Vivisepulture (8 page)

Cupid thudded against the wood.

The door handle revolved, slowly, but Michael grasped it, gripping it so tightly it seemed the brass would crumple in his fist.

“This cannot be real,” Michael told himself.

No. It was real enough. It simply was not
commonplace
. . . Or was it? Had Cupid attacked other men before? Men who were broken-hearted? Men, perhaps, who were sober?

Surely not, reasoned Michael. The handle wriggled as Cupid attempted to force his way through.

Unless Cupid always won these tussles. Unless it chewed out its victims’ hearts then disposed of the corpses in some way.

How could a flying baby get rid of a dead body? The stupidity of the question angered Michael. The heart was perhaps the beginning of the cherub’s banquet - the symbolically potent
hors d’oeuvre
of a larger feast. He hungered for the heart and guzzled the rest out of necessity.

How many lovelorn men seemed to commit suicide every year without their bodies being discovered?

Love and death. Two sides of the same coin.

A coin grasped in the chubby paw of Cupid.

“Why are you doing this?” Michael yelled through the door. “Why won’t you leave me alone?”

Twisting, Michael glanced at the front door. An idea formed. No one spoke of Cupid as a real hello-there-he-is creature. He was a furtive being, fearful of discovery. If Michael managed to get outside then retreat to a public place, he would be safe.

Where, though? It was night-time. The shops were shut, the streets empty.

The petrol station, mused Michael. No. He could not stay there until morning. The man behind the counter would not allow it; if needs be, he would call the police and Michael would be dragged away.

It had to be somewhere that people habitually gathered during evening hours.

A nightclub? A brothel?

Suddenly, Michael knew what he must do. He still wore the coat from his last trip to the petrol station. In the pockets were his wallet and mobile phone.

He dug out the phone with his free hand. He scrolled through the address book, found the number of a taxi rank and dialled.

“Yes? Hello? It is? Good. I want a cab for the Golden Horse Hotel. Straight away. More than straight away. Instantaneously. I want you to - to materialize like the fucking Tardis.” He gave the operator his address. The cab would arrive in ten minutes. Which could be thirty minutes. Or an hour. Whenever; it did not affect his plan. He was strong enough to stop Cupid twisting the door handle and bursting through. Then, when the ride arrived, he would plunge out through the front door and
sprint
to the cab. If Cupid
was
averse to being seen by anyone except his victims, he would not follow. Not if there was a chance he would be spotted by the driver. 

The handle stopped jerking. Silence.

Somewhere deep in the house a cupboard door squeaked open. Michael knew which one: the cubby hole under the kitchen sink. Melissa had nagged him to oil the hinges but he never had. Probably, she saw this as a indication of his worthlessness.

He can’t even be bothered to get some WD40
. . .

A muffled clattering followed. Cupid was looking for something.

Michael realised exactly what it at the exact moment the hand axe chopped into the door. He had bought the axe years ago, before he met Melissa. He had lived in a cottage with a logfire and he needed it to -

A thin bulge swelled from the door. Splinters scattered on the floor.

Chop
.
Chop. Chop.

Shit! thought Michael.

Chop. Crunch. Thunk.

The door paint split. A crack appeared.

In his mind’s eye Michael saw the crack widening and Cupid’s face leering through.
Here’s Putti!

Letting go of the handle Michael ran to the front door, yanked it open and stumbled outside. Cupid continued chopping, not realising his prey had gone.

Michael shut the front door and locked it.

He stood in the driveway, panting. Snowflakes fell like feathers. Groaning, Michael stumbled onto the garden, dropped on all fours and vomited ferociously, braying like a donkey.

When he raised his head, wiping tears from his eyes, he saw Cupid on the living room window sill, a dumpy silhouette gripping an axe.

Slowly, the axe drew back, preparing to shatter the glass.

Michael grimaced, waiting for the blow to fall.

Cupid paused, stamped his foot in frustration then cast the axe aside.

Michael understood. Cupid did not dare break the window because he did not want be seen and, on a quiet street, late at night, nothing got neighbours peeking out of their homes as much as smashing glass. A beer bottle, a taillight - it barely mattered what had smashed, as long as something
had
smashed, and it was made of glass.

