Uttuku The Books of Darkness by Robert N. Stephenson	Table of Contents
Chapter 7 part 2 of 2

“Were you married?” This time she laughed. A sad sound. Sarina opened a cupboard and lifted out a new bottle of scotch, the good stuff, Glenfidditch. She put it on the table before me with a crystal tumbler. Pure class and style. I promised not to spill any on the table as I poured myself a good measure.

“I wished for marriage, but alas, no.” Sarina remained standing by the cupboard, hands clasped in front, shoulders slightly stooped.

“How long were you together?” Funny how the writer kicks in. The scotch too.

“We were friends for most of his life. I traveled with him from Austria-Hungary. We were close friends through all five of his marriages.” She brightened at the memory. “I was his black fox and he, the lone wolf.”

“Were you lovers?”

“Sadly no. I loved him dearly and desperately.” She looked away. “He saw no more than friendship.”

“Unrequited love. The pain of that must have been hard for you?” I knew it myself.

“Love in any case. I still love the memory, the way it makes me feel.”

“After all you have told me, Sarina, why do you want me to write this, and why now? Don’t we have a truckload of crap to work through already?”

Sure, the love story would be interesting, and I was intrigued; but with something like the devil stalking us, and Steven haunting my house, I wasn’t convinced a book project required immediate attention.

“Memories fade, and mine has already started to lose those wonderful times with him.” For the first time she cried. Not body-wracking tears; small tears that clung to the corners of her eyes. “I wanted us to be together forever. He refused to love me, take that step, was afraid to because of his fame. I knew the real reason; it still saddened me all the same.”

She took one stride and reached for the photo album, flipping to the back pages. There she was with Bela in a dark suit, both smiling for the camera. There were other poses, restaurants, the front of theatres, sitting on a sofa, on a deck chair in a garden.

“He died of a heart attack.” Sarina dabbed at her eyes with the back of her hands. “I don’t think I will ever love another man.”

“I want to help, I just don’t think I can.” Adding emotional baggage to my lot didn’t thrill me too much. How would this book help me deal with Steven, the Drifter and all that weird dark stuff?

The idea of writing a book for her just felt too bizarre, too insane. I stared at her lovely face, the sadness that reddened her eyes. I’d known lost love, still understood it deeply. From time to time I became overcome with sadness at not getting Samantha. Steven’s ghost had all but killed the desire I had for her. In a way his ghost had helped develop contempt for her. From love comes hate, passionate hate.

“Please, I will pay you well.”

“I don’t need money; I need a month in a psychiatric hospital.” I didn’t say this with any conviction. Despite everything, I did consider the project. “I have to come to grips with all this Uttuke, Drifter stuff.”

Sarina started to cry fully. Her shoulders shook and tears flowed freely. I didn’t know what to do. Feeling her pain, I reached across the table and took one of her hands. It felt cool and dry. “It is really important to you, isn’t it?” I still didn’t want to do the book.

“I sought you out because of The Stainless Hammer of God, and your understanding of what I want to tell you.” She gazed into my eyes. The hardness had vanished, the intensity and age had slipped away to reveal a sad, young woman. “Bela died because of the needle, the drugs.”

“What about Orlando and Steven?”

“Let it come to us,” she said, a quiver in her voice. Her cheeks were flushed, about the only time I’d seen colour in her face. “We will deal with it then. Please help me, Diana. I need to get this out. I need us to work together, it is important to me that we work together.”

All the craziness disappeared under the expression of raw emotion. I hadn’t been with anyone in an emotional state for two years and it touched my heart far more than I expected. In moments I had agreed and joined her with my own tears. We had a unity beyond the weird; we both knew loss and heartache. But Sarina’s five hundred years of life did challenge reason and logic.

By dinner I had several pages of notes, and Sarina felt better. She ordered takeaway Chinese and made sure my glass was never empty. This would be a necessity. Knowing her age, and how many relationship or partners Sarina would have had over the time, it felt odd that she attached herself so strongly to one person.

She spoke about how brave Bela had been during World War One, his injuries, the sacrifices and death. She gushed about the handsome soldier she’d partied with, danced and enjoyed long conversations with. Love at first sight, she’d said.

Bela didn’t love her in the same way; his fondness had been enough, but I could see through that lie. I noted her emotions, and considered how I would get this into the story, though I was yet to decide on the point of view.

Sarina explained away Bela’s first wife, Ilona Szmik as if she were mere fluff. Bela fell in love often, and his many times down the aisle showed just how tumultuous those marriages had been. Sarina always lived in the background, off-camera, never seen. Such a friendship, no matter the degree of love she bore, would have exhausted even the strongest of human women. In a way, I developed a new respect for her.

