For Those Who Dream Monsters (17 page)

“Witch
took you, did she, boy? Witch took you … to make a potion out of your blood?”

Old
man Tyrell paused, belt in hand, confused by the question.

“Witch
took you and locked you up, but you got away?” prompted Jim.

“I’ll
kill you, you little shit!” Tyrell had regained his momentum and was about to
pelt the boy again, when Tommy piped up from the floor, “Yes, sir.”

“Huh?”
grunted Tyrell.

“Witch
took me and locked me up, but I got away.”

“Who
locked you up?” fumed Tyrell. “Are you lying to me, boy?”

“No,
sir.”

“If
you’re lying to me, I’ll kill you!”

“Witch
took me and … was gonna … make me into a potion … but I got away.”

“Nobody
hurts my boy!” Tyrell turned to face his friends. “You hear me? Nobody hurts
my
boy!”

“We
hear you, Robert.” Jim raised his hand in a placating gesture, but there was no
placating old man Tyrell.

“I’ll
kill her! I’ll kill the witch!” Tyrell glared at his companions. “Are you going
to sit there or are you going to help me?”

As
old man Tyrell was the parish constable, they decided to help.

“Who’s
he talking about?” Nathaniel Jackson whispered as the drunken party spilled out
of the house after Tyrell.

“Alice
Goodman, I guess,” mused George Hogge. “Ain’t no one else around here makes
potions.”

“Hang
on, Robert!” Jim tried to undo what he’d done, but it was too late. He was
pushed aside, and by the time old man Tyrell had finished rousing the
villagers, his party was over a dozen strong. They set off to put an end to the
witch who’d been killing children, draining their blood and grinding up their
bones to make her unholy potions. Old Joe had been living in the village for a
long time, and knew exactly how to get to the witch’s house.

Alice had just cleaned up after supper, and was getting ready to mix her
medicines for the following day, when she heard the voices. At first she
thought she must be mistaken, but the shouting grew louder, angrier. And now
she could see the flickering orange light of torches dancing amongst the trees.
They were getting closer, and Alice knew she should run, but it was too late,
they were already here. A baying mob shrieking and snarling like beasts.

“Alice
Goodman, come out! Come out now or we’re coming in!”

Alice
stood rooted to the spot with fear. Then the door flew open and Robert Tyrell
burst in, accompanied by his own personal lynch mob. Alice wanted to scream,
but no sound came from her throat.

“Gotcha,
you fucking witch!” growled Tyrell.

“You
won’t be killing no more children!” someone shouted from the back of the crowd.
Alice couldn’t speak, but she shook her head and held up her hands in a vain
attempt to ward off the fury that was being hurled at her. Then Tyrell had her
by the hair, and she was twisting in pain, being forced out into the night,
fists punching her and nails scratching her, as she was half-dragged,
half-carried out of her house and through the forest.

A punch to Alice’s right eye screwed it tight shut as the tissue swelled up
around it. Her left eye filled with her own blood from a gash on her forehead.
She couldn’t see, and in her fear and pain she couldn’t sense that the trees
around her had thinned and the undergrowth had given way to grass.

“This’ll
do!” someone shouted. Alice recognised the voice of John Briggs. Only last week
she’d cured the fungal infection on his feet with her garlic and chamomile
ointment. He said he’d never forget what she’d done for him. The villagers
stopped, and Alice tried to cry out to Briggs, but still no sound came from her
cracked, bleeding lips. Alice threw herself forward in an attempt to break
free. A violent tug to her hair ripped much of it out and brought on a fresh
wave of pain.

“Stay
still, witch!” It was Tyrell’s voice. “Hold her, will you!”

“Give
it here!” shouted Briggs.

Rough
hands held her even tighter, crushing her arms. Then Alice felt something being
pulled down over her head. She realised what was about to happen moments before
she felt the rope sting and tighten around her neck. Then she was being hoisted
off her feet, the burning pain in her neck unbearable and the breath choked out
of her slowly, prolonging her agony.

