Fortune’s

Fools

Or

The Little Death of Vincent

Ward

By Jon Kaneko-James
 1

Friends Reunited

Vincent’s lips pursed around the cigarette. They were chapped and painful,

scarred with brown spots where he’d been chewing them. He crunched his way over

the gravel, flanked by concrete garden architecture, and peered into the still black

fountain water. It was a good mirror: his best suit, supreme in its solitude, still hung

quite heroically despite a few weeks’ dishevelment.

Not that he could see it properly under the chamois leather brown cotton, much

betasseled ‘shawl’ over his shoulders. In actuality calling it a shawl was an act of

understatement. The damn thing drowned him; decorated with sprays of brown, red

and every colour in between. He’d only worn it to try and retain some of the warmth

from his breakfast.

The bacon and eggs sitting in his stomach were a departure from recent

tradition. Any kind of solid breakfast was a departure from recent tradition, but it kept

out the cold. The air was too cold and damp for external warmth - even the tame,

portable fire that kept his cigarette alight had died. As luck would have it so had his

cigarette.

The park was a monstrous Victorian place: wintry, full of gothic statuary and

leafless trees. It had a November beauty with black watered fountains and rococo
menageries of gargoyles, fish and funerary torches. They loomed up out of the fog. It

wrapped around him like an icy fur coat, muffling his companion’s robotic footsteps.

They came to a halt near the largest fountain at the foot of a large whitewashed

pavilion. His companion didn’t join him, holding back where the mist would hide her.

She wouldn’t have been any good at conversation anyway, she wasn’t finished.

Lucia strode up a moment later. She was tall and slender with sharp, foxy

features and short auburn hair. Vincent smiled at her; they were the most obvious

twins. Everything about them was manicured to perfection - even Vincent’s

dishevelment looked as if it had been styled. He caught her eyes with a slightly

amused smile and held out a cigarette.

“You must have had hell with those heels darling.”

“No more than you with yours,”

“Au contraire my dear,” Vincent lifted his overcoat as if it was a set of skirts and

gave her a twirl on the rough gravel. It crunched and ground under the heels of his

beetle-black loafers.

“These are magnificent for rough terrain.”

“I can see: everything from pavement to gravel.”

“What else will I need in London?”

“Flights of stairs, or carpet.”

“Rough shag?”

“Don’t be vulgar.”
 “That's my girl.”

She shoved him playfully. “Beast.”

He laughed quietly as she stole a cigarette and lit it with a flick of the wrist.

Vincent looked out into the swirling greyness; little concrete flowerpots punctuated

the grey, lichen-encrusted border decorations. They made him think of footlights. He

looked at the green with its obscuring curtain of mist. Beyond the mists were walls

and beyond them the city: people living their mundane, finite lives. He crushed the

cigarette between his fingers and flicked it vengefully into the fountain. It floated on

the black waters like a little boat.

“I thought you didn’t want one.” He said.

“Changed my mind.”

“I’m glad that you came.”

“What choice did I have?” She shrugged. “We both know what you intend to do

today.”

“You didn’t have to-”

Lucia’s eyes flashed green murder; she turned away, hugging herself to squeeze

out the cold. Hobgoblins formed in the mist and mated with her cigarette smoke. She

looked back and tossed words over her shoulder like a cook who’d spilled the salt.

“Didn’t I?” Her voice was cool and quiet. “After not seeing hide nor hair of you

in months and hearing endless tales of what you’ve gotten yourself into.”
 “It’s a ghastly mess Lucy; I know that as well as you but-” Vincent took a step

towards her.

“But nothing darling, just look at the state of you.” She turned to pluck at his

lapel.

“I was just trying to make sense of things.”

“Irons, showerheads, trouser presses - that sort of thing?”

Vincent bristled. “I can iron damn well if the need arises.”

“Just as well it never did.”

“You can’t talk.”

“I have a wrist problem.”

“Don’t leave doors open darling,” He smiled. “Something might escape.”

There was silence, broken only by the imaginary hiss of concrete footlights.

Vincent watched Lucia longingly, glancing between her and the foggy corner where

his masterpiece was lurking. After a moment he took a step towards her; Lucia tensed.

“Hey have you seen Guss or Juney recently?” He asked softly.

Her face lit up; he smiled at her enthusiasm and toyed with a tassel from his

shawl.

“I have - of course Guss was happy to see me but he couldn’t talk for long

because of that awful trachea thing of his. He’s being terribly brave about it though,

Juney seemed a little embarrassed - I turned up at St. Andrews you see.”

 “I told you not to visit her at University.” Vincent shook his head.

“I know darling, she’s getting a bit too old for all that, as you say, but without

you and after all that stuff with Benjamin I just wanted family around me.” Lucia

scuffed the gravel with her toe.

“I know dear, I’m sorry.” He reached out.

Lucia made a show of accepting his embrace; she smiled sweetly and looked

deep into his sparkling green eyes. Vincent smiled wistfully; then he caught her

expression but it was too late. Laughing triumphantly she entwined her fingers with

his and twisted his wrist around.

"Damn you -" He gritted his teeth.

“I knew it!” She pushed back his sleeve. “I knew it, you bloody fool. You’ve

been injecting.”

