Perfect Little Stitches and Other Stories Read online

  Teresa-Kate had been alive.

  And he had murdered her.

  He vomited a little, wept. After a time, he regained control.

  The child had already been issued a death certificate. Angelo would tell no one what had happened. Instead, he would spend the night using all his skills to repair and mask the damage he had inflicted upon her. Tomorrow morning, he would give Teresa-Kate to her family so they could hold, in the lounge-room of their home, the girl’s open-casket viewing.

  Gary Mathews drove the hearse. Angelo’s nerves weren’t steady enough.

  They delivered Teresa-Kate, dressed and perfect, in her casket. While shaking hands with her father, Angelo began to cry. Moved to tears herself, Teresa-Kate’s mother attempted to embrace Angelo, for the love of everything holy, as if to console him after the evil he had done to their daughter.

  It was true; he had indeed made a pact with the Devil.

  During the drive back to the funeral parlour, Gary harangued him about failing to strip the girl’s corpse for the entire four thousand dollars. Angelo did not have the strength to reply. Staring sightlessly at the passing scenery, he kept seeing Teresa-Kate’s face, repaired to the absolute best of his abilities, yet, on expert inspection, still carrying the marks of violence inflicted by his own hands.

  He assigned Gary to meet with Teresa-Kate’s priest.

  Angelo got through the rest of the day on automatic pilot. In the evening, once Gary had left the funeral parlour, Angelo took from the locked drawer of his desk the business card of Heather the Body Wrangler, and called the number.

  “You beat me to it,” she said. “I was just about to ring. Gary reckons you took the girl’s bones and nothing else. Frankly, that’s a wasted financial opportunity.”

  It struck Angelo that Heather did not care about the living patients who needed transplants. This epiphany took his breath. It meant that he was, irredeemably, a sinner. Clearly now, he saw that his financial strife and the grief over Sofia’s passing had muddied his judgement, allowed him to be led astray, led straight into the pits of hell.

  “I’m sorry,” Angelo whispered to the ether, to God Himself.

  “I understand,” Heather said. “A little girl; hey, things can get sentimental.”

  “No, I mean I’m sorry, but I can’t do this anymore.”

  “Can’t do what?”

  Angelo squeezed the handset. “I’m terminating our arrangement.”

  “Terminating our…? Okay, calm down. The arrangement stays.”

  “No. Things have happened. Thank you and I wish you all the best.”

  Finally, she said, “I hope, for your sake, that you haven’t snitched.”

  “Snitched? To the police?” Angelo gave a crazed laugh. “I haven’t told anybody. Why would I? I’m as guilty as you. I don’t want to go to jail either.”

  “Listen, hang tight, I’ll be in touch. Don’t do anything stupid.”

  Heather ended the call. Angelo stared at the handset. When he returned it to the cradle, he thought of Sofia, of Teresa-Kate, and then of Sofia again, until he wanted nothing more than to lose himself in alcohol.

  At home, drunk, Angelo lolled across the couch. Later, his mobile rang. It was on the coffee table. Stirring from his stupor, groggy, Angelo reached to the table and took a gulp of warm sherry before grabbing the phone. He said, “Pronto.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Angelo consulted his watch, swiped a hand over his numb face. Night lay heavy around the curtains. “Yes, this is De Luca and Son Funeral Directors.”

  “Mr De Luca? Oh, thank the baby Lord Jesus.”

  Prescience needled Angelo fully awake. He said, “How may I help you?”

  “I’m the mother of Teresa-Kate. You delivered her body this morning for the viewing. Something terrible has happened. She’s gone.”

  Angelo sat up. “Gone?”

  “I couldn’t sleep. I went to check on her. The casket is empty.”

  “Empty? You mean your daughter’s body has been stolen?” The shock rendered Angelo sober. “Did you call the police?”

  “I’ve called everybody,” the mother said. “Help me. Please, help me.”

  “I’ll try my very best.” Shaking in fear and anger, he hung up and called Heather the Body Wrangler. As soon as Heather answered, Angelo yelled, “Why did you do it? To blackmail me, is that it? A single X-ray will reveal the PVC pipes. Is that what you’re planning? To hold that X-ray over my head?”