The
last thing Alice heard was the horrific, jarring creaking as the branch bent
under her weight and the darkness took her.

630,720,000 seconds without sex. And each of those seconds like a lifetime.
For time has no meaning in the abyss. Hundreds of years can go by in a moment
or a second can drag out for a thousand years. And that’s a long time to go
without sex. A very long time.

‘Boys don’t make passes at girls who wear glasses.’ The less than friendly
expression had stuck in Mitzi’s mind since primary school so that, when her
likewise short-sighted friends moved on to contact lenses, Mitzi wore her
thick-framed spectacles with added determination. For Mitzi had no intention of
having passes made at her by boys. Absolutely no way.

Mitzi
was almost twenty-one now and studying English at Oxford University. Sadly
there were no women’s colleges left; the last one – St. Hilda’s – had opted to
admit men in 2006 – a financial necessity rather than a matter of equality and
fraternity. So Mitzi frequented New College – one of the oldest colleges in the
university – where she was a dedicated member of the Jewish Society and the
Women’s Group. At the end of every term, Mitzi would return home to Golders
Green – the leafy and pleasant part of London in which she’d lived all her
life.

It
wasn’t that Mitzi disliked boys or that she was a lesbian – God forbid. Not at
all. But Mitzi came from a good family – a respectable, middle class family –
and when the time was right for her to marry, her parents would ask a
shadkhan
to pick out a suitable young man for her.

The abyss was long and deep. Inside it were chained the angels that had
rebelled against the Lord. Some of them had taken human women as their brides
and fathered giants that ransacked the earth. The lust and suffering of the
trapped angels drew her to the abyss, but the flames that raged there barred
all entry. She floated through the forbidden places, but always made her way
back to the human realm. How she envied the women their flesh, with the
infinite capacity for pleasure that it brought. How it angered her seeing
prudish schoolgirls and pious old maids who kept their legs together and
shunned the touch of men. They didn’t deserve the soft skin and the heaven
between their thighs that had been so brutally snatched from her. Some spark of
consciousness within the hungry tormented spirit that was once human drove her
relentlessly to her earthly roots. The ties that bind drew her inexorably back
to those whose flesh was of her own. And after twenty years of torment that
only a disembodied nymphomaniac could understand, she finally found the home
that she’d been longing for.

Mitzi had been feeling light-headed
the night before and had gone to bed early. She awoke suddenly at dawn as a
jolt of energy shot through her body. Startled and confused, she sat up and
looked around the room. Then she remembered: it was her birthday! She was going
shopping with her best friend, and later her parents were taking her out to
dinner at
Six 13
– her very favourite restaurant. But something was not
quite right. She was feeling tense in an odd, albeit rather pleasant sort of
way, and her thoughts turned inexplicably to the blonde blue-eyed
goy
from her staircase in New College. Mark – that was his name. Mitzi tried to
push the image of the young man’s muscular form from her mind and fought hard
against the strange sensations that were taking over her body. But she was
battling a will stronger than her own, and soon she closed her eyes and sank
back onto her pillow, her hand straying downwards beneath the sheets.

The girl had put up an impressive struggle, but she was young and ripe, and in
the end susceptible. The joy of having such a lovely firm body to exploit was
indescribable. She was almost able to forget that this fine youthful frame
wasn’t her own. And there were so many men out there, and so much pleasure to
be had.

‘Rise and shine with Night Light glow in the dark condoms’. For Hannah
Goldblatt the shopping trip had become a surrealist nightmare. She had gladly
agreed to accompany Mitzi – her closest friend since primary school – to check
out a few shops on the Finchley Road. The idea was to help Mitzi choose some
clothes for her summer term at Oxford, and break up the hard work of shopping
with a bite to eat at
Daniel’s Bagel Bakery
. But no – at the last minute
Mitzi had insisted that they go to Camden Market, catching Hannah off guard,
and using the fact that it was her birthday to bully her friend into going
along with her heinous plan. And not only were they now far from home, surrounded
by Goths, drug dealers and overexcited tourists, but they were standing in
front of the
Sex Emporium
, an unhealthy glint in Mitzi’s eye.

