I just—I haven’t been sleeping very well, and I can’t seem to concentrate on the book, and I was so mean to Cynthia—oh God, Bryan, I can’t, I’ve looked and I’ve looked— d’you know what it’s like?” she heard herself say. “It’s like when a piece of a tune that gets stuck in your head—it just drives out everything else, and you can’t think of the name of the song and you can’t remember how the rest of it goes and it just ruins everything—” A sob rattled her breastbone, but she could not stop talking. “You’ve got these three goddam notes in your head driving you crazy and you’d give anything to know what the tune is, sell your soul just to hear it all the way through, just to recognize it—”
“Oh, Ellie,” he said quietly, “I feel so terrible.”
She couldn’t answer him.
“I’ve been so selfish. I should have—I mean, this whole thing with Ted, and everything—well, you’ve gone through a lot. A lot of stress. We shouldn’t have come on quite so strong with work straight off.”
She sniffled, to show she understood.
“I’ll tell you what,” he said, his voice brightening, “why don’t we just forget about the book for a bit? I’ve been needing some time off, too. Let’s take a couple of weeks and just go on holiday.”
“Holiday?”
“Yeah. Forget the book, just get some downtime. Go see the countryside. We could take the train to the Lake District, maybe Scotland—or—you know, do all the tourist sort of things. Westminster Abbey, St. Paul’s, all that—go to the theatre, hit the restaurants. I’ll really show you the town. D’you fancy that?”
“But the book—“
“Ellie, the deadline’s in six weeks. The state I’m in, I won’t finish the rewrite for eight—and I’ll wager you could say the same. If we take two weeks now, have a good time, recharge a bit, we’ll come back in fighting trim and knock it off in three.”
She couldn’t help but smile at his enthusiasm. “Leaving us a week to spare—I like that. What about Cynthia?”
“Oh, it’s okay with her.”
“She’s not mad at me?”
“Cynthia? Of course not. She understands how stressed out you are.” She swore she could hear his grin over the phone. “In fact, it was her idea. What d’you say?”
Her shoulders slumped as the tension left them. She felt inexpressibly grateful. “Thank you, Bryan. That is so sweet.”
“Right then. How’d you like a day in the country tomorrow?”
“I would love to. God, you guys—Bryan, you are such a good friend. If you only knew—“
“Think nothing of it, love.” His voice hummed with good cheer.
It was agreed that Bryan and Cynthia would pick her up at her flat the next morning at nine. After she rung off, Ellen left under the baleful gaze of the office manager. She picked up an Indian take-away on the way back to her flat, devoured most of it straight from the carton, and slept untroubled through the rest of the day and night, until woken by a golden dawn.
It was not until she had risen and washed and dressed that Ellen began to have second thoughts. To leave London, now? To leave the Angel? But when she heard Bryan’s knuckles on the door, she slouched into her raincoat just the same.
Bryan met her with a grin. “Ellie. You look better already.”
She smiled despite herself. “I’m feeling generous, so I’ll take that as a compliment. Where are we going, anyway?”
“Oh, you’ll like this,” he said. “Did you read the Albertine Vollinger books when you were a kid?”
“Dick Marmot and all of those? I loved ‘em. Wow, I haven’t—wait. Tell me where we’re going.”
“There’s one condition.”
“What?”
He smiled, almost embarrassed. “Will you let me drive the Bentley?”
She did, of course, and soon the smoke and pavement of London fell away as Bryan rolled them up the M1 towards Torkenham. Cynthia chatted amiably over her shoulder to Ellen in the back seat. It was a fine, clear day. Ellen watched the play of sunlight on the turf of the hills. An ache, so deep she’d hardly known it was there, seeped slowly out of her bones. The wind through the half-open car window was fresh with recent rain and cut grass. Ellen closed her eyes and felt a weight of desperation begin to slip from her. It was good, so good to be in this car, with her friends, in the light of a new day. She didn’t even look back at the city receding behind them.
Ellen rode in quiet contentment, nearly dozing, until she heard Bryan say, “There it is, Ellie. Russell House.”
She looked up as the pulled off the main road. A Georgian manor nestled comfortably amidst its gardens; the gables and roofs caught the madder rose light off the brick facade, stagger-stepping upwards several storeys until capped by an attic loft like a steeple, with a single window looking out on distant London.
“This is where she lived? Albertine Vollinger?”
