The Traveller and Other Stories: Thirteen unnerving tales from the bestselling author of the Twelve by Stuart Neville

Author:Stuart Neville
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bonnier Publishing Fiction

THE BED WAS EMPTY save for a pale yellow stain.

“Celia?” Albert called from the doorway.

He stepped inside. The dressing table drawers stood open, their contents spilling over the edges. Powder and perfume coated the surface beneath the mirror. Panic flared in Albert’s breast, a wild fluttering thing. He willed it to be calm.

“Celia?” he called again.

“In here, Bertie.”

Her voice came from the en suite bathroom. It was stronger than he’d last heard it, but metallic, like a rusted blade. Albert passed the bed, registered the smell of stale urine, just another odour of the unwell. Steam warmed his face as he looked in.

Celia leaned against the basin, one hand gripping its edge, a stick figure in her scarlet evening gown. Its straps clung to the bones beneath her tracing-paper skin. He’d forgotten how tall she was.

She applied lipstick, running the stub across her mouth, and dropped it to clatter in the basin. She pinched a tissue between her lips, leaving a deep red kiss on the white paper. The tissue fell from her fingers and wafted to the tiled floor. It soaked up a brighter red from the small puddle it settled in.

“Sweetheart, you’re bleeding.”

“Am I?” She looked down. “Oh.”

“Where from?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she said, turning her attention back to the mirror. “It doesn’t matter.”

Albert noticed the pink blotching on her upper arm.

“Where’s your patch?” he asked.

“I took it off when you left,” she said.

“But the pain,” he said.

She eyed him over her naked shoulder. “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “How do I look?”

“Beautiful,” Albert said.

Celia smiled. Lipstick stained her remaining teeth. Love burned in him like an African sun. “Beautiful,” he said again. “What are you doing?”

She turned back to her reflection. “Getting ready,” she said.

“What for?”

“You killed that nice doctor,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

“Yes,” he said.

“I’m a sick woman, and I cost that young man his life. For nothing. Just some words.” Her knees buckled, and she grabbed the basin’s edge. She straightened. “I will die,” she said.

“Darling, don’t.”

He took a step towards her, slipped on her blood, steadied himself with a strong hand against the wall.

“I will die and nothing will stop it,” she said. “I will only get worse. I will ramble more and more. What about the nurses? What about the cleaner? What about dear Finula from downstairs? When she reads to me, what if I say something to her? Will you kill her too?”

“Of course,” he said.

“Why?” Celia asked. “What for? What good could it do?”

“To protect you,” he said. He moved closer. “I only had one talent in life. God help me if I can’t use it to protect you.” He went to put his hands on her shoulders, but she pushed the gown’s straps aside, let the dress fall to her waist.

“Look,” she said.

“Darling, don’t,” he said.

“Look.” Her reflection stared hard at him. “Look at me.”

Albert looked. He studied the greys and purples of her skin, the places where his hands had once found ripe flesh, the sad

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