“Let’s
go,” pleaded Hannah. The unfamiliar area made her nervous and more than a
little frightened, and she was convinced that everyone who walked past was
staring at the two unhip Jewish girls in front of the adult store.

“You
go if you want,” Mitzi told Hannah, “I’m going in.” And she did. Hannah looked
around fearfully, spotted three youths in black leather jackets across the
road, and hurried in after her friend.

An
hour later, a traumatised Hannah emerged from the sex shop with a dazed
expression, carrying the bags that Mitzi was too overloaded to manage on her
own: bags of kinky nurse and nun outfits, edible undies, a
Rampant Rabbit
and curry-flavoured condoms.

“I’m
thirsty.” Mitzi smiled warmly at her pale and silent friend. “Let’s go to the
pub.”

“You can’t go out dressed like that!” Mitzi had come downstairs in her new
tight black miniskirt, high-heeled shoes and clinging low-cut red top, and was
now facing down her shocked parents in a scene reminiscent of an old Western.

“It’s
my
birthday,” she stated firmly. A compromise was finally reached in the
form of a cardigan that covered the top half of Mitzi’s assets, and the family
party left for dinner, but the atmosphere during the meal remained tense.

Over
the next few weeks, the relationship between Mitzi and her once doting parents
continued to deteriorate, as the young woman took to staying out late and
coming home stinking of alcohol, with her lipstick smudged and bits of grass
stuck to the back of her jacket. The last straw came in the form of a Thursday
evening phone call from the next-door neighbour. Mitzi’s mother answered the
phone.

“Vera,”
Mrs Rosenberg said coldly. “I don’t know quite how to say this, but I’m afraid
you have to do something about your daughter.”

“What
do you mean?”

“Simcha
is only sixteen.”

“What
are you saying?”

“I’m
saying that Mitzi’s been flashing over the garden fence.”

“Flashing?”

“Her
… boobies.”

Mitzi had been feeling restless all morning. There’d been no post, so no
postman to flirt with, and no prospect of any male company all day. It was very
warm for late April, and Mitzi sat in the garden, trying to read a college
textbook. Then she heard voices – young male voices – and remembered the kid
next door. Without even realising that she’d stood up, Mitzi found herself
peering over the garden fence. She had the distinct feeling that something bad
was going to happen, and she tried to turn around and go back to her deckchair,
but it was too late.

“Hi,
Simcha,” she heard herself say.

“Hi,
Mitzi.” Simcha smiled and walked over to the fence.

“Who’s
your friend?” She grinned past Simcha at the freckly teenager seated at the
outdoor table, sipping a fizzy drink.

“Oh,
that’s Aaron.”

“Hi
Aaron,” said Mitzi, feeling increasingly nervous and trying hard to find a way
to end the conversation.

“Hi,”
the boy waved.

“Would
you boys like to see something?” Mitzi asked.

“Sure,”
Aaron got up and joined Simcha at the fence. And that’s when it happened:
before she knew it, Mitzi had her top hoisted all the way up over her naked
breasts, the fear and excitement overwhelming as the boys stared, then giggled,
then turned and fled as Mrs Rosenberg’s shriek of horror split the sultry air
behind them.

“I don’t know what’s got into you!” bemoaned Mitzi’s mother.

“Look,
darling,” the serious expression on her father’s face caused Mitzi no end of
amusement. “Your mother and I were wondering … are you taking drugs?” Mitzi
laughed in an unearthly, lascivious manner. There was something familiar about
that laugh, but Mitzi’s mother couldn’t quite place it.

“The blood tests were negative,” Doctor Warner told Mitzi’s parents. Of course,
your daughter might have taken a drug that metabolised quickly out of her body,
but the lab certainly didn’t find any sign of any of the more common
substances. You know, it’s not infrequent for young women of Mitzi’s age to
have psychological problems. I have a friend who’s an excellent psychologist. I
can put you in touch with him if you like.”

