Uttuku

The Books of Darkness

by Robert N. Stephenson

Chapter 3

Steven had been brilliant, a creative force into his prime. I saw his fine-boned face, his curly, brown hair, his dark eyes that, more and more, had expressed pain. In the years before his suicide his writing fell into decline, his confidence slipped from under him and he quickly became a man of desperation. His last contracted book fell through because he couldn’t meet the ever-extended deadline.

Then he had gone into hiding. Samantha, the fair-haired fashion queen who stumbled into his life, gave occasional word of his progress on a new project. ‘The best thing he has ever written,’ she would gush. At the time, Samantha and I had slept together. I took advantage of her drunken state and emotional turmoil. When she woke the next morning, laying naked in my arms, she didn’t show signs of shock or concern.

“I needed that,” she said, touching my face. I kissed her. She kissed back.

“I’ve always wanted you.” I felt at peace with her, the touch of her lips against mine a pleasure I had longed for. I’d watched her face, touched her hair, became lost in desire as we made love. I felt it was meant to be. I had found someone to love and to love me.

“I know, but you know it can’t be anything else.” She sat up, the sheets falling from her to reveal small breasts, pert. Fair skin, alive with youth and dotted with the occasional brown mole. Her presence cried out to me. I wanted her, I loved her.

“Last night felt wonderful.” She climbed out of bed. “I’d never been with a woman before, Diana,” she hesitated. “But I love Steven, he is who I am meant to be with. He needs me to help finish this book.”

I watched her dress. Words failed me for the first time in years. I released a few tears. What could be expected from one night of sex? As she left the bedroom, I listened to her footfalls down the hall and then the click of the front door. I knew I had a chance with her. That night had shown me the way. I had to get Steven out of the picture.

Showering, I washed the smell of Samantha away with peach soap. I liked her smell, her look, I loved her more than anything, even writing. I let emotions escape, release with her. Years of drunken one-night stands with women I had no desire to be with had hardened me. Samantha’s night of lust, of crushing contact set me free. I liked being free.

Steven was washed up, falling further and further into his own emotional black hole. I just had to be there when Samantha also realized the futility of her love. A shoulder for tears, a word and ear, a hand of reassurance, the embrace of care. All mine to offer. Time would bring her to me.

Then Steven’s new book came out. It was brilliant, dark, full of shifting shadows and secrets. It was truly one of the best books I’d read in the last ten years. Steven had somehow found a new voice from which to write, and I was jealous. I hated him even more. Six months later he won the Southern Pen Award, then the Australian Ditmar Award for best fantasy novel. Samantha slipped from my world, became further and further out of reach.

I’ve never won an ‘SPA’, although I had been short-listed twice. You have to be part of the clique or scene to get nominated. Since Steven’s death, I became the outsider, the unwanted. The big name authors still respected me, but the fellowship, the voting scene, the little whispers amongst friends undermined parts of a career that grew with each passing month.

Knowing this I dropped into ever increasing bouts of depression. Heavy medication kept much of the dog at bay and visits to Dr Sholan always helped in accepting parts of my life I hadn’t really taken time out to view. I’d get so down on myself the doubts would swallow me as I swallowed scotch.

My ghost seemed to take joy in my decline. I was considered a beautiful and intelligent woman, I’d been told often enough by men not knowing I was gay. Knowing isn’t the same as feeling. In the mirror something dreadful always stared back. The cold hard face of a killer; a very unbeautiful person. I felt I deserved the haunting. Steven had a right to be angry with me. I was angry with myself. Every day in the house with him helped keep me in touch with the vile soul I’d become.

Late at night, him sitting at the dining table, me with a packet of peanuts and a bottle of scotch on the couch, I’d slip deeper and deeper into the embrace of my black dog. The drugs helped me get through the days, helped me meet the deadlines for my work, it was just they could do little to blanket memories, or hide the ghost from my eyes.

Most days I felt old and haggard. I’d stopped venturing out during the day, preferring to stay in bed and read, and write a little in the afternoon; drink a bottle or two of wine, dampen the spirits. I’d taken to the night, the darkness of the hill’s roads, and later, the dull illumination of city back streets and the strange characters that flowed along them.

The Goth Club became a second home. The music, the clothes, the scene, the views of the world matched with how I felt, looked at myself. I grew into the darkness and it took root in me. In three months I’d gone from outwardly confronting to inwardly brooding and sullen. I was usually so drunk I just didn’t care.

The Goths had accepted me after my book Deep Blood, Black Lips, about a young couple dealing with drugs, isolation and the ever presence of evil beings that ruled their every moment. I couldn’t shake the darkness out of my life even then, and it showed in everything I wrote.

