Night 1 / Chapter 2: "Cigarettes and Mea Culpa"

"Good morning, honey, how did filming go?"

I look up from my coffee and see her standing in the living room doorway wearing her favoured wrap. It's the one I bought her on our first anniversary, black silk covered in flowers of various colours. Her bobbed auburn hair frames her heart-shaped face perfectly. I feel thankful I have her to greet me when I come home. We have just completed a long session of on-location shooting through the night. It took longer than we thought because one of the lighting engineers was an idiot who kept mumbling to himself because he thought it was funny. He's not. Really. Groin ache is funnier than him. I decide I don't want to talk about it and she understands. She sits down at the table with me.

"I've wonderful news myself," she says, putting her hand on mine, "about the book." I'm intrigued. I ask her to tell me more.

XXX

Henry groaned softly as he returned to consciousness. He tried to move, but it was futile. Someone had taken his glasses so his vision was blurred, but he could still make out other things. The bright lights. The antiseptic smell. He was in some kind of hospital room. His arms and legs had been strapped down against a bed with leather belts, which were pulled so tight they made his veins stick out more prominently than he was comfortable with. For a long time he lay there, squirming weakly, but the bindings did not budge. Eventually, he heard footsteps, and two voices. One was a deep, throaty growl like gravel while the other was the slow and sensual tones of a woman. Henry closed his eyes and laid his head on one side. He was good at pretending to be asleep. The door opened and the voices became clearer.

"…So I was thinking we could go to that new restaurant off the Rigor Mortis Roundabout," said the woman.

"But why?" asked her companion, sounding slightly hurt. "Doesn't my cooking please you anymore?"

"Oh, Cheffy," the woman purred, "it's not like that. You work yourself so hard, why not just relax? Kick back and enjoy yourself for once?"

"I'll…think about it," her companion said as if it were the hardest thing in the world to do. Henry opened one eye slightly to see the two figures. He could make out two pinkish blobs and a flickering yellow-red flame, then shut it again.

"Still not awake," the woman pouted. "It's no fun unless they feel it going in."

Oh my God, Henry thought, what does this woman want to do to me? He heard more mutterings and a wet, deep kiss from the two people.

"Since our boy here isn't up yet," said the woman, "how about you and me go back to your room for a little private time, huh?"

"Private time," the companion growled lecherously. "Good." Seconds later, the door shut. Henry opened his eyes and considered his options…what options? Drugged senseless and without sight, if he could move his body would be little more than a wet bag of cement. More time passed and someone else came into the room.

"You're in a real mess, aren't you?" said another woman. This one was more serious, less drawn out than the first, and with a cultured uptown American accent. There was the distinct smell of French perfume and posh cigarette smoke in the air. There was always some of that around at the awards. "Here," said the woman, slipping his glasses over his face. Henry should have been surprised, but after Gregory's little performance with the wooden spike, this was quite tame. The woman was another mouse, one who was obviously a great deal younger than the manager. Her fur was a light colour bordering on white, with a little black heart-shaped beauty spot on one cheek and wavy hair on top like a 1940s actress. Her eyes were purple but she seemed to have both working fully. That was a relief. Henry had always found glass eyes unnerving. There was always one eye looking at you and one eye looking for you. She was holding a cigarette between two well-manicured fingers.

"It's been a while since we had a smart one," she said. "The longer you keep away from the receiving end of Catherine's needles, the better. Trust me."

"Would you mind untying me?" Henry asked.

"I don't need to," said the mouse woman with a roll of her eyes. "Take a look." She gestured with her cigarette. Henry turned his head and saw that there was no longer anything holding him against the bed. He sat up and rubbed his wrists. Even if the bindings were gone, the tightness had left their mark. His wrists and probably his ankles were striped with red and feeling sore.

"Come with me," said the mouse woman, "and we'll talk more. Believe me, honey. I know the score round these parts." Henry glanced around the room and realised it was not just a hospital ward. This 'Catherine,' had literally fused it with her own bedroom in the hotel. There was a sinking feeling that she was in charge of the so-called health plan Gregory mentioned. A row of huge hypodermic needles hung in showcases on one wall like collectible swords. He was more than happy to follow his rescuer out into the hall, soon coming to a door that led out into a small courtyard. There was a little flower bed and a fountain, a couple of benches, but nothing else. A thin layer of mist covered the ground and while there was no wind, the place was cold like death.

"Cigarette?" the mouse woman offered.

"I don't smoke," Henry replied.

"Suit yourself," she shrugged, taking another good long drag of the one between her lips. She blew out smoke rings and looked at him. "I'm Marilyn. Call me Mary and you'll die. All right? Good. Glad we understand each other."

"Uh…H-Henry, Henry Cricket," the man gulped.

"I didn't ask, but nice to meet you," Marilyn smiled wryly. "So what brought you to Gregory House?"

"I fell asleep on the train," Henry explained. "Woke up here, thought I'd stay here just for the night and look for a way back home in the morning."