Checkmate
, thought Michael. Then,
No. Not quite.

Cupid might find a silent way of getting outside. Through the chimney, for instance. It would be tight but the cherub was small - and squashy - enough to squeeze up through the flue. There were other possibilities too. Maybe it could pick the lock on the front door with an elongated fingernail. Or prise up the floorboards and burrow like some hairless mole. If Cupid was thousands of years old, and Michael suspected he was, he would have learned a few crafty tricks.

Michael grabbed a flowerpot, holding it up so Cupid could see. He pulled back his arm as if preparing a throw.

The threat was clear. Step outside and
I
will break glass.

Cupid was defeated. And he knew it. The cherub stumped along the sill, kicking ornaments flying with its ugly little feet and making obscene gestures, some understandable and others, belonging to days gone by, wholly mystifying.

The stand-off lasted fifteen minutes. The taxi pulled up outside the house. Michael wanted to make an obscene gesture of his own but Cupid was already gone.

Since his drinking habit began, Michael had grown reckless with money. Alcoholism was an expensive vocation in itself. Even if one favoured cheap booze, the amounts imbibed thrust a man swiftly into debt. But there was another reason for Michael’s financial carelessness: he had stopped believing money was something that existed outside himself. Spending cash on liquor had become so natural, so fundamental to his way of life, the cash itself seemed to be an aspect of himself - something that was as much part of him as his lungs, hands and feet.

He could have chosen a cheaper hotel than the Golden Horse but he was not in a thrifty frame of mind. Fifteen floors high, with pretty waitresses and an elderly, distinguished-looking concierge, it was the lodging place of the affluent.

Michael checked in at midnight. In a dishevelled condition, he went straight to his room, showered, shaved, sprayed on some of the hotel cologne. Then he rode the elevator to the bar.

“A Glenfiddich,” he said to the barman, knowing Calendar would not have a place amongst the optics glittering on the wall.

“Single or double, sir?”

“Double of course.”

“Ice?”

“Oh yes.” Michael had not taken ice in his whisky in a long time.

The bar was busy - with a wedding party. A sickening irony, thought Michael. But just the sort of thing he ought to have expected.

Michael spotted the bride and groom, sitting on a crimson couch, as happy as kittens in a box of wool.

Christ, thought Michael, staring at the groom. One day he might be hunted by Cupid. If everything goes awry and his heart is torn apart like wet tissue paper,
he
might find himself duelling with the malign sprog of
amour
.

The groom was clean-shaven, face shiny and hair glossy in the way a man’s face is only on his wedding day. His bride had the preternatural lustre attainable only on this special occasion. They would never look so star-bright again. Michael guessed it was something to do with optimism. You’ll never have it so good again, he thought, sourly. This is the zenith. From now on, it will be decay, despair, disillusionment . . .

Looking at the wedding guests, he realised that he was wrong. There were countless couples in the bar, some young, some middle-aged, others so ancient they might crumble into dust at any moment, and they seemed happy too. Grandfathers and grandmothers, uncles and aunties, brothers and sisters-in-law . . . Michael saw every combination and he saw love in abundance. Perhaps romance wasn’t a game
he
could play, but others certainly could. After all, not everyone shared the same talents. Not everyone could sing or paint or sculpt philosophers from bronze and marble, but there were those who certainly could. 

Michael grew angry. Why was Cupid picking on
him
? What had he actually done wrong? Melissa ought to have been the homunculate bastard’s target. It was Melissa - and this was the truth he could barely contemplate, even in his darkest moments - who had abandoned him for some graceless, overweight, cheap-aftershave-reeking work colleague.
She
deserved to be punished, not him, Michael, who had committed no crime . . .

But it wasn’t about punishment, was it? It was about a certain kind of natural order. Why would Cupid want Melissa’s heart, when it was a heart healthy with love? Because . . . because . . . and now Michael understood . . . Cupid was a rotting, mouldering thing and the hearts it wanted were rotting and mouldering too . . . It preyed on those who hated love. Who believed, however fleetingly, that love was not a meadow trembling with fritillaries and brimming with birdsong, but something vile, a glob of snot and gristle slubbered in faeces . . . 

Maybe, thought Michael, if I learn to love again, Cupid will leave me alone...

