The Fabulous Beast (11 page)
Read The Fabulous Beast Online
Authors: Garry Kilworth
I hung about the grave of my spice trader as if a miracle might happen and the corpse might regenerate itself. It did not, of course. Though miracles are not out of the question when it comes to rewarding mortals, we creatures of the night are not in favour with those who dispense such bounty. So I was left to squat on the merchant’s tombstone, wallowing in my misery, even going so low as to beg the help of passing demons, who simply sneered and scorned my request.
One evening, while I was mooning around the tomb, the unbelievable happened. Out of the twilight a figure appeared. When she drew closer I could see it was the merchant’s wife. She had come to visit the grave at last. She carried no flowers nor wore clothing suitable for such a visit. Her garb was that of a woman about to go out on the town for the night. I hid myself behind a stone nearby and watched and listened as she approached the grave.
She smelled deliciously of spices!
She stood there in silence for a few minutes, her expression one of contempt.
Then I heard her say in a low voice, ‘I’ve got a new man. He’s better than you – younger. I just wanted you to know that.’
A faint smile appeared on her features. ‘All those years–but it was worth it in the end. The business is mine and I am free to do what I want.’ Then she turned and left the graveyard to my kind.
On impulse, I followed her, a plan swiftly forming in my head. We never use physical violence to obtain our food. Such behaviour is unknown amongst us. But there are other means of getting what we want. The important thing is the lack of compassion in us, for that which eventually becomes a meal. We have our devious ways.
Through the narrow streets of the city she scuttled, until she came to a house near the centre. By the time she put the key in the lock of her door, the dark night had descended. I didn’t follow her through the same doorway, but found a crack in an ill-fitting window and squeezed inside to find myself on an upstairs landing. There were two doors off the landing. One led to a toilet. The other I presumed was the bedroom. Flitting beneath the door to this second room I skittered up the wall and clung to the ceiling with my four sets of talons.
There I waited for the woman to retire for the night.
Late, very late, she ascended the stairs chattering to someone. When they entered the room, she giggling and her paramour touching her hair and whispering inane words in her ear, I could sense they had been imbibing alcohol. I hoped this induction of poisonous fluid would do nothing to spoil the taste of her. The lamp was lit, briefly, while they undressed, then the pair of them climbed into bed and began to copulate, after which they both fell asleep, she on her back, the man – indeed a younger mortal than her husband – curled on his side.
I waited until the moon had climbed high enough to send its beams through the skylight.
The woman was snoring loudly.
Dropping from the ceiling heavily onto the bottom of their bed I spread my limbs and flared the grey flaps of skin–those under my armpits and those between my legs. I let out a loud ear-piercing screech and put on my most hideous expression, lips curled back, yellow fangs bared, eyes wide and baleful.
The woman woke up, saw my monstrous form at her feet, and screamed high and loud in fear. Her facial expression twisted and warped into hammered metal. She was absolutely terrified and her scream only ended when the air in her lungs was exhausted.
In the meantime her lover woke up and leapt from the bed with astonishing alacrity. He looked wildly at the scene before him, then fled naked from the room.
I rose up higher on my legs and hovered over my victim, hissing foul breath into her face. Then, as she screamed again, I matched her scream, tone for tone, length for length. My mouth was split wide from ear to ear, my nostrils dilated forming caverns from which mucus flowed and had confluence with the drool from my thick lips. My eyes bore into hers with an intensity which I knew was utterly shocking. An involuntary shudder then went through her whole frame as I loured over her prostrate form, every fibre in me quivering with threat and menace.
She died of fright.
Relaxing now, I stared at her inert body. A sniff of her skin revealed the same delightful odours that I had smelled on her husband. Unable to help myself, even though she was freshly-dead, more raw than any of us enjoyed, I took several bites out of her upper arm. Delicious. Not as appetizing as her husband, but she satisfied my immediate craving for the kind of food I had hungered for months now.
Staring down at my bite marks I wondered if the lover would now be in trouble? Would the authorities think him a cannibal? Not that it mattered to me. I would simply follow the corpse to its final resting place, leave her for a few weeks, then . . .
But.
But what would I do once she too was gone?
Never again to taste divine food?
I breathed deeply, trying to imagine an existence in which I was deprived of my need. I could not. It was unthinkable.
Yet, as the dawn came up and the morning light showed its grey face at the skylight, the scents of spices came flooding into the room. The carcass? No. Not that. There was more than just a fragrance in the air. It was an aromatic invasion. But from where?
