The Vorrh (42 page)

‘Josephine?’ he whispered urgently. ‘Josephine!’

He touched her neck and felt no pulse. He bent over and put his hairy, impudent ear between her breasts: there was no heartbeat. She was dead. He sank back like a sullen, wet sack, into the collapsed quiet of the rooms and the world. Then the clawing started again. He spun the candles towards it and saw her left hand, frantically digging a pit in the floorboards. The nails were broken and the fingertips bloodied, but the old wood yielded under their insistence. He looked again at her set, dead face; she was elsewhere, but the floor was being eaten away by the live hand’s independent labour. Then silence fell again. He dared not breathe, waiting for the hellish tattoo to start again, wondering fearfully at the life force that sustained its momentum.

As he watched, he realised that her body was slowly coming out of its coma. It warmed and connected to the arm that was still working, the hand continuing to scratch with a violent motion, as if it contained her entire will. Its furious work had lasted for only a few minutes, but they had been the longest he had ever endured. Gull’s words about the hand’s strength came back to him, as did the insane, frail woman who had gutted herself, and the fact that the doctor had named Josephine as his most successful patient. The context of her success brought a sudden, inexplicable chill to his skin.

Gull’s questionable ethics were in the half-lit kitchen with them, two slumped figures caged in a night of fear and guilt. Had his machine produced this? What would he tell Sir William about his prized patient?

She was sleeping normally now, the black curves of her body glistening in a thin layer of sweat. He decided not to move or wake her, and instead crept towards her bedroom on all fours, pushing the light before him and trying to keep it away from his beard, which brushed the floor; he intended to fetch a blanket to cover her modesty. It briefly occurred to him
that it would be more natural for him to be naked too: his animal posture would then complement hers; if nothing else, it would make an excellent series of photographs, two beasts crawling in one small enclosure. All manner of naked people could be caught thus, in fragments of motion; a zoo of measured humanity.

He was about to stand when he heard movement behind him. She was across the room in a moment, standing over him, her scent overpowering, a purple musk of mammalian heat. Her eyes were luminous and locked on his. She suddenly lashed out at the candles, kicking them across the room. Now it was only her eyes that illuminated the shrunken space. She pushed her face into his, grabbing his hair and throat with massive force. He gasped, but was powerless to react. Her strength had become superhuman and all his instincts told him that, if she decided to, she could snap his neck in a moment. Their noses were crushed together, the glowing eyes staring point-blank into his. He could see nothing but the unfocused light; he felt nauseous and terrified. He tried to close his eyes, but it made him feel worse; the thin skin shrivelled under the intensity, and the glow passed straight through.

They remained meshed together in the hideous coupling for only a few minutes, but for him it felt like suffocating hours. Suddenly, she fell away, peeling off into sleep on the cold, barren floor.

He pawed at his eyes, which felt bruised inside. He was drained and trembling; it had all happened so quickly, each incident taking only moments, enormous quantities of focused energy burning for a few minutes. A few
minutes
. The spell of clawing had been shorter than the intense staring of her eyes… a few minutes! The sequence of minutes she spent in his machine: three, five, eight. It had worked, but it had been delayed! The flash of understanding and triumph was instantly snatched away by the thought of the next attack: he only had a few moments to escape or defend himself before she woke again and launched a full eight-minute strike.

He scrambled to get up, his legs sliding wildly from under him. Dragging himself to his feet, he collided into the sink, sending a small wooden dryer of crockery crashing to the floor next to the prone sleeper. Cups and plates shattered and spun as he grabbed the door handle to the outside stairs and his escape. It was locked. The keys were in his discarded coat, somewhere in the studio, but where? Where had he dropped them on his drunken return? There was some moonlight, and he stumbled about in it, frantically searching. He heard her stir in her proximate sleep but did not dare to stop and look. He found the coat and thrust his hands into the pockets, fingers rattling for the keys. He was at the door when he found the empty gun. He had twisted the coat inside out and it clung to his arms. He savagely pulled at it and made it worse. No keys could be found, and his hands were trapped inside the knotted lining. Then she moved.