“Where she lived, where she wrote. This landscape was her inspiration. I think you’ll find some of it familiar.”
Ellen laughed with delight when she saw the old manor house and its gardens; she’d seen them before, in crystalline watercolors, in the pages of her treasured little Dick Marmot books. The long path leading up to the house was bordered with marigolds, lighting their way in gold and red. In those marigolds Dick Marmot and Pyramus the Vole had capered.
“Oh, Bryan, it’s beautiful!”
Cynthia nodded. “It’s something, isn’t it? Just like stepping into a fairy tale.”
“We found this place a couple of years ago, on holiday,” Bryan said as he parked the Bentley. “It’s a landmark, now, since the last Lord Russell died.” There was only one other car in the drive, an old Morris Minor pulled up beside a small garden shed. “Looks like we’ve got the run of the place—that’s the caretaker’s car, I think.”
A fat man in a rusty corduroy suit emerged from the shed as they were getting out of the car. He put on a smile and cried, “Welcome, welcome. Just been raking out the drive, you know. How d’you do,” and here he extended a thick pale hand, “my name’s Griggs, Fred Griggs. I’m your guide—that and man of all work, you know.”
Griggs shook hands all around. “Lovely day you’ve chosen for your visit, just lovely. The gift shop won’t be open ‘til two, you know, but feel free to have a look round. There’s the gardens.” He handed Ellen a smudged brochure from the pocket of his jacket. “Very nice this time of year. The strawberries will be in any week now.”
“The strawberries,” said Ellen. “Pyramus Vole loved the strawberries.”
“Yes, lovely,” said Bryan. He handed Griggs a ten-pound note. “I think we’ll have a look at the grounds first, hey? Then perhaps you could show us round the house, say, one o’clock?”
“One it is, sir. Enjoy your walk.”
The gardens were both lush and orderly, in their peculiarly English way, and sweet with hyacinth and sunshine. Ellen thrived on it. The fatigue that had hung like bruises around her eyes faded away as she and Cynthia strolled among the strawberry bushes, laughing like girls. Cynthia got the cooler from out of the car and they picnicked by the birdbath; cucumber sandwiches (“So English,” said Cynthia, then laughed her guffawing New York laugh), crisps, cakes and cold American beer.
Ellen had her shoes off, and the grass between her toes soothed her. Such a beautiful day. Tomorrow, she swore to herself, she would sit in Hyde Park, in the grass, and read Bryan’s manuscript straight through, stopping only for ice cream. She could do it, she knew; her focus was back. The madness of the past weeks had fallen away like a bad dream. This is where she turned her life around.
Bryan brushed some crisp-crumbs from his knees and looked at his watch. “It’s nearly one. Mr. Griggs will be waiting for us.”
When they rose, Ellen went to Bryan and hugged him. He seemed a bit startled, then patted her back. “Thank you for this, you guys.” Ellen turned to Cynthia, who held out her arms. “I don’t know how I would make it without you. I treated you so awful—” (Cynthia made a shushing sound) “—I was, I don’t know, headed for a breakdown or something, but this—“ she gestured around her “—this is just putting it all in perspective. It’s so nice.”
Bryan was blushing, Ellen saw. It was attractive on him. “Come on, we—ah—don’t want to keep Mr. Griggs waiting.”
...
Click here for Part Five.
Begin here
Over the next few days, Ellen settled into the Publisher’s offices in Bloomsbury and slowly read through Bryan’s manuscript. It was hard going; though she tried mightily, she could feel her concentration slipping. She kept flipping back, unable to keep track of who the characters were. Every so often she would find herself having stared at a page for fifteen minutes without having read a word.
Ellen’s high office window looked over a vast panorama of the city. She found it almost impossible to work there; the temptation to put aside the novel and gape at the grandeur of London was nigh irresistible. Only it wasn’t the grandeur of the city she was interested in. It was the Angel. Her work seemed pointless, compared to the search for the Angel.
On the fifth day, Ellen met him and Cynthia for lunch at the Criterion. She took the tube from Bloomsbury to avoid the rain, and arrived feeling suffocated. The tube had been a mistake; it isolated her below, keeping her from the street, keeping her from the sky and the view of the city. She would not take the tube again, she resolved; she would walk or take the Bentley. She could not risk missing the Angel again. Cynthia rose to hug her hello as Ellen walked in, shaking her umbrella. “Have you found it?” asked Ellen.
