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

Sam was examining a set of photos of a dissected brain when Beth retuned carrying a tray. He caught the top note of her scent as she handed him a mug. A citrus smell that energised him. His eyes dropped to her hands.

They were too square, too fleshy to reveal a pleasing amount of the sinews beneath. Bitten nails. Ink stained flesh. Palms seamed and furrowed. Creases like bracelets at her wrists.

“Would you be more comfortable in another room?”

He took a final look at the brain photographs and grinned.

“No, it’s only the sight of my own blood that makes me faint but if I feel funny I’ll let you know.”

“Do you think it’s ghoulish?”

Sam sipped his coffee as he looked at a watercolour of a dissected leg.

“No. Your work’s stunning.”

“Would you believe that I wanted to be a children’s illustrator? I used to make up stories and draw pictures to go with them for my sister after our mum died.”

It was such a personal disclosure that made him embarrassed that he’d lied to her about his reasons for the commission. Her unguardedness disarmed him. She’d let him into her home. He felt he could tell her anything now that he was here.

“So what happened?”

“I took a job with a medical publisher because I was strapped for cash. The editor had loved my work on a book he read to his daughter at bedtime. He said it was just the right look.”

“What sort of kid’s book was that?”

They both laughed.

“Once I finished the job I knew I didn’t want to do anything else. Isn’t it strange how you know that you like something, right away?” She laid out the final drawing before him. “Is this what you had in mind?”

“It’s brilliant.” He meant it. One hand was partially folded against the other. They were elegant and tapered. Beth had made technical perfection seem informal. “You have real talent.”

“Oh no, it’s just about knowing the anatomy. It changes the structure of the work. May I?”

The way she took his hands made him dizzy.

“The finger bones are called the phalanges. Three to each finger. Two in the thumb.”

She touched each one in his little finger and his thumb by way of demonstration. Sam felt the start of gnawing elation.

“Fascinating.” He’d been preoccupied with aesthetics, not construction or mechanics, but her words thrilled him.

“And these are the metacarpal bones.” Sam swallowed when she ran her finger across his palm. “At one end they form the knuckles and at the other they articulate with the wrist bones, which are my favourites.”

“Why?” He relished her pleasure.

“They’re interesting. Each one has a different shape and name but they fit together like a jigsaw.”

She made him arch his thumb to reveal two taut lines along his wrist.

“This gap is called the anatomical snuffbox.” She pointed to the space between the pair of tendons. “The bone which forms the floor is the scaphoid.”

“Scaphoid,” he repeated.

“The rest of the wrist bones are the lunate, triquetral, pisiform, trapezium, trapezoid, capitate, and hamate.” She worked her way over the wrist to show him where each bone was. “I like the hamate. It has a hook.”

He felt like he was party to the arcane.

“How do you remember all that?” Sam wanted her to know he was impressed.

“Hard work. And mnemonics. Lots of mnemonics.”

“The only mnemonic I know is Richard of York gave battle in vain, for the rainbow.”

A spot of colour had appeared high on Beth’s cheeks. It conjured up Beth Hurt in bed, postcoital, flushed and loose limbed. Intuition told him the reason for her flush.

“What’s the mnemonic?”

“What?”

“For the wrist.”

“Scared lovers try positions that they can’t handle.” Beth tried to sound unabashed.

The physiology of their attraction couldn’t be faked. The symptoms of their chemistry. They were close. Sam’s pupils dilated. It was hard to breathe. His heart no longer functioned as just a pump. His blood was hot. His throat was dry. Beth was a loadstone and he’d been magnetised. Their heads were tilted in sympathy. Lips parted in empathy.

He couldn’t. Beth’s hands were lacking.

“The picture …” He moved away. “It’s perfect.”

“I hope you find what you want.”

“Pardon?”

“Get what you want. The job.” She sounded magnanimous in rejection. Courageous. “I wish you the best of luck.”

“I’ll treasure this, no matter what. Not because of its anatomy but because you’ve pictured exactly what I described.”

“I’ve a confession. It was easier than you think.”

“What do you mean?”

“I had a model.”

“A model?”

He’d imagined such hands could only be imagined.

“Yes, Kate, my sister. Do you want to meet her?”

Sam could see the shades of sisterhood on their faces. Kate was at ease amid the depictions of flayed flesh and dismembered limbs. She was an elongated, elegant version of her sibling. Undeniably the better looking of the two, but with paler hair and skin. A less vivid version of Beth.

“I thought introductions were in order. Sam, Kate. Kate, Sam.”

“Hi.”

“Nice to meet you.”

Sam searched her smile, this Madonna of the Hands, but all that it revealed was her teeth.

“Sam loves the picture. I thought you two should meet.”

Kate’s hands were partially covered by the cuffs of her jumper. The fine rib clung to her wrists. Her tapered fingers ended in short nails, painted with a dark polish. It should have tantalised him.

Sam thrust out a hand, desperate to connect. As she took it, Sam waited for the jolt of hormones. Instead of a spark, there was just a seeping disappointment as her perfect hand lay in his.

“It’s a good job you liked it.” Kate thrust her hands back into her pockets. “Beth’s promised me a modelling fee.”

The trio laughed in unison.

“I’m going to get another drink.” Beth glanced at him. “Coffee all round?”

She went, closing the door behind her with a careful click.

“Beth says the drawing’s for a job interview. What’s it for?”

“A hand cream campaign. I’m in advertising. What do you do?”

“I’ve just finished my degree. I’m a dietitian.”

“Your place is great.”

“I wish it were mine. I’m just staying here until I can get somewhere.”

Sam nodded. Of course it was Beth’s.

“Beth’s a diamond. She’s always looked out for me.”

It was Beth that Sam was thinking of. There wasn’t enough of Kate, pleasant as she was, to fill the room. Her hands, though fabulous, couldn’t compensate for Beth’s absence.

Hands though, they were absolutes.

Sam and Beth were bare beneath the sheets. It was her turn to be taught.

“Life,” Sam explained, “is laid out in lines: life, heart, and head. The lines of destiny, affection, and the sun.” Each one was traced out. Then there was the significance of fingers. The predictions of nails.

Imogen had been exorcised.

Scaphoid, lunate, triquetral, pisiform, trapezium, trapezoid, capitate, hamate.

The words Beth had taught him lingered in his mouth. He tried to pass them back to her, tongue to tongue. She was too weak to twist away.

Desire drove Sam. He didn’t stop to consider the outrageousness of his demands. The flat was upended by his passions. The kitchen had become an impromptu theatre. The surgical instruments lay on the floor. Kate had been easily overcome. She lay where she’d fallen, in Beth’s studio. Beth, though he’d surprised her, put up a greater fight. Sam kissed the bruise on her face, from the blow that had finally subdued her.