“Lucy, let go of me damn it.”

“What have you been doing? I can have your shoulder out you know.”

“Everything.”

“Everything?” She pushed his wrist back and held it above her head so that he

had to crouch in order to avoid breaking it. Then she started taking steps forward.

“Define everything?”

“Everything,” he hopped and swayed. “Everything I could get my hands on.”

“You bloody fool.” She tried to tip him over.

 Vincent fell backwards, doing a strange Cossack dance that he managed to pull

into a more or less graceful standing jump. Lucia gave him a quiet little clap and

searched her handbag for another cigarette. Hers were far more ladylike than

Vincent’s: longer and thinner with a pleasant lilac tint. He still accepted one. Lilac

perfumed smoke filled the air.

“I’m sorry.” He nursed his wrist.

“You bloody fool.” She blew a bluish-purple cloud at him.

“Look, it’s just-”

She watched him intently.

He sagged a little. “I can’t live without you.”

“You don’t have to.”

They touched hands; mirror images against the greyness.

“But I do.” He shrugged. “What happened could happen again and I just can’t

wear it.”

“You seem to manage that thing pretty well.”

“Hey, I’m proud of this.” He adjusted his shawl. “I got it off a market stall.”

“While they were setting down for the night?”

“Oh very funny. No I bargained them down from ten pounds actually.”

“It’s terrible. The red looks like blood...”

 “Ethnic, Sudanese...”

“...occult blood and viscera...”

“Bloody expensive in the right place...”

“...tie dyed into someone’s tea stained bed sheet.”

“I like it.”

“And I detest it, but there’s no point just stating opinions - artistically it has no

merit… and I think it’s supposed to be a table cloth.” She flicked ash onto his

shoulder. “There, it balances up the russet.”

“It’s just a little big that's all,” He brushed off her addition. “I’m supposed to be

wearing it wrapped around my whole body - like a robe or toga - but my shoulders

were cold so I decided to wear it like this.”

“You just aren’t thinking straight,” she disposed of the half smoked cigarette.

“When was the last time you had a good meal or some proper sleep?”

“When I felt like; I shan't miss this.”

“I shall.”

“You can be an utter shrew.”

“I said: I shall.”

He faltered. “I-I know.”

“You don’t have to do this,” she closed in on him. “It was all just a ghastly

mishap. There was no harm done.”

 He looked into her pleading eyes. “But there was.”

“How?”

“You came back. When we discovered this - Gift - we both agreed that we

wouldn’t come back. Even if the worst happened.”

“I know but-”

“Yet you did.” He put his arms around her. “How long have we lived now

darling? Is it a hundred and fifteen years? I’ve been working it out you know. A

hundred and fifteen years - long enough to bury all of our friends, two of our children

-”

“Ben was my fault.” She said softly.

“Ben wasn’t the one that made me start this. It was before the accident, when we

buried Isabelle.”

“Oh Vincent…” She stroked his face.

“She died of old age. A shrivelled up old hag, twisted in agony - that was my

little girl; I used to look forward to it then. Dying. I mean it was only a matter of time

before something picked us off. It was the law of averages.”

“That's gruesome.”

“True though, when you had the crash I was overjoyed. I made the arrangements

for Ben double quick and there I was, ready to come after you.”

She flinched. “I didn’t know.”

 “It’s not your fault,” he sighed. “You came back but that wasn’t the only

problem. I didn’t have the guts.”

Lucia turned around in his arms so that she was leaning against him; Vincent put

his arm around her waist and propped himself against the edge of the fountain. She

pushed back his sleeve again to reveal the mess of scars and trackmarks on his wrist.

He’d been careful – most of them followed the natural lines of his wrist. On the other

hand it had meant that he’d only been able to attempt suicide three times on the left

wrist and twice on the right.

“You could have fooled me.” She stroked the scars.

“I didn’t. Just sat there looking at the pills for three days,” he finished the

cigarette. “Funny really, I don’t have the guts to end it all but I can manage to kill

myself.”

“I was lonely down there, mother and father were sweet but they just weren’t

you... and then there were the children.”

“About the children - how many more are we going to have to bury? Guss is on

the way out; Juney is getting there. How long before she retires?”

“I know.”

“Not to mention the future: how many more are we going to have?”

“It could be worse.”

”How?”

“They could be like us.”

 Vincent laughed without any trace of bitterness or irony. It echoed through the

muffling fog; Lucia joined in with her own silent, shuddering giggle. Her shoulders

shook and her head bounced off his chest as she lost herself in laughter. Vincent held

her and rested his pointed chin on her shoulder.

“Oh dear god: some ever growing, hillbilly Ozark,” he wiped his eyes. “It would

be terrible.”

“It would… I could have an operation of some kind.”

“Would it stick? If you can recover from a crushed abdomen I should imagine

that a little ‘thing’ around your pipes wouldn't take long to sort itself out.”

“It might be different… that was just a matter of walking back across the water.”

She suggested.

“I couldn’t do that. Die and just come back so that I could die again.”

“It’s not so bad as all that.”

“I don’t want to think about it.”

“So how are you going to finish yourself off then?”

