Dan Vyleta - Smoke

“Master Renfrew! What a perfectly charming cottage this is. Cozy. But won’t you ask me in?”

“If you wish.”

“Oh, I do!”

Two sets of steps, and a dog’s hard-clawed paws: they pass under Charlie’s bed and walk on to the living room, on the other side of the house. From there the voices carry more dully. It’s Julius who does most of the talking.

“Ah, that’s better. Build up the fire, won’t you, Master Renfrew? The roads have been filthy today, and I am soaked to the bone. And help me out of these boots, if you will.” A moment later he adds: “Tell me, master, is there anybody else in the house? A visitor perhaps?”

Renfrew does something unprecedented then.

He lies.

“No. I am by myself. What brings you here, Mr. Spencer? I must confess it is not the most convenient of times.”

Julius sees fit to ignore the question.

“I heard you were living with your niece.”

“Yes. She is spending the holidays with her grandparents, in Herefordshire. I assure you we have the cottage to ourselves.”

“No servants, eh? Not even a valet. How awfully squalid. But never mind, it suits us, doesn’t it, this tête-à-tête? Here is the thing, Master Renfrew. I want to talk about Charlie Cooper. He came to you last night. A groundsman saw a ‘beggar’ walk up to your door. I happen to know that beggar was no such thing. Did he rush off right away or did he spend the night?”

“He left at dawn.”

The voice is confident, unhesitating, impossible to doubt. At the same time Renfrew is speaking loudly, making sure his voice will carry through the floorboards. Charlie wonders what it is about Julius’s appearance that has made such a liar out of the schoolmaster.

“But tell me, what is all this about, Mr. Spencer? Julius. You are most unlike yourself!”

“Am I? Well, all it is, I ran out of sweets. Ah, watch you blush with indignation! My family holds the monopoly now. We make the bloody things. Did you really think I would be ignorant of my own affairs?”

“By rights you should be! You are a minor.”

“I am nineteen next month and my grandfather’s sole heir. He’s been ailing of late, a growth in his bowels. He won’t see the spring. I think you will see me take my role as head of the household sooner rather than later.”

There is a pause into which Renfrew interjects something inaudible, the tone low and warning. Julius’s voice, by contrast, is rich with the volume of his arrogance.

“I believe you are mistaking the situation, Master Renfrew. I am not here as a schoolboy who can be ordered about. I need to know what Cooper has told you; what he has seen . And where he is headed.

“Have I introduced you to Nótt, Master Renfrew? Isn’t she a beauty? She is out of sorts, I’m afraid. Grouchy. Hasn’t eaten a bite since yesterday. Look at her sniffing around. It’s Cooper’s stink, she’s been primed to it. There, it must be on you, too. Hold still, will you? I’d hate for there to be an accident.

“Ah, Master Renfrew, don’t clamp up now. You don’t look well, if you don’t mind my saying. All dried up somehow. And don’t worry about your shirt — what of it, a bit of drool amongst friends, it’ll wash out. She has a good nose, though. I bet you she can smell what you had for lunch, all the way through your skin and your intestines. Meat pie, was it? Or perhaps something more frugal. Porridge? God, you really are the most disgusting prude.

“Cooper, Master Renfrew. Charlie Cooper. What did he tell you, and whom have you told? I warn you. I am not myself these days. Look here, I have acquired a second face. I swear just now, as I was coming in, I could not remember whether I was wearing it or not.

“You see, Master Renfrew, I find myself at a threshold. No longer one thing, nor yet another. A door has been opened in me, a hole, an abyss. It scared me at first, but I have been sneaking up to its ledge, taking peeks. And what horror, what wonder waits in its depth!

“But all the same I am afraid, Master Renfrew. Afraid of what lies in wait. Help me tonight. Help me remain myself. For another hour, another day. Of all your grim-faced talk of charity, this might prove your one good deed.”

As Charlie lies there, listening to Julius’s words, it is as though they surround him, standing in the darkness, not a yard away: here , the great bulk of the dog, its snout pressed into the schoolmaster’s waistcoat, a wet spot spreading from button to pocket; there , the head boy, first sprawling insolently in the armchair, then leaping up to march his strange disquiet back and forth between fireplace and door. And, superimposed on this scene, Charlie sees once again the tall, rigid form of his teacher, bending down over him, feeding him salt water.

Talk to me.

Help me.

Why won’t you trust me?

The hole in the gag affords Charlie but a spoonful of air with every breath. He lies in darkness and breathes hard through the nose.

ф

There is a change of light. The room is so dark now that its only features are the window, the door, the subtle leakage of the floor. Even so, Charlie’s senses register the change long before he can actually see her, standing by the side of the bed. Eleanor. The only part of her that has any colour is one eye, the right, which catches the night glow from the window and soaks it up into its green-and-white. She is not looking at him but into the distance. It comes to Charlie that she, too, is listening, straining to understand what is happening beneath their feet. A moment later, her hand slips into his. It happens very naturally, she simply moves forward, and searches the bedding for his palm. Manacled as he is, all Charlie can do is squeeze Eleanor’s fingers with his own. The girl does not respond.

Again the voice draws them into its spell, softer now, oddly suspended between heckling and wheedling as though two voices were speaking in unison, their timbres matching but their moods at odds.

“I know what you are thinking, Master Renfrew. ‘This cannot be happening.’ Or: ‘I will report him to my friends in New Westminster. We shall put him on trial.’ I can just see it! A week of debating the principles of liberalism. And then you put a rope around my neck. From reason, naturally, with regret. You might not even show. Do you know, Master Renfrew, that I have lain awake many a night, there in my dormitory bed, wondering what it would take to get you to smoke?

“But talk, Master Renfrew, talk, I beg you. If you keep to your silence, I must don this mask. We will both smoke then. Is that how it must be? You, my Judas, my Gethsemane? Oh, I love a metaphor these days. It’s the Smoke, speaking in pictures. Look at you frown! I bet you’ve never used a good metaphor in all your life.

“Please, Master Renfrew! You mustn’t be shy. I am your husband, you are my bride. There can be no secrets between us tonight. Tell me about Charlie Cooper. Tell me what he told you. Tell me your dreams and fears. Please, Master Renfrew, tell me.

“Tell me, or I must set fire to our souls.”

Eleanor starts shaking. Charlie feels it between his fingers first, then sees the whole of her bulky shadow, quivering in the darkness above him. At the same time, there begin to issue from her little hiccups of Smoke, one by one, clouding her teeth at every breath. And each time a pellet of Smoke breaks free from her, he can hear rather than see her free hand reaching for her harness, turning the screw upon her chest. After five such turns she staggers. She might squeeze herself to death.

Charlie tugs at her hand.

“Don’t,” he attempts to say, “don’t,” through the gag of his mouth, his own smoke shooting through the little pipe in a narrow concentrated jet. A second later he can no longer see her.