Nightspawn by John Banville Page B

such a melodramatic, boring, hysterical, stupid, utterly humourless woman as this one, and all the while, with both big ears, I was agog to catch even the most banal of the clichés spilling from her mouth, and was enraptured with it, every syllable. At last she came to an end of sorts, and heaved a great sigh. I cleared my throat, and shifted my feet, and said,
    ‘Yes. I see. Well.’
    She looked at me then.
    ‘Now I must go,’ she murmured, a deep throb of grief in her voice, Anna K. preparing to dive under that train. Oh, she was magnificent, I cannot deny it, she had me teetering on the edge of tears. She pinned up her hair (an encore) and the light through the window set a fire in the down on her uplifted arms.
    ‘What do you want me to do?’ I asked, and had she said, drop dead, I would have commanded my heart to be still. But she said nothing, and shook her head hopelessly. She stood up. On the table something which gleamed among the litter of books and papers caught her eye. She picked it up and examined it curiously. It was a small oblong silver box, perfectly smooth, without a catch or clasp on the closely-fitting lid. I sat sprawled deep in the armchair, my chin on my breast, watching her. I wonder if my tongue was hanging out.
    ‘What is it?’ she asked.
    I held out my hand.
    ‘Here, let me show you.’
    I took the box and pressed a thumb and middle finger against both sides. With a tiny click, the lid sprang open. I closed it again and gave it back to her. She pressed it with the heels of herhands, but it would not open for her.
    ‘It’s just a small thing,’ I said. ‘There’s a knack to it.’
    ‘Teach me.’
    I shook my head.
    ‘I’d be thrown out of the magicians’ union.’
    We stood together and looked through the window. The sun trembled on the brink of the hills, shaking the sky with a last fury of light. It went down, the gold become crimson, the dry hills aflame. I was weary; each of my bones seemed to have its own private ache. Something flashed in the corner of my eye. Helena had drawn her hand above her head. I made a grab at her, but too late. With a little grunt for the effort, she flung the box through the window. It tore a neat hole in the centre of the pane, and disappeared. The glass shivered around its wound, and the pieces came slowly apart in long wicked spikes. I caught her by the shoulder.
    ‘You stupid bitch.’
    She tore herself away from me, and lifted her hands to protect her face. We glowererd at each other, teeth clenched.
    ‘Look —’ I began, but she flew at me, and her nails ripped my cheek. I leapt away, trying to hold my balance, and with an open fist I caught her a crack on the side of the head which must have loosened a filling or two. The knot of her hair flew asunder as she whirled away from me. A rug slipped under her feet, and she crashed to the floor. There she lay motionless with her head in her arms. I touched my cheek, and my fingers came away bloodied.
    I flung open the door and went clattering down the stairs, and reached the street in time to meet a small boy coming from the lane with a dented but unbroken silver box in his little paws. He halted in fright at the appearance of this toothed creature with arms spread bat-like above him, and whipped the box behind his back. The presence of mind the little bastard could muster.
    ‘Little man, may I have my box?’
    He looked at me silently with round brown eyes. I put my face in front of his and breathed brimstone at him.
    ‘Give. It’s mine.’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Sweet Jesus. Look, I warn you.’
    ‘No, I won’t, it’s mine, I found it.’
    There was a light patter of steps behind me, and I looked over my shoulder to see Helena slip out of the doorway and disappear into the dusk. I gave a shriek, and caught the child by the throat. His eyes opened very wide, and his tongue came out. I reached down behind him and wrenched the box from his hands (please god he will some day beget a battalion of