Personal Darkness (13 page)

The announcer resumed in his tragedy voice:

"A chain of fires in Oxford, Reading, and Guildford were soon firmly connected to the Cheltenham case. Forensic evidence, where available, revealed that all the victims had died before the fires took hold, of lacerations and punctures to the neck and throat. In the second of the Guildford fires, three small children were among the dead."

More photographs, three little unlived-in masks, like unbought toys.

Another ruin and another fireman, face congested, nearly desperate. "We see some things. But this little kiddy. No, she was already dead. There can't be any doubt. The fire didn't get up to her." Picture and sound were abruptly cut off.

"Two fires in southeast London, the most recent of which took place during Sunday afternoon, are now believed to be the latest of the arson attacks. Four people lost their lives. Names are being withheld until relatives have been informed." The announcer rallied like a warrior. "Police now say they have an important lead."

A police officer appeared, in a suit no one had warned the producer would pixilate, so rainbows zigzagged over the screen.

"A very curious incident was reported at the scene of the latest attack. A young woman left the pet cat with a neighbor just before the fire broke out. A similar event occurred in Guildford. A pet dog was removed from the arsonist's target and placed with an animal shelter. The dog was quite unharmed and has now been found a new home."

The police officer cleared his throat. "The owners weren't so lucky. The important thing is, apparently, in both cases, the animal was rescued by a young woman answering the same description. The animal shelter don't have a record of her, and unfortunately the neighbor who took in the cat, although she had quite a long conversation with the girl, was unable to give a detailed description as she wasn't wearing her glasses. However, we do have a description which matches a Polaroid photograph found in the second south London house."

The rainbows were replaced by a blurred, inadequate picture, its edges unevenly trimmed with black burning.

In the silence, the world hung in space.

Miranda gave a sigh and her glass fell on the white carpet, letting out the bloodless gin.

"The girl is believed to be aged between sixteen and nineteen, is white, with very long black hair worn loose down to her thighs. She is thought to be wearing jeans and a black leather jacket or a black T-shirt. Police say she should not be approached by the public, but anyone seeing her should contact them immediately."

From such a functionless image, no one on earth could know her. But to everyone in the room she was known at once.

Rachaela had turned to ice. Sasha did not move, nor Michael, nor Cheta. Miranda did not move again.

But Eric had stood up.

Eric strode to the white television and lifted it up on his left hand as though it were made of paper.

Eric screamed.

And with his right fist, ringed and old and hard as iron, he smashed in the TV screen, and with it the blurred unrecognizable face of Ruth.

Before midnight, in a large somber van, all the papers came, several with their ink still wet.

Every paper conceivably in London. Presumably. The great stern sheets, the rags, some with colors and some without.

She was there in all of them, somewhere.

She had a name, not the name Emma had chosen for her.

They called her The Vixen. Tally Ho, Hunt The Vixen. The Vixen—has she gone to earth? The Black Vixen, where will she strike next?

It was probably the telephone which brought the newspapers to the Scarabae. Eric standing over it, the wreckage of the TV behind him, pushing at the rest of the instrument with the receiver in his hand, trying to get the operator, as perhaps he had sixty years ago. And then, turning round rigidly: "
Michael
. How do I make this work?" And Michael coming to him and taking the receiver quietly. "It's all right, Mr. Eric. I will dial."

Rachaela had left the room. She had gone up to her apartment and opened wide the windows.

The moon was high and wetted the trees of the common with milky white. The owl hooted in the air.

It was impossible to stay.

Eventually, she went down again.

After the papers came, the Scarabae investigated them. Rachaela too.

Dinner was not served.

Twice more they watched the news, now on a set which Michael had brought up into the room.

Eric did not strike the screen again.

At two in the morning, the dragon trike came roaring up the road. Camillo entered the house with Lou and Tray, and Eric sent Michael out to bring him in.

Camillo walked into the drawing room in his black leathers and his silver adornments, and Lou and Tray stood in the doorway like nymphs.

"My ears," said Camillo, "are full of the beat of enormous musical machines. Drums, guitars, synthesizers, voices."

"Forget them," said Eric. "Ruth is in London."

"Ruth," said Camillo. "Ugh."

Sasha went to him and gave him a paper, the
Independent
, Rachaela thought.

"Read. They call her The Vixen."

"Yes," said Camillo. "For centuries in this English tongue Vixen has implied a wicked woman."

He glanced at the paper, then put it down.

"Cami," said Lou.

"Hush," said Camillo. Then, "Go up to your room."

Lou shrugged and Tray pulled a tiny little face, then they were gone, obedient as golden greyhounds.

Miranda said, softly, "It's horrible."

"No," said Camillo. "It's what we are."

"Liar," said Eric. But his violence had dissipated. "Michael," he said, "I must use the telephone again."

"Yes," said Sasha.

Miranda put her hands to her lips.

Rachaela stood in stasis. What new demonstration of their dominion was to come?

She did not learn. For Michael dialed a long while, and when Eric spoke into the phone, it was in another language.

PAMELA BELLINGHAM FELT RELIEF AND pleasure when she opened the front door. She had thought Trevor would forget, again, to call the agency. And even if he did, they would just go on being dilatory.

"Mrs. Watt?" asked the girl.

Pamela laughed. "Oh, they always get the name wrong, don't they. No, actually it's Bellingham, but Pamela will do. Come in. I saw you with the policeman. Were you asking the way?"

The girl paused. She looked very self-contained.

"Oh, yes."

