find your incense, okay?”
In less than twenty minutes, his apartment was thick with incense smoke. The only light came from a single table-lamp with a nut-brown shade. Mrs Vaizey was lying full-length on the couch with her eyes closed, her cardigan drawn around her wrinkled brown stomach. She had spread a sheet of newspaper on the rug and drawn a complicated design with white ash that Jim had brought her from the barbecue. “Any ash that has been used to burn flesh will do,” she had told him, and he just hoped that Oscar Mayer wieners counted as flesh.
Now she was muttering a long, droning incantation which seemed to Jim to be a mixture of Latin, French and some other language which he couldn’t understand. He recognised fragments of it, bits and pieces of the Catholic mass, and something to do with ‘
sang impur’,
or bad blood, and and ‘
la mort et la folie
’ – death and madness.
She had allowed Jim to sit and watch her, but she had made him promise not to move and not to say a word. He stayed in his armchair in the darkest corner of the room, while the incense-smoke eddied all around him. He coughed twice, and she opened her eyes and gave him a disapproving look, but it was obvious that she was entering into some kind of a trance, because her pupils were unfocused and her eyelids were trembling. He had opened another can of beer but so far he had left it untouched. Mrs Vaizey’s droning was so hypnoticthat he was practically falling into a trancelike state himself.
“
Libera nos a malo
,” she mumbled. “
Panem nostrum quotidianum da nobis hodie
.”
Without warning, it suddenly felt as if the air in Jim’s apartment were under intense pressure. He went momentarily deaf, as if he had closed a car window at high speed. Mrs Vaizey shuddered, and her left hand fell sideways across the couch. Her mouth was open but she had stopped chanting, and her face was the colour of cheap newsprint. She let out a reedy little gasp, and then another one, and then her head dropped back and she looked as if she were dead.
She had warned him about this; but he was anxious, all the same. He got out of his chair and walked across the room and crouched down next to her, taking her hand. Her fingers were very dry and very cold, like a lizard with silver rings around its legs. He felt her pulse and it was so weak that it was barely detectable, but this was another aspect of out-of-body adventures that she had warned him about. “The body can’t live for very long without a soul. That’s what makes humans what they are.”
He hesitated for a second or two, but then he reached his hand over her face and lifted her eyelid. Her pupils were totally white, as if she had suffered a heavy concussion. “Mrs Vaizey?” he said, quietly. Then, louder, “Mrs Vaizey! This is Jim Rook! Can you hear me, Mrs Vaizey?”
He shook her shoulders, but all that happened was that her head lolled from side to side. She felt as if she were dead – and not only that, she felt as if she had been dead for two or three days. “Mrs Vaizey? Mrs Vaizey? Can you hear me, Mrs Vaizey?”
The pressure in the room gradually eased. Jim continued to hold Mrs Vaizey’s hand, but he sat back, more relaxed. Her pulse may have been faint but it was regular, and showed no signs of faltering; and she was breathing distinctly, with her mouth open, like someone involved in a very deep dream.
He looked up, and it was then that he felt the ice-bath sensation of total shock. Here he was, holding Mrs Vaizey’s hand while she lay on the couch. But Mrs Vaizey was also standing by the front door, staring at him.
At first he couldn’t speak. His throat was completely constricted with fear. But then he managed to say, “You’ve done it. My God, you’ve done it.”
She made a complicated sign in the air with her hand; like a benediction. Then she spoke, and her voice sounded reedy and distant, as if she were speaking on an answerphone in an empty office, with
In less than twenty minutes, his apartment was thick with incense smoke. The only light came from a single table-lamp with a nut-brown shade. Mrs Vaizey was lying full-length on the couch with her eyes closed, her cardigan drawn around her wrinkled brown stomach. She had spread a sheet of newspaper on the rug and drawn a complicated design with white ash that Jim had brought her from the barbecue. “Any ash that has been used to burn flesh will do,” she had told him, and he just hoped that Oscar Mayer wieners counted as flesh.
Now she was muttering a long, droning incantation which seemed to Jim to be a mixture of Latin, French and some other language which he couldn’t understand. He recognised fragments of it, bits and pieces of the Catholic mass, and something to do with ‘
sang impur’,
or bad blood, and and ‘
la mort et la folie
’ – death and madness.
She had allowed Jim to sit and watch her, but she had made him promise not to move and not to say a word. He stayed in his armchair in the darkest corner of the room, while the incense-smoke eddied all around him. He coughed twice, and she opened her eyes and gave him a disapproving look, but it was obvious that she was entering into some kind of a trance, because her pupils were unfocused and her eyelids were trembling. He had opened another can of beer but so far he had left it untouched. Mrs Vaizey’s droning was so hypnoticthat he was practically falling into a trancelike state himself.
“
Libera nos a malo
,” she mumbled. “
Panem nostrum quotidianum da nobis hodie
.”
Without warning, it suddenly felt as if the air in Jim’s apartment were under intense pressure. He went momentarily deaf, as if he had closed a car window at high speed. Mrs Vaizey shuddered, and her left hand fell sideways across the couch. Her mouth was open but she had stopped chanting, and her face was the colour of cheap newsprint. She let out a reedy little gasp, and then another one, and then her head dropped back and she looked as if she were dead.
She had warned him about this; but he was anxious, all the same. He got out of his chair and walked across the room and crouched down next to her, taking her hand. Her fingers were very dry and very cold, like a lizard with silver rings around its legs. He felt her pulse and it was so weak that it was barely detectable, but this was another aspect of out-of-body adventures that she had warned him about. “The body can’t live for very long without a soul. That’s what makes humans what they are.”
He hesitated for a second or two, but then he reached his hand over her face and lifted her eyelid. Her pupils were totally white, as if she had suffered a heavy concussion. “Mrs Vaizey?” he said, quietly. Then, louder, “Mrs Vaizey! This is Jim Rook! Can you hear me, Mrs Vaizey?”
He shook her shoulders, but all that happened was that her head lolled from side to side. She felt as if she were dead – and not only that, she felt as if she had been dead for two or three days. “Mrs Vaizey? Mrs Vaizey? Can you hear me, Mrs Vaizey?”
The pressure in the room gradually eased. Jim continued to hold Mrs Vaizey’s hand, but he sat back, more relaxed. Her pulse may have been faint but it was regular, and showed no signs of faltering; and she was breathing distinctly, with her mouth open, like someone involved in a very deep dream.
He looked up, and it was then that he felt the ice-bath sensation of total shock. Here he was, holding Mrs Vaizey’s hand while she lay on the couch. But Mrs Vaizey was also standing by the front door, staring at him.
At first he couldn’t speak. His throat was completely constricted with fear. But then he managed to say, “You’ve done it. My God, you’ve done it.”
She made a complicated sign in the air with her hand; like a benediction. Then she spoke, and her voice sounded reedy and distant, as if she were speaking on an answerphone in an empty office, with
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