Ellen Datlow - The Best Horror of the Year. Volume 6

She announced his hands were the instruments of fate and their message was explicit.

“Your heart line’s unusual. It springs from Saturn. It’s a chain pattern. Unforked. You’re a sensual man. You’ll have unique needs. Your line of affection shows a strong attachment, the sort that only happens once in a lifetime. You’ll find true love because of her hands.”

Most initiations involve fumbling and misunderstandings but this wasn’t Imogen’s first time with a first timer. As they lay together in the half light of her caravan, Imogen explained her trade to Sam using their own hands as primers.

“Life,” she explained, “is laid out in lines: life, heart, and head. The lines of destiny, affection, and the sun.” She traced each one out, stimulated every nerve.

“The whole universe is right here.” She kissed his palms, his mounts of Venus, Mars, Mercury, and the moon.

The next lesson was in the significance of fingers, after which she sucked each one in turn. She praised the nails that pinned down his nature, well formed, crescents rising at the base.

Sam didn’t care about his own hands. They were whole and functional, fit for purpose. He was more concerned with hers. Imogen had the hands of Aphrodite. Her wrists were fine. Refined. He could encircle them with ease. Her hands touched him everywhere. They moved him. Not love but distilled desire. Eroticism crystallised.

Nineteen. A late age for imprinting but it was testament to Imogen’s hands. The image of them roaming over him. She couldn’t foresee the Pavlovian associations that would occur.

Whoever Sam loved would need hands as beautiful as hers.

Samuel had met with other hand worshippers. They were the reason for his reticence. He was puzzled by their games. The act of washing up became burlesque as hands were engulfed in suds. A game of Rock, Paper, Scissors was frank porn. They didn’t care about hands the way he did. Hands were mystical, magical, not to be leered at as they went about their daily chores. Hands were delicate and complex. The ultimate Darwinian organ. The sign of a higher being. Opposable thumb above paw and claw. Why shouldn’t they be the localisation of desire?

Sam decided, at thirty-two, he couldn’t ignore his needs anymore. He copied the number he’d found onto a pad. It sat by the phone for weeks before he called.

“Hello.”

“I’m sorry.” He winced at this inauspicious beginning, unsure why he’d apologised. “Are you Beth Hurt? I found your website.”

“I am.”

She sounded younger than he’d expected. He tried to imagine her face. Her hands.

“My name’s Sam Wilson. I wonder if you can help me.” He stalled. In the silence that followed, he was afraid she’d hang up.

“Let me tell you a bit about what I do. I’m a medical illustrator. I have an anatomy degree as well as fine arts training. I do medical textbooks, teaching aids, exhibition posters, and company brochures.”

He was thankful that Beth Hurt was gracious, trying to put him at ease.

“I need a drawing.”

“What of?”

“A pair of hands. I work in advertising.” This part was true. “I’m applying for a job with a rival agency so I can’t go to my art department.”

The last part was a lie. It was for a very different advert. A more personal one.

M, 32, single, solvent, sincere, seeks F to share music, books, food, film and the other fine things in life. Beautiful hands essential .

All he needed was an illustration.

“Tell me a bit more about what you want.”

Sam discussed hand anthropometry. He specified dimensions. Palm to wrist ratio. Finger length. Shape of the nails. The glorious proportions of the flawless hand. “Most of all, they must be beautiful.”

“All hands are beautiful,” she mused. “They all tell a story.”

Sam didn’t know how to disabuse Beth Hurt of this. The subtleties of the mind, the sense of humour, the face and body were subjective. He had a non-judgemental approach to those and found their variations spectacular. Hands were different. Hands were absolutes.

“Beautiful to me then.”

Sam normally coped with the monotony of motorways by seizing on their differences. The ballet of the cars. The flowers that flourished on the verges. The flash of the central barrier. Graffiti that decorated the bridges overhead. Who blew, who sucked, and other such stuff.

He didn’t need to scrutinise the minutiae of the journey now. He had other things on his mind.

He turned off at Beth’s junction onto a series of dual carriageways and roundabouts. Then a town. Trees. A school. A row of shops. People queued at a bus stop. Life went on around him unencumbered while he was overcome with hope.

Sam couldn’t tell if Beth’s street was on its way up or down. A handsome Georgian terrace past its prime. It exhibited signs of aspiration and neglect. Some of the basement flats paraded rows of geranium in pots while others had old sheets hung at the windows and peeling door paint.

He found the right house and examined the bells by the door. Beside Beth’s was a brass plaque that bore her name and nothing else.

The voice that answered via the intercom wasn’t hers. It was more melodic, lower in its range.

“Come up. Second floor. I’ll leave the door open. Beth’s on the phone.”

The communal hall’s flower prints and beige carpet gave no clue as to what waited upstairs. He took the stairs two at a time.

The door was ajar. Beth Hurt’s hall was painted matt charcoal. A set of daguerreotypes hung upon one wall, formal portraits that were trapped beneath a silver skin. He liked these antique pictures from the past. Their eyes were alive in a way that eluded modern printing techniques. There were shelves loaded with curios. A set of opera glasses and a peacock fan. Metal syringes shining in their case. A porcelain phrenology head. A nautilus shell.

A navy surgeon’s brass bound chest lay open against one wall. Sam read the label by each viscous instrument, designed for hasty amputations. The line drawing in the lid was a pictorial guide to removing a limb. There were clamp-like contraptions, a pair of petit tourniquets, to stem blood loss. An amputation knife, its curved blade designed to sweep around the limb’s flesh and cut right down to bone. The zigzag teeth of the tendon and D-shaped saws looked like something from a joiner’s bag.

A door at the end of the corridor opened. It was Beth Hurt.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, come through. Did Kate offer you a drink?”

“No, but don’t worry. I’m Sam.”

He held out a hand. She took it. Firm grip. Warm, soft skin. Her hair was short enough to allow its rightful curl around her face. It was a shade between brown and red.

“It’s nice to finally meet you.”

Sam felt a tug of something akin to recognition. He suppressed the urge to giggle. He knew from the wide spread of her smile that she did too. There was a softening around her eyes that drew him in.

“You’ve come a long way. Let me get you a drink. What would you like?”

“Go on then. A coffee would be great.”

Beth opened the door and called out.

“Kate, kettle’s on. Do you want one?”

“Love one,” came the distant reply.

Kate. Friend, lover, or just flatmate? It occurred to Sam that Beth had grown suspicious. Did she regret inviting him here instead of somewhere neutral? Had she rung around until she found a chaperone?

Sam waited in Beth’s professional space, free to look around. It was a patchwork of diagrams and charts. Line drawings and sketches. Plastic models. Some of the words and pictures made him blush. A painting of a dissected heart hung over her desk. Bloodied meat and gaping valves. A fist of an organ, much misunderstood and mythologized. It was just a pump after all.