He grinned. “I think it’s rather clever actually: you remember that old you-

know-who asked me to make a commission for him?”

“Wasn’t it something awfully sad like a bride or a daughter or something?”

“It was a bride.”

“Well how’s that going to get you killed then?”

 “Ah, you’ll see.” He called into the fog, “darling, can you just come over here?”

His companion parted from the deeper mist. Her skin and eyes were perfect,

shining with health and life; the hair that cascaded from her head was both exquisite

and luxuriant. She moved with unassailable elegance, her balletic figure resplendent

in black silk and sequins. In every way she was a perfect creature, a thing of beauty.

Lucia’s breath froze with a tiny choking sound.

“It’s me.”

“I know, a rather good likeness,” he smirked. “Even if I made a few

improvements.”

“How could you?”

“I wrote her, do you like it?”

“It’ll get you killed.”

“I know - you’re the only woman who ever spurned him.”

“I didn’t mean in there.” She shook him off and stormed over to the creature.

“Oh. Sorry.”

Vincent stayed where they’d been standing for a second before letting his arms

fall uselessly to his sides.

“It’s a ghastly, terrible thing to do.” She snapped.

“Look, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“Upset me? How could you imagine anything else, you selfish-”
 “Look here,” he interrupted. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think you’d mind. I though that

you might find it quite funny actually.”

She laughed bleakly and stared at the creature. Vincent stalked over and she

clipped him over the back of the head mouthing the word ‘idiot’. Then she lit a

cigarette and popped it into the creature’s mouth. Its eyes were alert and intelligent

but there was something missing, as if it had no equipment to involve itself in the

situation. The Cheroot dangled there between her lips.

“Does she understand us?” Lucia whispered to him.

“Yes... but she hasn’t really got any opinions. No personality you see. Everyone

knows that he wanted a blank slate that he could program for himself.”

“Ah, that’ll make matters worse.” She nodded.

“I know,” He grinned. “It’s masterful, isn’t it?”

“Look, darling?” She touched his shoulder.

“My love?”

“I didn’t really believe that you could do it until now…”

“That was silly.” He stroked her hair.

“I know, but I didn’t, and now I really think that there’s a chance that you might

have actually done it and...”

“Hush.”

“No, you see I don’t want to be on my own.”

 He seemed haggard this close up: the months of abuse had left him exhausted

with deep furrows in his brow and spiralling crows’ feet. He’d bitten his lips until

they were scarred and the corner of his mouth twitched out of control as he searched

her face. His strength was nearly gone, and that scared her. She traced the outline of

his unshaven cheek.

“I know but you can’t follow me in there,” he put a finger to her lips. “You can’t

because I think that there’s a chance that You-Know-Who might be able to do it so

that I stay dead and I think that it’ll be jolly painful.”

“I don’t care.”

“Furthermore: in the case of it not being permanent I’m afraid that you won’t

come all the way with me - that you’d go so far and then you might turn back. I

couldn’t bear that.”

“Vincent...”

“No. There’s something else.”

A smile curled on her lips. “Go on.”

“I want... a getaway driver.”

“Of course darling.” She smirked.

“Just in case it doesn’t work out or he sees the joke, or something.”

She lit a cigarette and adjusted his coat. Sometimes heavy cloud was just a

pillowcase for the sun. Vincent stepped away from her with a solemn air and started

across the gravel to the steps with deep, Homeric ceremony. His lined face suddenly
looked young again in the November light, the same light that caught the copper in his

hair and set it ablaze. He turned back towards her with a sudden pang of concern.

“You shouldn’t wait more than half an hour though, because by then I should be

dead.”

“Unless he’s busy.” She managed a straight face.

“In which case,” he stifled a giggle. “I shall have to take a cab.”

“Couldn’t have that, couldn’t have that at all,” Lucia smiled. “I think I shall just

wait until you come out, just in case.”

Sudden tightness choked his voice to a husky whisper. “Alright then darling.”

With that the doors swung open to admit him. Inside there was a sinewy

darkness, full of rich textures and exotic perfume. Hundreds of eyes watched him with

outright hatred and ravenous hunger. Vincent waved for his creation to join him and

turned his collar up against the abyss.

Lucia turned away, her restraint cracked and then burst into a wracking sob of

anger, bitterness and loss. If only he’d taken a minute to listen to her, not that he had

ever had any intention of that. Vincent was the writer, the dramatist - and what a

dramatist he was, locked deep into a tragedy of his own imagination. Her whole body

shook with another sob.

The anger was the worst part; horrible as it was that she was going to lose him,

it was plain as day that she had only been invited to receive his famous last words.

Just the audience for Vincent Ward’s last bow.

 She cried her way back to the car with huge, abandoned sobs that echoed

through the park. It didn’t matter what she did here, who would see? A misjudgement,

because however alone she might have felt, it was the one thing that she was not.
 2

Antonio

Antonio was also walking through the park that morning. He was a tall man,

taller than her, with a luminous air. It was something about his skin and masses of

blonde, wavy hair; his wide, blue eyes. All in all he was a fairy thing, not of this

world or any other: which made it all the more amusing that he was quite, quite

human.