Cynthia looked surprised. “What?”
“The statue! You said you’d look it up!”
Cynthia rolled her eyes. “El, I told you, I looked in the guidebooks and didn’t spot it.”
“You said Tuesday you’d go to the National Library—”
Bryan hissed, “Ellie, love, keep your voice down.”
Cynthia sat down again. “I said I’d go if I got a chance. It’s only been a couple of days—I haven’t had the time yet.”
Ellen lurched into her seat. “Goddammit, can’t you make the time? I mean, what do you do all day, Cynthia?”
Cynthia went pale around the lips, but said nothing.
“Ellie.” Bryan’s voice was maddeningly calm. “Are you feeling all right?”
“What d’you care? I’m getting the job done.”
“I’m concerned for your health, Ellie. You don’t look at all well. Have you been sleeping all right?”
“Yeah.” She saw his unbelieving look and admitted, “Well, not much.” In truth she had been sleeping hardly at all, the past two nights only dozing in her chair by the window and waking stiff and aching to watch the sun rise.
“How’s your appetite?”
She tried to laugh. “For God’s sake, Bryan!”
“Just asking.”
Ellen was getting irritated. Pointless, this was all pointless. “I’m fine, really,” she said. She picked up her menu. “Can we eat outside, on the terrace?”
Cynthia looked at her quizzically. “El, it’s raining.”
Ellen gritted her teeth. “I know. But I like the view.”
“I don’t think so,” said Bryan. “Let’s just stay put—I’m not up for the bother, really.”
Ellen looked around the restaurant. In all its Byzantine splendor, she couldn’t see a window. “It’s so stuffy in here,” she said.
Bryan and Cynthia looked at each other. God, they were annoying her! Their cryptic glances, their patronizing civility—they were treating her like a dim child, and she couldn’t stand it any longer.
Bryan opened his mouth to speak, but Ellen wouldn’t give him a chance. She stood up. “I’m just going to get some fresh air,” she said. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
She walked out of the restaurant and kept walking, through the lunchtime crowds in Piccadilly, breathing the stale city air. The rain had slowed to a drizzle. She sat on a bench and looked up, wincing as she did so; her neck was growing stiff with constant bending.
Bryan would be pissed at her for running out. What did he care? He was so wrapped up in his fucking book, expecting her to put her life on hold and wipe his brow as he minced through the final edit. Selfish bastard. She was out there doing the heavy lifting and his condescension was her reward. And that stupid cow Cynthia! She couldn’t keep the simplest promise. As if Ellen had the time to go to the National Library herself!
The rain had stopped. Ellen got up again and started walking, strolling at random with her face turned upwards. The pavement shone wet. She stumbled now and then, bumped into people.
She made her way into the heart of the ‘dilly. The neon increased in brilliance and volume, screaming the brand names of beer and cigarettes. The street was thick with ticket windows and bureaux de change. Jungle music blared from windows and Jeeps. She hardly heard. A Jamaican kid selling hot radios off of a blanket in a doorway called out, “Hey, crazy lady, what you lookin feh? You lookin feh jammin soun’ system?”
“No,” Ellen murmured, “I’m looking for an Angel.”
The kid thought that was funny. “Ain’t we all, hey? Ain’t we all.”
She had walked past, and didn’t hear his reply. The rain gradually slowed and then stopped completely as she walked. Shaftesbury Avenue. Charing Cross Road. The Strand. Waterloo...
As the sun dropped, she circled back towards the Embankment. There was a quay near Cleopatra’s Needle where she paid nine pounds for a cruise of the Thames. She sat at the speedboat’s bow, spattered by filthy spray, not heeding the prattling of the loudspeaker as the captain cracked self-deprecating jokes and pointed out the office towers of Southwark and the City; she was looking between the buildings for a trace of gold.
When the boat brought her back, Ellen was hungry. It was tea-time already, and the cafés and shops were all too crowded for her taste; she would come back a little later. She kept walking. The streets, still wet, grew vaporous in the afternoon heat. She turned her course back towards the Palace; she’d try one last time.
The iron-black statuary mocked her—common as water they were, while her Angel was nowhere to be found. But it was real. She had not imagined it. It was there, somewhere—around some corner, behind some building, temporarily hidden by a construction crane or an overpass. She knew it. She knew that when she found it, the Angel would slide into view from the blind spot in the corner of her eye, wearing its sweet, open smile; Oh, were you looking for me?
