At the Devil's Table - Part II

Part II of V

Deux

Prenez garde de l'abîme de approche: “Beware the approaching chasm”.  The words lingered on inside my head long after the vagabond had left and the stench of Soho Street in the daylight relieved me of its incessant linger. I longed for my accommodation- no, not home, just a place to rest and recuperate from the day’s miseries. I lived near Leicester square, atop an old library- of all places. In fact, I discovered one drunken afternoon that the floorboards under my bed came off easier than one should hope, and led to the Occult practises and Anthropology section; the dustiest part of the library.

After a long motorcar ride I was yearning for my lumpy, squeaky mattress. A rest undeserved, but a rest nevertheless…

When I got to my accommodation I stripped off my jacket and shirt before assaulting my wardrobe for anything remotely clean. To my surprise however, there was nothing there, just bare hangers and my empty suitcase. “Bloody hell,” I breathed, my eyes wide when realization had hit me. “I’ve been bloody robbed,”

“Mr. Brimshaw?” A voice from behind me made me jump. I turned quickly and saw Mrs. Swale staring back at me, a basket full of linen in hand. “I hope you don’t mind,” She said, “I found the door unlocked and thought I’d spruce the place up a little bit,” she grinned; yellow jagged teeth never looked so warm and nurturing. “I washed your clothes,” She added and I realized the contents of the basket belonged to me.

“Right, er- thanks,” I fumbled for words. I never knew what to do when such generosity was shown towards me, “Thank you, Mrs. Swale,” I said and took the basket from her. “If there’s anything I can do in return-”

“Oh, don’t you worry about that Mr. Brimshaw,” She grinned again and turned to leave. I put a hand to the door to shut it behind her when she turned suddenly. “Actually…” here it comes… “We are having some trouble with the pipes… perhaps if you get a spare second,”

“I’ll see what I can do, Mrs. Swale,” I said with a nod. My day’s dose of Indian giving went down bitter, I had far too much to do without worrying about blasted pipes. I’d find time for it anyway… somehow. I closed the door and sighed as I put the basket down.

Unlocked she said… Farris, you’re getting sloppy. I sat down on the chair at my cluttered desk and ran a hand through my unruly hair. I rested my palms against my eyes and sat there in silence for a long while. This is terrible. I felt the dim clutches of mortality plague my muscles; that need for rest and sleep… it was agonizing- and such a useless waste of time. My mind raced, always- all the time, how did they manage it? Daily, weekly, monthly, years and years until their lives are so gracefully and thankfully extinguished. I understood it now, why some people yearned for the sweet kiss of death, and why they would- from time to time- toy with the idea of suicide. This is unnatural.

Quietly, gently, tenderly, her scent reeled into my senses and nearly bowled me over. I could smell her; magnolia flowers in full bloom. Something so darkly poetic; it had to be her. I looked up and was met with the cold light in the empty room. So much space; just cluttered with books and maps and nothing else. There was no space for anything else. None for warmth, none for human relationships, none for love or care or nurturing. Certainly, there was no space for sanity… just emptiness. I stood up and went to the window; no one.

I thought of Georgina, beautiful Georgina, and spoiled, stubborn Georgina. I smirked to myself, how anyone could be so sweet and so bitter at the same time was a mystery before I met her. But it wasn’t her fault, if her circumstance were different; Georgina would be full, forever loving heart that would fault no one. Instead, she was a broken heart that bled with every little disappointment that life threw at her. Her father was a stern, devout hypocrite; a minister and yet so full of hate it was disturbing. He seemed to think that Christianity was a book of rules instead of a loving relationship with God. No wonder his sheep scatter quickly when the wolves descend.

But still, even though she kept the world at arm’s length all her life, she found a way to love me. What was left of her sad, broken heart was given to me… I felt guilty. Georgina was a breath of fresh air, a lick of poison that has had me stunned ever since the first moment we met. Her long dark hair and soft porcelain skin, her pale pink lips, her silver-blue eyes. Something inside her constantly reached out to pull me in; something inside this pure, delightful enigma made me obsessed with solving her, experiencing her… unravelling her. This new skin, these new bones, this new blood- all of it came with an immeasurable desire that I had never known. How did something as simple as a brush of skin escalate my breathing and throw my mind into the most devious of places.

Magnolias. It was unmistakable, and pungent. I looked around the room and stalked it slowly. “Montrez-vous..” I said, watching for any movement, any strange shadow- and listening intently for any small creak on the floorboards. “Je suis malade de ces jeux!” I said, exasperated. My human eyes were no help at all, and I could feel my exhaustion taking the form of a migraine.

“Quels jeux?” I heard her, then her soft, proud laughter. “Les jeux n'ont pas encore commencé, mon amour…”

I scoffed and waited. “You’re a bloody waste of my time,” I muttered.

“I am?” came the heavily French accented voice from behind me. I turned and saw her sitting upon the window sill and looking out into Leicester Square. “Mon Dieu, il est affreux dehors ici…” She smirked, then paused to check her perfectly manicured nails. She was immaculate as always, wearing a perfectly pressed white collared shirt and a long, mauve skirt. Her bright blonde hair curled delicately around her white skin, and atop it was a feathered hat with a netted veil that hid her left eye. She kept her face turned to the window so I could only see the right side of her face. Her red lips parted for a sigh as she watched some pedestrians outside. “Vous devez manquer à la maison…”

“No,” I said, “Of course not, I’ve got everything I could possibly want- a lumpy mattress, a God forsaken hole in which I keep what measly possessions I have, and of course the enamoring art of exhaustion,” She grinned at my words and it made me even angrier.