  “Angelo?” Heather sighed. “You sound drunk. It’s late. Let’s talk tomorrow.”

  “Tell me what you did with Teresa-Kate.”

  “Who?”

  “The little child: the girl with the raven hair.”

  “That kid you didn’t complete?”

  “Tell me where she is.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Heather paused. “Are you high? Having some kind of stroke? Look, I think maybe you should call an ambulance.”

  Unnerved, Angelo disconnected the call. Heather had not stolen the child’s body. So where was it? He thought of the child leaping from the table, coming for him, and he shuddered. Perhaps Heather was right. Perhaps there was something wrong with him, like a mental breakdown. The strain of stealing from the dead must be unravelling his mind. Surely, he had hallucinated Teresa-Kate’s resurrection. And those inhumanly long teeth? Why, gums always shrink after death.

  Oh, deliver me. He put his face into his hands. Deliver me, even though I don’t deserve it. The house shifted and creaked in the wind. Frightened, Angelo stared at the doorways leading to the kitchen and entrance hall. Nothing happened. Over the next few hours, he drank the sherry bottle dry. At around 4 a.m., he lurched towards bed. The mattress swam up and hit him. For the longest time, he didn’t dream.

  And then he dreamed of Teresa-Kate. He woke up.

  Or, at least, he thought he did.

  Teresa-Kate wrapped her fish-cold arms about his neck and sunk her bite into the meat of his shoulder. The pain, the wet and sloppy sound of her fangs chewing into his flesh, made him shriek over and over.

  As he drowsed awake, the sound came to him slowly, a soft and familiar sound, regular as a pulse, making him feel comforted. Angelo tried but was unable to open his eyes. Confused, he attempted to sit up, failed. Cold steel lay beneath his naked body. And now he knew where he was: on the preparation table in his funeral parlour. That sound, that regular sound, was the dripping of the tap into the scrub-sink.

  Panic lurched through him.

  Had he been drugged? Kidnapped by Heather and her body snatchers? The last thing Angelo remembered…drinking, passing out, the nightmare, that terrible nightmare about Teresa-Kate. How much time had passed since then?

  What in God’s name was going on?

  More sensation returned to his body. He became aware of a strange emptiness within his chest, an abnormally heavy weight within his belly. Gradually, he understood what it meant. He had undergone autopsy. His internal organs, including heart and lungs, were in a plastic bag sewn inside his abdomen. His death certificate would echo Teresa-Kate’s: Angelo De Luca, fifty-nine, succumbed to an unidentified infection, administered by the bite of an unknown animal, probably a dog.

  He wanted to scream. Was he dead? Undead? Had Teresa-Kate been conscious like this when he had harvested her bones?

  The door of the preparation room opened. Footsteps approached. Whistling started—it was Gary Mathews. Angelo strained to give a signal, but could not wiggle his fingers, his toes; in fact, could not even take a breath.

  “Sorry, old mate,” Gary said. “But you know how it is. Business is business.”

  The rip of velcro, the one-two unfolding of heavy fabric. Angelo recognised those noises. Gary had opened the roll-bag of his butcher’s knives. The subsequent whisk-whisk-whisk must be Gary honing a blade a
gainst the sharpening steel.

  And that blade would be the boning knife.

  When This You See,

  Think of Me

  The beach house turned out to be a cruddy little shack. Zane cut the engine.

  “Be careful of the mud,” he said, grabbing their suitcases from the backseat.

  Connie got out of the SUV. The wind held needling rain, salty from the ocean. Zane ran ahead and opened the front door. Connie ducked inside.

  “I’ll get your esky,” Zane said, dropping the cases. “Take a look around.”

  At what? It’s a shithole.

  But their relationship was only a few months old, too fragile for honesty.

  No oven. She tried the gas on the stovetop: nothing. What about lunch?

