Psychopomp

All the tenants of Norma’s building are quarantined here, the Consul told them. An old motel many blocks over which never had occupancy like this before. Tubes of saturated orange filaments run along the stepped ceiling perimeter and the yellow paint which covered the walls seems to cling to it as colored dust. Poor paintings seeking to imitate the landscapes of the Holy Land perch about and at a desk in the corner a disheveled man stands, watching them intently. His eyes avert when Ewain meets them.

They enter a grated steel lift, and its groaning cranks elevate them many floors above. Brass sconces with pitiful opaquing bulbs mount near each doorframe and faded and stained red-carpet lines the hall.

When the Consul raps upon the weak wood door, it rattles in its frame and echoes through the hall. Cautious footsteps creak the floor on the other side and after a moment, the door squeals open.

Declan Boden stands a gaunt man, his light hair thinning to wisps and hazel eyes thoroughly deep sunken. Patches of graying scruff cover his chin and cheeks and tattered khakis and a wrinkled button-up shirt with frayed suspenders adorn his lanky body.

His eyes widen then immediately glare toward the ground with an awkward bow and a deceptively full voice speaks, “Sirs.”

“Mr. Declan Boden,” the Consul addresses him with gentle respect, “this is the Psychopompos. We must speak with you. In your room will be a sufficient location.”

Behind them Anaxander looses a slight sigh. A musk of unwashed clothes and accumulated body odor wafts from the door.

Mr. Boden keeps his eyes down as he retreats into his room, clothes, food crumbs, and garbage strewn about. The moth-eaten curtains tie to the sides to welcome as much light as possible, yet it does little to quell the singed dimness.

“I apologize for the mess, I intended to clean sometime today.”

“No, you did not,” Anaxander counters with a sharp matter-of-factness. “Clean people do not let this much garbage even touch their floor. A filthy person should at least admit they are such.”

“I’m sorry, I-I-I can clean-,”

“No,” Ewain interjects, looking at the Krypteian, “it is irrelevant to us.”

For you sweet ladies and gentlemen out there, a smooth voice echoes from box radio next to the bed, we have some elegant sweetness for you. Lyrics of honey sung by a voice of silk, the latest from the always beautiful, always appetizing Davi Taea. A sultry, seductive voice patiently follows the modest tempo of a bass and trumpet, with a piano and saxophone in tow.

Mr. Boden moves to turn the radio off when Ewain commands him to stop. “Leave it be. Let us sit and speak.” Across from each other at a cracked table they take their seats. “Mr. Boden, the matters we discuss here must be kept private. All questions we ask, you must answer as fully and truthfully as you can. If this confidence is broken in any way, if any details are maligned or omitted, it will be considered a breach of Trust. Punishable by death and indeterminate Dormancy. Do you understand?”

“I-I-I do.”

“Do you swear upon Detia’s judgment to speak the whole truth and nothing but the truth?”

“Y-y-yes.”

“Mr. Boden, I presume you have contracted upon a Trust before, or at least know how it should be sealed,” Ewain reprimands with tempered glare.

“I-I swear it, by Detia the Judge.” Every second they keep eye contact seems to enflame the man’s eyes. He looks down as soon as he completes the Trust.

Ewain nods, “Keep eye contact with me, Mr. Boden. I have no desire to cause you harm; we can keep this a simple conversation so long as you cooperate. Your neighbor in Unit 313. You know her?”

He looks back up, “I saw her around the building every now and then. Why? Is she-,”

“Do you know her name? So, we can confirm we are referring to the same person.” Ewain peers deep into the man’s eyes, searing holes into them.

“I never learned her name, but she had red hair…blue eyes, I think. Um, skinny. I called her Miss Red. She kept to herself mostly, most people here do. S-say something wrong and someone’s liable to report it to the Peacekeepers. B-but she was nice enough, said hi or good morning or good night anytime we crossed paths. Th-that was all I really knew about her.”

Tension tightens Mr. Boden’s irises, strains his jaw, “Did you find her attractive, Mr. Boden?”

“W-what?”

Like sound waves Ewain can feel the man’s nervous heartbeat through the air between them, “Did you find her attractive?”

“I-I mean she was, yes.”

“More so than the girls around here? It is okay, be honest with me.” How dissonant his calm voice that could coax a serpent must be against an expression of utter stone.

“W-well, she put more…attention…money into her appearance than most girls around here do.”

“Then, she was?”

“Y-yes.” Mr. Boden’s voice begins to crack and dry.

