Anne Billson - Suckers

He got to his feet and walked over to the door. 'Murasaki will see you now,' he said, holding it open. He stayed on the outside.

I went in.

I walked into darkness. The only light was from the doorway, and when Grauman shut that, there was nothing. It was pitch black.

But there was sound. There was music, some sort of tuneless singing in a language I couldn't identify. I had no choice but to stand and listen as it swelled to a climax and tapered away.

After a while, I heard her say, from somewhere in front of me, 'Forgive me, but you were a few minutes early. Vec Makropoulos by Leos Janacek. You know it?' The voice was soft, little more than a whisper, but somehow it bypassed my eardrums and penetrated directly into my brain. I shook my head. I assumed she could see me, even if I couldn't see her.

'It is about a woman who is three hundred years old. She has been good, and she has been bad. Now she realizes it makes no difference whether she sings or keeps silent. Life no longer has meaning.' She paused to let her words sink in, though I had understood them perfectly.

After a while, she went on: 'I listen to this piece of music at least twice a day. I would like to take this opportunity of recommending it to you. Then perhaps you will come to see things the way I see them.' The voice was coming from behind me now, even though my ears had picked up no sound of movement.

'I am not what I seem,' she said.

I tried to turn round, but misjudged the manoeuvre badly and nearly toppled over. The darkness had stolen my sense of balance as well as my sense of direction. She waited longer than was necessary before saying, 'But my dear child, what am I thinking of? You can't see a thing. Let me provide you with some illumination.'

There was the swish of rapid movement, followed by the dull click of a switch being pressed. The lamp cast a small pool of light on to the desk-top where it stood, but it didn't do much to brighten the rest of the room. I blinked, trying to accustom my eyes to the contrast between light and shade.

'Sit down if you like.' The voice came from the darkness beyond the desk. 'I am not going to hurt you. At least, not yet.'

I could think of several cute answers to that, but swallowed them all. Now was not the time to be cute. I groped around and found an armchair.

'Now let us get things straight,' the voice continued. 'I know your name is not Patricia Rice. I know who you are. You have grown older, but I remember you, Dora. I still have the taste of your blood in my mouth.'

I held up my left hand with its four and a half fingers. 'Ah yes,' she said. 'And I can see you remember me.' She sounded genuinely amused. 'Andreas tells me you led him a merry dance, like Medea. He would have killed you, you know, if you hadn't forced him to stop and pick up the pieces.'

'I know. That's why I did it.'

There was a sound which might conceivably have been a chuckle. 'Tell me, do you like Andreas?'

The question caught me off guard. I wondered whether to lie, but I had the feeling she would know instantly if I didn't tell her the truth. 'I can't stand the sight of him,' I said.

She emerged from the shadows far enough for me to see her face floating in the darkness like a white mask. The rest of her was black on black. 'You can't stand the sight of him,' she echoed. 'And he can't stand the sight of you. This is an excellent start, don't you think?'

I was immediately on the defensive. 'What do you mean?'

She sighed. 'At one time, I had high hopes for the two of you. That is why I wouldn't let him have you killed, even though there was nothing in the world he wanted more. His pride was damaged, you see. He is only human, after all, with an inclination towards rash action which he may later regret. All these years, you've owed your life to me. How do you feel about that?'

I wasn't sure what to reply. The idea of me and Andreas Grauman — together — was so preposterous I wanted to burst out laughing, but if this was what it took to keep my veins undrained, I certainly wasn't about to pour cold water on it. 'Grateful, I suppose.'

'Poor Andreas.' She sighed again. 'Fate has not been kind to him, and neither have I. I suppose I should feel guilty, but I don't. When you get to my age, you don't feel guilty about anything much. But I should like to see him happy. And I know — better than he knows himself — what will be good for him.' The white mask danced and settled down behind the desk and tilted forward into the pool of light. The lips were very red. The lashes cast long shadows on her cheeks. 'And why are you here? They said you were looking for freelance work. Is this true?'

'In a manner of speaking. I'm always on the lookout for career opportunities.'

'And what is it that you do?'

'Creative consultancy.'

'Oh yes, one of those non-jobs. It means whatever you want it to mean, am I right? Well, in that case I am sure we can find some use for you in the teeming multinational network that is Multiglom.' Her voice had taken on the barest hint of sarcasm. 'Quocunque modo .'

I sensed the interview was coming to a close, and abruptly leapt in with both feet. 'The truth is,' I said, taking a deep breath, 'we've known for some time that you're back.'

'We?'

I kept quiet. The white mask stared at me impassively, then it said, 'I assume you refer to yourself and Duncan. Tell me, did he receive my billet-doux? '

'You mean the note?'

'I mean the note. I mean the girl, as well. You might say she was a love letter also. What was her name? Laura? Louise? I trust Duncan had fun with her.'

The room seemed very cold all of a sudden. I felt my skin prickle. 'Her name was Lulu. Yes, I think he had fun.'

'Like he had fun with me. Though, of course, I had a lot more staying power. No one is capable of providing quite so much fun as I.'

'Of course not,' I agreed.

'Would you like to see what he did?'

'Not really.'

'Well, I am going to show you anyway.' A white hand floated up and peeled back some of the blackness surrounding the mask. She tipped her head back to give me a better view of the neck. It was encircled with a thick line of puckered scar tissue, a scarlet necklace marking the place where the head had been fixed back on to her shoulders.

I said, 'I don't know what to say.'

'I have many such mementos. Our surgeons wanted to get rid of them. They can do that now, you know, especially in Japan, which is where Andreas took my parts for reassembly. But I wouldn't allow it. Scars are important to me; they are the nearest I will ever get to the creases of old age.'

'Most people try to avoid wrinkles.'

'Most people,' she said, 'are not three hundred years old. Please believe me when I say you can have too much of a good thing. Now I want to ask you a question.'

I nodded. She extended her arms towards me. There was one white hand, and there was the other, which was encased in a black leather glove. She started to peel the glove off, and I wanted to ask her not to, but didn't dare. What was underneath was flesh-coloured, but was not flesh. She flexed the fingers, and I heard the faint mechanical gurgle of an hydraulic apparatus operating beneath the artificial skin.

'You see? I should like to know what happened to the hand.'

In my mind I saw a mass of fizzing bubbles attacking a lump of white marble. 'What do you mean?'

The fingers flexed and gurgled. 'Don't be afraid. You can tell me. What did you do with it? I would simply like to know.'

I eyed the mechanical hand. I didn't want it coming any nearer. I told her what I'd done. The acid, then the parcel.

There was a flicker of a reaction. 'So,' she said. 'A part of my anatomy is on public display in a far country. I guessed it had to be something like that. An eye for an eye. A hand for… a fingertip. Not much of a bargain from my point of view, is it?'