It had been a strange few days, if not a strange few months, for Antonio: he’d

met Daerial, or Angelica as her parents knew her, at a party somewhere in the East

End. It had been a bohemian affair peopled by a variety of performers, non-

performers, writers, artists and creative alcoholics. There might have been some drugs

too, but if there were they probably vanished into Angelica-Daerial.

They’d clicked from the start. She had spoken wildly and enthusiastically about

a galaxy of subjects, amusing and terrible. Antonio was one of nature’s perpetual

listeners; it wasn’t even that he was anti-social, just that he rarely had anything to say.

Conversation was something that he had found immensely attractive in Angelica and

so sometimes he spoke.

Just a few comments, but quite enough to set rumours going. They hadn’t been

inaccurate either: he found her interesting, funny, trustworthy, and - perhaps most
rarely of all - easy to talk to. Her body didn’t do any harm either. She’d had an

amazing body – not cover girl or supermodel beautiful, but just right for him.

After that things had moved quickly: she had moved into his place some time

around the end of February, mostly because she’d been evicted. It wasn’t uncommon:

Antonio had illustrating work but god knew that he’d been through years of the same.

There had been an age difference too, but not that much.

Oh, and there was an apostrophe just after the “D” - but they agreed that he

could call her Angel or Darling in public, for the sake of convenience. It was easy,

and for a few months they had been happy.

Things had started going wrong early in the spring, somewhere around mid

April when the weather had started to warm up. She’d been taking a mixture of

Ketamine and Dexies all day, up on his roof terrace where curtains of smog obscured

the cityscape.

He’d spent the day working, or at least the best imitation he could manage with

a beautiful woman dancing around in front of him. It had been more infuriating than if

she’d been nagging him to take out the rubbish or finish the host of other domestic

chores that his home working colleagues complained of: at least they had distaste and

indignation to keep them going. He was stuck watching a half naked woman imitate

the green fairy all day. Naturally the sun had set on an argument.

She returned two days later, covered in glitter makeup with an expression of

existential bliss on her face. Her legs quivered with exhaustion as she walked and

there were bruises and cuts all over her back. Before passing out on the couch she had

managed only to inform him that the cabby needed paying.

 It wasn’t something that upset him too much, although it did worry him that her

response to every domestic squabble was to go out on the hunt for savage two night

stands. They’d never been entirely monogamous, between a host of old boyfriends,

girlfriends, and casual partners that came trailing along behind them. Besides, they

weren’t in love; they both agreed. Love was an epic thing for movies where dimpled

Scottish film stars sang about hope conquering all and Sitars told the truth. They were

close, emotionally and physically, but they certainly weren’t in love.

When she regained consciousness there had been little to say between them.

Angel murmured something about ‘feeling like Annabel Chong’ before showering all

the makeup off and attending to her bruises. He’d tried to find it funny but his heart

hadn’t been in it.

They didn’t speak for two days: not a complete silence, just a house full of

empty words; finally he had decided that confrontation was better any more

awkwardness.

“Don’t you think you should finish it?”

“Mmm.” She replied.

Angel was laying face down in bed, it had become her habit over the last few

days.

“You started it days ago - don’t you think it should be finished? You might be

able to sell this.” He brandished a sheaf of paper.

“I will.”

“I can’t hear you.”

 She raised her head. “I will.”

“Where were you anyway?”

There was a pause. “I don’t remember.”

He didn’t answer.

She continued, trying to fill the silence as she always did. “There was this guy at

the club and that’s the last thing I remember.”

Suddenly Antonio had been a lot more concerned.

“Do you think you were spiked?”

“Come on, give me some credit. No… I just couldn’t concentrate around him.

I’d have a thought and half a second later I’d realise that it was actually something

he’d just said.”

“Are you sure you weren’t spiked?”

“Yes.”

“You remember what you got up to?”

“No, but I do remember where - a shop just off Regent Street, in the back streets

between there and Soho.”

“That's useful.”

“Look, I could find it again. Ok?”

 She half turned to face him, her bruises had become grotesque yellow-purple

marks and the cuts were starting to scar. It was then that he realised that she had been

crying.

“It’s ok,” he knelt down to hold her. “We’ll stick together for a few days… do

you want to call the police?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“What can I say? That I was out of my mind on drugs and I had sex with

someone that I didn’t like? Anybody who was in the street that night could probably

tell that I was enjoying it.”

“Were you?”

She drew her knees up to her chin. The thin eiderdown had slipped off the bed

so that all she had to cover her was a cotton blanket and a handful of duvet. Tiger

stripe bruises marked her thighs and bottom, her eyes were swollen from crying and

raw with fear but there was something else: a distracted vagueness came and went

between shivering panic attacks. All ‘Tonio could do was hold her and examine the

bruises in the mirror.

“No… God… it was sublime but that was just because it was,” she shrugged.

“Perfect. It wasn’t an experience that you could enjoy.”

After that she’d drifted away again. Her fear had subsided, she’d even slept

properly for a while and allowed him to feed her some toast but her calm was just as

sinister as her agitation. There was a euphoric, absent quality to her; when he wasn’t
speaking she seemed quite happy to gaze around the room or just sit behind him

braiding his hair.

