Dark Angel (43 page)

“You’re angry,” he said, running after Acland and catching him by the sleeve.

“Yes. I’m angry.” Acland stopped. He looked up at the sky. He took in a deep breath.

“With me?”

“No. Not with you. With her. For what she did to you—and what she’s trying to do to herself. I’m going up there now. So she can see just how angry I am.”

“Now? Acland, you can’t do that. Don’t do that.”

“Yes, I can. Everyone’s out. They’ve gone to the opera with Stern. There will be no one there—just Jenna and the nurse.”

“Acland, please don’t—she’s ill.”

“Do you think I don’t know that?” Acland pushed Freddie aside. “You’ve just been telling me how ill she is.”

Perhaps Constance had been asleep, or in that daze she often experienced then, when time passed without her being aware of it. Either way, she did not hear Acland come into the room or sit down on the upright chair by the bed. When she opened her eyes, it was some while before she noticed him.

She was looking toward the windows. She liked to watch the sky beyond, the light altering, the clouds moving; she liked to listen to the sounds from the street, but in the last few days she had noticed something curious. The sounds were becoming more distant and more muted, and the light—that was changing too. It was no longer bright, even at noon; the window seemed farther away than it used to be; even the curtains framing it were less distinct. In fact, she had to concentrate very hard in order to see the outline of the windows at all, or the furniture in the room.

It had occurred to her—yesterday? the day before?—that she was going blind, and she had tried to concentrate on this thought, too, for that was an important development, surely, to become blind?

But the thought would not fix, or stay still long enough for her to assess it. It eddied forward, then billowed, then drifted away.
Perhaps I am dying,
she thought, an hour later, or a day later, and for a moment that idea was huge and bright in her mind, as if she were staring at the sun; then it, too, went away, and the darkness returned. She preferred the darkness. It was peaceful.

That night, that significant night, she opened her eyes; she turned them toward the place where the window ought to be, and she saw … violets. Not the shape of the flowers, but their color and their scent. She could see the color scudding—every conceivable hue, from the palest, most opalescent gray, through lavender to a dark grape-purple. The sight, and the scent—of dampness and earth—were so delightful to her that Constance cried out, and the sound curled away from her, gunmetal and smoke.

“Touch them.”

When Acland spoke—and she knew at once that it was Acland—his voice seemed very loud to her, so loud she was sure she dreamed. But then he said the words again, so perhaps it was not a dream after all. Then—how long it took, like watching the world spin—she turned her head on the pillow and she could see him, there, then receding, then coming closer, his thin face intent. He was frowning. He held something in his hands; he held something out to her; he put his arm under her shoulders and lifted her. He held something close to her face.

It was violets, a small bunch of them. Acland had just plucked them from a vase on the dressing table, but Constance was not to know that. She was astonished they were there, that she was not blind. She wanted to touch them, but her hand was too heavy to lift.

“Smell them. Look.”

Acland held the flowers close to her face, so that the petals brushed her skin. She could see that each flower had an eye, and these eyes looked at her. The leaves were veined. The scent of earth was overpowering. Drowning in violets. Acland grasped her wrist.

“It’s time for your veronal. I’m not going to give it to you. Drink this. It’s just water. Slowly.”

He held the glass to her lips, and because her mouth was becoming stupid, her throat obstinate, some of the water spilled. Acland did not mop it up, as the nurse did or Jenna did. He put the glass down and he looked at her.

Perhaps it was the effect of the water, perhaps the shock of its coldness on her skin; Constance found that she could see him. She could see the way in which his hair curled against his brow, so that it appeared sculpted; she could see the thin high bridge of his nose, the pallor and concentration of his features. She saw that his eyes were examining her, their expression severe.

“Can you see me?”

Constance nodded.

“What color is my jacket?”

“Black.”

It took a long time for this word to surface; by the time she thought she said it, Constance was no longer sure it was the right one. Presumably it was, however, for Acland nodded. He stood up, crossed into the swirl of colors; then he came back. In his hand he held a mirror.

“Sit up.”