“Jeunes pauvres un. Jeunes pauvres un.” She murmured musically. She stood up and turned to me slowly, “Je me rappelle la douleur,” she said, and I saw the long, purple scar that led from her hidden left eye to the side of her bright red lips. “It is hard at first, and then you forget it,”

“How long does that take?”

“A couple of years,” She said and I smirked, shaking my head.

“Fantastic,”

“It is not so bad,” She cooed, pacing the room and picking up random items only to set them down again; neatly, as she would have them. I watched her for awhile, not realizing I was flexing my fist the whole time. “Vous savez pourquoi je suis ici, faites vous pas ?” She said, her back turned to me as she inspected my black umbrella.

“I have some idea,” I said. She unfolded the umbrella loudly and giggled to herself as she slung the handle over her back, posing with a smile.

“C'est un peu d'une drague, est lui pas…” She whined like a little girl as she folded up the umbrella and threw it onto the floor. She paced towards me, her high heels clacking across the floorboards that creaked their tired response.

“We all have a job to do,” I replied.

“Oui,” She said, “We all have a job to do…” She paused then, and the tension in the air grew quickly, snaking around us and closing in; so quickly that I was suffocating in a matter of minutes. “Tell me, Farris, how would you like to die?”

In a split second- a blur of movement- we had drawn our weapons. Hers was a silver gun, drawn from her bustier, and mine, a tarnished dagger from the dusty mantelpiece behind me. I felt my heart beat quicken, creating a sickly choking sensation in my throat. This is terrible.

“Another Mexican standoff, Charlotte, I suppose this is where you leave…” I sneered.

“I think not, Farris,” She cackled, amused as she always was- so much joy in so much darkness- she was an abyss of dark laughter. “This time I have strict instructions…” She said. “Kill the cherub,”

I scoffed, “Bloody hell,” I muttered, “I guess this is curtains then,” I smirked.

Quickly, I threw the dagger at her and dodged when she pulled the trigger. In a swift motion, just as the bullet smashed into the portrait hanging above the mantelpiece behind me, I spun to kick her in the ankles.

Soon, she was flat on the ground, groaning in pain from her- undoubtedly- broken ankle. I got up and made a grab for the fallen gun, but she was quick- and I was just too sloppy. I reeled back in horrifying pain when she swung my dagger into my left shoulder.

“You dirty b***h!” I screamed. My hand reached for the dagger and I pulled it out quickly, gritting my teeth in pain as blood spurted out of the wound. I groaned, it must have hit an artery or something stupidly important. I never took much interest in complex anatomy.

“Tout est juste dans l'amour et la guerre,” I heard her say behind me. I turned to see her sitting up on the floor, the gun pointed at me. The suspense would have been enough to shatter my heart- never mind the bullet that had a clear path towards it. Fate itself was writing its inevitable path to my aorta. “You’re getting sloppy, Farris,” She grinned, that pretty, dark grin of hers. The one I had been waiting years to wipe clean off with a sharp slap. Too bad, too late- too sodding unlucky. She pulled the trigger as I stood and gaped for want of a split second miracle.

As the force of the gunshot threw me clear through the window, time slowed down for me to appreciate the beautiful poetry of it all. That I should die, whilst hurtling through the air; in mock-flight, as shattered glass mimicked a glowing, glimmering halo around me. Holy light; wasn’t it fitting?

I felt pure, unadulterated hatred, confusion, and yearning- all at once; a million other feelings and sensations rushed their descent on me. Amidst the cacophony of thoughts and senses, the searing pain of the gunshot was muted. I heard the patter of footsteps, the roaring of engines, the voices and the laughter in Leicester square, and the chirping birds that celebrated the daylight. Finally, as time caught up with itself and the ground rose up to meet me, I thought stared up into the blue sky and thought of Georgina’s eyes. Les cris de ciel pour la ville ne la voit pas.

I heard the heart wrenching, bloodcurdling crack on pavement. My eyelids were no longer functioning, and for all my desire to shut my weary eyes, I could not. Glass shards clattered to the ground all around me.

I caught a glimpse of Charlotte in the window from which I fell- for a split second- and then she was gone again. Maybe she smirked in triumph, or maybe she frowned with disdain, knowing that she would have to linger while I had my glorious escape. Faces of pedestrians and their gasps and screams filled the space, and With what was left of my energies, I managed a soft whisper; “My Lord, my God,” I muttered, feeling warm blood fill up inside my throat, “Please forgive me." The view before me faded to a dark blur, and I felt mortality slip away from me slowly. The feeling was indescribable... This is wonderful.

Author's Note

I've extended the series by two more parts. Just to add to the drama. This is really more of a 1/2 chapter, but whatever... we'll call it chapter deux anyway. I got a little carried away with the French, but it's the character who decided she would speak in French. lots of questions here, not a lot of answers- but don't worry, more will be revealed... if you need help with translations, use babelfish at: http://babelfish.yahoo.com/
let me know what you think!