Black Lipstick Kisses (19 page)

He made to speak, but didn't. I heard a rustle as he moved my bag, the opening of the flour, the soft shaking of the bag, every sound absolutely distinct. I was standing straight, and he made the pentacle around me, the five points and the encompassing circle. Immediately the atmosphere grew stronger, with hints of strong emotions creeping into my head. Yet it proved nothing. I knew I was in a graveyard, I knew I was in a pentacle.

‘Now the candles. Place one at each point of the pentacle and the rest on the stone.'

‘It's . . .'

‘Don't tell me! Not anything. If possible, make a cross. Light them all, help me down and go. I'll call when I need you. Promise you won't come to see?'

‘I promise. I'll stay within earshot, no closer.'

‘I believe you, Stephen, thank you.'

I let myself slowly down into a kneeling position, my open knees meeting short grass damp with dew. The smell of lich mould and leaves was strong, then the sweet incense of my candles as he began to light them. Already my head was full of thoughts, unfocussed, but growing stronger as the candle smoke filled my head. When Stephen had finished he kissed me, and left. I heard the groan of the gate and I was alone in the night, kneeling at a tomb, my mind open to trance.

Melancholy filled me, black tendrils reaching into my mind, bitter-sweet, sadness and triumph both. I began to slip, existence drawing in to make a tight parcel of my body, the pentacle, the tomb before me and its occupant. I caught a sense of masculinity, harsh and certain, and of prayer, dull and even, a litany endlessly repeated in a droning voice. An urge came, strong, righteous indignation, to close my knees, to stop flaunting myself, to cover my legs. My defiance rose instantly, as with Eliza Dobson, condemnation of my sexuality inspiring me only to yet dirtier behaviour. A fresh shock hit me, harder, demanding I pray, submitting myself utterly though my sins went beyond absolution. Again I fought, my knees moving wider, taking hold of my breasts to offer myself as the Mother, fertile and provenant.

Anger hit me, boiling rage, murderous in its intensity, and my own fear in response, my throat tight as I
struggled to scream. I fought it, my fingers clamped around the flesh of my breasts, my nails raking my own flesh, trying to hold on against the great tide of fury, and failing, clutching at the grass as my body went down. My face went to the ground as the sense of my own wrongness became too strong. I was woman, dirty, lecherous, sinful woman, a witch, a succubus, evil incarnate.

I was grovelling, my face in the dirt, prostrate before the might of a vengeful patriarch, judged and found wanting, begging a forgiveness that could never be mine, my hands clutching at the soil. Tears burst from my eyes and I was wailing in misery at the certain damnation of my soul. My body came up, arched in pain, and my hands, to slap dirt into my face, the taste acrid in my mouth as I rubbed it in, hiding my sinful, lust-inflaming features. I screamed, breaking free. My fingers were at the neck of my dress, clawing, tearing, and it was ripped wide, my breasts naked, my belly, my cunt, and I was rocking forward, spread to the altar, lewd and open.

A fresh blast of hatred and rage crashed into me, but I was laughing, my hands between my legs, fingers in my sex, in dirty, joyful, masturbation. My pleasure was rising on the wave of loathing, his hate only making me stronger, my behaviour lewder as I pushed a finger firmly up my bottom. He was screaming in my brain, clawing at me, attempting to drag my fingers from my dirty holes, to tear my flesh, to send me back to the Hell where I undoubtedly belonged, even as I came.

On the instant I was in a dim space, squatting and in myself, but on hard stone, stark naked, my belly smeared with a crude pentacle, a rune of fertility at the centre. Men stood before me, two in a shattered
doorway, more beyond, holding torches, rope and swords. They cursed as they took me, dragging me out into brilliant sunlight, a village green, men and women standing gaping in sympathy, in fear, in licentious disapproval.

In seconds my hands were bound, my feet, my defiled belly displayed for all to see. Gasps rang out, the people began to crowd dose, to spit on me, to scratch at me. I was dragged towards the pond, my struggles futile as they strapped me to an iron-bound pole, lifted me, held me over the water. As one began to declaim my sins I was hurled out, hitting the water, going down, the sure knowledge of death hitting me even as I hurled myself back in one final effort of will.