She walked until it grew dark and her guts growled for food. She had lost her wristwatch, but she had her London A-Z; she turned herself towards Westminster and her building. There was a chip-shop around the corner from the flat; she could grab a late supper there. She’d done it before. When she remembered to eat at all.
Westminster was a long walk. The leathery Greek who ran the chippie had closed his doors long before Ellen arrived; even the smell of fat was gone from the muggy night air. Her heart sank. Everything was closed by now, at least around here, and she was too tired to take the Bentley back into the West End. Nothing to do but go home.
The flat was dark as she entered. She left the lights off, side-stepping the greasy chip-shop newspapers littering the floor and making her way to the bathroom in the dark. Her fridge still held only horseradish and film. But the shades were open, and the window opened onto a view of the city lights like a hole in the world.
Ellen flicked her unwashed hair out of her eyes and eased her shoes off; her blistered feet seemed to steam as she did. Her clothes were dirty, she realized. She shrugged out of them, left them to pool on the floor, and staggered to the chair by the window.
The night-time view was treacherous. Black shapes of buildings humped up unpredictably, shadows shifting with moonlight and the passing cars. Now and then what seemed a colossal winged figure would loom, then disperse as the light changed. An odd flash of gold would catch her eye; she would follow it eagerly, until it proved the lights of an ambulance or a road-service lorry.
But as Ellen sat naked and sleepless, brain teeming, it seemed that the lights pulsing behind her eyes gathered themselves into pictures. She closed her eyes, struggled to remember exactly how the Angel had looked in that one brief moment. She recalled its smooth, muscled arms, emerging from the fluid billow of its robe. The slender waist. Ellen’s hand rubbed her empty belly. Its long, graceful neck, hands so gentle and strong. She reached lower, parted herself with glistening fingers. The grace of its stance, the beneficent power. Ah. The golden explosion of the wings, perfect to every feather. Yes. The massive serenity. Oh. Face Michelangelo perfection oh the soft curl of the hair and yes dignity of gaze oh in perfect oh Greek please harmony please oh lips curl oh please Gioconda smile oh please please oh God please...
She panted, great burning gasps, hips grinding, sore, dripping and filmed with sweat. There was nothing; no release, no relief. She rolled in her seat, twisting, clutching for something, until she fell forward out of the chair, onto her knees.
Tears rolled down her face. Exhausted, sleepless, hungry, but she could not eat, could not sleep, couldn’t even get herself off. Her marriage, Ted, and now the book, her work—everything had fallen apart. She felt the pit opening within her, and the ruins of her life sliding in and down.
Then she raised her head. There was no need to despair, she realized. As she stood, wiping her eyes, Ellen began to smile. Everything would be all right. Because she knew. She knew what would fix everything. It was all so simple. She sat again, leaned forward with her elbows on the window sill. She knew.
All she had to do was see the Angel again.
...
Click here for Part Four.
Click here for Part One
Ellen ate and drank, and Bryan gallantly turned his head while Cynthia took off Ellen’s stockings and cleaned her knee. He toyed with his ice cubes while Ellen told her story.
“You’re sure it was an Angel?”
“Positive.” Ellen fidgeted in her chair. The food and drink had re-energized her, not calmed her. “Golden, with wings and everything. Huge, like the one on the Potsdamerplatz, but not—militaristic. It was—loving.”
Bryan looked troubled. “You’re sure it wasn’t one of the monuments from Green Park, with the setting sun off it? After all, you only saw it for a moment—“
“I thought of that, Bryan. But I know what I saw. Why do you ask?”
“Well, I can’t recall ever seeing it, myself. And I’ve lived in London all my life.”
“That doesn’t mean anything,” said Cynthia, clearing away Ellen’s plate. “I grew up in Manhattan, and until I met you, Bryan, I never once visited the Empire State Building.”
“Yeah, but at least the Empire State stays put if you’re looking for it.”
“Aw, El. Don’t worry about it. You must’ve just lost your bearings when you got cut off. We’ll get you a good guidebook and hunt this thing down. I’d love to see it myself—it sounds gorgeous.” Cynthia went to the front window to draw the curtains. She looked out the driveway and started. “Wow! Is that a Bentley? How’d you get the Firm to spring for that one?”
