It wasn’t long before I found myself just watching
her for hours. Usually when she was sat in front of the tv, which was
something she always did with all the lights off.
She would sit there in the darkness of my living room,
the cathode rays making her so-very-pale skin glow as luminously as
some dashboard Virgin Mary’s. Sitting ramrod straight, despite
the fact that she was in an easy chair. Her delicate, cool hands folded
neatly in her lap. Her pale blue eyes hardly blinking at all.
The expression on her face? It never altered, whatever
she might be watching. A sit-com. A science documentary. An action movie,
or a news broadcast on starvation in Africa. It never got the smallest
of responses from the tiniest of the muscles in her face.
There was nothing at all haughty about the way that
Cheryl looked. About the way that any of the Risers looked.
Nothing supercilious or aloof.
Just ... detached.
Perhaps ‘disconnected’ would be the slightly
better word.
And -- after a long while of this -- she would realise
that she was being watched. Her face would turn towards me. Her incredible,
ethereally-beautiful face, like the visage of an angel.
She would take in the fact that I was there, and submerged
in observing her. She’d blink.
But her expression did not alter. Not a touch.
Those first few weeks, the idea grew up in my head
that she really was smiling, but inside.
#
I’d first seen a living human being actually
out with a Riser about a year back.
‘Out’? As in ‘stepping out’.
As in dating.
It had been at a bar on the far fringe of Soho, fashionable
enough to attract clientele like us, but not so trendy as to be packed
full to bursting. I’d been there with my then girlfriend, Lois,
her younger sister and her sister’s handsome boyfriend, and another
couple that I knew through work. That last pair? They would realise
the dynamics of this particular evening after another hour or so. Look
at each other, and silently admit that they had no wish to join in.
Turn uncomfortably quiet on us, make their excuses a while later, and
depart. Leaving us last four to finish up our drinks and head back to
my pad nearby, where we could get more intimate.
Lois’s sister was gorgeous, even prettier than
her. I was already looking forward to it. But -- this early in the evening
-- it was simply trendy cocktails at a marginally trendy bar. Just that,
on the surface.
Till the door swung open, and the middle-aged woman
stepped in with a tall Riser on her arm. You can spot them immediately,
thanks to their utter paleness and the noticeable way they move.
“Oh my God, Geoff !” Lois immediately
whispered, in the kind of sotto voce you can hear across an entire room.
The woman didn’t bat an eyelid, however, although
she must have heard it. She was obviously quite used to reactions of
that kind.
We’d all read about this phenomenon, of course,
the living hooking up with the walking, risen dead. Just last month,
for instance, Cosmo had run a piece entitled Cool Boyfriend: The
Pros and Cons of Dating Risers. But we’d never actually seen
it until now.
The couple chose a small table about a dozen feet
across from us. One of the bar staff came over to them, rather stiffly,
and the woman ordered wine and food.
Then gazed back at her companion almost rapturously.
She was one of those women in her mid-forties who
seemed to have aged badly through circumstance rather than self-neglect.
Too much of a stoop to the shoulders. Too many lines etched into what
had once been an attractive face. A permanent down-turn to the corners
of her mouth, and a watery sadness to the eyes that could never be blotted
away.
Decades of disappointment, then, written into her
leathery features. Faithless husbands? Careless children? Younger boyfriends
who had used her and then left? You can never know what people’s
histories are unless they, or someone, tells. But you can take an even
guess.
And her companion ... must have been in his late twenties
when he’d died. He was slightly over six foot tall, with the build
of a rugby-player. Short-cut, curly, sandy-coloured hair. Emerald green
eyes. Dressed like something out of a good catalogue -- had she dressed
him, or was that his natural instinct?
And how good-looking?
I’ll get to that subject later.
Anyway, the wine turned up. He poured, with utter
smoothness and precision. She raised her glass towards his, and they
clinked.
Her gaze hadn’t left his face, almost the whole
while they’d been in here. And what exactly was she seeing there?
I wondered at the time.
Lois screwed her features up. Her sister ducked her
head and made that finger-down-throat gesture.
I just watched.
When the food turned up, the Riser took a little of
his own on his fork, held it out towards the woman to taste. Again,
had she trained him to do that, or did he do it naturally?
