The Intuition: Part 3, Elke
A Horror Story
Tom had gone. The grey suit lay on the bed, and Will’s boots gleamed beneath the dust ruffle. Tom had brushed them to mirrors. The packed valise sat by the door. Farewell to Vienna, Will thought as he dressed. The city held no sentimental appeal for him. It might have been any of the cities in which he’d stopped, in any of the countries through which he’d fled. He had enjoyed Vienna for a time, but only London spoke to him in the language of home. He missed its twisting alleyways and impenetrable fogs. He missed the filth and swagger of the East End, the gin palaces and the streetwalkers with their loud, red mouths. The thought brought a lurch from the now-sleeping wolf, and he made hushing noises to himself reminiscent of a lullaby as he combed his hair in the glass.
His father had been a butcher in Wentworth Street, near its issuance into the Whitechapel Road. Aldgate’s slaughterhouses pressed close about with their nightmare noises and stink of violent death, a miasma of red-eyed murder that Harry Dovedale wrapped about him like a second skin. Will’s nostrils flared at the remembered stench of his father—part beer and rough wine, part unwashed body, and the permeation of blood, old and fresh, that served as the man’s top and base notes. Big Hal, they called him, in the back alleys where he sometimes fought bare knuckled for a few quid and the joy of ruining some poor bastard’s face. The swallows on Will’s shoulder blades had first flown on Big Hal’s fists, lending them speed, and Hal supplied all the malice.
If ye’re in a fight, boy, you give the cocksucker all of this in the center of his mug, brandishing one ham-sized mauler, and a taste ‘o this so’s he coughs up his gizzards for three days running, shooting a mighty left to Will’s ribs, hard enough to crack one. And don’t you never stop ‘til the job’s done.
Will had learned the brawler’s art in self-defense, keeping his fists ready even in sleep, listening through his dreams for the creaking of the tenement floors that heralded his father’s presence. He’d been quick enough to keep the breakage of his own bones to a minimum, but he’d never come near to besting Big Hal, nor had he been able to save Mum.
Will shook his head to clear the bees of memory. He’d bent the comb in his hand until it snapped, and he laid the pieces on the washstand with icy calm. London was far away and cared nothing for his absence. He rang for a bellboy and ordered a cab. When the boy had gone, the valise swinging against his leg, Will put on his coat and hat, adjusted the ruby that shimmered in his cravat like a drop of blood, and left the Imperial Hotel forever.
The fiaker carried him away from the grandeur of the Ringstrasse into the squalor of Spittelberg, clattering through the dark over cobbles slick with filth to Mrs. Kinsky’s doorstep. The driver affected an air of worldly nonchalance as Will descended to the pavement.
“Will you want me to wait, sir?”
Will looked up at the flat, drab face of the house, considering his errand. A red light shone with infernal dullness between the pane of the parlor window and the heavy burgundy draperies. “Yes, wait for me. I shan’t be long.”
Mrs. Kinsky ushered him in before he had an opportunity to ring the bell. Several girls lounged in the parlor in enticing states of dishabille. One played upon the piano the silver rain of notes that opened the Chopin nocturnes. The instrument had a good voice, the pianist a charming lightness to her performance. She slid him a dismissive glance from her long, dark eyes, but did not interrupt her playing. The others stopped their conversation, and their gazes were cold. He was not welcome, then. That would change.
“I’ve come to settle my account, madam,” he said to Mrs. Kinsky, his eyes fastened on the dainty musician who had shown him such contempt. “It seems I’ve left it in arrears.”
The woman bristled. “I should say you have, Lord Dovedale.” Did she stress the title in a way that hinted of disbelief? Will had no time to ponder it, for she plucked him by the sleeve as though he were a naughty boy of six and pulled him after her down the dim hallway. “Come and look on the wreckage of your visit. Look on the face of the innocent you destroyed.”
This was too much coming from such a mercenary harridan, and Will opened his mouth to remind her of her place, but the words died in his throat. Mrs. Kinsky had flung open the door of a cell-like, windowless room with such vigor that the candles lighting it shuddered and smoked. In a long basket on a bare, plank table lay Adele.
The girls had dressed her in a simple, grey gown fit for church, with a high neck and plain cuffs. The toes of her little boots protruded from beneath its hem, well blacked to hide their wear. Her hair curved in a bright plait around her head so that she looked like a virginal milkmaid. They had tried to hide her marred face beneath a careful application of powder, but the purple shadows of his fists would not be banished.
Her skin, what he could see of it, glowed like wax, and in her still and silent state, she spoke to him as she had not when alive. He found her beautiful and terrible, her limbs graced with the infinite, slow strength of a cemetery angel. Somewhere in the mystery of her body, she trembled for release, an imprisoned inhabitant shackled, perhaps, in the scarlet chambers of her heart. The heart, he knew, held rooms like a house; and when it stopped, its doors clamped shut forever. Yes, she could be there, waiting. He took a step toward Adele, his hand outstretched.