Again he lifted her, propping her against the pillows. Then he did an astonishing thing. He held the glass up to her face, although mirrors were forbidden, and had been for weeks. Jenna had covered the large one on the dressing table with a shawl.

“Look. Can you see? Look at yourself, Constance.”

Constance looked. At first the surface of the mirror was misted and gray and pearled, like the inside of a shell, but she wanted to obey Acland, so she peered, then peered again. She blinked her eyes. After a while she found she could see a face.

The face shocked her. It was the face of no one she knew. It was ashen; the bones stood out sharply; there were sores around the mouth; the eyes were sunken, ringed with shadows. She looked at this face in an uncertain way, and her hands began to move in the way they did now, of their own accord, back and forth, small plucking movements against the cool of the sheets.

Acland put down the mirror; he grasped one of these hands. He held it up before her face, circling the wrist with his fingers.

“Do you see how thin you are? Your wrists are matchsticks. I could snap them—just like that.”

This seemed to make Acland angry, so Constance inspected her wrists. She supposed they were shocking, so ugly and bony. Surely they had not been like that yesterday? She frowned at her wrists and, as she did so, found she could see not just her wrists but also her hands, and Acland’s hands, and the crisp white linen of the sheets, and the coverlet, which was red, and the chair Acland sat upon, which was made of some black wood, carved and fretted.

“I want you out of that bed.”

Acland pulled back the covers.

“It’s all right. I know you can’t walk. You don’t need to walk. I shall lift you.”

He picked her up. The sudden movement was dizzying. The room tilted and lurched, and Constance felt her hands scrabble, in their silly useless way, at the lapels of his jacket.

He took her to the window. When they reached it, Constance gave a small cry, for it was open. He took her out onto the small iron balcony. Such air! Constance could feel its lightness, filling her lungs and clearing her mind. She gazed around her: the shapes of houses and clouds; the hiss of traffic. The sky swooped. She cried aloud again.

“It’s raining.”

“Yes. It’s raining. It’s raining quite hard, and there will be a storm. You can feel it in the air. Can you feel the rain? Can you feel it on your face?”

“Yes,” Constance replied.

She let her head fall back against Acland’s shoulder. She let the rain wash her skin. It whispered to her. She closed her eyes and felt the pinpricks of rain against her eyelids, her cheeks, her mouth. It was pleasant at first; she luxuriated in it. Then the rain began to penetrate her nightdress; it grew clammy and chill against her skin.

“Take me back inside,” she heard herself say. Her voice surprised her, for it was like her old voice, only more cracked than before. Acland did not move, so she said the words again.

“Take me back inside, Acland.”

“No,” Acland said. It was then that Constance understood that he was angry—more angry than she had ever seen him.

“Can you hear what I’m saying, Constance? Can you understand?”

“Yes,” Constance began, but before she could say anything else, Acland gave her a cruel shake that jarred every bone in her body.

“Then listen to me, and remember what I say. You’re killing yourself. You seem to expect that everyone will stand by and let you do it. I won’t do that—do you hear me? So, you shall choose, and choose now. Either you go back inside and begin living, or I’ll simply let go of you. I’ll stand here, on the edge, up against the balustrade, and I’ll let you go. It will be a great deal quicker, and less painful, than starving yourself to death. This way, it will be over in an instant. Forty feet down. You’ll feel nothing. You decide. Which is it to be?”

As he spoke, Acland moved forward. Constance felt the iron of the balustrade brush her feet. She looked down; she could see the street below, heaving, then distinct. Forty feet at least.

“You wouldn’t do that.”

“Maybe no. Maybe I’m not quite callous enough—though I’d like to be. Very well. I’ll let you choose yourself. I’ll set you down. Look, the balustrade is quite low—you would only have to lean over the smallest amount, and you’d be over. There.”

Acland lowered her. The paving was cold against her feet. Her knees buckled.

“Hold on to the balcony rail. Like that. You can do it. You’ll have to do it. Let go of me.”

Acland pulled her hands away from his jacket.