Pamela had gone up into the children's playroom; they were making so much noise, perhaps they had spotted the damn fox again. The house was on a corner, and looking out beyond the garden wall, Pamela had seen this young girl with long black hair in conversation with two uniformed policemen. The dialogue seemed completely ordinary, and it did not occur to Pamela that the police might have stopped the girl rather than the other way about. In any case, a police car suddenly pulled up, and another uniformed officer jumped out and ran across. They left the girl abruptly. All three men got into the car and drove off.

The girl did not appear either surprised or annoyed, although Pamela, in her situation, would have been decidedly irritated.

Then the girl came in through the gate, and Pamela realized that Trevor had got on to the agency at last, dealt with everything, and they had sent the au pair.

She was certainly easier on the eye than the previous one.

Pamela buzzed her through the hall into the kitchen.

"Would you like a coffee? As you can see, we've got most of the gadgets, it shouldn't be too awful for you. Washing machine there, dishwasher, microwave. We'll have a drink and I'll take you over the house. It is honestly just light work—making the beds, a bit of dusting, Hoover once a week or if Trev's got someone coming. Help me with a dinner party now and then. And, of course, the brats. They did tell you about the brats, didn't they? The last girl didn't realize we had two. It was a bit of a shock." This girl nodded, obliquely.

"They're super kids. Really bright. But they are a handful sometimes. Dominic goes to school usually, but it's one of their holidays. Violet's only three. And what's your name?"

"Ruth."

"Mm, lovely. Biblical. I like the old names. That's why I chose Violet. I try to dress her in violet, too. Did they tell you about us at all?"

"No," said Ruth. "They didn't tell me anything much."

"Your English is awfully good," gushed Pamela, preparing weak instant coffee. She wondered to what ethnic group Ruth belonged. Probably Slavic, although there was a delicacy, a small-boned, fragile endurance that reminded her only of the Chinese.

When the kettle had boiled and hot water had gone into the cups, Pamela put them on a big pine table with a bowl of sugar and a carton of single cream. Feeling expansive Pamela also brought the biscuit barrel, which was formed like a pig, and contained the luxury biscuits with apple, raisins, and icing sugar.

"Help yourself. I feel we're going to get along fine. I'm an artist, that's why I need some help in the house. I work full-time at home. Book jackets mostly. I'm working on something at the moment. Absolutely dreadful, some fantasy book. But I always do my best, even when I don't like the material. That's one thing I have to make plain. When I'm in my studio, I'm afraid it's a no-go area. I mustn't be disturbed. Unless something dire happens with the brats."

Pamela noticed that Ruth had taken her sixth biscuit. She might have to be firm, there. It would be a shame for Ruth to spoil her lovely figure.

Pamela sighed inwardly. She had been eight stone when she and Trevor got married. But after the children she had put on weight. Of course, her shape was still all right, but she was three stone heavier. Ruth made her feel it, although Pamela did not acknowledge this. She shut the stomach of the pig and stood up.

"Well, I expect you'd like to see what you're in for. Bring your coffee."

"I've finished it, thank you."

The tour of the house was quite brief. Pamela would walk into a room, wave her arms artistically so her large breasts gesticulated in her cotton shirt, and then lead Ruth out again. Downstairs was a brown room with two large modern paintings, Trev's "study," which was done in beige with a poster of Corfu, and a small dining room with a chandelier and orange walls.

Upstairs on the second floor were the bedrooms and two bathrooms, one black and white with sepia photographs, and one yolk yellow, with a red abstract, and Pamela's studio, a large chamber in vermilion. On the vermilion were the large framed paintings Pamela had done for particularly successful books, and framed letters from authors and publishers thanking her. On an easel was an unfinished oil of mountains, towers, a girl and a winged horse. On several tables lay tubes of paint and brushes, bottles of turps, rags, various implements.

When they reached the third floor, there was a very small room which had been varnished purple. This was apparently to be Ruth's.

"I can't stand all that pink and chintz," said Pamela.

There was also a small bathroom. Across the landing were the children's bedrooms, and next door, their playroom. Quite an amount of noise was still coming from here.

"Isn't it ghastly," said Pamela, with a strange pride, "so much energy. We put them up here out of the way. Trev says we should fit them with silencers."

She opened the door. The room was white, and all over the walls were the drawings Pamela had encouraged her children to make, so the immediate effect was one of dangerous lunacy.

Violet was sitting in her violet frock and mauve tights on the carpet. She was holding her doll, whose head had just been pulled off by Dominic. Her expression was of surgical interest, interrupted.

Dominic was hiding behind the door. He burst out on his mother with a yell. She caught him laughing and held him off.

"Now don't be naughty, darling. Look who I've brought up to see you. This is Ruth."

"Wooth," said Violet. She widened her eyes, and dropped her headless doll. Standing up, she raised her skirt. "Ook. I've dot villip panties." She had.

Dominic pointed at the violet panties. "
Rude
."

Violet came slowly and determinedly across the floor to Ruth, staring at her. "Do you wand teer my song?"

Pamela said, "Not just yet, darling. You can sing to Ruth in a minute."

Dominic shouted, with great force, "Ruth! Bloody old Ruth!"

"
Darling
!" cried Pamela. "They pick up this swearing," she added. "Now you mustn't say things like that."

"Bloody!" shouted Dominic. He beamed at his mother. "Bloody old Ruth!"

Pamela ignored him. Violet had gripped Ruth's hand.

"Luff, luff medoo," sang Violet on one note.

"She likes the Beatles," said Pamela.

"Luff, luff medoo," sang Violet. "Luff, luff—"

"Actually," said Pamela, "Ruth, do you think you could hold the fort here for a minute? There's a phone call I should have made…" She backed into the doorway and Dominic said, "Bloody phone."

"Now, Dominic, I've told you not to use that word." Pamela was gone.

Dominic looked up at Ruth.