Suspended In Dusk (9 page)

I saw my wife, standing in the doorway, hall light behind her.

“What are you doing?” I mumbled through a drugged haze.

“I had to give them five names. You never told me how this worked. Never told me if I give ‘em more names each night they demand that many the next night. And the next. I ran out of people, honey. Mabel was a gift from God, though. Because if I don’t give them five by dusk, we’re next. Don’t you see? I had no choice. I wish I knew more people, though. My sister is going to be found in the morning, and they’ve promised me they will move onto another town as long as I help them. But I need to keep helping. They’ve been asleep in the woods for so long and now they’re so hungry.”

She held up a yellow phone book. I noticed Sandra had been crying. “I just need to do some research every afternoon. But I’m sorry… I panicked tonight and thought of Junior.”

A Woman of Disrepute

Icy Sedgwick

I always made a point to never visit artists while they were working on a painting but, given the chosen profession of a large number of my friends, it often happened that I had no choice in the matter if I wanted to see them. That desire for companionship in the face of tedium explained why I found myself standing in the doorway of Henry Woollenby’s workshop, waiting for an invitation to sit. No invite was forthcoming, nor did I feel it would be in the immediate future, so I hung my hat and coat on a stand by the door.

“So this is what you called me to see? What is it?”

I walked across the room to view the vast canvas that dominated the narrow end of the wedge-shaped workshop. The painting depicted a misty scene on the banks of the Thames, and globules of fog clung to the lampposts in the distance. The black waters of the river lapped at the edge of the beach, low tide having deposited the body of a young woman on the dirty sand. Blackfriars Bridge loomed to the west. Henry darted about in front of the painting, dabbing a spot of paint here, or a streak of oil there. I wrinkled my nose.

“Henry, why must you persist in painting such morbid subjects?”

“I believe it to be reality. I seek only to paint the truth.” Henry did not look up from his work, but I considered myself fortunate to have received a reply at all.

“The truth? What is true about what you’ve produced?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Henry paused, and turned away from the painting. I should have been repulsed, but I could not avert my eyes from the pale, outstretched arm of the fallen woman, her fingers curled as if to beckon me closer. I wanted to know her plight, what sorry state of affairs could have drawn her to such an ignominious end.

“No.”

“This is a regular occurrence, my friend. These women do not fall from grace, they are pushed! What happy ending can they possibly hope for in such a world? Their only salvation lies in the Thames.”

“I could not agree more, but do you have to paint pictures of it?”

“Is that not the duty of art? To ‘make glorious’ that which the greater public would rather ignore?”

“The duty of art is to bring beauty into the world. It is simple decoration, and nothing more—you cannot pretend that art’s function should be that of moral instruction. No, you should leave such lofty ambitions to writers and orators,” I said.

“Writers like yourself, I suppose?”

“Indeed, writers like myself! We may use language to communicate, and narrative should be our preserve, not yours.”

Henry snorted and returned to his work. I peered over his shoulder, examining the background as his brush flickered in and out of my field of vision. A dark stain within the shadow of the bridge caught my eye, some sort of hooded figure with its head bowed, facing toward the dead prostitute. A shiver ran down my spine.

“Who is that?”

Henry stopped and followed my pointing finger. He frowned as he bent closer.

“I have no idea.”

“Did you not paint it?”

“I don’t know. I don’t exactly remember. Perhaps I did so late one evening as my senses departed for the night. Yes, that must be it. That may be the personification of guilt, or shame, felt by the women themselves.”

Henry nodded and, apparently satisfied by his own explanation, resumed painting once more. I raised an eyebrow, my gaze fixed upon the hooded figure.

“Did you actually see such a thing when you were there?”

“When I was where?”

“Down by the river. At low tide?”

Henry’s ears flushed red, and he refused to turn around. He bowed his head, his brush sagging in his hand.

“You didn’t go down to the river, did you?”

Henry shook his head. I raised my eyebrow.