He screamed as she flung herself at him. Her eyes had dimmed to beyond darkness; no whites could be seen at all. She was a pure, muscular shadow. He tried to cover his throat, but she had no interest in that; it would not be the focus of her prolonged assault. She clawed at his trousers and dragged him to the floor by the ripping waistband, tearing the thick cloth and sturdy undergarments away. He kicked his legs and feebly half-punched at her head with the hand that was not entangled in the coat. She brought one fist pistoning up into his face and his head snapped back from the sickening force, blood and stars hurtling in all directions. She dashed back to her target. He dared not strike her again: another such blow would finish him. He waited for her to slash through his abdomen wall, but that was not her target either. She grasped his skulking manhood and threw the last remnants of its covering across the room. Gripping its base with the thumb and forefinger of her right hand, cradling his balls with the others, her left hand worked underneath him, and she violently pushed her index finger deep into his anus. Now he was struggling involuntarily. She pushed her finger against his prostate and squeezed with her other hand. His erection reared up, startled and
automatic from its cringing sleep. He stopped fighting and fell back, realising what her true target was. She twisted round without loosening her grip. She was over him and lowered the power of her glistening body onto his triumphant, astonished cock. Her hands leapt upwards and grabbed his throat and squeezed while she pumped violently against him. He felt himself continue to grow inside her, expanding to colossal proportions. The pleasure was beating back the outrage and he gave in. He felt the brittle china edge of the broken saucer cut into his rump just before he erupted for the first time. She did not let go, but rode him into the floor, cracking cuts and welts into his skin until the full eight minutes were exhausted. Then she stood up, dripping slowly across the kitchen to her room, quietly shutting the door. He heard the key turn softly in the lock. He tried to get up again, scooping what was left of his pride and his clothing to cover his genitals, which still looked surprised, though this time by the abrupt interruption. He finally peeled the ball of cloth from his arm, and found the key to escape. Shaking, he turned his topcoat the right way out, put it on and limped away.

Making a charge against her was completely impossible; he would be a laughing stock. It was bad enough trying to tell Gull, who looked at him as if he was an idiot. He gave the incredulous doctor an edited account of her violent, mad animal behavior. Gull calmed him condescendingly and had his wounds tended to by one of the male nurses. Six hours later, when Muybridge was rested and recovered, Gull sent him back to the rooms with two of the hospital’s stoutest men. His crossing was in forty-eight hours and he had to retrieve his property and get it to Liverpool in time to make the boat. He had reloaded the Colt, and he gripped it firmly in his pocket as they entered the scene of the crime, but Josephine had gone, and she had taken all the expensive cameras and everything else that was portable, and of any value. His machine was the only item left untouched; it stood in exactly the same position as when she had last
been inside it. He did not have time to dismantle it now.

‘Please, take great care in crating that up for me.’

‘Yes, of course, sir. But Sir William said you were to keep the rooms for your next visit.’

Was he mad? Did Gull seriously imagine that he would take on another of his monsters? He could not wait to see the back of these rooms of deceit and pain. He collected what was left of his possessions and put the logbook with them in the trunk that the men carried away. The long sea-crossing suddenly began to seem like a blessing after this. He could rest and heal in its progress, and remove the dismal and nightmarish memories of the last twenty-four hours. They left and he locked up behind them. He kept the keys. The stitches in his buttocks and back pulled and twinged as they walked towards the waiting carriage. His instrument had worked; now he had to find a function for its genius.

* * *

Ghertrude had been spending less and less time at 4 Kühler Brunnen. She found it lonely and unexciting without Ishmael. She had stopped expecting the promised letter from the invisible master of the house. It had said she would be contacted again in a year, but almost two had passed and no communication of any kind had been received. She did not know whether she was being scolded or ignored; either way it made her feel powerless. So she retreated to her old rooms in her family home; her parents paid no attention to her comings and goings, being far too occupied with the business of the city, and she increasingly felt as though she had become entirely invisible. Even Mutter looked through her most of the time; only Cyrena seemed to enjoy her company and her mind.