“I didn’t. I rented the car with my own money.” She paused. “With Ted’s money, I should say. From the settlement.”
Cynthia put her hand on Ellen’s shoulder. “Not his money, El—yours. God knows you earned it. Jesus, I don’t know how you made it work as long as you did.”
“Seven years.”
“I know, honey.”
“I tried, y’know? I really did.” Something escaped her that was half-exhalation, half nervous laugh. “But the Differences, as they say, were just... Irreconcilable.”
“Say, Ellie,” Bryan said suddenly, “are you settled in at the flat yet?”
When she admitted that she was not, Cynthia glowed. “So you’ll stay the night with us? We’ve got a spare room. We’ll go out for breakfast, and you and Bryan can talk about the book.”
It was eleven-thirty, and she was two V&Ts to the good. “If it’s no trouble...”
“The Firm sent its best editor—and my best friend—all the way here to help me through this rewrite. It’s the least I can do.” Bryan smiled. “But between us, Ellie, I’m not doing it for them; I’m doing it for you. Come on, I’ll show you up.”
Cynthia lent her a nightgown and threw her clothes in the wash. Ellen took a grateful shower and settled into her borrowed bed. Though jet-lagged and bone-weary, she could not sleep. She tried to turn her thoughts to Bryan’s book—but the Angel’s face, caught in one stolen glimpse, kept flickering behind her eyes. She wanted to see it again.
Her sleep was troubled by dreams that she could not remember come morning.
Ellen spent the morning with Bryan and Cynthia, shopping and discussing the new novel. She found it difficult to concentrate; every time they were out in the street, she had to fight the urge to look over her shoulder.
At noon, she drove to the Westminster flat that the Publisher maintained for its editors on assignment. The landlady had let the movers in; the floor was covered with suitcases and cardboard boxes. Nothing but a jar of horseradish and a roll of film in the fridge; she’d have to go to the Safeway later. There was tea in the cupboard, though, and after she’d put her clothes away she put a kettle on the range.
Waiting for the water to boil, she went to the window and opened the blinds. It was shortly after two; the sky had cleared from the morning drear. From this floor of the tower block, Ellen had a fine view of the district. She could see the green edges of Hyde Park, cut up by gray rulers of paving, the bandstand, the flat shimmer of the Serpentine.
Then her eye wandered up, to the buildings; the sleek new Arab banks, the office blocks, the low bump of pubs and chip shops. Crazy quilt, she thought, Georgian edifices slapped hard up against squatting logs of glass and steel. Still, she loved London’s character. In New York, the streets were just canyons between the cliffs of skyscrapers; all those buildings look the same. Yesterday, flying out of LaGuardia, she’d seen those mirrored cliffs in the bleak light before rush hour and thought, What kind of people live there? People as faceless and same as the buildings themselves. New York had no place in its routine for such wonders as are to be found in London. Such wonders...
And without even realizing it, she was looking no longer at the buildings but between them, searching the cracks in the skyline for a flash of gold. The people below, the sounds, the green of the park; these vanished as she gazed out, her eyes locking into a rigid stare, as if to burn a hole through the scene outside through which might shine the golden wings of an Angel.
She was brought back by an acrid, metallic smell in the flat. The kettle had boiled dry; its bottom glowed a dull red over the gas flame. Ellen swore, ran to the range and snatched the kettle up—then dropped it, yelping with pain; the bakelite handle had grown hot. The kettle, cheap aluminum to begin with, dented and split when it hit the floor. A brown scorch mark appeared on the planks.
Ellen stood at the sink, running cold water over her blistered palm. She stood there for some time, then looked at the clock. 3:45. Almost tea-time. Almost two hours gone by.
She shut off the water and sat on the floor, hugging herself to stop the shaking.
...
Click here for Part Three.
I think of dreams as material, honestly—raw visual information, useful or not, that's beamed into the head for free—and I've stripped mine (strip-mined?) shamelessly.dreamt September 1998This goes along with feeling that "inspiration," or "talent," or whatever you want to call it, is a cheap commodity, as cheap and plentiful as water.
But what makes it work? Something that you wouldn't notice twice in waking life will, in dreams, have enormous significance and power to disturb: a burned-out light bulb, the crackle of a radio, an abandoned shopping cart... Words can capture the images: but what is it that makes them fraught with significance?
