Entity

 

Carefully, she unlaced her right shoe, concentrating on every twist of the shoelace. And then the left. The tombstone heels made a dull thud as she set them down on the rock.

 

“You bastard! I’ll kill you for this! I’ll hunt you down and kill you! I don’t care if I have to wait until hell freezes over to do it! I’ll get you, you bastard! I’ll get you!”

Fighting down the pain, the unbelievable agony, the loose strands of her untrimmed masculine haircut falling in her face, she screamed her last as the flames licked towards the bag of gunpowder at her neck.

 

Then she untied her hair, untwisting the dark braids until all the loose, frizzy curls floated around her face in the breeze coming off the ocean.

 

Oh gods please don’t hurt me anymore please don’t hurt me anymore please don’t let them hurt me anymore… he tried to pull the torn and bloodstained silk around him like it was a shield, tried to stop the flow from the stab wounds in his arm, shoulder and chest, as one of the faceless men jerked his head back and drew a knife across his throat.

 

Her striped stockings came off next, stuffed into the top of her shoes.

 

“You’re a coward, Etienne.” He shoved the whore off his lap, trying to get to his feet, the room swimming in a green haze of absinthe. “You’ve never used a pistol before in your life. Pathetic, but just what I’d expect from a man who can’t even control his own wife…”

He never heard the shot, but suddenly everything was rushing past him.

 

Then the tightly laced black velvet bodice, the top of her loose white shift fluttering gently as she slipped it off, huge black sleeves flapping in the wind like the wings of a crow.

 

“So hot you set my heart on fire//Baby you ain’t escaping from my desire…” He stroked his hair as the young man tightened the belt around his upper arm. “Remember I wrote that song for you, darling? You remember?”

The boy avoided his gaze, tapping the syringe. “Shush, you’re talking nonsense. And get your high heels off the coffee table. How many times?”

“I love you darling.” He straitened his skirt idly, wincing as the needle slipped into his vein. “You love me too, don’t you darling? Darling? Sweetheart? Don’t you love me? Darling, say something! Don’t you lo…”

 

Finally, the swirling black parachute silk skirt. It flared up like black flames in the steady zephyr, floating down to the ground beside the rest of her clothes. The smooth, white shift clung close to her body as she moved, dream-like, towards the edge.

 

Spirits, forgive me. My son, forgive me. My love, forgive me. May I be reborn to a happier life and not as a ghost.

She squinted at the bright light shrieking towards her, slipping her feet out of her sandals. The black blanket she had wrapped around her to stop the whiteness of her kimono showing in the train headlights started to flap as the juggernaut rounded the corner.

Why cry for a son

Who is unborn and a love

You are forbidden?

She flung the blanket back, heard the squeal of brakes that would come too late, and flung herself forward.

 

The cliff had seemed so high yesterday. What if it wasn’t high enough? What if it didn’t work? What it…?

 

She had no time for what ifs. It was now. She vaguely hoped that her parents would cry at her funeral. She was slightly sad to think that they might not.

 

Can’t go on like this… ghosts in my head… they won’t shut up… they won’t leave me alone… you witches, curse you! I went to the priest! I was absolved! I did God’s work! Why torment me like this? I offered you confession! I offered your souls to God Almighty! It’s your own fault. The Devil sent you to torment me. Well, you’ll torment me no longer… his fingers fumbled over the knot, the good bottle and a half of strong spirits inside him making his perch on the stool rather precarious. Don’t need a hangman, can do it perfectly… well… myself… please, God, forgive me my sins, as I forgive those who did ill against me, may I take my daily bread at Heaven’s table…

 

She swallowed once, closed her eyes, and flung herself forward.

 

It was a very, very long way down.

 

* * * * *

 

She sat up and screamed at the top of her voice.

 

Oh… oh! The fall! She’d thrown herself over! What was she doing… where was she… what was that screaming? She was doubled up, writhing in a mixture of the memory of that terrible, breaking pain and the bitter realisation that it wasn’t all over, that there wasn’t blessed blackness, but screaming. Why was everyone screaming? Screaming and crying and yelling and shrieking and sobbing and howling and crying out to God and Goodness and every thing else they could think of…

 

“You!”

Someone slammed past her, knocking her flat. She turned to see a woman, tall and leggy, short grey-blond bob cut and a strong jaw, pinning a man with shoulder length black hair to the ground and punching him squarely in the jaw. He flung up his arms to defend himself but she thumped him in the stomach, twisting his wrist aside and pulling her elbow back for another blow.

“You BASTARD! I told you I’d get you! I told you! I’ll make you pay! I’ll get you for-”

 

She stopped abruptly, then flung herself away, trying to crawl away from him while at the same time trying to curl into a ball.