“And this is not a scene you painted as you found it, is it?”

Henry shook his head again. The red flush crept down the back of his neck and disappeared beneath the collar of his paint-stained shirt. He’d protested so often about the veracity of art. It simply confirmed my assertions that truth is the preserve of the writer.

“Don’t tell anyone, but I’ve never even spoken to an unfortunate. They terrify me. I’d heard the stories, and seen what the other chaps were painting, so I had the daughter of my charwoman pose for the woman.”

I snorted. “It hardly makes this a painting of truth, does it?”

Henry said nothing. He resumed painting, his brush slower and more lacklustre than before. He continued in this fashion for several minutes, until it became clear that conversation would be strained at best. I shook my head, and stood.

“I can see that you are busy, so I shall leave you in peace. I assume we will all see you at Dawkins’s supper on Friday?”

“That you will, Edward.”

“Excellent. Until then, goodbye, my friend.”

I closed the door behind me and descended the three flights of stairs to the front door. I exchanged pleasantries with the charwoman as she washed the front steps, and made my way into the thick fog of the London night.

* * *

The image of Henry’s painting remained in my thoughts as I walked, and I compared it to the works I had seen at the Academy, reminding me of a discussion with that infernal Dante Rossetti about fallen women. Snippets of prose tugged at my attention, and my senses tingled with the promise of a new story. I snorted again at Henry’s belief in the moral obligation of art. No, if anyone were to expose the public to the horrors of street life, it should be me.

My feet took me in the direction of Southwark. My publisher’s brother-in-law had told me of a less-than-reputable club in the area, and advised that I ‘sample the wares’ if I wanted a higher standard of female company. I had no intention of doing such a thing, but the idea of a new muse loomed large in my mind. My last had left London two weeks ago to marry an industrialist in Birmingham, and we had all heard tales of Rossetti’s circle finding their muses in the most unlikely of places. Why might I not find a new one in the bowels of the Virginia Club?

Red lamps adorned the club’s tables, and corseted waitresses served drinks to men hidden in shadow. I took up a seat near the door, reluctant to venture too far inside lest I find it difficult to find my way back out, and ordered a glass of sherry. Within moments, a blond beauty appeared at my side.

“Is this seat taken?” She gestured to the empty seat.

“Not at all.” She sat down and I admired her graceful poise. A pile of golden curls sat on her head, although several ringlets had escaped their pins, and lay against the girl’s pale neck. I tried to picture her standing alone on Blackfriars Bridge, contemplating her fate as she stared into the churning black water below. Yes, she would do.

“I’m Ellen,” she said.

“Edward Bonneville. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

She smiled and leaned forward. I tried to guess her age, which I placed at between seventeen and twenty-three. God alone knew what she’d done for employment at this establishment.

“I shall be honest with you, Ellen, I am not looking for the sort of companionship one might find in a place such as this.”

“Oh.” Ellen’s smile evaporated and her gaze began to wander the room.

“No, I seek a muse, and I suspect you may be exactly what I’m looking for.”

The smile returned, as did her attention. I suppressed a smirk—Ellen had no doubt heard tales of women elevated from the lower classes through their association with artists and writers, and sought a similar advancement for herself. Henry’s painting again came to mind and my inner smirk faltered. Perhaps I could prevent another tragedy.

“What do you want a muse for?”

I explained my position as a writer, though disappointment rankled me that Ellen had not heard of my work. I told her about Henry’s lofty ambitions, and my desire to tell the truth that he could not, and in the course of my narrative, I described his painting.

“It’s common enough. Girls get too old or sick and men don’t want to know. They can’t make any money, so…” Ellen allowed her words to hang in the air but the unhappy conclusion was plain enough to infer.

“It’s very sad, but I feel literature could do so much more than art.”

Ellen nodded, as if she knew what I meant. I remembered the hooded figure.

“However, there was something a little unsettling about Henry’s painting, and I don’t just mean what it was about. No, there was a hooded figure in it that Henry didn’t remember painting.”