At first he had wondered if she’d been at the Valium, or if she was playing a

game to make up for essentially admitting that she’d been playing away with another

man. He couldn’t quite bring himself to believe it though; there was something about

her eyes. It wasn’t the absence, or her rapture - he was used to her being in any

amount of different altered states - but the expression that was behind her eyes, in the

way that her wide eyed, open mouthed bliss looked under certain lights. It looked too

much like a scream.

He decided to get a doctor, or rather a friend who happened to be a doctor. The

phone was out but Ravi was only a few minutes down the road and wouldn’t mind

giving up his lunch break for a friend. He was only out for twenty five minutes but by

the time they returned she was gone. They had searched the place at first, with ‘Tonio

assuring his friend that she’d been far too sick to get out of the flat on her own, even if

he’d left her a key.

They found things alright.

“Have you got any plants?” Ravi’s disembodied voice echoed from the kitchen.

“No,” Tonio tested the lock for the hundredth time.

“Are you sure?” He asked. “Then you might want to come and look at this.”

There were leaves everywhere: on the surfaces, on the floor, in the pots and

pans.
 Everywhere. Not green leaves though. These were sumptuous, velvety petals

from the size of a thumbnail to a man’s hand. They formed a thick carpet of black, red

and purple that sucked all the light into their moist folds. Strangely it was one of the

most sensual things he’d ever seen.

“Maybe D’Aerial did it?”

Antonio took a breath of heavily perfumed air.

“I don’t think she could haul fifty bags of best quality weirdness up those stairs

and then make a rooftop getaway,” he couldn’t resist a smile. “Unless she’s been

hiding them around the flat.”

“Probably.” Ravi shuffled uneasily. “I don’t know mate... I think you need the

police, not a doctor.”

 3

Warder

That time she’d stayed away for a week, and when she came back she was

naked and covered in holly garlands. He had found her babbling nonsense, wandering

aimlessly up and down the stairwell. Her mind roved freely through memories of her

childhood and random stories about things that were real or imaginary. Her voice

never stopped, her sweet lips fluttered constantly as she babbled in a breathless,

singsong voice.

She floated for days in animated limbo while he made her as comfortable as he

could and let the police doctors in to take swabs. Psychiatrists said there was some

shock from what had happened and that she’d get better in a few days. He wanted

them to take her away to the hospital, but the wounds hadn’t been serious enough;

three days later - ten days since she had vanished from a locked apartment - a shriek

signalled Angelica’s return to the waking world.

It was a tactile sound: of the sort that pierced your body and agitated every fibre.

It gave you a sick headache in the back of your brain and a tight, anxious stomach.

His lungs convulsed then opened hungrily as he hyperventilated in shock. It was a

hellish scream that should have been reserved for soldiers waking up to find that their

legs had been eaten by rats. He clung to her as much out of fright and panic as to

reassure her but it seemed to help. The shrieks subsided to wails and eventually to

quiet, broken sobbing. At last he felt safe to open his eyes and kiss her face.
 “What happened?” He whispered.

“I don’t know.”

“Who took you away?”

“I don’t remember.”

“In the morning,” he murmured. “We’re going to find that shop of yours.”

After that she’d succumbed to exhaustion and fallen asleep in his arms. Antonio

had just lain there: drinking in the scent of her hair and the texture of her moist, warm

skin, her taste when he kissed her. These were real things - like the thundering of her

tiny heart as she slept, and her body against his; but there was something unreal at

work. For all her solidity, he couldn’t be sure that she’d be there when he woke or

whether the vagueness would steal her away into fairyland again.

He fell asleep somewhere near dawn and woke up an hour later with her quietly

kissing him awake. They dressed silently in the half light and he couldn’t help but

sneak a glance at her in the mirror. After everything that had happened he felt guilty

for looking at her nakedness. She was beautiful - but that was why they wanted her.

On the way out she paused in the doorway. “I don’t want to go you know.”

He had nodded.
 4

The Grey Lady

The daytime streets of Central London were a familiar place: full of people

buying and selling. All manner of life happened here, from crimes of passion to cold

blooded finance. It was public. It was human. Antonio wasn’t in so safe a place:

streets like another world of flagstoned streets and antique brickwork. Change the

ultra fashionable logos and you might have travelled back a hundred or more years,

just meters away from Regent Street. He was seeing an after image, hanging in the air.

“Just down here.”

It was more a gap between houses than a street: so dark that the daytime sky was

a blue ribbon peeking through the gap between roofs. The impenetrable shade defied

every attempt to pierce it; he could barely make out Angelica’s halting progress. His

imagination played tricks: shapes moved and lurked in the swirling patterns of his

cornea. He started to wonder whether he really was looking at her.

It could easily have been a conspiracy of his senses: the supposed knowledge

that she was there combined with her perfume. The alley’s normal scent was water

and clean stone that reminded him of seaside towns. It gave a cool, spacious feel

along with the rough wet flags beneath his feet. Was she there, or were his own

footsteps just echoing in the darkness?

“Angel?”
 Movement. A breath. She was there.

He relaxed.

Why didn’t she just speak?

“Angelica? Are you sure this is the place?”

That should secure a yes at the very least. He thought.