“Oh God… oh God… oh God I’m dead and I’m in hell. You killed me! You killed me and I’m in hell… oh God… I wasn’t bad! I never did anything wrong! Please, I never did anything wrong…”

We’re in hell, she thought. I didn’t think about hell. How could I not think about going to hell? The preacher rammed it down my throat often enough. Along with other things…

“Oh, SHUT UP!” She turned to look at another man, this one with short, curly brown hair. It was only then that she realised that they were all, men and women, wearing long, shapeless white robes, with no sleeves and a cowl neck. It was like a tube of white material with armholes.

“Don’t tell me to shut up, you Godless heathen!” The grey haired woman screamed back. As he swelled to retaliate, since the black haired man was in a state of voiceless shock, she interrupted.

“BOTH OF YOU SHUT UP!” They turned to look at her. She gestured to the others, a man, a boy and a young woman not much older than herself, who were all sobbing uncontrollably. “Since you lot are obviously alright, how about helping someone who isn’t?”

The grey haired woman looked slightly embarrassed. “What… are they hurt, or?”

“I don’t think so…” She touched the man, younger than either of the others but older than herself, on the shoulder. He had silky blond hair down to his waist and the prettiest face she’d ever seen on a boy.

“Are you okay?”

He flung himself on her shoulder, still sobbing.

“You’re not okay.” She answered her own question. “What’s wrong?”

“I… he… oh!” Realising that she wouldn’t get anything sensible out of him, she settled for just patting his shoulder. Stoically, the other young woman, a petite Japanese girl, straitened her robe and wiped away her tears.

“So sorry.” Her voice shook a little, but she got to her feet resolutely. “I should not have been so selfish when others needed help.” She knelt down beside the other sobbing person, a young boy who was probably only twelve or thirteen, with long silky black hair. The curly haired man got to his feet, looking curiously at the two of them.

“You’re from the Japans.” He put his head to one side, slightly curious in a somewhat lewd way. “Never met a Jap girl before. Is it true that…”

“If you’re about to ask what I think you’re about to ask, you’re going to get punched.” The grey haired woman got to her feet, folding her arms. She was more than six feet tall, and he quickly changed the topic.

“But you speak French.”

“You’re not speaking French.” The grey haired woman interrupted. He frowned.

“Of course I am! What do you think I’m speaking?”

“Dutch.”

“Sounds like English to me.” She interrupted, the man still sobbing on her shoulder. The Japanese girl turned her head.

“So sorry, but I am hearing you all speaking in Japanese. And I imagine he,” She gestured to the boy still sobbing at her side. “Hears us all speaking in Mandarin.”

“What, so he’s not a Jap too?” The curly haired man frowned. She shook her head.

“No. I think he is from Manchuria.”

“Where?”

“Across the sea from Japan.”

“You mean China.”

“Where?”

“No. There is Manchuria across the ocean from us, and further in, Mongolia, and the Russian empire, and south of that there is China. I do not believe what the Communists say of a united China. There has always been Manchuria.”

“Russian empire? The Russians have no empire!”

“They do! I learnt it in school! The USSR.”

“USSR? Communists?” She paused, patting the blond haired man, whose sobs had subsided to a little quiet weeping. “Hang on a minute, when did you…”

 

There was a long silence. Then she took a deep breath, standing up.

“Look. We… we’re all dead, aren’t we?”

“I wouldn’t be if it wasn’t for him.” The grey haired woman snapped, glancing over at the black haired man, who was just sitting, staring at them with wide eyes.

“He… murdered you?”

“Called it ‘saving my soul’, but yes. Brought a witch hunt up and burnt me at the stake.” She scowled.

“Witch hunt? When was this, the fifteenth century?”

“No. Sixteen fifty-four.”

“Where?”

“America. The colonies. I was a soldier, I was sent to…”

“You, a soldier? You’re a woman!”

“Hang on a minute!” Starting up, ignoring the blond haired man that slumped to the floor, she coloured quickly. “You… you were burnt as a witch in SIXTEEN FIFTY-FOUR?”

“Yes. Why? When were you…?”

“And you!” She pointed at the curly haired man. “You, what happened to you?”

“Oh, some bastard shot me because I slept with his wife.”

“But when?”

“Oh, I loose track of the years. Seventeen eighty-something.”

“Seventeen EIGHTY…” The grey haired woman’s jaw dropped. She turned and pointed at the black haired man. “You! When did you die? Tell me!”

He didn’t reply. She strode over and jerked him up by the front of his robe.

“Tell me! What happened? Did they turn on you too? ANSWER ME!”

He didn’t say anything. She flung him down again in disgust.

