Joanne Harris - Sleep, Pale Sister (P.S.)

To Kevin, again

Dont lookat me that wayI cant bear it!

This Isay then, Walk in the Spirit, and ye

She lostour child, of course. Nursed by laudanum, she

I was illfor several weeks; the wintry weather hindered

Sheslying, you know. I was never unkind to her,

Knave ofHearts, dear fellow, of Hearts. Kindly give me

As thedoor opened and I saw him for the

I neverliked Moses Harper. A thoroughly dangerous and calculating

For twoweeks I was content to watch him and

Id beenfollowing her for nearly a week before I

I waslucky that Henry was late home; it had

I stoppedat my club, the Cocoa Tree, for a

You see,she needed me. Call me a villain if

It was hotinside the tent and what light there

I wasbeginning to become impatient; she had been in

I could tellthat Mose was annoyed that we had

The bitch.The bitch! Bitches, both of them. As I

Before Imet Mose I never knew how bleak my

I know, Iknow. I was deliberately cruel. And I

Somehow Iseemed to recognize the room. As I drifted,

It wasalmost dawn when I reached Cromwell Square and

I rememberher cool, strong hand against my hair. Her

I supposea century ago they would have called me

It was anaccident, I tell you. I never meant

I havelittle recollection of returning to Cromwell Square: it

I didntsee Effie the next day and, to tell

I knew hewould come: his greed and selfishness were

I spent myentire day at the studio working on

Five days.

The clockon the mantelpiece said a quarter past eleven.

Its alie: I dont dream. There are people who

At first Iwas furious.

I knewhed come back. Id seen him watching us

Strange,how time can fold in upon itself like linen

When Iawoke, the sunlight was streaming through the open

Poor Mose!And poor Effie. I suppose I should have

I saw lessof my wife that week than ever

We werealone together, quite alone as Henry rattled about

Four weekspassed with the aching slowness of those summer

They cametogether now, like ghostly twins, their faces merging

After thatconfrontation, my wife was the enemy: a soft

As soon asI saw him leave Martas room and

You haveto understand that I was furious. I had

I couldnot go home to Cromwell Square. The thought

The more Ithought about it, the more uneasy I

Imagine asnowflake floating down a deep well. Imagine a

She waslying on the bed with her hair loose,

Behind thewall of the cemetery and the endless, exquisite

Cursinginwardly, I tried to keep my voice soft and

For a timebeyond time there was nothing. I was

As Iwatched Henry disappear along the High Street I

Silenceshrouded me as I made my way slowly back

All right,all right. I had more than a couple

Tabby cameback from visiting her family early on the

I awoke tothe sound of bells: great clanging, discordant

Myeuphoria lasted until I reached Cromwell Square. Then I

It wasnttill after seven that I decided to pay

When hehad gone, I paced the hall in a

Itsamazing, isnt it, how money disappears? I paid my

From themoment I saw the opened present underneath the

The snowbegan to fall as I left Henrys studio.

A softcurrent bore me to a silent world of

I wasbetween the rapacious thighs of my latest inamorata

Youd liketo know, wouldnt you? I can smell that

It wasEffie all right. They took me to identify

The blackangel stirs restlessly and I look at the

Manuscript, from the estateof Henry Paul Chester January, 1881

As Ilook at my name and the letters which follow it I am filled with a vast blankness. As if thisHenry Chester, painter, twice exhibited at the Royal Academy, were not myselfbut some ill-defined figment of somebodys imagination, the cork to a bottlecontaining a genie of delicate malevolence that permeates my being and launchesme into a realm of perilous adventure, in search of the pale, terrified ghostof myself.

Thename of the genie is chloral , that dark companion ofmy sleeping hours, a tender bedfellow now grown spiteful. Yet we have beenwedded too long now for separation, the genie and I. Together we will writethis narrative, but I have so little time! Already, as the last shreds ofdaylight fall from the horizon, I seem to hear the wings of the black angel inthe darkest corner of the room. She is patient, but not infinitely so.

God,that most exquisite of torturers, will deign to give me a little time to writethe tale which I shall take with me to my cold cell under the earthno colder,surely, than this corpse I inhabit, this wilderness of the soul. Oh, He is ajealous God: pitiless as only immortals can be, and when I cried out for Him inmy filth and suffering He smiled and replied in the words He gave to Moses fromthe burning bush: I Am That I Am . His gaze iswithout compassion, without tenderness. Within it I see no promise ofredemption, no threat of punishment; only a vast indifference, promisingnothing but oblivion. But how I long for it! To melt into the earth, so thateven that all-seeing gaze could not find meand yet the infant within me criesat the dark, and my poor, crippled body screams out for timeA little moretime, one more tale, one more game.

Andthe black angel lays her scythe by the door and sits beside me for a final handof cards.

Ishould never write after dark. At night, words become false, troubling; andyet, it is at night that words have the most power. Scheherazade chose thenight to weave her thousand and one stories, each one a door into which timeand time again she slips with Death at her heels like an angry wolf. She knewthe power of words. If I had not passed longing for the ideal woman, I shouldhave gone in search of Scheherazade; she is tall and slim, with skin the colourof China tea. Her eyes are like the night; she walks barefoot, arrogant andpagan, untrammelled by morality or modesty. And she is cunning; time and againshe plays the game against Death and wins, reinventing herself anew every nightso that her brutish ogre of a husband finds every night a new Scheherazade whoslips away with the morning. Every morning he awakes and sees her in daylight,pale and silent after her nights work, and he swears he will not be taken inagain! But as soon as dusk falls, she weaves her web of fantasy anew, and hethinks: once more

Tonight I am Scheherazade.

Dontlook at me thatwayI cant bear it! Youre thinking how much I have changed. You see the youngman in the picture, his clear, pale brow, curling dark hair, his untroubledeyesand you wonder how he could be me. The carelessly arrogant set of the jaw,the high cheekbones, the long, tapered fingers seem to hint at some hidden,exotic lineage, although the bearing is unmistakably English. That was me atthirty-ninelook at me carefully and rememberI could have been you.

Myfather was a minister near Oxford, my mother the daughter of a wealthyOxfordshire landowner. My childhood was untroubled, sheltered, idyllic. Iremember going to church on Sundays, singing in the choir, the coloured lightfrom the stained-glass windows like a shower of petals on the white surplicesof the choristers

Theblack angel seems to shift imperceptibly and, in her eyes, I sense an echo ofthe pitiless comprehension of God. This is not a time for imagined nostalgia,Henry Paul Chester. He needs your truth, not your inventions. Do you think tofool God?

Ridiculous,that I should still feel the urge to deceive, I who have lived nothing but a life of deceit for over forty years. The truth is abitter decoction: I hate to uncork it for this last meeting. And yet I am whatI am. For the first time I can dare to take Gods words for myself. This is nosweetened fiction. This is Henry Chester: judge me if you wish. I am what I am.