And I lay gasping on the wet grass, my head just over the edge of the pentacle, my blindfold down around my mouth, a candle burning just inches from my face to illuminate the great mausoleum before me with its fellows. Slowly it sank in: grey rock, lichen, twisted, terribly weathered forms, wax dripping down the breasts of a carved angel, and the name – Richard Byrne.

WHEN STEPHEN CAME
for me I could still barely stand. I was shaking hard, my every limb still weak, my face, breasts and belly smeared with dirt, my dress ripped wide down the front. He supported me back to the car, his voice full of concern as he babbled questions I couldn't bring myself to answer. What had happened was going round and round in my head, my fear so strong I felt sick to the stomach, yet undercut by a near demented sense of triumph.

He, the man I had met in trance, had found me an abomination to his world-view, overwhelming me with his hatred. Yet I had fought back, and won, first forcing my female sexuality against the pressure, and second breaking free of the horrid vision he had dragged me into. I was dry, but for my own sweat, and my wrists and ankles had no marks to show that I'd been bound. It had not happened, yet I had felt it as surely as any real experience, just as I had felt the cocks inside me and the coldness of my lover's sperm with Sir Barnaby Stamforth. There could not be the slightest doubt my communion had been real.

Back in the car, Stephen wrapped me in a rug and gave me some water. I couldn't drink, at first, or talk, my throat too tight, my head still swimming with emotion and dizzy from the smoke. At some point he stopped at a garage, to buy sandwiches and coffee, then at a darkened lay-by where I managed to get
something down myself. With the water and food I slowly began to return to reality, and while sipping my coffee with him watching over me in alarm I finally managed a wan smile. For maybe the hundredth time Stephen asked me if I was all right. This time I answered.

‘I . . . I think so. That was . . . was, like nothing else.'

‘What did you do? It sounded awful, the way you screamed!'

‘It was awful, in a way. So tell me, who was Richard Byrne?'

‘An ancestor of mine. I thought . . . well, you asked for someone you could look up, and well, I know a fair bit already. It was a bad choice, yes?'

‘No, it was a good choice, in a way. Who was he?'

‘My childhood hero, I suppose you could call him. He was involved with the Civil War, a staunch parliamentarian who led one of Cromwell's troops of cavalry. He . . .'

‘A puritan too?'

‘Oh, of the strictest stamp.'

‘Ah, anything to do with witches?'

‘Witches? No, not to the best of my knowledge, although I'm sure he would have been violently against anything of the sort. He was a great one for the ideal of democracy, which was what inspired me, and of freedom of conscience too, but vehemently opposed to anything that fell outside his personal world-view.'

‘Go on.'

‘Well, he earned considerable distinction as a soldier, and later as a politician. He wouldn't compromise his principles either, but fled to the Continent after the Restoration. When he died the family brought back his remains for interment here.'

‘Where's here?'

‘Suffolk, well, Essex now, but we were in Suffolk, Hingstead, where my family had land for generations. No, Richard Byrne was my role model from well before I had any interest in going into politics myself, but as I found out more, and came to understand more, my opinion of him decreased. He believed very strongly in himself, and the rights of man, but when he had power, he abused it. He was also bitterly . . .'

‘. . . misogynistic?'

‘Yes. How did you know I was going to say that?'

‘I've just met him.'

I had met Richard Byrne, there could be no question. Michael might doubt, but I knew I was right. I had known nothing about Stephen's ancestor, nothing whatsoever, and yet my impression of him had been overwhelming, frighteningly so, and accurate. Again and again I tried to find a flaw in my argument, but there wasn't one.

Not that I could tell Michael, because he might doubt I was telling the truth, or worse, lying simply to try and impress him. That would not do. For Michael I had to be able to show that it was real, which was not so easy. What it did mean was that I could once more let myself go with him. I was back on top.

The experience had also opened a whole new world of possibilities. I had never before experienced communion without making my own choice. Looking back, I could see that I'd always been playing it safe. The free-thinkers, the debauched, the rebels, they all liked me. The others I could cope with, even Eliza Dobson, who for all her venom had at heart been a very weak person, scared of her own sexuality. Richard Byrne was
different, a real firebrand, and while the experience had left me badly shaken, it had also inspired a compulsion for more.