I sniffed deeply. It did not seem to be coming from within the house. The odours were entering from outside somewhere. I clawed my way up the inner wall to the skylight and sniffed at the narrow crack through which a gentle breeze was blowing.
Yes, from the outside.
I peered downwards into an open square below. There were stalls being set up, some of the wares already on display. Yellow ochre and burnt sienna powders filled shallow metal bowls. Open-necked sacks of black seeds were on show. Tubs and baskets full of dark and light green leaves. Brown roots that echoed the shape of a man. Tree barks of many deep tints and shades. More and more came into view as the merchants revealed their wares to early shoppers.
A spice market.
Sighing deeply, I remained staring down at the dozens of men and women below, some of them fortunately quite long in years, as they prepared their stalls in the early morning light, the sunbeams sliding gently over saffron, cinnamon, carom seeds, alkanet, calabash nutmeg, jimbu, sumac, vanilla and many, many more. I watched keenly as a little smoky cloud of turmeric dust rose in the breeze and wafted over traders who were lovingly laying out their merchandise.
Here, with judicious management, was my eternal larder.
Out Back
The cottage was everything that R. had expected it to be: remote, comfortable and unfussy. He had a book to finish. Ten-thousand words. The other ninety-thousand had been difficult. This last tenth seemed impossible. His plot had become derailed. He was unable to see his way through the smoke and coke dust of a mythical railway track that should stretch ahead. Yes, the characters were there, good and solid. Indeed, the story’s engine was strong and had shunted yet forward and forward, with only one or two sharp halts. But six weeks ago they he met the bumpers. R. was now stuck in a deserted station, his progress blocked.
So, he had come out here, beyond the real marsh country of Snape, where Benjamin Brittan had built his concert hall out of derelict malting houses. The village, some few miles back down a dusty track, was called Iken: an old Anglo-Saxon cluster of dwellings whose only claim to any sort of fame was its church, in which yard Aberdeen Angus cattle roamed, keeping the grass short around the graves. It had been a difficult place to get to, this Iken hamlet, but it might be worth the journey. Here there were no distractions, as there had been in London, especially now S. was working at home. They got in each other’s way, entangled mentally if not physically, and R. was sure with his mind freed from traffic noise, neighbourhood noise, postmen, plumbers, random religious sects knocking on the door and various other infuriating interruptions, he would be able to grasp the vision of his novel’s final destination.
‘Well H., here we are,’ he said to the squirming bundle in his arms. He put the cat down on the stone flags of the kitchen floor. ‘Just you and me for a whole month.’
H. was in a bad mood, as any cat plucked from his familiar home and whisked out to the end of nowhere had a right to be.
‘You’ll like it here,’ R. said, filling a plastic bowl with water from the ancient brass tap. ‘Out back looks like a jungle. You like jungles. You can hunt to your heart’s content here, old chap. Bring in a mouse or two. A rabbit? Perhaps even a deer. Think you’re up to a deer? Those muntjacs are not so big. Just go for the jugular.’
H. looked with disgust at the bowl of water.
R., large and lately somewhat ungainly, ambled to the kitchen window to stare out. There was nothing resembling a garden at the back of the cottage. A lagoon of rugged-looking turf rolled away from the back door for about twenty feet and then suddenly the landscape leapt up into a wild sea of unkempt gorse bushes and batches of stinging nettles tall as ships’ masts. There were also tall ferns, some gone to bracken, and thistles crowding the gaps. Like R.’s book, the view had no visible end. The dark green shrubbery tumbled over and over itself in waves which seemed to go beyond the horizon. It was a bleak scene. One could get just as lost out there as in the plot of a novel.
‘S. would soon get stuck into that lot,’ he murmured. ‘She’d sickle the lot down to three inches.’
He then wondered about the legitimacy of turning a noun into a verb to give his image more effect. Yes, why not?
A knock on the front door jerked him out of his word mode. He opened it to find the estate agent who had rented him the cottage.
‘You didn’t sign all the documents,’ said the harassed-looking woman. ‘Would you mind?’ She waved some papers under his nose.
R. let her in and motioned her towards a rickety-looking walnut table in the front room. He found a pen amongst his luggage and signed the two documents the woman placed before him. Then he asked her if she wanted a drink of some kind. A cup of tea?
‘No thanks, I have to get back. It’s quite a trek out here, isn’t it? I had to walk that narrow footpath from the road in these.’
R. glanced down with her to see medium-heeled shoes that were now covered in mud.
‘I know. I had to carry two suitcases and a cat.’
She smiled. ‘You could have let the cat walk.’