Again, she moved the darkness. It was a richer sound than it should have been,

full of velvet and satin. He inhaled a breath of her sickly floral perfume. There was a

shape, taller than him with a powerful figure. Completely unlike Angelica.

“Who are you?”

Her voice was the perfect accessory to her shape. It was rich and deep but not

masculine. Her voice spoke independently of language - promising adventure,

unceasing comfort, and above all: release. Even before her words formed and whirled

through the air they promised him blissful amnesia. Crystal clear.

So clear that her reply was almost lost. He groped to remember what she’d said

and made it up as he went along.

“Are you sure?”

“As sure as the springtime.” She sighed.

“That’s not really an answer because, and correct me if I’m wrong, the

springtime hasn’t kidnapped my girlfriend.”

 “I assure you,” her hand reached out to caress him. “With all my heart that I

have told you the truth. She is a guest of the King of the Fairies.”

“Now an obvious reply has come to me, but I’m hesitant."

She reached for him, caressing the darkness with soft, ash grey hands. Her nails

were long with sharp, brass tipped ornaments. Her fingers brushed him: smooth, moist

and cool. Her skin made him tingle with a weird sensation of electricity and a

transfixing, pulsating rhythm; he jerked away with more aid from gravity than his

volition.

“Fairies don’t exist?” She suggested.

“Pretty much,” he nodded in the dark.

“Poor boy.” She breathed.

“What, that I live without the wonder and magic of the glamorous fey in my

life?”

She laughed. “No.”

Then someone hit him from behind. The pain was incredible and a grating,

popping sound nearly split his eardrums. The funny thing was, he reflected later, that

it didn’t feel like he’d been stabbed - there had been no sharpness at all. The impact

had been blunt and crushing, with the force of a sledge hammer and the grace of a hit

and run. Antonio’s legs had turned to jelly; he’d felt himself stumbling, falling to the

floor with cold, damp stone pressing against his cheek. He listened confusedly to

inhuman grunting sounds that forced themselves out of his body. It was a truly
exquisite pain, although his attackers were probably in a better position to appreciate

it than him.

“Come with us.” She knelt down beside him.

“Sod off.”

“You’ll die in this alleyway.”

There was another wave of pain. It felt a lot more imminent now: the cold, damp

stone and bloody bile in his throat. His reply was cut off as he choked on a scream.

“There now, let it out. There now.” She moved him onto his side. “Better?”

His head cleared a little.

“I’m not going with you.”

“You’ll die here,” she stroked his face intoxicatingly. “Just have a glass of wine

and some food. I promise.”

He glanced in the direction where he imagined his attacker must have been.

“I believe you.” He said. “But you and I are going nowhere together.”

“What are you so scared of? Is it worth dying to avoid an uncertain fate?”

“Either you’re insane, in which care I don’t have much to lose,” he managed a

ragged, shuddering breath. “Or you’re not… in which case I’ve read more than

enough fairy tales thank you very much.”

“You still don’t believe?” She sounded hopeful.

 “Oh god.” He tried not to vomit.

“Would you like a demonstration?”

“Shit...” He failed, heaving over the flagstones.

Then she had touched him, just with the palm of her hand. Blissful electricity

shot through him, numbing away his thoughts, fears and pain. For a moment he hung

in space without a body or mind: a state of pure, pleasurable existence. Then it faded

again. He braced himself for the pain but it didn’t return.

After a moment’s silence he glanced at her tentatively.

“That was you?”

“It was,” he could make out a smile.

“I’m still not going with you.”

She stood up with a sigh. All around him there were petals falling to the earth as

her cloak whipped and flapped in the breeze. He could make out the rest of her now:

pneumatic, naked except for a maze of chains and bars that pierced her body. She was

attractive in an aesthetic way, but there was something about her face - grey with grey

eyes - and her expression… If she’d claimed to have seen all the pain in the world he

might have believed her.

He struggled to his feet and checked where the wound had been. Sure enough

there were torn clothes and blood but no damage. Just smooth, hairless skin.

“What are you going to do now?” He asked.

“Go home.” She smiled. “Is there anything that you want?”
 He thought for a moment. “Could I have the knife?”

She laughed. “It’s behind you.”

He turned and there it was shining through the darkness: a silver, conch shell

design with a stiletto blade. It was bright beyond belief and covered in his blood.

“Thanks.” He turned, but she was gone.

Only a falling rain of petals advertised her ever having been there.
 5

Modern Man, or A Sign of the Times

That had been five months ago.

He’d told a version of the story to their friends, who had all taken it to mean that

she’d moved in with her dealer. It had been hard to get used to at first, but he’d never

really thought of looking: if the fairies had taken her they could keep her. The

relationship wouldn’t have lasted much longer anyway, they were fighting too much

and neither of them was the long term kind.

Spring had turned to summer and now to autumn, but he’d changed too.

Something about that day had stuck - not Angelica’s tragic disappearance, he had

little or no curiosity about that, but the woman who had taken her. He wanted to

question her, to find out what she’d seen with her grey eyes.