Stephen was very good. I told him what had happened, and while he plainly didn't believe a word of what I was saying, he had no explanation for the phenomenon. He even felt guilty, blaming himself in part for my experience, which suggested to me that he did not entirely dismiss it. Back at his flat I bathed and tended the scratches I'd inflicted on my breasts and tummy in my passion, ate and let him put me to bed. In the morning he drove me back, at my insistence, because I needed to think.

I spent all Sunday in the church, naked, with the door firmly locked and Lilitu on guard, thinking on life, death and myself. Richard Byrne had seen me as the very incarnation of evil, unclean, an abomination before God. That meant his God, and while I have never had any illusions about what the po-faced and the strait-laced think of me, the sheer force of his antipathy had been extraordinary. Did enjoying my body and indulging my wilder needs make me evil?

The answer had to be no. I have always seen myself as belonging to the dark, but as a wild-child, a rebel. Richard Byrne had undoubtedly thought of himself as a good man, yet he had no doubt killed many people and condemned many more in a variety of ways, all in the name of his beliefs. Eliza Dobson was little better. If she had not killed anyone directly, she had imposed a life of miserable drudgery on hundreds, and expected them to be grateful for it. I had neither killed nor repressed, but only exalted in breaking the taboos of just such people. I was not the evil one.

I've always known that it feels good to be a bad girl,
and never regretted it. From the moment I had rejected Christian values in exchange for more loosely spiritual ones I'd been used to making my own moral decisions. If some felt that to do so was a monstrous display of arrogance, then I could only argue that it was better than abandoning morals altogether. After all, I had no choice but to abandon a religion so moribund that many of its temples are in decay, so corrupt, so blind. Yet I adored all the trappings of that very religion, the elaborate ritual, the architecture, thus linking myself inextricably to something that was dying.

By early evening I had worked myself into a fine state of Gothic despondency, and if I was rather proud in a way, I'd had enough. Brooding naked in a Gothic church is all very well, but one can have too much of a good thing, and it's extremely cold on the bum. I'd also worked out my self-doubt and felt ready for Michael. He was in, and delighted that I was coming over, promising to make pasta and have it ready by the time I arrived.

I put on my blades, knowing it would get my adrenaline pumping, my cheekiest skirt, a tiny crop top and pads, creating a Goth-urchin look I was sure he'd like to draw, and to fuck. It worked for me, just the way people reacted enough to leave me feeling full of mischief, and I was right about Michael. The door hadn't closed behind me before he was reaching for his pad, even as the rich aromas of Bolognese sauce and red wine hit me.

‘Dead cute! Goth-chick on skates, always good for a poster.'

‘How about Goth-chick eating pasta?'

‘Nah, too weird. Give me a good pose, like the crazy one from Gorillaz . . .'

‘Which crazy one?'

‘The girl, of course.'

‘There's a girl?'

‘Just pose will you? Like you don't give a fuck . . . yeah, great. Don't move!'

I'd frozen, head cocked to one side, slight snarl, middle finger exactly as I'd put it to show him what he could do with his instructions. He sketched quickly, no more than an outline to capture position and expression, then spoke again.

‘Good, now hold . . . hold that broom.'

‘The broom?'

‘Sure. In the picture it'll be a fuck-off big gun. There's a whole market for that kind of stuff.'

I shrugged and retrieved the broom, holding it like a guitar, then across my shoulders, each time changing the way my legs were set. It was not easy to balance, but he worked fast, and I was quickly getting into it. I tried a third pose, with the broom pointing at the ground in front of me as if I was rolling forward. Michael responded with a grin. I gave him a snarl and he was sketching madly, turning a fresh sheet in just a minute or so.

‘Neat, now some for the
bandes dessinées
. More innocent, casually sexy as if you don't know what you're showing . . . still with attitude.'

I cocked my hip out and stuck my tongue out at him, dropping the broom. He nodded, sketching hurriedly. The moment he'd finished I spun around, making my skirt fly up.

‘Hold that!'

‘I can't! I'll fall over!'