‘H. would have bolted. In fact the suitcases would have run away too, if I’d put them down. This place is a bit weird for Londoners like H. and me.’
‘It’s a bit weird for the locals too,’ she replied, taking his cue, ‘and of course the last . . .’ She stopped, abruptly.
R.’s invisible antennae quivered. ‘Last?’
‘Nothing – I – I was thinking of something else. Oh well, back to the grind. Sorry about the intrusion. I know you wanted peace and quiet. I’m sure you’ll get that, once I’ve gone. Goodbye.’
They shook hands and she left. Last? Last
time
? Last
person
? Last
waltz
? What? Who knew how that sentence ended? R. shrugged. He had more important puzzles to solve. One was ten-thousand words long. He set about unpacking his bags and making himself comfortable just as evening came on. It was September. The darkness came in like fine black dust and settled on the cottage and surroundings. He switched on the light but could see no others out there. He was alone with a grumpy feline beast and nine-tenths of a novel. That was the way it had been planned, so he could congratulate himself on a job well done, rather than succumb to this sinking feeling.
He went to the back door and held it open.
‘Off you go, H.. See you in the morning.’
H., a slim grey cat with black tiger stripes along his flanks, stared out into the gloaming. He stood for a long time, peering into a slow twilight that was draping shadows like dust-covers over the bushes. Something out there seemed to be worrying the animal. R. went and stood by the cat and stared out with him, seeing nothing but the gloom of an early-autumnal evening descending upon a wasteland. Then H. turned away, walked to the front door, and looked up to be let out.
‘Oh, your majesty doesn’t want to use the tradesman’s entrance, eh? Well bugger off out the front then. It makes no difference to me, mate.’
R. let H. out, then went to make himself some tea before settling down before a coal fire to think. This is what he had come out here to do, to
think
. Those who did no creative writing did not know how important it was to simply clear away the mind-clutter and let one’s thoughts roam, where they were free to bump into all sorts of interesting other thoughts, one of which might be the key to the solving the ending of a novel. Other folk – wives, girlfriends, mums, dads, tax inspectors – they failed to understand that
thinking
was work. It was the hardest work a writer had to do. G. understood that. His other writer friends understood it. Actually punching the words onto paper was child’s play next to thinking through the story, even a story without a coherent narrative that flowed chronologically. R.’s books never did that of course. They were enigmatic voyages through a misty otherworld where strange men met supernatural beasts, and women whirled paradoxes like gladiator’s nets over both sets of creatures.
For the first week at the cottage, R. did nothing more than open his mind. It was essential that he allowed his imagination this free space in order that there was room for ideas to come sailing in from wherever it was that ideas were harboured. R. was one of those writers who did not like to think too deeply about the source of his genius, afraid that rooting it out might cause it to dry up. He continued to try to interest H. in going out back, into that wasteland beyond, thinking the cat would enjoy hunting such a fruitful-looking jungle. H. was having none of it though. He stood the doorway and stared out, clearly uneasy with what was out there. Perhaps he could smell a rogue cat, a feral tom? Ferals, R. knew, could be quite dangerous creatures having wild untamed natures.
Finally, one evening R. became impatient with H. and gave him a little nudge with his foot, then shut the door. H. whined, long and loud. R. went and made himself and drink, ignoring his cat, thinking it would be good for H. to get over his prejudices. Even if there was a feral out there, surely H. could handle himself? He was a tough cat, a little tiger when he wanted to be. R. knew that H. had taken on foxes before now. H. had to face his fears the same as R., who had come to Iken carrying a whole sheath of them.
The next morning R. woke early. He immediately felt guilty. Fancy forcing H. to do something which clearly worried him! R. went downstairs and opened the back door, expecting to find an indignant, perhaps dew-coated H., waiting to be let in. There was no H., no cat in sight. That in itself was not unusual. H. came and went when it suited him. If he had found good hunting out there amongst the tall weeds and spiky gorse, then he would have fed himself and perhaps be looking to punish his master. R. left the door open, a saucer of milk just inside, and went to write. He had actually started writing at last and while the muse was on him, he had little thought for anything else. S. telephoned halfway through the morning and asked after both of them, but R. failed to mention the missing H.. The signal was not good and her voice kept fading away. R. did not like making explanations into the ether.
Lunch time came. Still no cat. R. wandered out back for the first time, calling H.’s name. ‘H.! H.! Come on H., stop messing about.’ But no cat parted the tall grasses and came trotting to R.’s feet. Just a whisper of wind through the weeds and a sort of dead-air silence beyond. ‘You bugger – I know you’re out there,’ cried R., beginning to get annoyed with his pet. ‘If I have to come in there and get you . . .’ But the gorse bushes looked formidable. A cat could squeeze under them, but not a great lumbering R..
