“Help me!” Cutforth cried at the door. “There’s a fire! Fire!”
He felt a sudden wave of pain along his skin, as if it was being peeled away, and then a grotesque feeling deep in his belly, as if someone had just stirred his guts for him. He lurched back. He was at the door. The feeling came again, a strange internal pressure, a terrible writhing of the intestines. He screamed, gripping his stomach, doubling over. He managed to stagger back into the bedroom. As he moved, little darts of pain raced across his skin and his eyes clouded with red mist. He could feel the terrible pressure mounting within him, and then all went black and the pressure became unbearable, and there was a sound like frying eggs and suddenly the pressure was gone and a hot wetness was running down his face.
He screamed, writhing on the floor, his legs beating a frenzied tattoo on the rug, his hands tearing at his nightclothes, his hair, trying to claw the skin from his own body because it was searingly hot, so unbearably hot . . .
Here I am here I am here.
{ 20 }
Letitia Dallbridge lay awake, motionless, rigid in her bed. At last, she arose in cool fury, slipped into a satin robe, flicked open her glasses, and put them on. Then she checked the time: 11:15. She compressed her lips. This was intolerable. Intolerable.
She picked up the building telephone and buzzed the desk; instantly a voice was on the line.
“May I help you, Mrs. Dallbridge?”
“You certainly may, Jason. The gentleman in the apartment directly above me, number 17B, has been thumping incessantly on the floor. Shouting as well. It’s been going on and on, and I don’t mind telling you, this is the second time this month I’ve had to complain. I am an old woman, and I simply cannot tolerate this kind of noise in the middle of the night.”
“Yes, Mrs. Dallbridge, we’ll take care of it immediately.”
“I shall speak to the condominium board about this at the next meeting.”
“I don’t blame you, Mrs. Dallbridge.”
“Thank you, Jason.”
She laid down the phone and listened. True, the thumping was fainter now; more irregular. In fact, it seemed to have stopped, along with the shouting. But it would pick up again soon—it always did. That dreadfully coarse music producer was having another party, no doubt. With drinking, dancing, drugs, all kinds of carrying-on. And on a weeknight, no less. She pulled her robe tighter around her narrow frame. There was no point trying to go back to sleep now—at her age, it would be an exercise in futility.
She crossed the living room into the kitchen, put a kettle of water on to boil. She removed a silver teapot, put three bags of chamomile inside, and waited for the whistle. When it came, she removed the kettle from the heat, poured the water into the teapot, and slipped a tea cozy over the pot to keep it hot. A silver teaspoon and two slices of buttered toast completed her petit déjeuner. She lifted the tray and returned to the bedroom. She glanced up darkly at the ceiling. Then she propped up her satin pillows and poured her tea.
The flowery aroma and the warmth of the liquid soon calmed her. Life was too short to allow oneself to be disturbed longer than necessary. It was now quiet as a tomb in the apartment above. No matter: she would take strong measures to ensure she wasn’t awakened like this again.
She heard a faint noise and listened. A faint pattering. Raining again, it seemed. She would have to remember the Burberry when she went out that morning to . . .
The pattering grew louder. And now there was a smell like frying bacon in the air, faint but distinct. Like the rain, it grew steadily stronger. It was not a pleasant smell, either: it was repellent, like burnt meat. She sniffed, looking around. Had she left the stove on? Impossible, she hadn’t even—
Plop! A huge greasy drop landed in the middle of her tea, splashing her. Then another fat drop, and another, splattering tea all over her face, her dressing gown, her beautiful satin puff.
She looked up in horror to see a stain on her bedroom ceiling. It was spreading fast. It glistened, oleaginous, in the dim light of her reading lamp.
Letitia Dallbridge snatched the phone out of its cradle, buzzed downstairs again.
“Yes, Mrs. Dallbridge?”
“Now there’s a leak from the apartment above! It’s coming right through the ceiling of my bedroom!”
“We’re sending someone up immediately. We’ll turn the water off in that apartment now.”
“This is an outrage! My beautiful English puff is ruined! Ruined!”
Now the liquid was pattering down from the ceiling in several places, accumulating in the corners of the crown molding, even streaming down the Venetian chandelier in the middle of the ceiling. It was raining on her Louis Quinze chairs, the Chippendale highboy. Against her better judgment, she leaned forward and touched one of the brown splatters on the china cup with her finger. It was warm and greasy, like tallow or candle wax. She shrank in horror.
“It’s not water,” she cried. “It’s some kind of grease!”