his cheek. The fruit-and-spice smell of crushed ants was strong.
“It was my fault!” she said, laughing as she spoke. “I shouldn’t have touched her with the barrel! And so it was little Shy that wound up getting killed, miserabile dictu! I was …
nonplussed
in eternity.” She took a deep sip of the bourbon and then sang, “‘Take my hand, I’m nonplussed in eternity …’”
He wasn’t smiling, so she pushed out her thin red lips. “Oh, lover, don’t pout. Am I my sister’s keeper? Did you know she claimed I got my best poems by stealing her ideas? As if anybody couldn’t tell from reading
her
poetry which of us was the original! At least I had already got that copy of my book out there, out in the world, like a message in a bottle, a soul in a bottle, for you to eventually –”
Sydney had held up his hand, and she stopped. “She said to tell you … not to kill her. She said she’d just move out if you asked her to. If she knew it was important to you.”
She shrugged. “Maybe.”
He frowned and took a breath, but she spoke again before he could. “Are you still going to help me copy out my poem? I can’t write it by myself, because the first word of it is the name of the person who killed me.”
Her eyes were wide and her eyebrows were raised as she looked down at the book in his hand and then back up at him.
“I’d do it for you,” she added softly, “because I love you. Do you love me?”
She couldn’t be taller than five-foot one-inch, and with her long neck and thin arms, and her big eyes under the disordered hair, she looked young and frail.
“Yes,” he said. I do, he thought. And I’m going to exorcise you. I’m going to spread that flammable ink-and-rum mix over the page and then touch it with a cigarette.
It was printed that way in only one copy of the book,
Rebecca had said,
the copy you obviously found, God help us all.
A soul in a bottle.
There won’t be another Resurrection Man.
He made himself smile. “You’ve got a pen, you said.”
She reached thin fingers into the neck of her blouse and pulled out a long, tapering black pen. She shook it to dislodge a thin white tendril with a tiny green leaf on it. “May I?” he asked, holding out his hand.
She hesitated, then laid the pen in his palm.
He handed her the book, then pulled off the pen’s cap, exposing the gleaming, wedge-shaped nib. “Do you need to dip it in an ink bottle?” he asked.
“No, it’s got a cartridge in it. Unscrew the end.”
He twisted the barrel and the nib-end rotated away from the pen, and after a few more turns it came loose in his hand, exposing a duplicate of the ink-cartridge he had in his pocket.
“Pull the cartridge off,” she said suddenly, “and lick the end of it. Didn’t she tell you about my ink?”
“No,” he said, his voice unsteady. “Tell me about your ink.”
“Well, it’s got a little bit of my blood in it, though it’s mostly ink.” She was flipping through the pages of the book. “But some blood. Lick it, the punctured end of the cartridge.” She looked up at him and grinned. “As a chaser for the rum I smell on your breath.”
For ten seconds he stared into her deep green eyes, then he raised the cartridge and ran his tongue across the end of it. He didn’t taste anything.
“That’s my dear man,” she said, taking his hand and stepping onto the living room carpet. “Let’s sit in that chair you were napping in.”
As they crossed the living room, Sydney slid his free hand into his pocket and clasped the rum-and-ink cartridge next to the blood-and-ink one. The one he had prepared this afternoon was up by his knuckles, the other at the base of his palm.
She let go of his hand to reach out and switch on the lamp, and Sydney pulled a pack of Camels out of his shirt pocket and shook one free.
“Sit down,” she said, “I’ll sit in your lap. I hardly weigh anything. Are there limits to what you’d do for someone you love?”
Sydney
“It was my fault!” she said, laughing as she spoke. “I shouldn’t have touched her with the barrel! And so it was little Shy that wound up getting killed, miserabile dictu! I was …
nonplussed
in eternity.” She took a deep sip of the bourbon and then sang, “‘Take my hand, I’m nonplussed in eternity …’”
He wasn’t smiling, so she pushed out her thin red lips. “Oh, lover, don’t pout. Am I my sister’s keeper? Did you know she claimed I got my best poems by stealing her ideas? As if anybody couldn’t tell from reading
her
poetry which of us was the original! At least I had already got that copy of my book out there, out in the world, like a message in a bottle, a soul in a bottle, for you to eventually –”
Sydney had held up his hand, and she stopped. “She said to tell you … not to kill her. She said she’d just move out if you asked her to. If she knew it was important to you.”
She shrugged. “Maybe.”
He frowned and took a breath, but she spoke again before he could. “Are you still going to help me copy out my poem? I can’t write it by myself, because the first word of it is the name of the person who killed me.”
Her eyes were wide and her eyebrows were raised as she looked down at the book in his hand and then back up at him.
“I’d do it for you,” she added softly, “because I love you. Do you love me?”
She couldn’t be taller than five-foot one-inch, and with her long neck and thin arms, and her big eyes under the disordered hair, she looked young and frail.
“Yes,” he said. I do, he thought. And I’m going to exorcise you. I’m going to spread that flammable ink-and-rum mix over the page and then touch it with a cigarette.
It was printed that way in only one copy of the book,
Rebecca had said,
the copy you obviously found, God help us all.
A soul in a bottle.
There won’t be another Resurrection Man.
He made himself smile. “You’ve got a pen, you said.”
She reached thin fingers into the neck of her blouse and pulled out a long, tapering black pen. She shook it to dislodge a thin white tendril with a tiny green leaf on it. “May I?” he asked, holding out his hand.
She hesitated, then laid the pen in his palm.
He handed her the book, then pulled off the pen’s cap, exposing the gleaming, wedge-shaped nib. “Do you need to dip it in an ink bottle?” he asked.
“No, it’s got a cartridge in it. Unscrew the end.”
He twisted the barrel and the nib-end rotated away from the pen, and after a few more turns it came loose in his hand, exposing a duplicate of the ink-cartridge he had in his pocket.
“Pull the cartridge off,” she said suddenly, “and lick the end of it. Didn’t she tell you about my ink?”
“No,” he said, his voice unsteady. “Tell me about your ink.”
“Well, it’s got a little bit of my blood in it, though it’s mostly ink.” She was flipping through the pages of the book. “But some blood. Lick it, the punctured end of the cartridge.” She looked up at him and grinned. “As a chaser for the rum I smell on your breath.”
For ten seconds he stared into her deep green eyes, then he raised the cartridge and ran his tongue across the end of it. He didn’t taste anything.
“That’s my dear man,” she said, taking his hand and stepping onto the living room carpet. “Let’s sit in that chair you were napping in.”
As they crossed the living room, Sydney slid his free hand into his pocket and clasped the rum-and-ink cartridge next to the blood-and-ink one. The one he had prepared this afternoon was up by his knuckles, the other at the base of his palm.
She let go of his hand to reach out and switch on the lamp, and Sydney pulled a pack of Camels out of his shirt pocket and shook one free.
“Sit down,” she said, “I’ll sit in your lap. I hardly weigh anything. Are there limits to what you’d do for someone you love?”
Sydney
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