But I can still remember her expression, to this very
day. She looked as though brilliant sunlight had just rushed straight
through her body. As though she had momentarily been brushed by the
wing of an angel.
After another while, the six of us forgot about them,
or rather managed to ignore them. Got back to the business in hand that
evening.
But I can still remember the expression on
that woman’s face.
I can remember something else as well, now that I
think about it. Shame I didn’t think about it sooner.
The way that she stared deep into the Riser’s
eyes. It was not simply adoration. It was more as though ... she were
trying, very hard, to find something in there.
And, when I look at Cheryl’s face these days,
is my own gaze the same?
#
It is generally accepted these days that the presence
of the risen dead in all developed countries has been caused by the
widespread use of Revenox. I can’t give you its clinical name,
since it stretches several paragraphs. But never has the commercial
name for any drug turned out to be quite so prophetic.
A wonder-drug in its day, though its use is banned
worldwide by now. It accelerated the healing of traumas, in some cases
sixfold. Was used for injuries, to flesh and bones and even nerve tissue.
For recovery after any kind of surgery. Even for dental work.
It couldn’t heal the damage of a heart attack,
or repair the brain after a stroke. But if something, anything, had
put a hole or a break in your body, Revenox could close it up in more
than record time.
And it always did work the best on the young
and fit, those who healed the fastest anyway.
The ‘side-effect’ only became apparent
several more years down the line.
The first is always the most famous one. Sven Ollson,
a young ad exec from Stockholm rather too fond of the cocktail of strong
vodka and fast cars. Went into a lamppost one night, punching the engine
block right back into the driver’s seat. Which was no real problem,
because Sven hadn’t put his seatbelt on, and had already sailed
out head-first through the windshield. Dead before he hit the ground,
his neck snapped.
One hour on, his wounds start healing, the damage
repairing itself.
Three hours on, the gashes are all closed up, leaving
not even a faint pink mark.
Before dawn, he’s on his feet and moving round.
This kind of charming thing kept happening more and
more. The scientists are still trying to figure it out, but realise
now that Revenox caused changes on a very deep, genetic level.
And at first? Our governments locked all these quiet,
pale folk up, to study them. Until the Civil Rights groups got in on
the act.
Final judgement? The Risers were still human, and
they had done nothing wrong. At least, it seemed rather curmudgeonly
by that point to arrest poor Sven for drunk driving.
There are plenty of them by now. Mostly men, but a
reasonable percentage of women.
You see, those who die of old age, or from heart attacks
or strokes or cancer, simply do not rise. It is those who’ve had
an accident or somesuch. Motor bikes, or driving too fast. Contact or
dangerous sports. Fistfights. Going out with a bunch of friends one
evening, getting blasted, stepping out into the traffic.
Which means, consequently, that the vast majority
of Risers are the young and fit. Quite a few of them, in fact, used
to be criminal gang members, killed in turf wars.
And as for their looks? I told you that I’d
get to that.
Well, let’s just say that death becomes a lot
of them. That very evident, almost translucent paleness to their skin.
That inner stillness they possess, as though the galaxy revolves around
them, they are its fixed core. The smoothness, the refined grace, of
their every motion. The fixedness of their expressions, the steadiness
of their gaze.
Forget shambling monsters, dragging themselves around,
moaning, with flesh dropping off their bones. The zee-word has been
binned alongside all those n’s and c’s, these days. They
don’t crumble come sunrise, and they don’t eat living flesh.
A lot of the risen dead, in fact, are enviably beautiful.
#
Kath followed Lois. And Kelly followed Kath. Then there
were Jane, Marsha, and Zoe.
It mostly wasn’t me who broke it of f. I enjoyed
being with each of them. I have a way with women, you see, but to tell
the truth it is limited. It has an expiry date. I can have them eating
out of the palm of my hand for a short while. Get them to do anything
I want. Lois's sister was my idea, for instance.
But after a few months, even weeks with me, women
seem to give me a second, much harder look. And not particularly like
what they see.
It’s always bothered me, but not too much. I’m
always ready to move on and, working in PR as I do, there’s perpetually
a fresh horizon to move on to.
I was now with ... let me see ... another Kelly. Kelly
Two. Except I wasn’t as of this warm evening. Kelly Too Strong-Willed
By Far. I’d come home to find a note, and both her bags and all
her clothing gone. She’d thought that she could change me, the
note said, the handwriting more jagged than was usual.