“Are you all right, sir?” Speaking softly, the waiter gazed warily at Michael.

“I, uh - yes, fine. Just thinking,” said Michael dreamily.

“I think you’ve had enough to drink. Really, sir, I do.”

Michael looked at the Glenfiddich. “I’ve only had a couple of sips.”

“You were drunk when you arrived.”

“No I wasn’t.”

“You were slurring. And you do have an odour of liquor.”

“Well, this
is
a bar.”

“Even so, sir.”

“These wedding guests . . .”

“What about them, sir?”

Michael dug a ten pound note out of his pocket and proffered it to the waiter. “Which ones are the bridesmaids? I want a bridesmaid, you see. A pretty one. You must know the sort. Youthful, sweet-tempered . . . Look,” he delved out another tenner, “get me a bridesmaid. One that I can -”

“You want me to procure you a wedding guest?”

“Not procure, merely -”

“Please leave the bar, sir.”

“But -”

“You really will have to go.”

Michael’s temper snapped. “Well fuck it then. Fuck it in deep and to the sides and all around the garden.” He shattered the glass on the bartop.

Turning, he strode to the elevator and rode it to his room. Immediately he ordered a bottle of Glenfiddich from room service, praying the waiter had not tipped them off about the volatile drunkard who had misbehaved in the bar. It appeared he had not and the bottle promptly arrived.

Michael sat on the edge of the bed, head in his hands.

He
was
drunk but he was immeasurably stressed too, a calamitous combination. He thought about his procrastinations in the bar.

Maybe, if I learn to love again, Cupid will leave me alone . . .

Cocking his head back, Michael laughed bitterly.

“Truly,” he scowled, opening the whisky, “I am the King of Bullshit!”

Sitting back, propped against the pillows, he drank and drank.

What was he going to do about Cupid? The sprite was unstoppable, eternal and clearly supernatural.

He blinked.

Supernatural. He needed a priest to perform some sort of exorcism. A proper, old-fashioned Catholic clergyman, of course, who slayed demons. Who would relish the challenge. Who would above all know what to do.

I can’t be the first man to have this problem, he thought. There is probably a secret Vatican department which deals with exactly this sort of thing -

Just then Cupid erupted from the toilet.

The bathroom door was open and from the bed Michael thought the lavatory had suffered a catastrophic plumbing problem, but the scraggle-topped, rot-fleshed cherub surged out of the bowl like some enormous discoloured turd.

Outwitted at the house, Cupid was too furious for theatrics. He swept across the hotel room to the bed, wings spraying waterdrops. Yelping, Michael swung the whisky bottle, and the vessel cracked against the cherub’s skull. Cupid crashed into the wardrobe and slid to the floor, leaving a slimy trail on the mirror. A heartbeat later the cherub was up again but Michael was already lunging for the door. Cupid intercepted him, clamping himself around Michael’s head, digging his claws into his scalp. Michael blundered sidelong into the bathroom then slipped on the wet tiles.

“You gross little fucker,” he yelled.

Cupid sank his claws deeper, the tips scraping Michael’s skull. Screaming, Michael whirled like a dancing Sufi, trying vainly to shake off the creature. Cupid was adopting a new tactic, he realised. He wanted Michael to pass out with pain so he could eat his heart whilst he lay unconscious. No doubt, it would prefer to consume the organ whilst he was wide-awake. But his previous attempts to do so had failed.

Michael spotted a hairdryer on the wall. Grabbing the pistol-shaped blower, he jabbed the button marked MAXIMUM then jammed the nozzle against Cupid’s eye. Cupid clung on a moment then, screeching, dropped to the floor, eyeball bubbling like a globule of hot soup.

It was now or never, decided Michael.

Dropping to his knees, he clamped his hands around Cupid’s throat. And
squeezed
. Oh how he squeezed. He squeezed like a vice. Like a car compacter. Like tectonic plates grinding together during an earthquake. The cherub’s eyes bulged like soap bubbles. His taloned hands and feet flailed crazily, lacerating Michael’s forearms. His lips peeled back from frantically gnashing teeth and for the first time Michael noticed the cherub’s tongue, grey, soft and slimy like the meat of an unshelled snail.