Penny Dreadful, what the hell kind of name is that?

Stupid question. I know what kind of name it is. The made up kind. It’s the kind of name some goth chick slaps on herself when she finds out that the guy she met when she went fishing online for her first actual blood letting experience was infected with the Vyrus and that at some point while they were stabbing each other with lancets and lapping at their wrists she ended up getting a dose.

It’s the kind of name that tells me as soon as I hear it that I’m not gonna like the girl attached to it.

-Come in, Joe, come in.

She steps back and holds the door open, sweeping her arm so that all the torn black lace hanging from it billows nicely.

I consider killing her right now and just skipping the whole question and answer thing, but there’s always a chance that she’s not the one. Not that the world wouldn’t be a better place without her regardless, but I would be nice to know for sure. I might be inclined to hurt her more if I know for sure.

I step inside and she shuts the door.
-Have a seat, Joe. Please.

I assume the old wingback draped in tattered red velvet is her favorite, and park myself on a heavy wood armchair that she’s riveted black leather wrist, ankle and neck straps to. There’s no bloodstains on the chair. One can assume the straps are decorative or recreational. Either way they’re fucking annoying.

She takes a pewter and blue glass goblet from one of the shelves and cradles it in her palm.
-Something to drink?
-Got any beer?

She smiles, looks at the floor, looks back up at me through the curtain of thick magenta hair that falls over her face.
-I’ve some mead.
-Mead.
-Yes.
-I’ll pass.

She nods and takes a seat, pulling her legs up and curling one arm around them.
-And how can I help you?

I take a look at the all the loose bolts of satin and lace and velvet she’s draped over every surface of her shitty little studio apartment. Once I kill her I can just knock over one of her oil lamps and the place will go up in a couple seconds. I can pull the fire alarm on my way out the front door. With a little luck no one else in the building will get hurt.
-You can tell me why you made that mess over at the church.

She runs the tip of a finger over the ring that pierces her upper lip.
-Did I make a mess?

I think about what Terry told me. About the priest and where he was found and what parts were cut off. I think about the cops and reporters that are buzzing around, poking into every corner of my neighborhood.
-Yeah. Looks that way.
-And who is it that claims I’ve made this mess?
-Philip Sax.
-Sax. He’s your Renfield, isn’t he?
-I don’t have a Renfield, lady.
-That’s not what people say.
-People know from shit.
-Then why trust Sax?
-Because I’ll torture him if he lies to me.
-Can you be sure he believes you’d actually do that?

I think about the time I met Phil. What I did to him when I found out he’d lied to me. How I promised him it’d be worse the next time. How he lied to me again and how I did it worse. And how he stopped lying after that.
-Yeah, I’m sure.
-Such trust must be comforting.
-I don’t trust Sax, I just know he won’t lie to me.
-And he claims he saw me at the church?
-Claims more than that.
-He saw something?
-Saw you go in. Saw you talking to the priest. Saw you come out. Saw the priest was the worse for wear after you came out. Didn’t see anyone else.
-I’m curious.
-It’s going around.
-How is it he saw all this? Is Philip Sax stalking me? Does he have a crush?
-He was keeping an eye on you.
-On your behalf.
-On Terry’s behalf. On The Society’s behalf.

She takes a sip of her mead.
-Terry was having me followed? Why?
-Because it seemed like a smart fucking thing to do after stood up in a Society meeting and started talking about taking revenge on the clergy for centuries of persecution.

She stretches her arm toward one of the dozen or so candles illuminating the room and runs her fingers through the flame.
-That was indiscreet.
-That was stupid as fuck.

She holds one finger in the flame until a wisp of smoke drifts from the seared skin. She pulls her hand back and stares at the fingertip as it blisters, and immediately begins to heal.
-We shouldn’t be tolerating their persecution, Joe.

I shift in me seat, making a little more room for my gun hand in case she charges me and I have to go for my piece.
-Lady, you are crazy as all fuck. No one’s persecuting you or any of us. No one fucking knows we exist. And the only way they’re ever gonna find out is if nut jobs like you go around splitting open members of the clergy and nailing them upside down to crucifixes in their own fucking churches.

She touched the burned finger with her thumb. It’s healing fast. She must have fed recently. The priest. She’ll be strong. Me, I haven’t had anything for almost a week. I shift again, so I can get to both guns if I have to.

She blows on the finger.
-You’re wrong, Joe. That priest was a persecutor. He persecuted me.
-That priest was a seventy year old man who didn’t know shit. And even if he did, who gives a fuck? You’re not a creature of the night, you’re not damned, you’re sick, you got a fucking disease just like the rest of us. Guy could have hunted you down and bathed you in holy water and it would have done shit. He was just an old man.
-Persecuted is perhaps the wrong word.

She finishes her mead.
-Molested is the word I was trying to say.

She sets her empty goblet on the floor.
-But I’ve always had a hard time saying it in front of people.

She looks me over.
-But we’re alone. And I’m almost drunk. So it seems a little easier just now.

She untucks her legs and places her feet flat on the floor.
-This is my neighborhood, too, Joe. I grew up here. I went to that church when I was a little girl.

She stands.
-I can go into detail.

She takes a couple steps, stops when she’s just in front of me.
-If you’d like that.

She’s says it like it matters. Like why she did what she did makes a difference when it comes to the rules.

Right in front of me. This close, a round from the automatic will blow her heart to shreds, just like that.

Terry looks up from the book in his lap when I sit down next to him on the bench.
-Was it her?

The sun is down. The summer air in Tompkins Square is warm. Some kids go running past, spraying each other with squirt guns.

I shake my head.
-She’s got an alibi. Solid.

He marks his place in the book with a finger and closes the covers.
-Sax said he was sure.
-Sax is a stone junkie and he was hard up for a few bucks.
-You said he wouldn’t lie to you again.
-I’ve been wrong before.

He opens his book.
-You’ll have to do something about it. So he doesn’t get in the habit.

I stand up.
-Sure.

He looks down at his book.
-Want to take Hurley with you?

I stick a Lucky in my mouth and light it.
-Naw, I can handle it.
-OK. Call me when you’re done.
-Sure.

I head off. Phil will be at Coney Island High probably. But I need to swing by my place first. Pick up my pliers and such.

©Copyright 2006 by Charlie Huston, all right reserved etc.