“You’ve grown up,” and she paused, “You’ve been spending time in the company of devils. Why have you come here John?” She examines me coldly.
“I am your nephew and I haven’t seen you in years. I’ve been thinking about you, Auntie. A lot,” and I lower my eyes.
“You were always a ridiculous child. Spoilt by your philandering father. Ungrateful and ungodly. That stargazing contraption he gave you,” (and she shook her head) “I told him it was a machine of the devil. Stargazing is ungodly. Unclean. Unnatural.”
“Speaking of ungodly and unnatural, are you still baking, Auntie? Your walnut and coffee was a real heart stopper.”
She says nothing for a while.
“You understand so little, John. I told your father you clearly had an underdeveloped brain, prone to excitement and imagination. You were always a little liar.”
“Why did you do it, Auntie?”
“Do what, exactly, you little wretch?”
“Poison Mamma? I just want to know before I go as we may never see one another again.”
“How dare you! I was the only one who stopped her suffering. She needed to be put to sleep into the arms of the Lord.”
“And how many others have you put to sleep?”
“Dozens,” she says softly. “Including my late husband, my children and my dog.”
“I really have missed you, Auntie!” I cry happily and I pull out from my waistcoat a long silver curved sword. My voice lowered like a prayer, “We have so much to catch up on”
I chop her into pieces. A blood bath in the conservatory. And then I leave, whistling to myself.
The day shines a little brighter. The flowers bloom with a touch more colour.
Death & Mr Fingers have tea & cake
If you look at me, you see a little boy. If you look closer you will see the universe floating in my eyes. Gaze of a surgeon, smile of a scissor shark. I am Death. I am the Great Collector. I am behind every closed door.
Today I am walking through the streets of London. The gentlemen in their top hats and elegant smiles stroll past me.
* * *
Black boils
Cancer Muscle Spasm
Cholera
Syphilis Heart Attack
Poison Hangman’s Noose
* * *
It is written on their faces. The letters thick and inky, imprinted on their skulls. Written in coils of time. Your fates are a teasing itch – you always want to know the outcome. Scratch it and see. London, city of poisoned water, sour milk, fish stink and shit. Blood bubbles and drips down the thighs of her. London: the bite of a mad dog, the kiss of a witch-woman. London: you eat raw flesh, dissect and arrange skulls. Mother: I know you from before. I have seen your face.
I have an appointment with the Lord of the Underworld. We are meeting in a tea shop down Dumpy Street. He’s waiting for me, sits by the window of the winding, labyrinthine path. Smells of dead dog and boiled flesh down here. Mangled human beings, ragtag smiles and webbed feet, stare at me from the walls: huddled, hungry, sheep-yellow eyes.
Ladybird waistcoat, dark spectacles. Odd little man. I’ve never liked him. He reminds me of an autopsy: things have been removed, things are missing.
He nods as I sit down and pours the pot of steaming tea into little blue china teacups.
“So, why did you want to see me?” He peers over his spectacles and sips his tea. “I am rather busy at the moment.”
“Did you order some cake?”
“No,” he replies, rather annoyed.
I catch the eye of the young waitress, her hair the colour of roasting chestnuts, watery eyes, laudanum laced love-letters in her pocket.
Sudden heart failure
“Do you have any chocolate cake?”
“Yes, sir. Freshly made. Whipped cream in the middle.”
“A very large slice, please.”
Mr Fingers stares at me. “Well... I’m waiting for an answer.”
“I am here to give you a little friendly advice.”
“Oh really?” and he laughs out loud.
“Yes. You’re playing with witches again.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“The ladybird girl. You will leave her alone.”
He looks surprised.
My cake arrives. “Thank you,” I say, and bite into a large mouthful.
“Why do you care about this girl? What business is it of yours?”
“This cake is excellent, and chocolate makes me happy.”
Mr Fingers pounds table with his fist. “Answer me!”
“You have always been prone to childish tantrums. It is one of your flaws.”
“How dare you. I am the Lord of the Underworld!”
I rise from my seat. I lift a finger to the ceiling, as though pointing to heaven. Everyone in the tearoom drops dead. Falls like flies.
* * *
Thud
thud
thud.
* * *
He shuts up.
I sit back down and resume eating my cake.
“You’re just showing off. Why can’t I have her?” he says, annoyed.
“It will upset the natural balance of this world. You cannot be allowed to increase your powers. I will not allow such chaos.”
“You’re always spoiling my fun,” he snarls.
“Why don’t you have a piece of cake?”
“Fuck off!”
If you speak to me like that again I WILL END YOU.
XI: September 1888
Little Woman