“It’s nothing more than a healthy appetite for life,” Dr Friedmann told Mitzi’s
parents, winking at the girl when they weren’t looking. Mitzi winked back,
uncrossing and re-crossing her legs in a manner worthy of a sleazy Hollywood
movie, and giving her psychologist a tantalising flash that reminded him of all
the fun they’d had in their two months of £220 per hour therapy sessions. “But
I’ll be happy to go on working with Mitzi … and I can give you a big discount.”

“That
won’t be necessary, Doctor,” said Mitzi’s father. “Thank you all the same.”

Mitzi’s parents watched in horror as their only child flirted outrageously with
all their male friends – and their sons, brothers, cousins and fathers. They
stopped inviting men to the house, and succeeded admirably in beating Mitzi to
the door or distracting her when the postman rang. But then disaster struck.

With
everything that was going on, Mitzi’s mother had totally forgotten that she’d
booked the gardener for his monthly visit. She and Mitzi’s father had gone out
to run some errands and got back to find raunchy music blasting from Mitzi’s
bedroom. They hurried upstairs, with a growing feeling of unease, and found the
perplexed, but delighted gardener tied to a chair wearing nothing but his boxer
shorts and being given a lap dance by their daughter who was proudly sporting
her edible undies. Needless to say, this was not a sight that any parent should
be forced to endure, and the poor gardener was promptly untied and given his
marching orders. They couldn’t lock her in the house, as she was an adult, but
Mitzi’s parents knew that they had to act fast. They had to save their daughter
before she went back to college, where she would be beyond their control and
where there was no telling what kind of trouble she’d get herself into.

“I
know it sounds crazy,” Mitzi’s mother told her husband, “but that’s not my
daughter – that’s not Mitzi.” But it wasn’t until Mitzi dyed her hair a
particularly offensive shade of peroxide blonde, and the unmistakable family
resemblance glared her defiantly in the face, that Mitzi’s mother realised the
full implication of what she’d started to suspect on a subconscious level.

“I think a
dybbuk
has entered my daughter,” Mitzi’s mother told the
Rabbi.

“Nonsense!”
he replied. But his scepticism vanished as Mitzi – who’d been standing quietly
behind her mother – lifted up her top and gave the holy man a quick flash of
her bare breasts.

“It’s
my late sister,” Mitzi’s mother continued, thankfully unaware of her child’s
actions behind her back. “She was a prolific whore from the day she turned
sixteen to the day she got hit by a truck… I suppose there’s one in every
family.”

So
it was that with considerable hesitation the Rabbi consented to perform a
banishing ritual. For many days he negotiated with the spirit of Mitzi’s aunt
to depart the young woman’s body before getting her into no end of trouble. The
dybbuk
said that it would leave only if the Rabbi performed lewd acts
with the girl, and it took all of the Rabbi’s strength of character to push
from his mind the images that the misguided spirit planted within it.

The holy man bored her to tears. Sometimes his droning voice and inane
arguments wearied her so much that she actually thought about leaving her
beautiful fleshy home just to avoid listening to him a moment longer. But there
was no way she was going to relinquish her last chance at happiness.

The Rabbi did everything in his power to persuade Mitzi’s aunt to leave the
innocent girl and move on. But all his attempts came to naught. And then an
extraordinary opportunity presented itself.

“Rabbi,
we need your help.” The recently wed couple stood before him; the young man
sweating and embarrassed, his wife visibly distressed. “All we want is to live
a good life in the eyes of God,” the young man said.

“And
to bear children in his image,” added the woman. Her pale cheeks were tinged
scarlet with shame, and when she briefly lifted her eyes from the floor, the
Rabbi saw that there were tears in them.

“But,
you see Rabbi,” the man carried on, “my wife just can’t bear when I touch her.”

“It’s
not you; it’s me,” the young woman interjected in her husband’s defence.

“I
am gentle and I try to give her pleasure…”

“But,
I just can’t, Rabbi … even the very thought of it makes me sick.”