“Elaborate.”

A faucet suddenly runs in the adjacent kitchen and the Consul places a dirty glass of water before the man, “Here, this’ll help.”

A few shaking gulps quell the dryness in Mr. Boden’s voice, “H-her hair was always different. Girls around here, they normally just pull their hair into tails or buns, but she…she didn’t. She wore hers down, put curls in it, perfume, I think. And her clothes, she always wore something different, fancy. Made herself look like one of them patrician girls you see in the moving pictures.” There is heat in his skin, movement in his pupils, a desire beneath the fear in his voice.

“A girl who dresses like a patrician, with beauty enough to be the envy of Iris herself, that happened to be your neighbor. You paid attention to her, like most men would. Nothing that innately condemns you, but you watched and noticed things about her that you would not for some other person, correct?”

The man looks back down to the table.

“Mr. Boden,” Ewain’s words snap the man’s gaze back up, “Correct?”

He nods, “B-but I swear I never held any ill intent toward her. I swear it. I offered to be an escort one time, a girl like her, with people always disappearing, I thought it the kind thing to do, but she said no. I never asked again. She caught the eye of plenty of men every time she walked through the halls or went out. I know it.”

“Any you notice have special attention or make advances toward her?”

“Plenty came knocking to her door or spoke to her around the building, but I never saw her bring any inside or hear any inside.”

“You could hear her from her apartment?”

“M-mumbles mostly. She, um, she liked to sing. Did that almost every night for the longest time. I could hear her through the walls each time, sometimes she’d go late into the night when the noise from the streets outside quieted down. I could hear her real well then, and, uh, she sounded good. Real good, you know. Like one of them jazz singers from the Keep.”

“Did you recognize anything she sang?”

“I, uh, I recognized them sometimes.”

Ewain remains unmoving, “What else, Mr. Boden? Tell me everything.”

He primes himself with a handful of breaths, the gaze in his eyes telling Ewain he is searching through a cyclone of thoughts. “The, um, the last month or so her schedule changed. Before she was like clockwork, she was gone for about nine or ten hours then came home and did whatever she did. End the night singing. But the, uh, the last month or so she didn’t get back until late into the night. I didn’t hear her sing at all. She’d get back from work much later than she used to then an hour later be heading out in some fancy dress. She still said hi and bye when she saw me, but I could tell she was different. Sad, seemed like.

“O-one night, maybe a week, week and a half ago, I heard loud banging in her room. It was early in the night, when the noise from the street is still heavy, but I heard it. Like wood cracking, pieces beating against each other, something being pounded repeatedly. It kept on for thirty seconds, maybe more, but I heard nothing more after. Just muffled noise. I…I didn’t hear or see anyone leave the room the rest of the night, not while I was awake, but I saw her leave the next morning, just fine in her work uniform. I didn’t think anymore of it.”

“You made no inquiries to her about it?” Ewain asks.

Mr. Boden shakes his head emphatically, “No. I don’t ask questions. I told you, better to keep to yourself around here. B-b-but there was another girl that came to see her the next day.”

“Did you recognize her?”

“I-I seen her about a couple times, always with Miss Red. Wasn’t anything like her, though. Pretty still, but more like the girls around here, nothing like Miss Red.”

“The night that this young lady came by, after you heard the commotion in your neighbor’s apartment, what did you hear?” The Psychopomp asks presumptuously. There was not a doubt in his mind the man tried to listen.

“I-It was muffled, most of it. I think Miss Red asked the other what to do about something. There was crying, I think. Music. T-t-that’s all I know.” Mr. Boden shivers, Ewain’s merciless, unending gaze making him want to shrivel.

“Did anything else occur in the past week?”

“S-six or seven nights ago about, she stumbled home late one night. Could barely walk upright through the hall. Didn’t have on one of her nice dresses like usual, no. She wore, um, some plain dress, I think, really showed off her legs. She didn’t smell of her perfume, more like what everyone else in the district smelled of, alcohol.”

“Was anyone with her? Did anyone offer to help her?” Concern brushes across the Psychopomp’s words, more than he should have permitted. Too little for Mr. Boden to catch, but the others it may have waved as a flag.

“She was by herself. N-no one helped her.”

“You did not? You practically knew her at this point it seems, invited yourself to her privacy. Did you not think it the kind thing to do?”