“And after I swore I’d get you…”

“You did.”

It was just a whisper, but it was clear enough. They all looked at him.

“You and all the others. You all came back. Chattered in my sleep. The Devil sent you. It was his year…”

Her eyebrows rose sharply. “His year?”

“Six-six-six!” He covered his head with his arms quickly, as though threatened, and began praying in a low murmur.

“Sixteen sixty-six.” She whistled through her teeth. “That’s… twelve years. Dear God. Twelve years I can understand, but… a hundred? Really the seventeen hundreds?”

“Oh, definitely.” He glanced at the praying man. “What do you reckon happened to him?”

“Sounds like he went mad and killed himself.”

“What about you, Jap girl?”

“I…” Her eyes fell. “I threw myself under a train.”

“A what?”

“Oh…” She blinked, realising that they wouldn’t understand. “Like a box, with people inside it, that moves very fast over the ground on rails.”

“Like a carriage, you mean.”

“No horses.” She interrupted, sitting back down beside the blond haired man, who was wiping his eyes and listening to the conversation.

“How can it move without horses?”

“It uses steam. I don’t quite understand how.”

“Impossible.”

“Why d’you do it?”

She was quiet for a little while, watching the boy whose sobs had diminished a little. Finally, she spoke. “I was Geisha. Do you understand…? We are dancers, singers, players, entertainers… but we belong to a Geisha house.”

“A slave?”

“Not quite. We are bought when we are quite young, but only for a number of years. But… I fell in love with a man, and I would have had a baby, but the woman who ran my house would not let me marry him and have the baby. So… I jumped in front of the train.”

The grey haired woman snorted. “I would have said you were better off without the man and the child.”

“What year?”

“Let me guess.” She brushed her black curls out of her face. “USSR, Communist China… I’m thinking nineteen twenty.”

“Very close. Nineteen twenty-two.”

“NINETEEN…” the grey haired woman was awestruck. The curly haired man shrugged.

“Interesting. What about you, girl, since you’re asking so many questions?”

“Two-thousand and one.”

“Holy Mary mother of Christ.”

“I jumped off a cliff. In Cornwall.”

“You’re English?”

“No, I’m American. From the Deep South. We were on holiday.”

“The Deep South?”

“Oh, it didn’t exist when you were alive.”

“What d’you mean, holiday? That’s thousands of miles!”

“Takes nine hours on a plane.”

“What’s a plane?”

“Flying machine.”

“So you DID invent those…”

“Oh yes.”

“Why did you want to kill yourself, anyway?” the curly haired man folded his arms. She felt herself blushing despite it all.

“None of your business.”

“You weren’t pregnant, were you?”

“No!”

“Parents wanted you to marry someone you didn’t like?”

“Excuse me? I’m fifteen.”

“Prime marrying age.”

“Not where I come from. Or maybe that should be ‘when’.”

“So why?”

“I said, none of your business. Some stuff happened. That’s all.”

“Someone hurt you.”

She turned to look at the blond haired man. It was the first time he had really spoken, and she could hear the American lilt in his accent. His voice was high pitched and girlish, but his face was curious and knowing.

“What about you, anyway? Why were you crying so much?”

The smug look fell. “Someone killed me.” He mumbled.

“Go on. Year and nationality. Everyone else has.”

“I’m a fellow American, and it was nineteen seventy-one.”

“Whereabouts?”

“New York, darling. Where else?”

“And?”

“And?”

“What happened?”

“Oh…” He looked away. “I guess I’ll have to tell you at some point anyway.”

“Go on.”

“My boyfriend gave me a heroin overdose.”

“Oh.” She tried to think of something else to say. “Was it…?”

“It was deliberate. The bastard.” he dashed a few more tears out of his eyes. “I should have known he’d try something like that. I shouldn’t have let him do it for me.”

The curly haired man frowned. “What’s…?”

“Heroin? It’s a drug.”

“Made from morphine.” The blond haired man muttered.

“What’s morphine?”

“Made from poppies.”

“Oh. Opium.”

“Stronger. A lot stronger.”

“Smoke…?”

“No. It’s… well; it can be a powder or a liquid. It’s not nice stuff, really. But it gets you high as a fucking kite.”

“More of an absinthe man myself.”

“Oh, of course. Seventeenth century French. I suppose you’re a poet?”

“Close. Playwright. I act a bit too. Or… well, I did. Obviously I don’t anymore.”

“Maybe I’ve heard of you.” She patted the little Chinese boy on the shoulder. He had almost stopped crying, but wouldn’t uncurl. “I did literature at school. What’s your name?”

 

There was a long, dreadful silence.

