Walter Kist & the Seven Whorls Chapter 12

I tried rocking the chair but it stood solid as the oak tree it came from. I managed to make a little noise by tapping my embellished tai chi shoes on the floor. But I suspected the tiny taps were wasted on the Limboland ghosts below.

When Irma returned she was all brightened up with fuchsia blush and lipstick, her sad clown hiding behind the pancake and paint, concealer concealing a broken heart. Taking the ribbon off my mouth she began reapplying my lipstick.

“Irma,” I said softly. “My wrists hurt. Will you untie them?”

“No.”

“Look your husband hurt you and Walter hurt you but I had nothing to do with that.”

“You stole Walter!”

“No, I swear. There’s nothing between us.”

“Lies!”

“No…”

“You’ve ruined my life!” She grabbed her pistol. “Why shouldn’t I ruin yours?” The gun trembled in her hand as she put it to my temple. “Just give me one good reason!”

*

I didn’t know what time is was nor how long I’d slept. My would-be assassin snored on the cot. How long could I hold this woman at bay, convince her I was not the enemy? Last night (if indeed the night had passed) I had done it by giving her one good reason not to kill me: “Walter loves you.”

Those three words, delivered with a voice held steady by sheer determination, turned Irma to mush and she flung herself onto the cot, sobbing. Finally, she fell asleep and left me to struggle furiously with the tie binding my wrists. Wearying, I too drifted off.

Looking at Irma now, in the muted light of my desk lamp, her lipstick smudged and her hair askew, snuffling away like a painted baby, I had a sense of the girl she once was, the hopeful young woman who’d set out one fine summer morning to find love and happiness.

“Errol,” she murmured.

My eyes fell to the gun on the floor beside her. I stared at it, as if willing it over to me, and it seemed my musings entered her sleep because she woke with a start and grabbed for the pistol.

“No funny business,” she said in a fuzzy half-awake voice. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes she became instantly aware of the state of her face. She wrapped my mouth with the yellow ribbon again, slung her bag over her shoulder and disappeared out the terrace door.

A blaze of morning sun entered the room. Shimmering particles of what must have been iridescent eye shadow danced in its rays.

When Irma returned, rosy-cheeked and coral-lipped, she balanced a Calgary Stampede souvenir tray on the redpainted fingertips of one hand: bread, cheese and a pitcher of water, along two glasses with little pink lassoes on them. She set the tray on the table.

“I suppose you would like to use the loo as well. “I’ll have this pistol on you at all times,” she said, untying my wrists and ankles,and took me, pistol in ribs, to the bathroom.

I don’t know why she felt obligated to take care of me while at the same time threatening to kill me. What would it matter if I was half-starved or had peed my pants if she was just going to off me? Perhaps it was that now that she’d given me a makeover while sharing her views on makeup and marriage she felt we were like best friends at a pyjama party.

Back in the atelier she leaned back against the wall to nibble on a piece of cheese, her eyes fastened on me. I was pretty sure I knew what she was thinking. She’d given me a makeover while sharing views on makeup and marriage. We were like best friends having a pyjama party (death threat aside), and now that it was morning, we should be having strawberries and scones with Earl Grey tea, not dry bread and cheese.

I was about to suggest we slip out for coffee when a knock sounded at the door, the Limboland door.

*

Thanks to my fab model/actor Shirley Connell! And thank you for reading!