* * *

In my own house, exhausted after the long day with Sarina, I felt the usual twinge of fear. Was Steven here? Maybe he had left, become sick of hanging around all day waiting for me. I couldn’t detect his presence. The broken vase still lay on the floor, the flowers and water a mess waiting to be cleaned away.

I went from room to room, searching, hoping he wasn’t around. Shadows followed me. Sounds were everywhere. I could smell stale air. Bad cooking smells. Each doorway a surprise waiting to leap. Grab me, assault me.

I stood at the bedroom door. Closed. Fighting fear I grabbed the lever handle. Eased it down. I could hear the soft action. Breath held. Throat dry. I pushed, slowly. Heart pounding, neck aching. Slowly, so slowly the door swung into the room. I closed my eyes. I couldn’t watch. Didn’t want to see.

I stood, gripping the handle, eyes shut, breathing ragged. Nothing happened. No cold, no shouts. Taking a deep breath I opened my eyes. The room was as I had left it: trashed, the bed unmade and empty wine bottle on the side table. He wasn’t here.

Relief followed me into the dining area. For now at least, I had the place to myself. But Steven could materialize at any time. Only I now knew who he was working for. I would have to be mindful of what he said, then call Sarina on her mobile and tell her.

Sitting at the polished wood dining table I became aware of all the colours in the room, the distinct lack of black. A chrome toaster and kettle sat on the white marble bench. The brushed-steel refrigerator and dishwasher, the off-white cupboards with chrome handles. This was my world of light. Floral curtains, light polished wooden floorboards, flower paintings on the walls and a cookbook rack overstuffed with recipes. I relaxed. Placed my head in my hands, closed my eyes and let my home wash the black from my mind.

On the way home I thought I’d seen the dark figure of Orlando in a car parked down the street, but it was paranoia, had to be. I was weary from thinking, weary from a little too much scotch, and feeling lucky that I’d made it home without being picked up by the cops.

My mobile hummed and vibrated in my jacket. I pulled it out and checked the number. It was Steven’s. Someone had his phone. I answered.

“Who is this?”

“Tonight.” Steven’s voice.

I hung up, shaking, relaxation gone. I felt tension in my jaw. Neck tension. Steven was haunting my phone. How? Could ghosts really haunt technology?

I called Sarina, she had her phone switched to answer service. I knew she wouldn’t call back until nightfall. She wasn’t afraid of the daylight; shopping usually drew her out into the sun. She just liked the blackness of night more. Always black. I dropped the phone on the table.

It was four in the afternoon, at least two hours before Sarina would call back. Could I last that long? What did Steven mean about tonight? “Follow,” obviously. I didn’t want to follow, wasn’t ready to face whatever it was he wanted to lead me to. Orlando? The Dark One? What could such things want with me and why use Steven. The only thing I could think of was his book. That didn’t make sense.

Pouring a drink and dropping onto the couch, I considered the afternoon. Eat? Sleep? Make the most of Steven’s not being around? Drink. A good option. The bottle sat on the floor to my right and the glass, filled halfway rested in the fingers. Drunk, I could deal with just about anything.

I thought back to how things begun, hoping something would give me a clue, an answer.

* * *

“Steven’s won the SPA!”

Samantha told me. She told me before I heard it on the news. Had I not heard it from her, my reaction might have been different, less accepting, polite. Her excitement was proof that she cared for Steven more than ever. The moment I’d been waiting for faded. She’d never leave him now.

I drank myself to sleep that night. Steven was a success again, and my chance at getting Samantha gone, gone like so many dreams in my life. I cried, and ranted, walked about the house knocking things over, swearing into mirrors, pushing all the papers from my desk, but it didn’t change anything. The woman I’d bedded and loved fell deeper into the arms of Steven. Hopeless, dull, pathetic Steven.

I bought the book the next afternoon. Head thick and eyes painful. Him and Me. Steven’s photograph, sepia, graced the dust jacket. He had been posed to look thoughtful and sensitive. As soon as I read the opening paragraph, I knew.

She moves. Shadow chasing shadow; not knowing I can see, feel her. There is blood on her lips, darkness in her eyes, in her clothes, light cowers me as I seep through her world. She is the one whom time forgot, the one, the one...

It wasn’t Steven’s style, his voice. I knew how he wrote, I knew the best and worst he could produce. I’d tutored him when we were both young writers; his originality was limited and vocabulary, restricted. This wasn’t Steven’s work. I did see touches of Steven in places; he’d rewritten someone else’s book. The book deserved the award. But whose book was it?

Did the original author know? Had they sold Steven the rights to the work and relinquished their own claim to authorship? To accept the SPA under this type of circumstance was an act of literary fraud.