 

“Oh dear God.” The shorthaired woman clapped her hands over her face. No one else said anything. They were all experiencing the same, dreadful moment of horror.

 

“I can’t remember.” The curly haired man whispered finally. “Dear lord, neither can any of you? Can you?”

“No.” The blond haired man whispered. “I didn’t even think. No one did. That’s why none of us asked.”

“Can you remember his name?” The Japanese girl gestured towards the still praying witch hunter. The shorthaired woman shook her head, aghast.

“No. I can’t… I can’t remember anything. I can remember big details… I was a soldier, I served in the colonies, I… fell in love with my captain… and he would have exposed me if I hadn’t put a bullet in his back, the bastard… I can remember… I can remember dieing. I can’t remember anything else. I can’t…” She turned her face away as tears started to roll down her face. “I can’t remember my mother’s name, or my sister’s, or his, or my captain’s…”

“Me neither.” The blond haired man breathed, tears running down his cheeks. “I can’t remember my name… I can’t remember anything… I can’t even remember any of my songs. I can’t…” he buried his face in his hands. “I can’t even remember what my boyfriend looked like!”

“Where the hell are we, anyway?” She got to her feet, suddenly angry. Someone had stolen her memories. The memories of everyone around her, along with their lives. And somewhere, someone was going to pay for it.

 

The room was largish, circular, and quite well lit at the centre, but the light dimmed the closer you got to the walls, making the patched, pipe ridden metal walls barely visible. Turning round, she could make out the outline of a large door, just one, but nothing else. She couldn’t see the ceiling. It was dark above her, but she felt dizzy and her vision blurred every time she looked up.

 

“I think we should go through the door.”

“And since when have you been in charge?” The curly haired man scowled. She almost apologised. Almost.

“Okay, let me rephrase that. I think we should go through the door, and I am going to. If you come up with a better idea, let me know.” She turned and headed towards the large, metal double doors.

“And what if they’re locked?”

“I’ll decide that when I see whether they are or not.”

“You don’t have a clue what you’re doing.”

“And you do?”

“I’m with her.” The soldier woman turned and headed towards the door as well. “After all, what else are we going to do?”

 

There was a pause, then the blond haired man sighed.

“Oh, alright then. Come on, witch hunter boy.” He grabbed the praying man’s arm and hauled him upright with surprising strength for someone so thin. “God wants you to come this way. Be good now.”

“Please, will someone help me?” The Japanese girl had been trying to get the Chinese boy to his feet, but to no avail, and she wasn’t strong enough to lift him. The curly haired man rolled his eyes with a growl.

“Fine then, if the door’s open…”

“It’s open.” She replied, tugging on the handle. It moved easily in her hand, and she didn’t know whether she wanted to fling it wide open or slam it shut again.

“… Then I’ll bring this.” He went to grab the boy’s arm and haul him upright.

 

The moment his hand closed on the boy’s arm, he glanced up sharply and screamed.

 

Jerking his arm free, he scrambled away from the French man, bowling strait into the Japanese girl, knocking her down. She wrapped her arms around him quickly and he stopped trying to get away, clinging to her tightly and curling into as tight a ball as he could. She turned and hurried towards them, the soldier woman close behind.

“What did you do?” the shorthaired woman growled.

“I didn’t do anything!” The man barked in reply. “He just screamed and ran. I only touched him. He let you two touch him…”

“We’re girls.” She interrupted, something dawning on her. “And you’re a man. I think… I don’t think he died nicely. He’s only young. Something really bad must have happened…”

“Poor kid.” The blond haired man sighed. The curly haired man just scowled.

“Will he let me touch him?” The soldier woman kneeled down next to the pair, gently trying to unpeel his fingers from the Geisha girl’s arm. He whimpered and shied away, but the Japanese girl stroked his hair and made soothing noises, and gradually the two of them got him to his feet. Both the soldier woman and the Japanese girl supporting him, they made their way back to the door. Swallowing on a dry throat, and aware of all eyes on her, she opened the door and stepped through. Bit by bit, the rest of the group followed her.

 

No light came through from behind them and after the last one had stepped out, the door swung shut. No one tried it, but she felt sure it was locked now. It was dark, but a warm dark, like there was a light ahead. And there was a scratching, like she imagined rats would sound like, or something gnawing, but more regular. They would have stumbled forward, but the ground was unobstructed so they simply moved hesitantly, aware of but not totally able to see those around them. Slowly, the black became brown, and all of a sudden, like walking through a curtain, she moved into an area that was, if not well lit, gloomily visible by the light of two strange lamps. She wondered why they hadn’t seen them from the distance, or would have, if the Records Keeper hadn’t distracted her.

 

She didn’t know how she knew it was the Records Keeper. It was just one of those things.