But nothing at all had changed. I was only back to
where I always was. My apartment now had that familiar dull echo.
I didn’t fancy the idea of cooking supper, eating
it, alone. So I went to the small pub at the corner of my quiet mews
in Fitzrovia. It was dimly-lit. There were only two old men in there
-- it being a Monday night -- and the bar was being tended by a straggly-haired
Australian kid I’d never seen before. I ordered venison sausages,
with mash and onion gravy, and a pint of cider to wash it down with.
Was half way through the meal when the tall, strawberry-blonde Riser
walked in.
I was struck immediately by her looks, exceptional
even for her kind. She was about my height in her heels, slim without
being too slim. Shapely. With small hands and feet. Tiny nose and ears.
Her hair fell in one smooth sweep across her right shoulder to the small
of her back.
And her eyes? It was hard to tell in this light, but
they seemed the clearest of pale blues.
The Australian kid immediately looked uncomfortable.
The two old codgers at the far end looked up, frowned disgustedly, then
went back to conversing.
All the woman did was sit down at a corner table and
...
And that. Nothing more. She just stared evenly into
thin air.
It’s unusual to see a Riser out completely on
its own. Which doesn’t mean they’re all out on hot dates,
Cosmo or not. Since they do not speak, and most people feel uncomfortable
around them, they don’t hold down jobs. Their families, their
loved ones, even their close friends wind up having to look after them.
And those who have none? There are state-run hostels for their kind
these days, since we cannot have the risen dead just littering the streets
(a shame we don’t feel the same about the living, homeless charities
point out).
Anyway, you rarely get a Riser wandering unaccompanied
into a bar. Somebody would normally come with them just to make sure
they got served, if nothing else.
It was turning out to be a less than normal night.
So, after some five minutes of this, the kid behind
the bar plucked up the nerve to come across to her and mutter quickly,
“Drink?”
She looked up at him, nodded, then stared into space
again.
He hadn’t had the sense to ask her what kind.
Just poured her a half of lager, put it down in front of her, and went
away again.
The woman picked up the glass, took a tiny sip. The
bridge of her nose screwed up the next instant. She put it back down
and just seemed to forget about it.
I must have watched her for the best part of the next
half hour. Taking in, not just her beauty. Taking in her utter stillness.
She was like ... not a photograph, nor even a painting really. Like
a figure etched in stained glass, in the high window of some cathedral.
Had an ethereal, quite unworldly quality I’d never seen before.
And I realised something about myself, during that
half hour of watching. Ever since that first evening, that middle-aged
woman in that marginally-smart bar, these Risers had ... fascinated
me, somehow. To the very core.
Why so deeply? I am still not sure, even now. Maybe
they simply possess something that I’ve always craved. A total
inner calm, perhaps. Or absolute detachment.
Whatever. In the end I couldn’t help myself.
I had to get up closer, try to find out more about one.
This one in particular.
Faltering only slightly, I picked up the dregs of
my drink, and walked over to her table.
Had to clear my throat before I was able to speak.
She looked up at me and, yes, her eyes proved to be
an extremely pale blue.
“Is it alright if I join you?” I asked.
She gave me another tiny nod, her gaze fixed on my
face now. It stayed there when I sat down.
I could almost feel the kid at the bar staring at
my back by this time. Thinking that I was some kind of pervert? I didn’t
much care.
“Lager doesn’t seem to be your drink,”
I pointed out to her. “Would you like something else?”
She nodded.
“Wine?”
She didn’t respond.
“Er, a cocktail? A martini? G&T?”
This was already becoming a preposterous encounter,
I realised. What exactly was I going to do? Run through the entire list
of beverages, from A to Z, until she gave another nod. I stopped.
And it was then I noticed something gleaming at her
throat. Something gold. A little pendant, with a name picked out on
it in curlicues.
Cheryl.
I said it out loud.
“That’s your name then?”
And she nodded.
She had to be twenty-three or -four. Quite stunning.
“Aren’t you with anyone, Cheryl? A boyfriend?
A husband? Parents? There has to be someone looking after you.
She was very clean and neatly dressed, in mid-price-range
designer clothing, so that last had to be true enough. But she didn’t
respond to any of my questions. Whoever she had been with, had she simply
walked away from, left?