So here he was with the gravel churning underfoot and mist all around him. His

body felt hot and filthy despite the cold, damp fog. Last night had been a launch party,

and what had seemed a wise idea - to keep his head straight for the next day - seemed

like a bloody stupid idea now. It would have been better to have done half a line... or

not to have gone out at all. He jumped as a shriek cut through the fog. It sounded like

a woman in agony. It wouldn’t be Angelica, even if this was a trap - which it probably

was - they’d want him inside before anything kicked off.

 Although… he had reached the doors.

Ahead of him darkness gave way to an antechamber and another set of doors: it

was bright and airy with white tiles and potted plants. The light was a little too bright,

bleaching the skin and blurring the edges of things. There chairs but a lean, auburn

haired man and his twin sister had their legs up on them. They reclined back to back,

he reading Saki and she staring vacantly. She reminded him a little of Angela.

“Should I wait here?”

“Hmm? I should imagine so. Have you got an appointment?”

“I was invited.”

“Then they’ll probably see you first, I haven’t got an appointment.” Vincent

smiled.

“How long will it take?”

“Not long,” Vincent extended his hand. “Vincent.”

“Antonio.” He looked at the woman.

“Oh she hasn’t got a name yet, she’s not finished.”

“Ah. Right.”

The doors slid open. Beyond them was more velvet darkness; the air was heavy

with the scent of bodies and deep, languid ribbons of incense. It was a place of

purples, blood reds and black drapes that glittered with showers of mirror fragments;

exquisite furniture so heavily populated that its elegant curves were invisible. He

peered through the half light, his skin prickled under so many eyes.
 “Welcome. Please come in.”

He followed the sound of the voice with a sinking stomach. It was the sound of a

man: deep, powerful and commanding. It sang with promises but it just wasn’t her. It

was a beautiful man with a cape of smooth, silvery hair that splayed out covering his

ebony throne. Antonio met his sharp, blue eyes.

“You sent me a note?”

“I thought that we might be able to come to some arrangement? Your attempts

to find us haven’t been very successful.” He smirked.

“I haven’t looked.”

His smirk faltered with the grace of a tube derailment.

“But we have something of yours.”

He caressed the thing that was curled up at his feet; it shifted and produced a

head - Angelica. Her eyes were bright green and empty of even the slightest residual

thought. She’d been stripped and tattooed with spiralling scenes of sadistic pleasure.

Antonio shifted guiltily at the sight of her but Angel seemed not to notice, instead she

started to worshipfully kiss her way up the Fairy King’s legs.

“Erm, yeah.”

This seemed to bother the Fairy King. Antonio was starting to feel more

uncomfortable with things by the second. Of course he’d cared about Angel but

they’d never been the love of the century and this… it was possible that the only thing
worse than what he was seeing was the fact that he was certain the Fairy King had

realized his mistake.

“What are your terms?” He managed.

“Well you have two choices,” the man smiled. “You may either exchange

yourself for her, or you may simply join her.”

Antonio thought.

“If, perhaps you might find it hard to live without her, never seeing each other’s

faces again.” The King continued. “You’ll be aware of each other. After a fashion.”

Antonio strained his mind and heart for even the slightest temptation to go

through with what the King was suggesting. Images of romance and chivalry flickered

through his mind but the fact remained that he had no intention of rescuing her. This

was what he had brought the knife for, and in his pocket his sweaty hand gripped its

silver handle for dear life.

“You know this all seems like a lot of trouble.” He licked his lips. “I think you

can keep her - sorry darling.”

The King’s eyes flashed amber for a second; there was a weird crunch as his

claws left furrows in two hundred year old ebony. The expression of lazy amusement

on his face hadn’t flickered; he even managed a languid stretch before replying.

“I’m sorry, that's not an option.” He smiled. “I only did this for you -

unfortunately I forgot the changing times.”

“Oh no.” Antonio brandished the knife. “I’m leaving here.”

 The King looked at it with a mixture of amusement and annoyance, his silver

hair rippled in a personal breeze. All around him their lethargy had suddenly become

deliberate, catlike. Talons, fangs, teeth and claws surrounded him. He looked around.

The chamber seemed suddenly claustrophobic. His hand shook. He should never have

come.

“Please don’t do this.” The King rose from his throne. “My courtiers have

similar weapons, others have larger.”

With a flick of his wrist the motes of light and shade resolved into a shaft. It was

a long, jet-handled sword, with a curving blade that flared out at the end. Everything

about it seemed hard, elegant and deadly, like its master. It made ‘Tonio’s own

weapon seem comical.

“I hadn’t thought of this.”

“You can be forgiven. None of us are perfect.”

“I’m going to die.”

“I doubt it.”

“No. Really. One way or another I am.”

“Do you think that I’m not capable of performing a hundredfold what my

minion did for you?”

“The woman? Where is she?”

“Oh,” his brow arched. “Suddenly you express an interest?”

“Purely academic. I lust after her mind.”

 “Well then you’ll be pleased to know that she has been preparing to receive

you,” he waved a hand. “My Lady?”

She strode out from behind the throne, resplendent in a cloak of white blossoms.

In this light the grey of her skin was a little paler and her hair a cascade of black silk.

