Cruel Pink, Tanith Lee [universal ebook reader TXT] 📗

the air, one might say, but now is written in black ink upon a page. Dead. I should soon be dead.

He then however began, with the fussy complicity of a housewife, to outline who should come in and when, and how I should be washed, and the bed-linen changed, and various other aspects of my comfort, and my hygiene—on which I prefer we shall not dwell. Besides this, my feeding, while I might still take sustenance, even a little wine and brandy with aqua of Mercury, and tincture of poppy seeds, to ease my pains: all such were now arranged, since my landlady was a whore and slattern and should, if ever he set eyes on her, be hauled before the Justice. The doctor told me lastly that my bill for all this care, now so assiduously ordered, was beyond my means. And so he would not charge me it.

I thanked him, rather insultingly, I think. But either he missed my wit, or could not decipher it from my congested throat.

“Instead,” he frankly owned, “I will take up that hound of yours. Whatever name you lavished upon him, I have named him Horatius.”

Just then my faithless dog appeared in the doorway. Tall and jet-black, with his one flop ear red as an autumn rowan, he stared upon me bleakly from his night-black eyes. The villain, he had kept me no company, stolen my food, and brought on my head the complaints and costs of half the neighbourhood. Yet there he stood, noble as a hound of Egypt, favourite of some hunting Pharaoh—or of Antony, perhaps, who kissed and clove with Cleopatra. Horatius.

Well named.

“He shall come out with me,” went on the doctor, my trouble long since sunk beneath his jolly sky-line, “for I am taking myself and my family to a province of the coast. There, at the country house, he can chase rabbits, be my fetcher for pheasant. Even after the deer, I believe, he would show himself with honour. And there are young bitches enough he can paddle. He’ll keep me in good dogs till I am done.”

All this while my dog had stayed and stared on at me. Now he advanced, at a stately pace, until he reached my bedside. He had a good smell, all forgot by me since I’d not seen him close on a month or more. Like copper and new horsehair, and mushrooms baked with new honey.

“Well, Horatius,” I said. “Are you content?”

He at least, if the doctor did not, seemed to fathom my words.

He bent his head, and like a true gentleman, a brother or a son, he touched my forehead with his wet and wintry snout. So cold it was to my fever, it was like a diamond star emblazoned at my forehead’s centre. I seemed to see out there, at a hole or a window, into a clear sweet darkness, deep as the seas, and shallow as a ray of moonlight—if it should be black.

“Go then,” I said to him. “Be happy and prosper, my Horatio, my Iago. God send you good, you bad fellow.”

He turned then and padded out.

He had been my priest. He had marked me with the sacred fire. I was absolved.

My doctor fussed about the last arrangements, and the server came and fed me a little broth, which was pleasant, and I able to swallow it.

The room was warm, and something burned in a pewter pot, the scent of which eased my physical discomfort.

But my worries had shrunk to nought. I pictured Merscilla. Casting herself upon me, her voice, of such beauty, like some instrument not yet invented, crying out in despair: “Thy lips are cold!” But she would never do it. Nor did I mourn that she would not. I should be dead before the raucous clocks began their disorderly riot for midnight. Dead before another golden sun arose. My space I had had to walk the stage of this world. I had played my part as well I might. And had not one, at least, informed me I had been good enough. More. That—once, or twice—I had shone. I had shone. Man, nor woman, can do no more than that. It is the work of the stars, the moon, the sun, to see to the rest of it. Blow out then, the lamp. And sleep.

Dawn:

100

I can hear someone ringing the bell, down at the front door. Three flights of stairs, and I can’t even get out of the chair to cross the room. I can’t even get to the window to call down.

The telephone is out in the hall, too. No chance of that.

It may not be the doctor anyway. It’s almost four o’clock and already quite dark. A Jehovah’s Witness, very likely. And if it is the doctor, he’d say, “I’m sorry, Mrs Threstorillikiss, but you’d be better off in the hospital.” So what is the point?

It’s lucky. I don’t want to visit the lavatory. I’ve found I’ve wanted that less and less in the past few days. It’s supposed to be the other way round, isn’t it, when you’re old? Unless, of course, I’ve been there and just don’t remember.

I had a cup of tea too, about two o’clock, after lunch, when I sat down here again. So I’m not thirsty. I wish I’d thought to bring the portable radio in. But I didn’t, so that’s that.

There it goes again. The bell.

Do stop. I can’t help you. And you can’t help me. I’d like to be quiet now. Good.

I think he’s realised.

I can hear birds singing, that’s odd, it’s too dark, they ought to be in their nests, or wherever they go for shelter in the winter. Just because you can’t see things, doesn’t mean they’re not there. All those pigeons, too, I think they’ve got into the other part of the house roof. Well. Good luck to them. I don’t need that bit of space, do I?

The street is very quiet now. I can hear a