“Do you live nearby, perhaps? Can I take you
anywhere?”
No reaction whatsoever. All she did was stare into
my face intensely.
I thought of asking her if she wanted anything to
eat. Until I realised that would present the same problem as the drink
had.
My mind was becoming, simultaneously, stuttery and
numb. At a loss as to which direction to go next. What next to do? What
next to say?
There was nothing I could think of. This had not been
such a good idea at all.
So, “Okay then,” I told her. “I’ll
just leave you be. I’m sorry to have disturbed you.”
Then I got up quickly, headed for the door.
It was only when I stopped by the kerb, to take a
few deep breaths, that I realised she had followed me outside.
#
Fascinated all over again, I let her follow me the
whole way home. She moved when I moved, at the same pace. And she stopped
when I stopped. How far would this go? I was wondering now. How far
exactly could I take this?
Maybe that has always been my attitude to attractive
women. Maybe that has always been the problem.
I was already starting to think about her the same
way I thought about the Lois’s and Kellys and the Marshas, only
more beautiful, quieter. Not as risen dead at all.
Even so, I could scarcely believe it when I pushed
open the front door of my flat and she walked in behind me. I wasn’t
afraid. Risers had been around for years, there was not one recorded
instance of them harming anyone.
I went through into the living room, switched on the
lights.
Only for her to switch them off again a moment
later. That made me jump, I must confess.
But she didn’t advance on me, her slavering
jaws agape. She simply crossed the room to my favourite chair, sat down
in it -- bolt upright. And then picked up the remote and switched the
tv on.
Its light washed across her so-pale skin, making it
seem to glow.
That was the start of it.
#
She watched the screen till midnight, not changing
the channel nor reacting in any way to what was on there. Her gaze didn’t
even falter when adverts came on.
But finally, she simply clicked the thing off. On
what signal? Stood up in the dark, then wandered down my hallway till
she found the bedroom.
I was following her by now, like some zoologist studying
a mammal.
She simply ... went inside, turned back my duvet.
Stripped down to her underwear, revealing a body that was as flawlessly
lovely as her face. Climbed into my bed and fell immediately asleep,
with the light still on.
And that seemed to be that.
Except I sat down in the bedroom’s single chair,
and watched her for several more hours before I finally dozed off.
#
She was not there, come morning. Just an impression
where she’d lain. She was in the kitchen, making breakfast. Only
for herself.
Black coffee. A bowl of muesli. I watched her start
on it, then remembered that I ought to eat myself.
I tried talking to her again a few times, but I got
no reaction. In the end, I simply had to go to work.
She’ll be gone by the time I return home,
I kept telling myself. She’ll simply wander off again.
Was there any regret, bound up with that thought?
I just wasn’t sure.
But I opened my front door that evening to the noise
and flicker of the television set, emanating from a darkened living
room once more. She was in the same position she had been last night,
watching a report about a bomb in Tel Aviv. Then she watched a game
show. Her expression did not change.
I made no attempt to talk with her, this time. Simply
went about my normal business, working around her as though she were
some great big block of marble that had somehow wound up in my living
room. Cooked and ate my supper. Loaded the dishwasher -- a job overdue.
Wrote out a few cheques for bills in the glow from the kitchen door.
Kept on looking at her, studying her, though.
What had fascinated me about her kind before -- and
what struck me so forcibly about her now, I realised -- was that they
all seemed so entirely ...
There was only one word for it.
Perfect.
Human beings? They’re never that. There’s
always a blemish, a tic, a flaw just waiting to be found.
But perhaps, it was beginning to occur to me, I was
playing in a different league now.
“Cheryl?”
I said it from the doorway when she went through to
my bedroom once again.
She stopped, in her lacy underwear. Turned, and gazed
at me.
“What exactly are you doing? Do you realise
this is my home? How long are you planning to stay? Are you planning
to move in for good?”
Gazed at me. That was all she did. The sole response
I got.
I should have been unnerved, but was not. I was still
too fascinated by her.
Once again, she fell asleep with the light on.
She hadn’t pulled the duvet over her this time,
though. I studied her body. The semi-liquid flow of the limbs, and the
smooth sweep of the curves. The loveliest female body I had ever seen
-- and I’d seen more than a few.