Inky black chains clung to her curves and traced the supple lines of her body. There

was her face too, with that same expression of fathomless, knowing sorrow and

ultimate sympathy. It made the whole morning worthwhile.

“Hi there. I doubt you remember me.” He didn’t take an eye off the sword.

“Of course I do.” She smiled.

“Now you’re both reacquainted I think you should know whom you address.”

The King nodded to her.

“I am Oblivion, Third Lady of the River and Keeper to the Gates of Time.”

“Oh right - Antonio Vespucci. What happens now?”

“We go to bed, for one night that will last a hundred years. We will make love

and share secrets, drink the finest wine ever pressed.”

“Is that all?”

The King pressed into him slowly. It was a creeping advance where Antonio

was forced to move ever backward, never taking his eyes off that unwavering blade.

What was it that the Faeries couldn’t do while you were watching? Swordplay

probably wasn’t it. He met some resistance - a step or bench - and very cautiously

scaled it.
 “Sadly no,” she smiled. “Afterwards I will kiss you. It will be the only time that

you shall taste my lips, and afterwards you will forget everything: your name, your

ambitions. Everything but the drinking, the dancing, and the bliss.”

“It sounds nice but I don’t think I’m up for it.” He took another careful step

backwards.

She smiled at him compassionately. “I don’t think you have another choice.”

“I wouldn’t say that.” It was a new voice.

“You haven’t been called.” The King snapped.

“I got bored and listened at the door.” Vincent explained.

It was the redheaded man from outside, leading the odd, vacant girl by the hand,

although he’d covered her head with his shawl. He led her carefully so that she

avoided tripping on the intervening furniture and decorative hollows. It was a comical

sight, if not for the expressions of hate and rage that clouded the faces of the

assembled fey. Eyes - blue, green, red and black - watched him as they crossed the

room to stand with Antonio.

“While that pathetic little thing couldn’t harm a hair on your head, I’m sure that

you’re aware of how much damage it could do to your new bride.”

The King’s eyes flashed amber to red to black. A meat locker atmosphere swept

through the room. Eyes older than civilization and wits crueller than pain turned on

them with full force. Antonio had the presence of mind to turn his blade towards the

woman. The King’s hair whirled and whipped in a personal hurricane. Every silver-

blue vein suddenly stood out on his face. Vincent grimaced with effort before very
pointedly smoothing the pain out of his face. He met the King’s eyes with his own -

younger, but no less eternal.

“I can resist you. Not for long, but long enough. As for the boy… well, if you

could affect him you would have.”

“Are you saying that I am limited?”

“Not in so many words.”

“M’lady can.”

“Against the rules.”

Vincent fumbled out a thin cigarette and lit it shakily. The pain was becoming

absolutely intolerable now. Perhaps it really would kill him.

“Are you not breaking the rules?”

“I am indeed but the question is - will you break the rules? As you know my

transgressing and yours are far different. A matter of status you see.”

“You have no status.” The King smiled.

“Exactly.”

A blast of cold air ruffled the drapes and sent the glitter whirling in gaudy dust

devils. Cloaks rippled and be-tasselled headdresses were disturbed by a scything,

relentless wind. The King’s face was a mask of unassailable calm, but the air stank of

rotten meat. The blood roared in his ears; it seemed as if he could have killed them all

with a passing thought, but slowly his temper - and the wind - subsided.
 “Very well. Go.”

Vincent glanced at Tonio. The King nodded curtly.

Antonio wondered if he should keep the knife to the girl’s throat but that seemed

to be academic now. A transaction had been made and it was all over. Antonio looked

back, he managed to spare a glance for M’lady, she was smiling sadly.

“What about Angelica?”

“She’ll be released.”

“I don’t want her.”

“You need never see her again.” The King snarled.

He had intended to look at M’lady again but Vincent had grabbed him by the

arm and was propelling him down the stairs. From arrogant savoir faire the redhead

was suddenly on the edge of panic. They strode quickly over the gravel; hungry fog

swallowed them and the pavilion equally.

“What’s going on.”

“Run.”

“Why?”

“Because,” Vincent heaved a breath. “In a moment he’s going to take the cover

off.”

Behind them something terrible was happening. The fog was whirling and

writhing but not in the way it should. It glittered like black ice on a highway: glassy
tinkling sounds filled the silence. The fog was frozen, formed into whirling

razorblades that sheared and fragmented. He broke into a run and the freezing tide

gave chase. It spread, infecting the fog like dye in water. He tried to shout to Vincent

but the cold had caught them. It raged - pounding, cutting and shattering ferociously.

Shards sliced his face and his own blood froze on his eyelids. Heavy lumps of

ice hammered away his at legs and broke over his temples. He lost his footing.

Darkness encroached.

He tried to say something but again the wind took his breath away. He was

numbing, losing the feeling in his hands and his feet; his imagination eased the pain

with the illusion of movement. Suddenly there was warmth, Vincent swore under his

breath, heedless of the younger man’s pain. Antonio moaned quietly, his shoulders

nearly separating from being dragged by the wrists.

“I thought you were going to die?” Lucia smiled.

Outside the car glass and ice still tore at the enamelled bodywork.

“One day, my dear, one day.” He glanced back at the raging snow. “Think of it

as an investment.”