Night. Moonless, lit only by streetlamps. A violent Autumn thunderstorm is gathering; wet leaves whip round my feet as I stalk up my old street towards my mother's old house. The storm has not yet broken—ominous clouds silver and crackling across the black sky and a shivery smell in the air. Earthquake weather. All meteorologists say this storm is going to be a monster: the general public, though (or a large percentage, anyway) believes that it's the Dies Irae, the Rapture, the day of reckoning—the end of the world. Me, I don't believe the hype. I'm heading to my Mom's to wait out the storm with her.
Every house on the street is dark and silent, except hers: all the neighbors are awaiting the end in churches. But from my mother's house, every light blazed, and music crooned out into the front hall; Tony Bennett, on vinyl. But she does not come to greet me, and the house is so still, and the phonograph so loud, that every crackle of dust on the needle reverberates like a gunshot. The stillness of the neighborhood, and the odd loudness of the music in the house (otherwise as silent as a doll's house) makes my flesh creep. Where is she?
I round the corner and touch to cellar door. It opens under my fingertips. Looking down the stairs, I can see her legs slowly swinging. She has hanged herself from a crossbeam. She's smiling.
I cut her down, close her eyes, and dial 9-1-1. All phone circuits are jammed: I know the cops will never come, in all the chaos and panic of the Rapture.
Outside, the storm begins in earnest.
I've been writing down my dreams, off and on, for years. I don't worry much about what they mean: I just try to follow what they are. But ometimes it's tempting to see prophesies there...Claire's Mouth, part 1dreamt 3 March 1997
Claire's Mouth, part 2
dreamt 10 March 1997
In which Claire could speak, quite fluently, and we knew at last what she was thinking all this time. We were delighted, and then disquieted...
Daddy loves Baby. Does Baby love Daddy?Well... no, frankly. I'm worried, more than anything. You guys are so much bigger than me, and so much stronger, and you could very easily hurt me if you wanted to: It's an intrinsically unequal relationship, with me so dependent on (and frightened of) you—there's no real basis there for love as such, is there?
My dream journals don't always make for flattering reading: there are lots of dull, obvious sex- and power-fantasies so transparent they'd embarrass a student filmmaker.The Keel HaulI try not to analyze these things too much: I'd rather just groove on the occasional unexpected images. It's like going to the movies with your eyes closed.
Rhymes With "...Each Little Waif"
11 November 1996
Ralph Fiennes is living in our spare room—researching a role, or so he tells us; trying to get the American accent right. Poncing about shirtless and unshaven, his hair long and lank, projecting a false Yank joviality, he's thrown himself into a Method portrayal of a shiftless, smirking, indolent lout—mooching food, borrowing the car, letting us pick up all the bills. Wotta pal. I'm starting to believe that there's no film role behind it all...
Something someone once said to me in a dream:How a Heart is a Spade"You can't measure a man for rock 'n' roll the way you can for a suit of clothes."
Like many things we hear it dreams, it is entirely true but not particularly useful.
The other day, while looking for something else entirely, I found my dream journal from five years ago...One Bad Cat
Bones
dreamt April Fool's 1996
I step on the bathroom scale and see that I only weigh 140 pounds. I look in the mirror: I still look to be the same fleshy hulk I ever was. "Geez," I murmur, "I guess I really am just big-boned."
Yass suh, boss. And I bets dey jus' loves dem some watermelon, too.
Case in point: Vengeance, Inc., the (possibly-true) story of how, in 1972, former Marvel honcho Martin Goodman came out of retirement to start Atlas Comics primarily as a vehicle for a personal vendetta against Stan Lee, enlisting top Marvel talent—and even Lee's own brother!—in his efforts, against the background of a tormented Arthur Miller-style father/son psychodrama, then proceeded, through ego, incompetence and overextension, to fail spectacularly on every level.
Train-wreck fascinating. The Gaiman-McFarlane lawsuit pales in comparison.
An unpleasant, lurid Daughters of the Dragon story rounds it out. Unpleasant because of the blatant pseudo-lesbo titillation thrown in for the fanboys. Early in the story, the villainess is seducing one of our heroines, who protests, "I'm not—you know—that way..." The villainess, of course, is a vampire, and the nasty psychosexual angles are played pitilessly: shame and desire duke it out in a landscape of swoons and caresses as nipples poke against T-shirts.
