move; they don’t stay bribed. Second-order dishonesty. May I offer you a hand?’
I accepted his hand – bony, dry, and cold – and he handed me down while I held Pixel
in my left arm. He was a small man, in a dark siren suit, and the nearest thing to a
living skeleton I have ever seen. He appeared to be yellowed parchment stretched
over bones and little else. His skull was completely hairless.
‘Permit me to introduce myself,’ he said. ‘I am Dr Frankenstein.’
‘Frankenstein,’ I repeated. ‘Didn’t we meet at Schwab’s on Sunset Boulevard?’
He chuckled, a sound like dry leaves rustling. ‘You are jesting. Of course it is not
my original name but one I use professionally. You will see. This way, if you
please.’
We were in a windowless room, with a vaulted ceiling glowing with what seemed to be
Douglas-Martin shadowless skyfoam. He led us to a lift. As the door closed with us
inside Pixel tried to get away from me. I dung to him. ‘No, no, Pix! You’ve got to
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see where they take me.’
I spoke just to Pixel, almost in a whisper, but my escort answered, ‘Don’t worry,
Milady Long; you are now in the hands of friends.’
The lift stopped at a lower(?) level; we got out and we all got into a tube capsule.
We zoomed fifty yards, five hundred, five thousand, who knows? – the capsule
accelerated decelerated, stopped. We got out. Another lift took us up this time.
Shortly we were in a luxurious lounge with about a dozen people in it and more
coming in. Dr Frankenstein offered me a comfortable seat in a large circle of
chairs, most of them occupied. I sat down.
This time Pixel would not be denied. He wriggled out of my arms, jumped down,
explored the place and examined the people, tail up and poking the little pink nose
into everything.
There was a wheelchair in the circle, occupied by an excessively fat man, who had
one leg off at the knee, the other amputated higher up. He was wearing dark glasses.
He felt like a diabetic to me, and I wondered how Galahad would approach the case.
He spoke up:
‘Ladies and gentlemen, shall we get started? We have a new sister.’ He pointed with
his whole hand at me, like a movie usher. ‘Lady Macbeth. She is -‘
‘Just a moment,’ I put in. ‘I am not Lady Macbeth. I am Maureen Johnson Long.’
He trained his head and dark glasses at me slowly, like a battleship’s turret. ‘This
is most irregular. Dr Frankenstein?
‘I am sorry, Mr Chairman. The contretemps with the proctors spoiled the schedule.
Nothing has been explained to her.’
The fat man let out a long sibilant sigh. Incredible. Madam, we apologise. Let me
introduce our circle. We are the dead men. All of us here are enjoying terminal
illness. I say “enjoying” because we have found a way – hee, hee, hee, hee! – to
relish every golden moment left to us… every golden moment left to us… indeed to
extend those moments because a happy man lives longer.
Each companion of the Committee for Aesthetic Deletions – at your service, Madam! –
spends his remaining days in ensuring that scoundrels whose removal will improve the
human breed predecease him. You were elected in absentia to our select circle not
merely because you are a walking corpse yourself but as a tribute to the artistic
crimes you committed in attaining that status.
‘With that synoptic explanation out of the way, permit me to introduce our noble
companions:
‘Dr Fu Manchu.’ (A burly Irishman or Scot. He bowed without getting up.)
‘Lucrezia Borgia.’ (Whistler’s mother, with tatting in her lap. She smiled at me and
said, ‘Welcome, dear girl!’ in a sweet soprano.)
‘Lucrezia is our most accomplished expunger. Despite inoperable cancer of the liver
she has counted coup more than forty times. She usually -‘
‘Stop it, Hassan,’ she said sweetly,’ before you tempt me to put you on your proper
track.’
‘I wish you would, dear. I grow weary of this carcass. Beyond Lucrezia is Bluebeard