After a long while, something new began occurring
to me. I had spoken to her, but I’d never touched her. Never touched
any Riser.
And what did it feel like?
Cool, I knew that. Risers aren’t stone-cold,
of course. How could they possibly be that? They would be room
temperature at the very least. But the truth is that they run at about
five degrees below a living human, and so feel cool to our touch.
Otherwise?
Stiff? Or clammy? If she was either of those, I’d
throw her out and burn the sheets. No, correct that -- burn the bed!
But slowly, I went over to her, taking care my shadow
didn’t fall across her face. Stood for an age near the corner
of the mattress, trying to convince myself I didn’t need to do
this.
Finally, I just reached down and brushed my fingertips
across her wrist.
Drew them back quickly enough ... that coolness was
unsettling.
But it was nothing like I had supposed. Nothing like
dead meat, the chill of perished flesh.
Rather, it seemed to be a part of what she was. It
suited her.
When I touched her for a second time, my palm stayed
gently on her forearm.
Her eyes suddenly slid open. Those very pale blue
eyes. And I jerked back, embarrassed and rather frightened.
She just gazed into my face. There was no accusation
in her stare. No discomfort or displeasure.
In fact, precisely nothing. Her expression was the
same as when she watched bomb-mangled bodies. The same as when she watched
quiz shows.
My voice was hoarse when I finally asked her, “Did
you mind me doing that?”
But she simply went to sleep again.
#
Over the course of the next couple of weeks, I took
in certain facts. That she seemed to have moved in for the duration.
And -- that being the case -- there were new tasks assigned to me. Extra
food was no problem, I took notice of what she seemed to like and what
she didn’t, shopped accordingly. But she couldn’t wear the
same clothes forever. Or the same underwear for that matter.
I spent some evenings after work on Bond Street and
in Burlington Arcade, buying a new wardrobe for her.
Found myself hoping that she would smile at what I’d
purchased. Or, at the very least, her eyes would sparkle.
They never did, though she wore the clothes. She didn’t
even mind me watching her while she changed into them. Even the underwear.
She’d give me a twirl sometimes, once that she
was all dressed up. But no, she never smiled.
Two whole weeks. We didn’t go out. And -- despite
breaking up with Kelly Two -- I didn’t see anyone else.
Perhaps, it started to occur to me, because I was
already seeing someone.
We never clashed. She never disagreed with me, even
silently. I had never been with a companion like that.
If I wanted to watch a specific show, for instance,
and she had a different channel on, I’d simply reach across and
change it. She’d continue watching without so much as a puzzled
blink.
Most of the time, though, I wound up looking straight
at her, instead of the programme I’d switched over to, becoming
enthralled by her utter, perfect beauty. Cheryl was enchanting me.
Who had she been? What had she once done? Where had
she come from? There were no possible answers to these questions, and
I turned them over less and less as the days passed. Realising that
they were not important, since I simply didn’t care.
She was one of the risen dead. But did that matter?
I kept on asking myself. Maybe she was what I’d never found in
any normal woman.
Enchanted, did I say? Entranced.
In which case, why didn’t I go outdoors with
her? Introduce her to my friends?
I had to admit it to myself in the end, the cynic
in me winning over. She’d become my dirty little secret.
Just how dirty, though?
I couldn’t make that mental leap as yet. But
I had taken to buying clothes and underwear for her she simply didn’t
need. Very sexy clothes and underwear, just to watch her try them on
then wear them round the flat. Though I didn’t even need to go
to that expense to see her get undressed.
She bathed and showered regularly. The expression
on her face if I walked into the bathroom while she was in there?
The same expression as she ever wore. A total lack
of pleasure or surprise, certainly. But a lack of disapproval too. And
women always wound up giving me a look of disapproval.
Two weeks turned into three, and the harder questions
kept on gnawing at me like a pack of rats. Had we now become a couple?
Or had she simply become my plaything, my pale, life-size dress-up doll?
I couldn’t decide which. But knew I’d
have to.
#
It was a Saturday night by this time, the West End
erupting around my quiet mews like a firework display with shouting
people, blaring music, motor horns and drunks instead of rockets.
Cheryl and I sat in my darkened living room, the wash
of the tv screen playing across us both.