"That's what you think," said Marilyn, "nobody just winds up here, and nobody ever 'just stays for the night'. Since not even you seem to know why you came here, you're safe for now, but once Gregory works it out, you'd better prepare yourself." Henry was not sure what to make of that statement so he decided to change the subject.

"Uh…so Gregory's your…"

"Husband," she replied without missing a beat. "I know there's a bit of an age gap but things work differently in this world. Some people mistake me for his sister…I don't even bother correcting them anymore…and anyway, he and I have a good arrangement."

"What kind of arrangement?"

"I told you, a good one."

Well, it was obvious he was not going to get any more out of her.

"Anyway," said Marilyn, "I just wanted to tell you that you should stay on your toes. You'll be here longer than you think, and there's only so much I can do to help. I'm as much a part of this world as the others. Now, enough of this melancholy, I'm all dressed up with nowhere to go, let's hit the bar. My treat. You at least drink, don't you?"

Henry smiled at her. "Sounds delightful."

XXX

Gregory had finally managed to put James to bed for the night. He loved the little scamp, but he could be such a pain sometimes. His deep, symbiotic connection with the hotel itself had told him to head for the bar, exchanging his dirty cardigan and jumper for the black-and-white suit appropriate for that role. He was standing behind the counter, listening to the jazz melody coming from the jukebox and cleaning glasses when Marilyn came into the room with their new guest behind her. I wonder why she's warming up to him, he thought, she must be up to something. I'm sure of it. He would talk to her later. He was fond of guests really. They gave him the opportunity to try out some of his own cocktail recipes. He worked out that something must have kept Catherine from her fun if he was still standing, even with the drugs running through his system to keep him happy and docile. The slow dragging of the man's feet told him he was still under their influence. Maybe, just maybe, he would not put up as much resistance as the others.

"You can quit staring at him, Gregory," said Marilyn. Gregory jumped. He had been so deep in his train of thought he had not noticed that the two were now actually sitting in front of him.

"Uh, y-yes, of course," he stuttered. "What'll it be?"

"Blue Lagoon, if you got it," said Marilyn.

"Of course, my dear," the old mouse grinned, taking out the ingredients and mixing them. "And for you, my friend, why not have one of my house specials?" Marilyn was about to protest (she was all too familiar with her husband's inventions) but was interrupted by Henry.

"Sure, I'll try anything once," he said.

"Tfeht gnidulcni."

"Excuse me?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing," Gregory handed Marilyn her drink and then started preparing a second one, which he passed to Henry. It was a shallow glass containing an olive green liquid with a cherry floating on top. "I call this one Mea Culpa. That's Latin, don't you know?" Seemingly not noticing the warning glare Marilyn was giving him Henry drank the entire thing and immediately began to feel weak.

XXX

I look at the caller I.D. in fear. It's Nira, the producer I've been in contact with since the first film. She's been urging me to write and direct a second piece with her. I have plenty of little ideas for her. I've drawers overflowing with little notes. Lyrics, names, quick sketches, even random words that don't make any sense, but nothing I can string together. I answer the phone.

"Ah, Henry," says Nira, "I was worried you might not be in. I know it's a bit early but I've found some actors who'd be interested in working with us for the next film. Do you have anything prepared?"

What can I say? Nira trusts me. Can I really tell her I have nothing? I groan inwardly.

"Henry?"

"Yes, yes!" I exclaim. "I have something great."

"Oh, that's wonderful!" Nira replies. "Let's meet at the usual place tomorrow. Is that okay?"

"Uh…y-yes…that's perfect. I'll see you then, Nira." We say our goodbyes. She hangs up. I collapse onto the sofa and bury my head in my hands. Our flat is nice. Small, but clean. I can smell the cake baking in the oven. Due to my medical condition, my wife goes to great pains to make cakes for special occasions. The present I've bought her for our third anniversary is tucked safely away beneath the sofa where she won't find it until I'm ready. As she bakes, she calls through the hatch connecting the living room and the kitchen.

"I'm thinking of digging out that manuscript I started in college," she tells me, "you know, the one the old publisher didn't like?"

"Something to do with the subject matter, wasn't it?" I ask, somewhat mindlessly, since my focus is on how I'm going to pull this one off with Nira.

"That's right," my wife says, "the publisher said it'd be too controversial, but my new agent Bill said he was interested." The horrible idea strikes me like a bolt of lightning.

XXX

"Ah, you're waking up," said Gregory. Henry had passed out on the floor after the last drink. He groaned lightly and his eyes creaked open very slowly. "Here, have a pick-me-up," said the manager.

"Oh, hang your pick-me-ups," Marilyn frowned, helping the fallen man into a sitting position. "You feeling okay, hon?"

"I…yes," Henry nodded, obviously not since he did not even seem to remember where he was for several long seconds. Gregory handed him another glass, this one filled with an amber liquid, and Henry took it based only on instinctual reaction.

"I call this one, 'Self-Destruction'," he tittered.