  Shockingly, the detritus of Zane’s wife littered the bathroom: comb, mousse, bobby pins. The wife had had long hair. It must have wound about her like seaweed as she had drowned herself. Perhaps she had cradled her pregnant belly as she died.

  Zane came back with the esky.

  “Your wife’s things are still in the bathroom,” Connie said.

  He blanched. “I thought my sister cleaned out the place.”

  Zane’s sister had rung Connie once. Stay away. But Connie had not been at fault. If anyone was to blame, it was Zane for straying.

  “There’s no gas,” Connie said. “How can I cook the turkey?”

  “You brought turkey?”

  “And vegetables, stuffing, gravy, the lot.”

  “Don’t worry,” Zane said, putting down the esky. “We’ll have takeaway.”

  “No. What about my groceries?”

  “There’s a charcoal chicken shop,” he continued. “I won’t be long.”

  He left.

  Goddamn it.

  Zane doesn’t want his family to meet me, she thought. That’s why he pushed for us to have this Christmas-in-July bullshit, to keep me away from the December barbecue. On the bedside table lay a paperback with a hand-stitched bookmark. Sewn by the wife? Connie threw the paperback into a drawer.

  The wind carried a sudden, chilling wail.

  At first, it reminded her of a seagull, a lonely howl that rose and fell. After a while, it began to sound human. Christ, was it a child?

  Oh yes, oh God: a crying, screaming child.

  Galvanised, Connie ran outside. The rain gusted in sheets. She sprinted to the sea. Wet sand bogged beneath her shoes. The grey surf slopped and surged. The wailing sounded on and on. She scanned the waves. There, in the shallows, a toddler, desperately waving her chubby arms.

  “I’m coming to get you,” Connie shrieked into the wind.

  She waded through the icy water. The toddler kept waving, just out of reach. The sand disappeared underfoot. Connie began to swim. Glancing over her shoulder, the lights from the shack seemed far away. The bookmark came to mind: when this you see, think of me. A crawling dread moved through her.

  The toddler disappeared.

  In its stead materialised a woman with long hair: impassive, staring, motionless as if untouched by the tide. Panicked, Connie turned back towards land, retching and gasping. Zane stood on the beach. Help me, she tried to call.

  Then, something—was it seaweed?—curled around Connie’s ankle and pulled her under.

  In The Company

  of Women

  Philantha saw the horses first. Their corral was built under the boughs of a giant plane tree. Immediately, Philantha left the dirt road and walked across the meadow of wild grasses towards them. The horses nickered at her approach, shifting on nervous hooves. There was not a house or hut in the area, no signs of domesticity at all apart from the corral, which seemed to consist of fallen branches elaborately interwoven, reminding her of a nest. Then Philantha noticed the man. Naked apart from a filthy rag of cloth around his loins, the man sat under the tree and watched her get nearer. He did not stand up or wave. Perhaps he was an injured Trojan. But even if he were a Greek attempting an ambush, it would not matter; she would take one of his horses anyway. Philantha adjusted her grip on both the spear and shield.

  Early yesterday morning, after killing the soldiers who had captured her, she had headed northeast, where Thermodon and her home city of Thermiskyra lay on the horizon. On foot, the journey would take at least two weeks. Philantha had no intention of walking the whole way. During that last, desperate fight to save Troy, a stinking Greek had managed to nick her forearm with his sword before she ran him clean through with her spear. Her injury, though trifling, had become infected. Without medical care, she risked sepsis. And since the Marmara region was now overrun with enemies, her only safety lay in reaching Thermiskyra, fast, and on horseback.

  The low-lying valley baked under the midday summer sun. A pheasant cock called somewhere behind her in the woods. Dry grasses scratched at her bare legs. The man still had not moved. Perhaps he was dead. Philantha turned her attention to the plane tree, which appeared to be diseased. Instead of deep green, the foliage was a haphazard patchwork of grey, white and black. Despite this, the tree had reached a vast old age, judging by its great height and rounded canopy. There were no other plane trees in the meadow.