Mrs. Kinsky hissed at him. “Do not touch her. You’ve had what you wanted of her, and she is beyond your reach now.”
Will fell back, appalled at the show of emotion. Mrs. Kinsky, mollified, patted her hair. “It falls to me to bury her,” she said in a brisk tone, “and I must fill her place. She was a rare prize and would have pleased many gentlemen with the purity of her looks. It is a great loss.”
“There is the Greta Kinsky I have come to know,” Will said, once again at ease. “Always a shrewd businesswoman. I am sure you will find another young girl. Perhaps you already have your eye on one, eh? How much will it cost to set your house to rights? I feel it only fair that I contribute to your solvency.”
He gave her a sharp smile and watched her pretend to flutter. The pouch of gold coin he drew from inside his coat dangled before her wide eyes and slightly parted lips, and he thought she looked like a woman on the point of orgasm.
“It is generous of you, my lord,” she said. This time, there was no sneer attached to the title. “I should think—”
A shriek and a clamor of falling crockery interrupted her. A babble of hushed voices erupted. “Goddamn it,” Mrs. Kinsky snarled, forgetting for a moment her polished style. Her eyes flew to Will’s pale ones. “Forgive me, my lord, but I must attend to this.”
Will followed her into the corridor and saw a knot of girls, two of them housemaids, gathered before a stout door that he had assumed led to the basement kitchen. One of the maids sagged against the door, her bloody hand clutched to her breast, while the others supported her. Mrs. Kinsky glided toward them like an avenging phantom.
“What has happened? Amelie, what have you done?” She addressed the bleeding maid in a censorious tone, causing the girl to sink to her knees with a wail. Mrs. Kinsky snatched the girl’s hand and dragged it toward her spectacles.
“She bit me, ma’am, and dashed the cup of broth to the floor,” Amelie sobbed. “I won’t go near her no more. Dr. Falke’s the only one can settle her. When will he come?”
Mrs. Kinsky dropped Amelie’s hand and gave the girl a slap across her face. “You’ve provoked her, you stupid slut. Go and get another cup of broth. I shall see to her myself.” She turned to Will. “Lord Dovedale, I beg your pardon for this airing of household business. Shall we step into my private office?”
Will watched as the other girls helped a white and sniveling Amelie away. His nose twitched at the scent of blood; the wolf inside opened a sleepy eye. From behind the stout door, came the sound of low, breathy laughter.
“What have you got hidden in that room, madam?” He cocked his head and pinned Mrs. Kinsky with his gaze. She, too, was pale beneath her rouge, and the perfume of her fear mingled with the sweetness of Amelie’s spilled blood in an intoxicating bouquet. “Come, let’s have a peek, shall we?”
He reached past her and put his hand on the door latch. Mrs. Kinsky jerked to life, placing her hand on his, entwining their fingers in an intimate appeal.
“Please, my lord. Do not go in there.”
He gripped her fingers hard enough to make her gasp and moved close behind her so that his coat pressed her back. She shuddered as he bent and whispered in her ear, “Show me what’s in there, Greta.”
He increased the pressure on her captured fingers, his other hand sliding up the rigid curves of her corseted figure to cup a breast before rising to caress her throat. She bit her lip against the pain, but finally, with a soft cry, she said, “Yes, yes, I will show you.”
Will released her and stepped away, making a tiny bow and a gallant gesture at the door latch. Mrs. Kinsky rubbed her wounded fingers and shot him a hateful glare.
“You’ll have no joy of what you find, my lord.”
“Open the door. I won’t ask again.”
From within the room a whisper slipped through the keyhole. “Open the door …”
The hair on Will’s body rose at the sound. He’d never heard such a voice. Faint as it was, it seemed to hover at his ear, to slip like a cold finger along the sensitive skin of his neck. The quality of the air changed, as though a presence stood at his shoulder—as though at any moment, a hand might touch his back, or lips graze his neck or earlobe. His belly tightened. Mrs. Kinsky watched him with spiteful glee as she opened the door.
The room was dim, a box of shadows that shifted like uneasy thoughts in the candle flicker. For a dizzy moment, Will thought he had entered Adele’s funereal bedchamber again, but there was no rustic table or coffin-shaped basket here. A narrow cot and a tufted, armless chair from one of the upper boudoirs comprised the only furnishings in the room. The meager candles melted in dishes set on the stone floor. A blended smell filled the room: hot beeswax, some exotic spice, and a hint of corruption so light it enhanced the other scents and elevated them to olfactory delight. A crockery mug lay shattered on the floor, and the savory smell of beef broth rose from the puddle on which it sailed. Will could see no inhabitant at first, but the suggestion of a sigh drew his attention to the dark confluence of the cot and the far corner. There, in the swarm of shadows, knelt a girl dressed in a simple night shift.
