Razors & Ruin (Rare Horrors #1)

Chapter 10

10

Sweeney

T he smell isn’t pleasant, but it’s not unbearable either—just metal and rot. Marianne’s skin comes away from her in long sheets, slick and pale, her woman’s body now so much meat.

Nellie hums while she works, the sound low and almost soothing, like a lullaby for the dead. I sit on a stool, my elbows on my knees, watching as her fingers, deft and delicate, peel the skin back from muscle and sinew.

It’s fascinating to see; I sure couldn’t do it. Not that my conscience would trouble me; it just looks technical . That butcher she married certainly believed in teaching her a few things.

“Do we need the whole hide?” Nellie wipes the back of her hand across her brow, streaking blood onto her pale forehead. "I measured up, and I think she's too small to do a proper job. Even if we stretched her out, the lot of her wouldn’t be enough to cover the whole chair."

She leans in closer, using the tip of her knife to pry a stubborn piece of flesh from Marianne’s ribcage, then looks back at me with that devilish gleam in her eye. "But a few pieces—ah, now, that’s another story. Little patches here and there. Maybe an armrest or the seat.”

“Whatever you want, treacle.” I regale her with a indulgent smile, and bright spots appear in her cheeks as though I’ve given her a valentine.

“Seems fitting, after all,” Nellie says, setting down her blade. “She owes us a favor. Giggling over her bloody gin like some flighty bird, thinking she could trifle with us.”

"Pieces, then," I say, leaning back, crossing my arms. "Let’s keep it small and manageable. No sense in making more work for yourself."

Nellie nods, taking my words like a command, and continues slicing into the flesh. Her movements are methodical, practiced, like she’s done this for years, and maybe she has, though I suspect her prior subjects were a little more conventional.

"I’ll rub the brains over it, then dry the strips in the bakehouse," she says, her voice light as she pulls the last section of skin from Marianne’s back. “They need time to cure, and Harry always said the heat would quicken the process. Poor sod had to learn on pig hides, though. This—" she gestures to the heap of flesh before her—"this is art.”

I stand, stretching my arms over my head, feeling the tightness in my muscles ease a little. Marianne’s skin, limp as wet linen, hangs from Nellie’s outstretched hands.

Together, we carry the strips of skin down to the bakehouse. The warmth of the ovens greets us as we enter, the air thick with the scent of burnt bread and soot. Nellie begins to lay the pieces out across a wooden rack, her fingers brushing over them delicately, like she’s handling fine lace.

I hand her the bowl of brains, and she tips brine and salt in, swirling it around. I lean against the doorframe, watching her as she works, my mind drifting.

What denizens of Satan took their eyes off her long enough for her to find her way to Earth? The same who should have kept a closer watch over me.

We were meant to find one another. Sex and death, spite and vengeance. All made from the same sordid stuff, stinking as much as the acrid air in this basement.

Hell burns in the very mouth of the bakehouse oven, roaring orange, the teeth of its steel door bared like a trap. The glow catches Nellie’s sharp cheekbone, illuminating the bruises on her slender neck, and I’m struck by a rush of something approximating affection.

"We should walk by the river tonight," I say suddenly, surprising myself. "I’ve a mind to give Marianne’s head and hands to the river. The water’ll take her, carry her away. Leave us the rest to deal with."

Nellie turns to look at me. "A romantic stroll by the water, with a bit of business mixed in? How charming, Mr. T. I’ll need to change first.”

I drift toward her, admiring the pinpricks of sharp light in the centre of her pupils. She is hard as flint, yet soft and yielding within, her body still flushed and full of my seed.

Though shaped like a woman, she seems somehow both less and more than human; a succubus, a wraith.

“Never change, treacle.” She glances at me, and I give her a wink. “Stay just as you are.”

“Just me frock, love.” She finishes arranging the skin and wipes her hands on her skirts, leaving bloody streaks across the fabric. “Wouldn’t do to take our constitutional looking like we’ve just skinned a bitch and fucked next to her hanging corpse.”

“When you put it that way, yes, you’re right,” I say.

“We’ll make a night of it, then," she whispers, her voice low. "I’ll wash up, and you take the cleaver to Marianne. By the time I’m decent for the public, you can have her bundled and ready for a dip in the Thames, can’t you?”

What a queen . I don’t love her; there is no love to find in her bleak heart, nor any to give from mine. We can only share the void.

Will Johanna emerge from the shadows and redeem me to God through His blessed mercy?

Or does the vengeful Lord wait for His turn to dash the last of me to the ground, where He will grind his celestial heel into my eye, righteous in His judgement?

As a child, I used to sit in the pews and bow my head with the rest, sure of love and its saving power. Bread and wine, the land of milk and honey, running with benevolence and plenty for all who believe.

Now I know it’s man’s ruse, designed to control the lower beasts in the menagerie.

Yet the thought persists. Something good may have sprung from me, and until I know for sure, I cannot surrender fully to the dark.

Nellie is still; it’s merely the shadows cast by the oven’s inferno that make her seem to vibrate with a cosmic fury. The demonic shimmer of heat reflects from the walls, and I feel a shift deep in my chest.

A vicious desolation seizes me. This woman is not my salvation. That is Johanna’s place; to reclaim a piece of me, no matter how small, and hold it for Heaven.

I will never see it with my own eyes, but my daughter may be there already, and in her she carries the etchings of my existence. Here, with Nellie Lovett, there is only degradation and ruin.

There’s no quarter for me with the good things of life. I have wrought too much havoc to ask for forgiveness now; condemnation awaits, and I will say this; at least it will be fair.

“Get out of my sight, Nellie,” I say suddenly, my voice a harsh snap of rebuke. “I’ll make your fucking bundles and set the rest burning before we leave, but hurry up.”

She hesitates, but not for long. The slam of the basement trapdoor echoes off the cold stones, and I pause until I hear her steps retreating upstairs. Then I make my way back to the storeroom and retrieve the largest cleaver from its hook before lowering the flayed meatstick that was Marianne to the floor.

I swing the instrument, and splinters of neckbone fly into the air, sticking to my waistcoat. The head comes away easily, and I watch as it rolls under the table, settling on its side. The eyes are half-closed but seem to be fixed on mine.

“What the fuck are you looking at?” I say aloud.