She had showered just recently. One towel was wrapped
around her body, and the other formed a turban in her hair. Again, I
was gazing at her, trying to remember when I had ever seen anything
as lovely.
And ... if I could only really please her. Make her,
for once, smile. Was she smiling, inside?
A little of the night’s noise drifted in through
my partially-open window, despite my flat’s secluded location.
And maybe it was that which made something occur to me.
Why not go right back to the beginning, when we’d
met? Since I believed I had the answer now?
“Cheryl?” I asked.
Her face turned towards me, only one half of it lit-up
in the cathode glow.
“Would you like a drink?”
My heart was thumping when she nodded.
“Champagne?"
Why hadn’t I thought of it that first night?
I’ve yet to meet any woman who doesn’t like champagne.
She gave me a second nod. Though not a smile.
I went and got a bottle from the fridge, two glasses.
Poured it for us. Almost clinked the glasses, until I remembered that
middle-aged woman in the bar.
She sipped it. Didn’t show me any pleasure,
though her nose did not screw up either.
But, half way through my second glass, I sat right
up close to her, on the edge of what had now become her chair.
And started telling her exactly how I’d come to feel.
How utterly perfect she was. How beautiful, how calm
and very gentle. And how comfortable -- serene even -- I felt in her
presence. I had never been with anyone like her. We were right for each
other, whatever the rest of the world might think.
And her expression as I said this?
Suicide-bomb victims and quiz shows. Being watched
naked. Or eating muesli.
That didn’t stop me. It had all been building
up for weeks now, nothing would. The last of my inhibitions? Stripped
away by the champagne.
She was not dead, I kept telling myself.
Dead meant lying in the ground. And she was not that thing.
I buried my face into hers. Her cool lips. Her cool
cheek. Her lashes batted, once, against my own. There was nothing unsettling
about her temperature now. It soothed me and relaxed me.
And then, I was lifting her tenderly out of the chair.
Laying her on the floor.
Distant laughter filtered through my window.
Then I was on top of her, and then inside her coolness.
It was over very quickly. Far too quickly -- I’d
been waiting too long. I moaned, pressed my face into the ice-cream
flesh above her shoulder.
Finally, lifted my head.
Stared down for a moment, at her face lit by the tv’s
glow.
Then rolled off her, curled myself into the tightest
ball I could. And remained in that position for almost the entire night.
Because ... that middle-aged woman in that passably-trendy
bar, the way that she had stared into her handsome Riser’s eyes?
I had at last come to realise what she had been looking
for.
#
That was all nine months ago. Cheryl is still here,
and still exactly as she first was.
Myself? I wish I could say the same. I’ve lost
about twelve pounds, so that my clothes hang off me. A gaunt, skeletal,
red-eyed stranger peers back at me from the mirror, when I bother with
it at all, which is rare. I don’t worry too much about my appearance
these days. It’s not like I’m out there searching for a
date or anything.
My firm has noticed though, and my boss is thinking
of dropping me.
Maybe I’d better smarten up. I need that job,
after all, to keep on looking after Cheryl properly.
I feed her, trying out new dishes on her, hoping one
will please. I clothe her and I even bathe her.
And I make love to her every night. Not like that
first time, but for hours, as slowly and considerately as a man can
manage.
Because I’m still looking for it, you
see. The same thing that lined woman was.
Not even a smile. I don’t even need that. Not
even a sparkle in the eyes.
Just ... the tiniest gasp. The tiniest flutter. A
momentary squeeze-shut of the eyelids, or even a slight change in the
rhythm of her breath.
Something, anything, which shows that she’s
responded to me.
Something, anything, which proves she really
is smiling inside.
I know that she’s attracted to me. I know she
has to like me, even care about me in her way. Why would she have followed
me home in the first place otherwise? Why would she have stayed? I only
have to find the proper way to draw that feeling out.
And you think I’m cracked? You think that I
have an alternative? What, go back to the Lois’s and Kellys, after
this?
No, I can’t do that.
Occasionally -- in a particularly reflective moment
-- I might think about B-movie zombies, eating human flesh.
But, as I have shown all along, the risen dead are
not that ... they are graceful, even delicate beings.
And perhaps have found more delicate, more subtle
methods of devouring and destroying humans like myself.
This story first appeared in December 2002 on Gothic.net.
Copyright © 2002 Tony Richards