  Philantha went right up to the man and stopped. He sat cross-legged, taking his weight on one arm extended behind him, gazing at her with interest. A chain around his ankle tethered him to the tree trunk. Covered in mire, his hair matted into muddy knots, she could not discern his race. The air stank of shit and putrescence. A fluttering motion caught her eye, and she turned, spotted the ravens nearby. The birds pecked and worried at a scattering of raw, wet bones: the remains of a recently butchered horse. There was no evidence of a cooking fire.

  The man sat up straight. “You’re an Amazon,” he said. “I can tell by your tit.”

  His accent revealed him to be a Turk. Philantha looked about. The man appeared to be alone. The chain that bound him to the tree was about three metres long, while the butchered horse and attendant ravens were much further away.

  “When does your master come back?” she said.

  “Mistresses. I don’t know. You’d better run before they get here.” He clicked his fingers as if remembering something. “Hey, I thought Amazons carried a bow and arrow.”

  The soldiers had taken these from Philantha, along with her armour. Of her uniform, only the short tunic and girdle remained. What those bastards had done with her warhorse, only Ares knew. She scanned the corral. Ignoring the ponies—too small and weak for long-distance travel—she quickly assessed each horse by its coat, musculature, and posture. Two of them were Andravida, the Greek cavalry breed. The bay stood with its head hanging and its mouth open. The other one, the palomino, looked in reasonable condition.

  “I’ll take the palomino,” she said.

  “The horses aren’t for sale.”

  “I’ll take a bit and bridle too, if you have them.”

  “You’re not leaving here with a horse,” he said. “You’re not leaving here at all.”

  Philantha went over to the palomino. The other horses and ponies bunched anxiously. The palomino stood its ground and stared. Putting down her shield, Philantha ran her hand along the horse’s broad nose, up to the rough coarse hair of its mane.

  As much as she despised the Greeks, she had to admit that their Andravida was a fine breed. With its stocky legs, deep chest and legendary stamina, this palomino would carry her speedily back to Thermiskyra, perhaps within five days if she rode the animal without mercy. Did she have five days? Philantha studied the wound on her forearm. An obscene mouth, the lips of it gaped and puckered. She pressed a finger experimentally against the inflamed skin. Thick beads of pus welled up. Already, she could feel an unnatural heat rising within her blood, a headache clenching the base of her skull.

  Walking into the shade of the tree, she said to the man, “Have you any water?”
/>
  He shook his head.

  “Food?”

  With a smirk, he waved a hand at the bones and ravens. “Be my guest.”

  “Have your mistresses gone to collect water and food?”

  “Uh-huh. You should get out of here while you still can.”

  Philantha laid her shield and spear next to her in the grass, and sat down to wait. Once the women returned, she would take their provisions, and leave on the palomino.

  The man sighed. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  Philantha wondered what had happened to her regiment. She had not seen any of her fellow warriors since escaping the Greeks yesterday. Perhaps a force of retreating Amazons was already ahead of her on the road to Thermodon. She wondered how many had survived. Once inside the city walls, the Greeks had fought strongly and well, perpetrating a brutal massacre. Then again, most of the Trojan army was drunk, prematurely celebrating victory after ten long years of war, and plenty of Amazons were drunk too. Philantha tightened her jaw. Those lousy Greeks, those cowards; hiding inside a goddamned peace offering. Where is the honour in that? At least Philantha had killed her share of those yellow dogs for the everlasting glory of Queen Penthesilea of Thermodon. The allied armies would regroup. Troy may be lost for now, but surely the battle wasn’t over yet.

  “Don’t you want to know why I’m chained to this tree?” the man said.

  Philantha glanced at him and looked away towards the distant road. The man’s mistresses would most likely be travelling by horse-drawn trap. A deer trotted out of the woods on the other side of the dirt road, lifted its nose to sniff the air, and then bolted back into the cover of trees. If only Philantha still had her bow and arrow. Her mouth watered at the thought of venison steaks. Since escaping her captors, she had eaten just a handful of wild and bitter olives.

  “Aren’t you curious?” the man said at last. He lifted his foot and shook it, rattling the chain. “It’s an interesting story.”