Constance swayed against the balcony rail, reached for it, missed, and then managed to grasp it. Acland was behind her. Was he still close—or had he moved farther away? She thought she could sense him, just behind her, but when he next spoke, his voice was receding. Constance looked over the rail; the street beckoned.

“Decide.”

Certainly farther away now. Constance could scarcely hear his voice; it was being swallowed by rain and wind and sky. She could jump, she thought, and perhaps Acland was right: That was what she wanted. She would not even need to jump, as he said; all she had to do was lean, a very little. Then it would be done with: the black notebooks, and the black dreams, and the black worms that nibbled away at her heart in those dreams. Easy!

Constance bent her head. She looked down at the street below with great concentration. It still beckoned, but with less vigor than before. Constance considered how it would feel, and how it would look, to be smashed on that pavement, to be easily crushed like the shell of an egg. Everything over; all done. It might be easy to drift toward death; to leap to it was another matter.

She lifted her face to the rain and sniffed the damp urban air. She sniffed a future—there was a possible future there, after all. If she could will herself to die, she could also will herself to live: years and years of a future. She frowned at that future, and saw that it could beckon, too, for it was secret, and unknown, and therefore seamed with the loveliness of possibilities. Let go, or go on.

Gamble, and go on: She could hear these words said to her distinctly, in a small clear voice. At precisely the moment she decided this voice gave good advice, which she wanted to take, her hands began to slip on the balcony rail. The street rushed up toward her with a speed that made her head buzz. She thought she cried out. Acland’s arms came about her. He had been much nearer than she thought.

They stood still. The rain fell; in the distance lightning wavered; the sky growled.

A summer storm. Acland, turning her toward him, looked down into her face. He looked puzzled, Constance thought, as if something was happening to him that he neither welcomed nor understood. A dazed look in his eyes, as if he had been struck an invisible blow.

An expression of distaste came upon his face, a tightening of annoyance to his lips. In a quiet and weary voice he said, “Constance. Come inside.”

“I cannot change,” Constance said to him, and it was much later the same night. She had taken some food. She felt new. She felt stronger. “I cannot change altogether. You do know that, Acland?”

Acland had been holding her hand or, if not holding it exactly, had laid his own hand very close to it, on the bedcover, so their fingers touched.

“I never asked you to change. You are what you are.” He paused. “Was it Floss? Was it the accident?”

“Not just that. No.”

“Freddie then? Your father’s journals?”

“You’ve talked to Freddie?”

“Yes. Tonight.”

“Did he tell you what I did? What we did?”

“Some of the things. I imagine he left out others.”

“I shall not apologize. I shall not beg forgiveness.” Constance began to speak rapidly, her hands twisting back and forth. “Now you know me for what I am. You know me at my worst. I expect it was no surprise—I expect it just confirmed everything you ever thought. You never liked me, Acland.”

“I disliked you, once upon a time, very much.”

“Very well then—so you were right. I will not argue with that. I often dislike myself. I often hate myself.”

“Is that why you punished yourself?”

“Punished myself?” Constance was stung by his tone, as he perhaps meant her to be. She turned away.

“You set out to die. You were fixed on it. That seems a punishment, of a kind.”

“Maybe it was that. Perhaps.” Constance began again, more slowly. “I did not like myself. I thought I damaged people. I can’t explain it, Acland, and I’m not always like that. Sometimes I almost feel I might be good—or better, anyway. But then—something happens. I change, and I have to do harm. My father used to say …”

“What did your father say?”

“Nothing. It doesn’t matter.”

“You should forget your father. You should … cut him out of your mind.”

“I am my father’s daughter,” Constance replied, and her hands again began to twist back and forth upon the sheets.

She seemed feverish, Acland thought; he rested his hand against her forehead, which indeed felt hot. At the touch of his hand, Constance’s eyes closed. She moved a little, in a restless way, and then lay still. She should rest, Acland told himself; she should sleep. He moved away from the bed, sat down, then stood up and began to pace the room. After a while Constance’s breathing became regular. Acland crossed to the window, reluctant to leave her, and looked out.