Evening. Still no H..
Morning again. The doorway was empty.
R. was now seriously worried. This was strange territory for his cat and perhaps H. was lost? What should he do? Start putting up notices on telephone poles? Who ever came out here, to this god-forsaken area of the marshes? Only mad-capped ramblers. R. had seen one or two of these, but not many. If he saw any more he would mention H. to them. Tell them to keep an eye open for a tiger-striped cat. And what would S. say? It was a bugger, that was certain.
The next day R. dressed himself in thick jeans, gloves, coat and walking boots. He was going in. He had to search for H.. Leaving the back door to the cottage wide open, he crossed the uneven sods of turf to the edge of the gorse, hesitated, then entered. All the while he called H.’s name, using a walking stick to part the spiny fronds of the gorse, looking for traces of his pet.
Nothing. What he found were old carcasses, littering the whole area. Nothing to do with H., he was sure. They looked like the fur and hair covered skeletons of rabbits and foxes or dogs, with some large birds among them, hard flesh still stuck to the bones of many of them. Hell, what had killed these creatures? R.’s heart was beating fast now. It was hot and dusty out here, where old cobwebs formed nets between the bushes and the air was as still as death. Perhaps his initial thoughts on the wasteland had been correct? A feral tom? But surely even a big un-neutered tom could not kill a fox or dog? Something bigger then? A wild hound of some kind? Or a big cat escaped from a zoo? Something pretty savage lived in these shrubs. H. had been right all along.
Then, a few more paces, and R. found him. Or half of him. H.’s fur was unmistakable. That tiger stripe on the corpse could not be anything else. Just the head was gone. The rest was covered in green flies that feasted on flesh that was already crusted and hard.
‘Oh shit!’ R. cried. ‘Oh fuck. Poor H..’
What a horrible end for a lovely cat. And R. knew it was partially his fault. If he had taken notice of H.’s instincts, H.’s intuition, the cat might still be alive. Why hadn’t he just left well enough alone and allowed H. his foibles? No, he had to be the big master-of-the-house and know everything about everything.
R. stared around him. What in hell’s name was out here? What demon of a beast had killed his little cat? His first thought was to get a shotgun and bait a trap for the creature. It wouldn’t bring H. back, but it would give R. some satisfaction. Bring the murderer to justice. But R. was a city dweller. After some thought he admitted to himself that he knew nothing about shotguns, how to get them, whether one needed a licence, nothing. In the end he knew that would not happen. But a club of some sort? A heavy club. Put something tempting out in the back yard and wait. If the creature came and it was small enough, R. could then destroy it. He was a big man and could handle a club all right. Of course, if the beast was some huge hound of hell, then such action was not on. At least he would know what was out here and could call the authorities, get them to catch it.
R. went back to the house, leaving H.’s remains to the maggots and flies in the dead zone of the wasteland. He intended to tell S. that H. had simply wandered off and got lost. No point in distressing her unnecessarily.
Once indoors he defrosted some pork chops in the microwave and left them in the back garden on an upturned dustbin lid. There were some golf clubs in a cupboard under the stairs. R. selected a heavy iron, wondering whether he could actually use this weapon on a live animal. But he was still smouldering with anger over his H. and he felt that rage could drive him to such action. Kill his cat? Whatever was out back was going to get some of its own, in spades.
Evening came. Twilight. That time when shadows lengthen and seem to move of their own accord. R. stood awkwardly by the rear window, looking out. It would have been better if he could stand in the open doorway, but the creature would undoubtedly get his scent and fail to come near the bait. Perhaps he should have poisoned the meat, just in case he couldn’t deal the mortal blow? But then, what if some innocent creature came and ate the chops? Someone’s runaway Golden Retriever, or little white Westie? R. couldn’t risk such a thing. It had to be the golf club round the head. Split the bastard’s skull with the iron.
He waited until well into the night.
Nothing came.
In the morning there was a knock on the door.
Oh please, not S.
, R. thought.
Thankfully, it wasn’t S. It was a man with a white collar worn the wrong way around. A vicar. R. let him in, having had no human contact for more than a week he was eager to talk to someone.
‘Not evangelising,’ apologised the vicar, ‘just saw your light during the evenings and thought to give you a neighbourly social call. I’m Iken church – you can see the tower sticking up over that corner of the marsh. The Rectory is just beyond. Oh, tea please. How are you getting on? Are you here permanently, or just for the summer?’