The vamp is destroyed, of course, by penetration—but for the coda, our two triumphant, 100% heterosexual heroines are seen frolicking on a tropical beach together, in bikinis no bigger than handkerchiefs, off on a month-long vacation... with no guys in sight.
Mixed message? You tell me.
I'm off for a shower. Long and hot, with lots of soap.
The most original character concept in the history of absolutely anything ever, screams the cover blurb (or words to that effect). Well... no. He's a shape-shifting spy IN THE FUTURE! is what he is; The Man From UNCLE meets Space: 1999, basically. Oh, dear.
Paradox is really, really not very good. By "very," of course, I mean "at all." I've been loath to say anything bad about writer Bill Mantlo since learning of his health problems (via Tony Isabella's column). Bill suffered terrible brain damage in accident some years back, and, as I understand it, doesn't remember much about his career as a comics writer. I certainly hope he doesn't remember Paradox. Because there is something profoundly icky about this book, and that is its attitude towards sexuality.
See, in a nod to I Spy, the titular superspy Paradox is a celebrity in his "cover identity." In his case, he's a ballet dancer—which, when he's introduced, engenders several snarky comments about his assumed faggotry. Paradox, for his part, flounces about in puffy shirts and velvet chokers, as camp as Christmas, laying giddy smooches on his superior officer: later, though, on an interplanetary flight, he effortlessly woos a stewardess.
It's all meant to be a jolly bit of Bond-style cocksmanship, of course, but it leaves a sour taste. Paradox isn't really gay, of course, or even bi—he sleeps with two women in the story, and for all his fey banter doesn't actually put the moves on a single man. His presumed homosexuality is played like Clark Kent's glasses—as a cover for his true nature as a hard-bitten spy: his enemies (and allies) constantly underestimate the "fairy," of course.
That might've been an interesting conceit. But to present him as really, actually, unambiguously 100% straight is a pure cop-out. Understandable from a marketing standpoint—wouldn't want to alienate our fatbeard audience, not all of whom are entirely comfortable even with the notion of sexuality as an abstract—but leaves a bitter taste, nonetheless.
It's this that makes Paradox a truly terrible book, rather than merely blah: Aside from that, though, it's just boring, from its uninspired genre-mashing premise to the workmanlike dullness of its bog-standard drugs-and-murder plot, salted though it is with gratuitous boobies, unconvincing "futuristic" touches, tired wordplay, and choking slabs of exposition.
Still, that was the Seventies, which are safely behind us. We've learned from our long nightmare, haven't we? Learned and moved on, yes. Such an atrocity could never happen again...
Oh dear.
Doug Moench and Paul Gulacy are, of course, Seventies People (having created the groundbreaking-in-its-time Master of Kung Fu). But it's 2002 now, and it's beyond me why anybody would want to see new Seventies-Style Comics written and drawn by Seventies People—thanks to the anal-retentive habits of fanboys, it's not as if such material is in short supply, and the back-issue market is pretty soft right now. What's going on? Moench and Gulacy, unlike poor Bill Mantlo, haven't got the excuse of brain damage...
Me, I'm waiting for Rupert Everett to bring the gay superspy genre to the prominence it deserves. Bring on PS I Love You, cries I!
More black-and-whites.
Can't find the exact thread, but there's been assertions made on the Underground that Chris Claremont was once a good comics writer, and that his decline into self-parody has been gradual. Reader; t'ain't so. Exhibit A:
"A novel-length science fiction spectacular in the tradition of Robert A. Heinlein," trumpets the cover, and the depth of the insult depends on how you feel about Heinlein, I guess. Just a few choice bits of dialogue, here:
"You killed my twin on Cinnibar, Pretty-Pretty. I'm grateful for the chance to repay you kind-on-kind."And it's all like that—just that formulaic and over-familiar. And this is 1977, friends: Claremont is young and fresh and at the alleged height of his alleged powers, supported by the slick Byrne/Austin artwork... and the script is one trademark Claremont cliché after another. The tough, free-spirited heroine (an ex-thief, naturally) shouting "Goddess!" in moments of stress: the sentient ship named "Ship": more buckos, boyos and m'loves than can be recounted here."Their lives were precious--if only to them."
"His... mind.. only in-instant's contact... but so full of... so--evil!
and the ever-popular
"Allez-OOP!!"
The evidence is damning.
Chris Claremont's talent has not declined.
