R Raichev - The Death of Corinne

What could she have said to Corinne anyway, if Corinne had come to the phone? I am the mother of one of your victims – I am outside, in the greenhouse – come alone – you won’t like what I’ve got to say to you, but we must talk nevertheless. I’d like to warn you that I won’t really be responsible for my actions. The idea suddenly struck her as so hilarious that Eleanor started laughing. She couldn’t help herself. I won’t really be responsible for my actions. She shook with laughter. Sweet Jesus! She had to stuff her handkerchief into her mouth, that was the only way to stop herself. Then, of course, she started crying.

She was ‘cyclothymic’. That was what her shrink had said. She went up – she went down. Pie in the sky – down in the dumps. Up, then down. Then up again. Like one of those yo-yos. She had been given medication for it. Those little pink pills – where were they? Like a pie in the sky! Eleanor’s cheeks distended and she exploded once more into the rudest of noises. She clapped her hand over her mouth. She felt so guilty for being amused, for laughing while Griff’s ashes were trying to break out of that marble urn, that she became quite hysterical with grief. ‘My boy, my child, please forgive me,’ she sobbed, falling to her knees and bowing her head.

She didn’t know how long she had remained kneeling but eventually she struggled up and stood silently by the glass panel once more.

The rain had stopped. It was very quiet. The night sky was clear and the moon had emerged – the enormous moon of antiquity – pale and mysterious and, oh so close! Eleanor held out her hands towards it yearningly. By its light she observed somebody leave the house on a bicycle and go down the drive. That boy with the sickly face, spiky hair and the single earring, which she now saw flashing in the moonlight. She had seen him earlier on. One of the servants, she guessed. The boy who does the boots. Where was that from? Belloc? For a couple of moments Eleanor toyed with the idea of running up to the drive, ambushing the boy and offering him money, a lot of money – all her money – in return for his assistance.

She needed a collaborator, somebody from the house. Somebody who could persuade Corinne to come out on some pretext – who would lure her into the garden. The boy could cosh Corinne when there was no one around, then drag her out and deliver her inside the greenhouse. Why, he could even kill Corinne for her, if she told him to! Some people would do anything for money. Teenage boys in particular. Boys were notoriously greedy, reckless, violent. Boys indulged in cruelty for cruelty’s sake. They would smash a puppy’s head with a piece of brick without thinking twice about it. Eleanor would gladly give every dollar she had in the bank for the joy of seeing Corinne Coreille lying prostrate among the dead plants, or on her knees begging for mercy… That boy would do the job. Get him, Eleanor told herself, and she might have carried out the idea but by the time she reached the door, the boy with the bike had disappeared into the night… She needed to think of something else… Could she set some kind of trap?

J‘ai vu son visage tout au long de ma vie. It was earlier on, as she opened the greenhouse door to get some fresh air, that she had heard Corinne sing in the house and now she couldn’t get the song out of her head… Corinne had been giving a live performance… J’ai vu son visage -

Eleanor rubbed her temples. ‘Go away,’ she said and she made a pushing movement with her hands. ‘Go away.’

She remembered reading an article in which Corinne Coreille was mockingly referred to as la grande anesthesiste. Something about her sentimental songs having a softening effect on people – like meat that was being tenderized. Had she anaesthetized Griff as well? Perhaps Griff didn’t feel anything at all?

The blood – that bath – Griff’s face -

She needed to strike soon. Tonight. She glanced up at the full moon. Her solitary vigil had lasted long enough… She couldn’t stay holed up in the greenhouse for ever… ‘I think my days at Grey Gardens are limited,’ she said, sounding exactly like ‘Little’ Edie Bouvier. ‘I need to strike soon…’ Yes. It had to be tonight. Tomorrow it would be too late… Forget domani… Perhaps she could set the house on fire? And strike as Corinne Coreille ran out in her nightdress, like a rabbit that had been smoked out of its warren? She had her knife in her bag… That white throat, so smooth and supple! She could hear Corinne’s screams – her sobs – her pleas that she be spared. The thought excited her. There’d be no mercy… Blood called out for blood… There would be no point talking to her, really.

Eleanor consulted her watch: twenty to eleven… The moon grew larger and brighter… She saw Abraxas cross the lawn, his evil chanticleer’s head once more turned towards her, his serpent’s tail zigzagging behind him. He was coming from the direction of the house. She was not in the least surprised… When she looked at her watch next, it was five minutes past eleven.

She needed to set herself a deadline. Midnight? Yes. Corinne must die before midnight. Only that was easier said than done. How could she do it? The idea of setting the house on fire was fine, but she didn’t have any matches… Break into the house when everybody was asleep – find her way to Corinne’s bedroom? There might be a window left open somewhere on the ground floor, but which one was Corinne’s bedroom?

Ten past eleven… Suddenly her mobile phone started ringing. Eleanor gasped and for a moment she stood very still. She then took her phone out of her bag with a trembling hand and stared down at it. Who could it be? No one knew her number. She flashed her torch at the display – Unknoum number. She put the phone to her ear and pressed the button.

‘Hello?’ she said tentatively. She heard terrible crackling noises. ‘Hello? Who is it?’

A voice spoke – extremely muffled – it sounded as though it was coming from some great distance. ‘At last! I’ve been trying to – ’ It was a young man’s voice – breathless – speaking with an American accent.

‘Who is this?’ Eleanor’s throat had gone extremely dry.

‘Mother?’

No – no. It couldn’t be. She felt the torch slip from her hand. She saw it go out as it hit the ground. ‘Griff?’

I am not ready, she thought in a panic. I look terrible. I need a mirror. I need to put on my lipstick. Griff hates it when I am without my lipstick.

‘Mother? I can see you now. Very clearly. I can see inside your head. Every thought. It is like looking into a crystal ball. All your thoughts are scarlet.’

Eleanor gasped again. Her thoughts were scarlet. Griff knew what she was planning to do! Of course he did. The dead had special powers. Though of course Griff was not dead – not any more. He had come back. She looked frantically around – peered outside at the lawn bathed in moonlight – glanced up towards the sky – she thought she might see him descending slowly, his hand raised in greeting, but there was no one. She thought she felt a draught, a sudden gust of cold air. She found she was shaking. She realized she felt extremely frightened. ‘Mother? Are you there?’ she heard Griff say.

She was witnessing a miracle – and the miraculous was always frightening. Witnesses to the resurrection of Lazarus must have been terrified.

‘Griff? Oh my God. Is that really you?’ Her voice sounded very hoarse. ‘Where are you? Are you really at Chalfont?’

‘I can see you,’ he said again in a sing-song voice, a rising ‘see’, a falling ‘you’. ‘Can’t you see me?’

‘Oh my God. Are you – in the greenhouse? I can’t find my torch – Where are you?’ Eleanor screamed. ‘Where? Griff?’