“No, I mean I thought about it, I did, b-b-b-but what if I had helped her then something happened to her later? A-and something did, di-didn’t it?” Mr. Boden, like his words, trembles like a tuning fork, and his sunken eyes grow almost unnaturally wide. “I-I-I didn’t want any trouble or to get into any business not my own. I had nothing to do with her, I swear it, I swear it by Undryn and-.”

“Enough,” Ewain cuts with bone chilling coldness. Deep inside he wants to admonish the man and could not deny that looking upon him he feels disgust. Yet whatever else the man can provide, he needs. “Five nights ago, did you notice anything? Any visitors? Any commotion?”

The gaunt man stares in petrified quiet.

“Have you lost your voice, Mr. Boden?” the Consul gently asks, “More water perhaps?”

His quaking hand grabs the dirty glass, still with water in it, and holds it up, “Y-yes, please.”

Limping back to the kitchen, the Consul returns with the glass and gives it back to him, “Take a sip. Try to remember any detail pertaining to the night of the eleventh.”

His nerves calm just enough for the man to attempt speech again, “There…there were knocks at her door. I was inside my unit, so I couldn’t see who it was. They kept knocking and knocking, and I thought maybe she wasn’t home or just didn’t want to answer but the door opened. I…I tried to listen, I wanted to know who it was, but I couldn’t hear much. A deal, she kept begging about some sort of deal or something…. I heard something bang, I don’t know what it was, then…uh…” words escape him in stammers, his face turns red yet not of shame. “sounded like the springs of a bed, moaning….” Mr. Boden’s jaw now clenches. “I thought she was being a whore.”

Mr. Boden knew nothing more. When they left his room, the gangly man did poorly in concealing his relief yet remained a trembling mess to the moment he shut the door behind them. As the linked belts of the crank lower and grind, Ewain ponders. This deal was the impetus for her end, yet she wanted it no more, or at least her tethered spirit claimed so. No more deal, her grief-stricken words repeat in his mind.

Outside, the city air splashes them like a spring wave and the Consul again whips out his pipe and leads them along. More figures walk along the street sides, harbingers of gloom all holding on dearly to their heads. They pay no attention to them as they walk with tempered purpose.

“Would you rather he had helped her?” Anaxander asks, coming alongside the Psychopomp and looking intently into his eyes.

“I do not know. It is not as simple as saying someone should have helped her, the intentions in the actions would be questionable but something happened that distressed her, and there was no one to offer even a sliver of genuine kindness.”

“He wanted to help her,” the Krypteian notes, “It was in his eyes. The way he kept apprised of her movements throughout, like a predator watching its prey. He wanted the girl, thought of her in unsavory ways, and a potential opportunity came before him. It could have been him who killed her eventually had someone else not done it first.”

“Man nurtured endless thoughts. Your assertion has some merits.”

“And demerits?”

“Thought and action are intrinsically linked. Murder finds its genesis in thought, is cultivated through obsession and temptation, and once harvested afflicts reasoning enough to compel fulfilment. Yet not every thought conclusively leads to action, not every genesis leads to fulfilment.”

“Should a people never judge on possibility alone? Or should they wait until it comes to fruition?”

“Why do you ask these questions, Krypteian?”

Anaxander offers a humble grin, “I simply seek the different perspectives of this world and hope to mine some common truth from it all. Fear reined in Mr. Boden’s impulses. Every person has a sense of self-preservation that will override many of their beliefs. Were it not for Mr. Boden’s, it may have been the night Miss Norma stumbled home drunk that she was violated and murdered.”

The image of Norma tearfully struggling through the hall, people watching her, vulnerable, alone, lingers in Ewain’s mind. “Do you intend to report him to Ward Security?”

“I have not decided yet. They have his VPTs flagged, I have no doubt. Marks for temptation response, yet still he lives with his head upon his shoulders. None around him have reported him at all. He could remain a harmless peeping creep the rest of his life, or he could find another young dame to latch onto and that time seek fulfilment.”

“Then it is a question of which is more reviling, prying a person’s privacy and thoughts to deduce guilt from possibility, or waiting until the act comes to fruition.”

“And your perspective upon it, Psychopompos?”

Every street and alley they walk through, fear lingers. It clings to each person walking upon the street with lunch pail in hand and eyes facing down, to each anxiously peeking through their curtains. “We are just trying to make sense of this world the Ichorians left us in. Whatever communities people form should decide for themselves the answer. Your Order, mine, we operate in the margins. Our opinions matter little. If the people of the Haas Ward accept the Warden’s policies, then so be it. Our priority is the sanctity of this land and the Deliverance of the dead.”