The colour drained from Ellen’s face and her fingers curled around the edge of the table. Her knuckles turned white and a muscle worked in her jaw.

“The girls fear something worse than the loss of their virtue, sir.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh nothing!” Ellen pasted a false smile on her face. She stood to leave, her hands trembling as she knotted her fingers together.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

Ellen disappeared into the gloom of the club. I rose to follow her, but the shadows swallowed her, leaving me with only darkness for company. Two men near the door cast suspicious looks in my direction, and I hurried out of the club and into the cold London night before questions could be asked.

Once outside, I thought again of the peculiar conclusion to our conversation. Ellen spoke of fear, yet refused to divulge the contents of her thoughts. She evidently believed I could offer no aid in the face of some nearby danger, yet I could only speculate as to the nature of this threat. Perhaps one of the local men was to blame, growing fat on the profits of the female bodies he sold, and keen to threaten them if they chose to leave.

I wandered the streets for around half an hour, where I passed furtive men on their way to the Virginia Club, and gentlemen heading home after late-night visits to friends. The hook of a story nagged in my mind, and I found that I turned in the direction of Blackfriars Bridge. As I walked, I turned the topic over in my mind. I wanted to give the fallen women a voice, but I could only do that by speaking to them myself and hearing their stories with my own ears. I needed affirmation of my suspicions about a shadowy underworld figure, intent upon ruling the unfortunate women with a rod of iron.

I approached the bridge in search of another muse, but I spotted blond curls farther up the street. I peered closer and realised they belonged to Ellen. She hurried towards the bridge, her hair loose around her shoulders. She darted glances in all directions as she walked, her arms drawn tightly across her chest. Her boots beat an irregular rhythm in the quiet street as she varied her pace. She was clearly terrified of something. Maybe if I took her somewhere warm and gave her a drink, she might speak. Indeed, I was shocked to see her alone in such a place so late at night, and after her sudden fright at the club, I was concerned as much as I was curious.

“Ellen!”

Ellen stopped and turned. Recognition sparked on her face, but her expression was unreadable. Before I reached her, someone stepped out of the darkness of the alley to Ellen’s left. Ellen turned and threw her arms up in a defensive gesture, but a pale hand shot out of a dark cloak and covered Ellen’s mouth, cutting off her scream. I broke into a run but Ellen was dragged into the alley.

I reached the narrow lane. I expected to see her skirts bunched around her waist, or the flashing blade of a knife in the gloom. Instead, a hooded figure bent over Ellen’s prone body, obscuring her face. Wet, sordid chewing sounds filled the air, and my stomach churned to hear them.

“Hi there, stop!” I found my voice, but it bore a waver that betrayed me. I tried to move into the alley, but my feet refused to obey. They held fast, rooted to the spot, while my knees quivered from the exertion of my run. My heart pounded, and my ribs vibrated within my chest, though from terror or exercise I could not say.

The stranger stood. Blood clotted in the bite marks around Ellen’s mouth. The figure leaned down and held its hand—a horrible skeletal hand of bleached bone, over the wound. It tore upwards in one savage motion. For a moment, a white mist, the same shape and form as Ellen, hung from the figure’s grasp.

“You there!”

The creature, for it was no human, ignored me, and folded the white mist into a neat square, which it tucked into the folds of its cloak. The figure bent down and caught hold of Ellen by the shoulders. It dragged her out of the alley, and up the quiet street. Shock gripped me, yet somehow it did not surprise me in the least. I did not question this peculiarity, consumed as I was by my desire to help Ellen. I struggled to move in order to follow their progress, but my feet refused to obey my commands. I pummelled my thigh with my fists, helpless and frustrated. My mouth kept moving, my vocal chords straining to cry out, but no noise would come forth. It was as though I were trapped in that terrible sort of dream in which you can see the world moving around you, but you are powerless to intervene.