CHAPTER 7: CHESIRE CAT GRIN

Brigid was falling: to where, she didn't know. The air around her was completely void; of light, of sound, of substance. Her stomach gave a sickening lurch and her eyes snapped open to a softer, solider darkness. Panting, she ran her hands over her face, siphoning off cold sweat and rubbing it into the sheets on either side of her. She was just coming back down to a normal heart rate, comforted by the soft gray light of the morning, when her bed curtains were suddenly wrenched back. Brigid gave a strangled yelp of surprise and tumbled to the floor.

"Morning, sunshine!" James sang, looking impossibly functional at such an early hour in his pressed suit. His teeth gleamed sharp and white in the gloom, giving Brigid the odd impression that he was just a floating smile.

"Get your Chesire Cat grin out of my face," she moaned up at him. "It's too early for this. It's too early for you."

"Nonsense, love, I'm always on time," he said, glancing at his watch just to be sure. "Speaking of time – it's time for breakfast. Up you get." He offered her a hand. Brigid accepted grudgingly and allowed herself to be pulled upright.

"Strictly speaking, I don't do breakfast –" she began.

"Yes, I've noticed, much of the kitchen looks quite unused," James replied. "Save for the canned soup supplies and the cigarette drawer. You ought to slow down with those, love, they're bad for your health –"

Brigid snorted.

"Alright, then, they're bad for my wallet –"

"Oh, please, you've got a private helicopter, for God's sake –"

"Right. Soup and cigarettes for breakfast it is, then," he said, suppressing a smile.

"Excellent. I'll meet you downstairs, I've got to shower."

"Yes, you really have – ah!" He yelped, dodging a blow from Brigid. "An unwarranted attack!"

"Unwarranted attack, my arse," Brigid muttered, brushing past him on her way to the stairs.


Brigid found James in the kitchen with what looked like the half the contents of the cupboards around his ears and six different pots and pans going on the enormous stove. She lingered in the doorway, dismayed.

"What is all this?" She demanded, gesticulating wildly to indicate the chaotic state of the kitchen.

"What? Oh – breakfast!" He said cheerfully, twisting away from the stove to grin at her.

"What happened to soup and cigarettes?"

"You can have soup and cigarettes any day, love. Today is special."

"What's so special about today?"

"Well, I'm here, for one –"

"Hmph."

"Alright, well, if that doesn't do it for you – we're celebrating your success."

"My success? Success in what?"

"In writing, of course, what else?" He said, rolling his eyes and turning back to the pan of rashers he had going on the front burner.

Brigid wasn't entirely sure how to respond to this without asking the wrong questions. She thought for a moment, choosing her words carefully.

"So…you…liked it? The story?"

He stopped what he was doing and moved towards her, his expression unreadable. Brigid felt very nervous all of a sudden, aware that Sebastian was likely standing just outside the front door, gun in hand. James took her face in both of his hands; they smelt of rosemary.

"Darling," he whispered, "it was incendiary."

"Mmm, clever of you to say so," Brigid laughed, stepping away, relieved.

"Which reminds me," he continued. "I did promise you something, didn't I?"

"Now that you mention it, I do recall a promise being made…"


[one week earlier]

"Well, what have you got for me, love?"

Brigid handed James a small stack of paper, unbound but neatly sheathed. Across the top, printed: A Pleasure to Burn. He laughed.

"Oh, this will be good. This will be very good."

"Are you going to read it now?" She asked, biting her lip. She hoped he wouldn't; she hated watching other people read her stories. It felt dirty, somehow.

"No, no, no time for that now, I'll read it on the ride back," he said with a wave of his hand.

She gave a sigh of relief and her shoulders relaxed visibly.

"Before I go, though, let's take a walk, you and I, shall we?" He said.

"Alright," Brigid agreed, leading him out the front door and into a rare bright day. Sebastian looked on impassively from behind mirrored lenses as the two of them began to trudge across the meadow.

"Look, this is my only friend, now," Brigid gestured to the right, where a lone sheep stood grazing.

"Oh, don't be dramatic," James said, "it's so unappealing on you. You never wanted any friends in the first place, remember?"

"Yes, I remember, and I still don't. I was making a joke. Sort of."

"Sort of?"

"Well, I'm pretty well rid of humans, but I don't mind animals too much. The sheep really is my friend."

"Oh? And what's its name?"

"She. And her name is Sheep."

James cast her an incredulous glance.