I could accept the loss of Samantha to him, but not like this. I poured blood and tears into my work, and like all writers around the country we worked hard for our place in the literary world. I called Steven, he was at first in full denial, but the man was weak and I knew how to get to him.

“Maybe I should call your mother?” When he said for the third time he didn’t know what I was talking about.

“Why?”

“You tell her everything, don’t you?” This was true, Steven was a mummy’s boy, and if anyone knew the truth, she would. She wouldn’t tell me. But he didn’t know that.

He hesitated. “What do you want?”

“The truth.”

“I can’t, Di.” I could hear defeat in his voice. “You won’t understand.”

“Try me.”

“Even if you are right, it is too late to do anything about it, so just keep out of this, okay?” He was begging. His wimpy, light voice sounded on the edge of tears

“And if I don’t?” He hung up. I put the phone back on its base and sat back into the sofa chair, the leather creaking. He as good as admitted it wasn’t his book. Something could still be done, I knew.

I had to find out who had written the book. I needed proof before I could expose him. First I went through the member list of the Fellowship, perhaps one of their books had been sold to Steven; it was a long shot, as I knew most of their styles and subject preferences and this didn’t fit with any of them.

Three days I spent chasing down dead ends, each and every contact made difficult by the fact I couldn’t give away what I was doing. It became clear that no one in the membership could have written the book. The next person to ask was Samantha, but if she was in on the scam, she wasn’t about to tell me.

I decided to approach her as if I were writing a history piece on Steven for the daily paper, which was partly true. I could earn some good money from such a piece now he’d won the award. What I wanted was a list of his contacts, from there I would get the evidence.

Samantha told me nothing I didn’t already know. She stood in her modern kitchen like a dutiful housewife. I sipped cold tea and tried to keep my mind away from her, thinking about her naked form in my arms. She looked good in jeans and printed logo T, her hair back, light makeup and soft pink lipstick. I wanted her so badly, loved her beyond reason.

Even as I took notes lust crammed for attention. If I could only expose Steven, change the dynamic of this situation, maybe, just maybe I could win her over. Forgiveness wasn’t one of my strong points, for Samantha I’d make the effort. All I needed was a name. The real author of the book.

Steven had done well with his early works, Samantha controlled the money and his emotional state. She wasn’t too badly set, herself. Her fashion career, lucrative with her face on every magazine in the country, had her up for life. Steven just added to the wealth. In my mind this was the real reason she stayed. No one could really love a dolt like Steven. Not for long.

I pulled myself away from her radiance, thanked her for the information and kissed her on the cheek. I wanted more, now wasn’t the time. I left her to her making muffins from a packet. There were people to call; my confidence wasn’t high.

* * *

Steven sat on my bed, those dead, vacant eyes watching me in the doorway. Sarina had called back and said that I should follow him the next time he appears. I didn’t want to, she said it was vital if we were to find out what Orlando wanted. Steven, dressed in a black T, leather jacket, brown slacks and sand shoes looked as real as anything else in the room. Always the same clothes, always the same look, and always the same strange blue aura glow.

A cold draft touched my skin. A window rattled.

“Am I to follow you?” I asked. I readied to run should he attack, or throw something.

“He needs to see you.”

“Who?”

“Follow.”

“Is it Orlando?”

“Follow.”

It was raining out. I didn’t feel like walking in the rain. Steven stood and walked towards me. I backed away, into the hall, knocking into the hall table. The vase of flowers from my garden rattled against the wall. The smell of roses pushed into me, thick and cloying. I didn’t have roses in my garden.

The cold increased. I shivered. I couldn’t move. Steven walked up close, barely half a meter away. I was trapped. I reached for the vase, ready to smash it in his face.

“Follow.” He turned and walked through the front door, out into the darkness and rain. I ran after him, vase in hand, opened the door; he was gone. I slammed the door and looked back down the hall. He was outside. I dropped the vase, waters splashing up my leg, flowers spilling over the floor. I grabbed the mobile and called Sarina. Heart pounding, panic vibrating through my arms, my hands.

“He was just here. Steven was here.”

“What did he say?” Sarina didn’t sound concerned.

“He wanted me to follow him.” My voice shook, it was difficult to breathe. The sound of her voice reassuring.

“And are you?”

“No. I’m scared, Sarina. What does he want?” I remembered something.

“If I thought he meant you any harm I wouldn’t suggest following him,” she said. “Now, did he say anything else? It is important to tell me exactly what he said.”

“Steven said he wants to see me.”

“Orlando?”

“How should I know?” How could she sound so calm?

“Come by tomorrow and we can discuss it while you work on the book.” She hung up.

The book? To hell with the book. I needed answers.

Copyright © 2009 by Robert N. Stephenson

This link goes to the book website.