Frank Tallis - Deadly Communion

Why?

I was chosen.

There is nothing more to tell of my life in the village. I grew up. I left and came to Vienna. I lived in warming-up rooms and hostels — and tried to find work. I visited the Kunsthistorisches Museum and admired Canova’s Theseus. I went to the Natural History Museum and studied the mummies that I had longed to see as a child. I found Herr Griesser’s prehistoric axe-head displayed in a case with others from the Wachau.

Now, let me tell you something. Not about me — but about you.

You are obsessed with death.

You Viennese relish a good funeral: the pallbearers, with their splendid outfits; the liveries worn by the horses; the hearses; the sashes, lanterns and black flags. And where else in the world can one find a necropolis like the Zentralfriedhof? It is bigger than the entire Innere Stadt. Did you know that? Imagine, building a cemetery bigger than a town! It is a wonderful place.

I have fond memories of that first winter, in spite of the hardship, exploring the endless avenues of the Zentralfriedhof. I had never seen anything like it. Under the arcade I found the tomb of the miner, August Zang, with its fierce dwarves standing on roughly hewn pedestals, raising their torches, guarding the portal with sturdy shields. It was like a scene from the Norse legends. All of the statuary had been carved with such care. I remember a female figure — as large as life — with long slender arms and fingers of exquisite delicacy. The sculptor had worked a small miracle with his material, creating a gown for her that appeared to be semi-transparent. It was remarkable how a substance like marble could be made to suggest a garment that adhered to her curves like silk and collected in soft folds between her thighs. Sphinxes, lyres, urns and swans and, of course, pale imitations of Her — those great angelic wings open and ready for flight.

And did I feel her presence there, in the Zentralfriedhof?

I did — but only as a husband might feel closer to his wife when he contemplates a photograph. There was, however, one exception. Whenever I saw a funeral she seemed to come closer.

On rainy afternoons I would loiter by the open graves, in readiness. Then I would join the mourners as they arrived. No one noticed me or challenged me. I would close my eyes and be rewarded by a faint sense of her presence. And once or twice my heart leaped at a flicker of purple light.

It was after one of these funerals that I fell into conversation with an undertaker’s assistant. He was very sanguine about his profession. Business was good. The population of Vienna was growing and, with it, increasing demand for his services: he mentioned that there had been talk of building a high-speed pipeline, running from the Innere Stadt to the Zentralfriedhof, for the purpose of transporting the great number of corpses. I asked him if he could offer me a job. He gave me his card and said that I should visit the company premises the following morning as they had a vacancy for a junior member of staff. I went and was interviewed by the funeral director who said that I could start work there the following day.

Heinz Vogl accepted that he could do nothing more for his patient. If there was a God, then the old general’s fate was very much in His hands now. The veteran soldier had coughed up blood and his lungs had made ominous noises that suggested their imminent collapse. Vogl remained at the man’s bedside for two long hours, waiting for the ‘attack’ to run its course. Eventually the coughing stopped and the old general sank back against his pillows. He showed no obvious signs of discomfort and his shallow breathing became stertorous.

As Vogl left the hospital a flash of lightning turned night into preternatural day. A rumble of thunder released a shower of unseasonal hailstones that landed on his hat with casual violence. Such inclemency, thought the doctor, was downright inconsiderate — although he had no idea who he was blaming. This vague sense that the weather was being manipulated with spiteful intent was reinforced when the arrival of a cab coincided with the sudden cessation of the storm.

The journey to his house in the seventeenth district was not a long one. He hoped that his wife would still be awake, but when he finally got to his bedroom there was no light showing under her door. The doctor performed his ablutions, put on his nightshirt and got into bed.

It was impossible for him to estimate how long he had been asleep; however, he sensed that it had not been very long. He was awakened by Kristina, who had evidently risen from her own bed to join him.

‘My darling,’ he said sleepily.

She made herself comfortable, lying on her side with her head resting on her husband’s chest.

They remained in this position for some time — exchanging body heat and caresses. A clock ticked loudly in the darkness. Vogl was on the brink of falling asleep again when the gentle ministrations of his wife’s fingers on his upper thigh prevented him from descending further into oblivion. His subsequent engorgement attracted his wife’s interest, and she shifted down beneath the bedclothes until her lips closed around his rigid organ.

The doctor let out a cry that suggested pain as much as pleasure.

Vogl was a man of the world. He had enjoyed relations with women before his marriage. He was, therefore, highly appreciative of his wife’s readiness to give him such satisfaction. Most women — he had found — were repulsed by the idea.

How fortunate I am, he thought, as he gently encouraged Kristina with the palm of his hand on the crown of her head. I adore her.

Kristina dispensed with the eiderdown and mounted her husband with a swift, easy movement. She bore down hard and rotated her hips — maximising the extent of his penetration. Overcome with desire, Vogl reached up and grabbed her breasts. Kristina placed her hands over his and squeezed his fingers until her accommodating flesh was so compressed that it could yield no further. The hardness of her nipples proved too much for Vogl, who experienced the inevitable consequence of such intense excitement.

‘Oh my darling,’ he gasped. ‘My beautiful darling.’

Vogl’s buttocks rose from the bed, lifting his wife in the process. He felt himself pouring into her. Then, when his release was complete, he slumped back down onto the mattress. Spent. Drained. Empty. He was dimly conscious of his wife changing position.

‘Thank you,’ Vogl whispered into the darkness.

Kristina rested a finger against his lips, admonishing him for his gratitude.

Vogl inhaled his wife’s perfume — a heavy, rich scent — that combined musk with subtle registers of lavender. Its soporific qualities ensured his delivery from the world. When he woke again it was the middle of the night, and he found that the bed was empty. Kristina had returned to her room. He turned his head into the pillow, inhaled the lingering perfume one last time, and slept soundly until morning.

Liebermann was engaged in the preliminary examination of a woman suffering from abdominal pains which, according to her gynaecologist and gastroenterologist, had no obvious physical causation. He was approximately halfway through his assessment when a nurse knocked on the door, entered, and requested him to ‘step outside’ for a moment. Liebermann frowned and tilted his head, encouraging her to tell him more. The nurse’s eyes warned him that in the interests of his patient he should not press for an explanation. The young doctor stood and followed her outside, where she directed Liebermann’s gaze down the corridor towards the silhouette of a figure wearing a long coat and spiked helmet.

‘Thank you, nurse.’