"Aren't you supposed to be a creative type? And here you are, naming sheep…Sheep. Exactly what kind of story am I about to read, Brigid? Please don't tell me I'm going to be disappointed. I hate – hate – to be disappointed."

"Calm down, the story is fine – at least, I think it is – the name is just a literary reference."

"To?"

"To – well – lots of things, actually. Sheep in stories often aren't given identifying names. Like in Charlotte's Web. Or Animal Farm. It's a metaphorical device."

"Hmm, not a very subtle one, is it?"

"No, I suppose not. Then again, neither am I."

"No," James agreed, looking at her thoughtfully. "You're not."

Brigid blushed, confused, and they walked on in silence for a few minutes. Then –

"What do you want?"

"Sorry?"

"What do you want?" James asked again. "If the story is…good – which we'll know in about a week – I'll bring you something. Anything. Within the rules, that is."

"Anything?"

"Except booze. That's boring."

"Hmm, alright. Um...music, then."

"Oh, lovely. That's much more interesting. What kind of music?"

"Surprise me."

"Don't I always?"

"Remains to be seen."


[present]

"Well? Are you surprised?"

"Actually, yes," Brigid laughed, taking in the scene before her. All the furniture in the library had been pushed back to the far end of the room to make space for dozens of boxes of records. Atop the closest one perched a large, extremely ancient-looking phonograph.

"I might have cheated a bit," James admitted as Brigid began to dig through the boxes. "I might have popped into your apartment and done a bit of searching, just to get an idea –"

"Invasive…" Brigid muttered without pausing in her search.

"Just to get an idea," James repeated loudly, ignoring her, "but I couldn't find any coherent pattern in your musical taste. You're a mystery."

"So you brought everything?"

"I brought everything."

"Good. I like everything." She straightened up and held a battered sleeve triumphantly over her head. "But I like this most of all."

"ABBA? You're not serious."

"I'm perfectly serious," she replied, sliding the record out of its sleeve and carefully inspecting both sides for scratches. Satisfied, she queued it up on the phonograph and flipped the switch. She pumped her fists in the air dramatically as Voulez-Vous began to blare from the speaker.

"You've no idea what you've just gotten yourself into, love," James grinned as he grabbed her hand and twirled her around.

"What – and you were making fun of me for—" she cried indignantly as he spun her back into his arms.

"Yes, because you're a tortured, starving artist. You're not supposed to like 70's Swedish pop music. You're supposed to like – I don't even know what you're supposed to like. Bands I've never heard of, I imagine."

"And what are you supposed to like?"

"Point taken. What do you think Sebastian likes?"

"I think Sebastian likes what you tell him to like."

"You're probably right. Think I should make him listen to more ABBA?"

Brigid laughed to think of Sebastian standing just on the other side of the door, expressionless, bobbing his head along to the cheery beat. Just then, the song ended. An awkward silence followed, punctuated only by the scratchy fuzz of the needle, and Brigid became intensely aware that she and James were practically embracing. James seemed to come to the same realization and dropped his hands quickly to his sides.

"Right. Well. Now that we've got our morning workout out of the way, I'd best be going."

"Ah – what about breakfast?"

"Oh, I ate hours ago. That's all for you. Should tide you over until next time, eh?"

"That depends. When's next time?"

"Oh...say a week from today. That should give you enough time."

"Enough time for what?" Brigid asked dumbly.

"Enough time for the stories, love," James replied, tapping a finger to her temple.


After James and Sebastian had gone, Brigid spent much of the morning flitting around the kitchen, taking small pecks at the abundance of food, smoking cigarette after cigarette, changing records out almost compulsively. She couldn't settle on a genre; she wavered between disco and bluegrass and classical and heavy metal. She knew she was very nervous but couldn't quite pin down why. Possibly it was the pressure of a new story; the first one had come so easily, she was afraid she'd exhausted all her creative stores in one go. It was more than that, though. It was also James – a little bit. His smile flashed in the back of her mind like a beacon. She shook the thought away, frustrated, and returned to the library. She pushed aside some of the boxes so she could reach the bookshelves, where she stood staring, craning her neck for what felt like ages. Finally –

"Is this cheating?" She murmured to herself, stooping to pull a dusty volume out from a low shelf. "I suppose not," she mused, turning it over and over in her hands, "since it's a monster story, and technically monster stories aren't real. I'd have to change it to make it real." With that, she nodded decisively and headed up to the attic, where the writing desk stood in wait. Sat down. Loaded it up. Fingers danced across the keys:

The blood is life...and it shall be mine.