Today, though, she was back at the old house, pottering blindly about
on a rainy morning, waiting for her friend to arrive. The message had come through: the cyclops had been found and taken to the old slave house.

‘What a terrible place to take the poor man,’ said Cyrena to Ghertrude when she came to collect her with her car. Mutter had opened the gate, showing even fewer manners than last time, guiding her through to the reception room with a grunt and slouch.

‘Why do you keep that ghastly man on?’ she said, as he sloped away.

‘He has his uses,’ said Ghertrude, who seemed distracted and focused elsewhere. ‘It was he who told me of the Orm,’ she said absently.

‘How did he know of such a thing? asked Cyrena, bemused.

‘The lower people are closer to the ground, they exchange stories about it. They are always talking about base actions or ghosts as things without speculation. They don’t have the space for philosophy. They work in the pinching enclosure of fact. So odd details and stories become important, like ideas do with us. It’s never been the educated classes that tell stories, carry legend or invent mythologies.’

‘Oh?’ said Cyrena, surprised and not quite understanding why the girl cared or understood. ‘But what about the Greeks?’ she asked, pulling a wisp of forgotten education to the aid of her feigned interest.

‘Exactly the same. The Titans started as no more than tribesmen covered in white mud, circling their huts, shouting stories under bull-roarers, to keep the women and children inside.’

‘Mm,’ said Cyrena.

‘I’ll tell you another thing: Mutter distrusts Dr. Hoffmann more than I do, something to do with his son, I think.’

Cyrena had lost focus entirely, and was fidgeting to leave. The moment had come: she could finally thank Ishmael and begin their friendship together. At the gate, Cyrena looked at Mutter again; he was watching the purring limousine outside and ignored her interest. Ghertrude turned to him as they were about to leave, a look of pleasant companionship on her face. ‘We are bringing Ishmael home today,’ she said inclusively.

She turned to get into the car, missing his expression, which suddenly turned ugly. Cyrena knew that her friend was utterly wrong to have any belief in this insolent oaf, and resolved to monitor his future involvement more carefully.

In the car, she found Ghertrude’s distance annoying. She was there to share this moment, not ignore it. She asked, ‘Do you think he will be alright? Do you think his memory will be affected? He’s been in there a long time. He might not even remember me. How will I tell him all, explain everything?’

Ghertrude had a genuine affection for her new friend and greatly admired her vivacious energy, but now she was sounding like a piping adolescent, fantasising over someone she had never met. She tried not to say it, but perversity was such a willing advisor. ‘He can be very difficult, you know; he is not like us, not at all.’

Cyrena stopped talking, waiting to hear more, but that was all her friend said, and it sounded like a warning. They drove the last few miles to the slave house in silence.

‘He was bloody difficult to bring in. Are ye sure ye know this thing?’ Maclish’s charm had been left with all the empty bottles a long time ago, and the women flinched at his abrupt and coarse manner. The doctor interceded, literally stepping between them, grinning and blocking his partner’s impertinence.

‘What William means is that your friend did not want to leave the Vorrh. He struggled a great deal and we had to use much force to get him here.’

‘You did not hurt him?’ flared Cyrena.

‘No, mistress, he is safe and sound, as far as I can make out,’ said Hoffmann.

Cyrena did not understand what he meant, but felt reassured.

‘He scared my men,’ joined in Maclish. ‘Ye said he was deformed, but
none of us were prepared for this!’ He banged his hand on the metal door of the holding cell. A shuffling sound came from within. ‘We hope your presence will calm him down. I’m sure when he sees ye and hears your voice he will settle.’

Cyrena was already pawing at the door in expectation; Ghertrude held back uncertainly.

‘It’s dark in there,’ growled Maclish.

‘Yes, he likes it like that,’ said the doctor, watching Ghertrude’s eyes.

Maclish pulled the keys from his belt, put one in the lock and turned it. In his other hand he held a stock whip. The door creaked on its weight, and a huddled movement rippled under the straw and rags in the dark far side of the cell. They all came in and stood together. Cyrena hesitated, then walked forward.