Like David Bowie’s Ziggy Stardust, I had become the principal character in my books. ‘Amalia’ the paranormal sleuth who had it all, magic powers, dark lust, and the whole Goth world at her feet. Though I didn’t go deep into the culture in the early years, I eventually became a Goth in spirit, if not in look. They became my tiny lights in the darkness, it is how I thought of them. Small glimmers of hope that kept me attached to life.

A bottle of twelve-year old scotch always waited behind the bar of Goth Club. I’d never leave until a new one had been ordered. Goth Club had become a second home and a place Steven didn’t visit. I’d always wake up, home in bed. A rescuer would save me, deliver me to safety. I never knew who they were. For a short time I questioned the bar staff about it, they just shrug and put a scotch in front of me. Now I didn’t care. What was the point? A dark angel watched over me, and one day they’d take me for good.

* * *

The memory of Samantha’s night of lust haunted me as much as anything. The thought that I’d lost her to truth was difficult to accept. It had been another troubled sleep, another drinking binge combined with pills that should have driven the pain from my mind. I forewent the morning shower, dressed in a paint-stained track suit, ate some muesli, then grabbed a bottle of wine from the rack. I’d work at the dining table today, the mess of the office too reminiscent of my mind

I checked my morning email, head aching, and saw I’d picked up a nomination for Best Fantasy with the follow-up book to Deep Blood, Black Lips: Eyes of Darkness. The idea of winning a Ditmar made me feel better. Another email, from my publisher, wanted another book to make a series, to capitalize on the nomination.

The small joy washed away as I looked over the top of the laptop’s screen and saw Steven staring at me from the kitchen, the waist-high divider counter hiding his legs. He hadn’t said anything for days, though the look in his eyes said he was about to. I always waited for him to say ‘Follow’. Today did he want to say something different? I needed to know what it was; hear the words.

Even after two Valium I was on edge. Couldn’t sleep, couldn’t think. The Efexor for my depression worked well enough, not enough to keep the dreams of death under control. I wondered if being bipolar had anything to do with the ghost. I’d told the shrink about Steven. He wrote some notes and said this was normal with grief.

Steven stared and I stared back.

“Sod off,” I said. The words offering a minute element of control. I looked back at the screen, sipped my white wine, and tried to think of where I’d take the next book. Steven vanished after about an hour, saying nothing. When you’re drinking it is easy to ignore a ghost, after a while the blurred vision helps hide him amongst the furniture.

After a full day of writing and a several bottles of wine, I collapsed into bed. The firm mattress, good for my back, wasn’t a soft welcoming; the smell of old perfume didn’t conjure good thoughts.

I lay awake, staring at the shadows on the ceiling, the low-wattage bedside lamp bathed me in a dull pool of light, hiding the mess of my room. Wind rattled the windows, the sound of leaves rustling like a dry sea, tried in vain to lead me into dreams. Then Steven sat on the end of my bed.

“For God’s sake.” I felt the need to vent. “Go away.” I threw a pillow at him, it clattered on the dressing table. He shook his head.

I felt the power of his eyes. Felt like yelling, felt like screaming at him to leave me alone. I dropped back into the pillows, mind aware of his stare.

“Please leave me alone.” I was tired. “You’ve had your revenge. I’m sorry, Steven, I’m truly sorry.”

Nothing.

I waited, and waited. Still nothing.

I tilted my head up. He still sat there staring at me, a dumb expression on his face, the one he always wore around women. He frowned, perhaps thinking of what he was going to say.

“What more do you want? I can’t change what’s happened.” I pushed up on my elbows, the room became chill and the wind ceased.

“Follow.”

“No!” I dragged the quilt over me, the cold increased, pushed through the down. A smell of roses pervaded the old perfume stink. I’d listen to the same old crap since he’d started haunting me. I wasn’t going to follow a ghost; no way, not ever.

He didn’t move.

“Just go away.”

He stood and walked from the room. I threw back the quilt, ready to follow. I’d had enough. The bedroom door slammed shut, the bedside lamp blinked out, and the wind began its constant buffeting against the window. I felt hot, sweaty, the cold lifted as soon as Steven had left. I’d never felt cold in his presence before.

I stared at the door, my silk robe, a yellow shimmer, hung on a hook. It was clear he didn’t mean follow now. I dropped back on the bed and let the darkness and wind take me. How much more of this could I take?

“To hell with you,” I whispered.

I woke with a headache and the feeling of foreboding. Heavy with a boozy head, not the best way to start a day. I went to the toilet, the flush sounding like the rushing away of my existence. Face washed, I brushed the scummy feeling from my teeth, the mint-flavoured toothpaste almost made me retch.

Working from the office, the usual sorting of papers began. Sarina’s card stared up at me from a pile of notes by the keyboard. It had been a week since the meeting. I needed company. Live company.

This link goes to the book website.