She did not move or look up at him. Will could not make out the rise and fall of her breath, nor detect the subtle electric pulse of her life on the air. Her face, turned to the floor, was hidden by a honey-blonde mane that fell to her waist. It hung about her like a shroud, heavy and still. Will shook off the conviction that he looked upon a dead girl. He had heard her speak, even if in a whisper.
Turning to Mrs. Kinsky, who remained in the corridor, he said, “Bring me a lamp. It’s black as the Devil’s heart in here.” The phrase numbed his lips as it passed them. It was something his Mum had often said.
“She can’t abide the light, my lord, though she has improved. At first, she could bear only darkness. Now, as you see, she tolerates the candles.”
“What is wrong with her?”
Mrs. Kinsky looked away. “She was gravely ill. We thought she would die. We did not know what ailed her; she wouldn’t board here like the others but came and went like a cat.” Her eyes drifted back to meet his. “I am not responsible for what happened to her. I offered her the shelter and protection of my roof, and she laughed in my face. When she came again for work, she was sick. She fell across my doorstep, delirious, and wouldn’t let any of us touch her. I would have put her out then, but she became insensible. I sent for Dr. Falke.”
Will returned his gaze to the girl. “The man who can ‘settle her’, eh? His medicine does not seem to have helped her overmuch. Who is this quack?”
“He is a brilliant man.” Mrs. Kinsky’s voice grew an edge of ice. “We owe him much. He saved Elke from the grave, and that is no exaggeration. If he were able to be here now, you would see a remarkable change in her demeanor.”
“Elke,” Will repeated, rolling the syllables in his mouth.
A sudden image of snow assailed him, crisp and chill. The girl raised her head, and the candlelight fluttered over the vulpine beauty of her face. Her eyes, the grey of a winter sky, shone silver like the reflective eyes of any wild creature at the edge of darkness. Will recognized only the barest flicker of humanity in them. He could have been looking in a mirror at his own eyes.
Willsome. The whisper issued from Elke’s lips with the lonely timbre of an echo. Will’s heart stopped on a painful, squeezing spasm of terror. He had not heard the pet name in seventeen years. Mum had made it up of his name and the word handsome, her playful way of tweaking his growing awareness of his own beauty.
He remembered he had been tall for his age and well made. Even at thirteen, he drew the eyes of the dance hall girls and the weary, factory drudges. The whores had teased him, blowing kisses and lifting their skirts in the alleyway shadows. Come see me when you’ve a shilling to spare, they cackled, not all in jest. Mayhap I’ll give you a lick for free. His heart slammed to life so that he was sure the household must have heard its thunder. He took a step toward the girl, Elke.
“Don’t go near her.” Mrs. Kinsky rapped out the words in alarm. “Lord Dovedale, she is not of right mind. She may do you an injury.”
“Leave us,” he said. “I will see you in your office in a moment.”
He did not withdraw his gaze from Elke, and Mrs. Kinsky dithered only a minute before retreating to her inner sanctum and closing the door with a bang. Will moved toward the kneeling girl, who watched without expression as he approached. When he was mere steps from her, he crouched and stared into her eyes.
“Who are you? How do you know the name you spoke?” He hesitated, then extended a hand and brushed his fingertips along her cheek. She did not move, but her eyes looked back into his with something akin to amusement lighting them. “Are you mad, Elke, or an idiot? They say the mad and the simple can know things the sane and whole cannot.”
He had not expected an answer. Sighing, he stood, and Elke stood with him, mimicking his movements. Fear tickled over him as though he’d received an electric shock; it was a rare sensation. He took a step back from her, then another. She followed, as though they engaged in a dance. He felt the edge of the boudoir chair at the backs of his legs. Elke made a quick, darting move toward him, and, unable to retreat farther, he sat. She stood in front of him, as still and empty as she had been animated a second before. He could smell her, the heavy spice and the thread of corruption originated in her skin, and with it another scent. He had no word for it. It was the empty smell of deep cold.
He raised a hand to touch her. She batted it away without looking at it. In one fluid movement, she hiked up her shift and straddled him, moving close enough for their noses to touch. He felt the heat of her in his lap. He had not expected that, either, for she seemed winter given human form. The silence between them vibrated like a taut wire. His hands hung at his sides, forbidden to act. She leaned to breathe in his ear, her hands sliding over him as though learning a new language.
Willsome. This time, the name came weighted with the warmth and inflection of his mother’s speech. He could almost believe she occupied the girl astride his thighs; that she looked out at him through Elke’s eyes. It broke him. A tear slipped over his cheek as Elke took his face in her hands.
“Mum?” No, that way led to madness, sure and certain. He found he did not care. “What do you want of me?” he asked.
“Falke.” She spoke no other word. Elke pulled his head toward her, pillowing it on her breasts, and he sobbed there. The sum of his regrets, bound up in the memory of his Mum, poured from him.
This is the work of a writer possessed. Phenomenal writing that feels dark, dangerous, and forbidden. Fantastic, Liz, in every way.
Spectacular, Liz. This is amazing storytelling.