Tag Archives: Mrs Beaten

Lady M – another suspected murder victim

By Frampton Jones

What a devastating loss to the island! Cling to your remaining bottles of gin, ladies and gentlemen, cherish every last remaining drop, for Lady M has been cruelly taken from us and we may never see her like again. As far as I know, the secret of her ‘botanicals’ that transformed dubious attempts at alcohol into sustenance for the soul, has gone with her. It is a loss we are all bound to feel most keenly.

I suspect foul play. Doc Willloughby tells me that such lacerations and bruising may reflect wholly natural causes – that it is very much what happens when a person has a hungry sea creature latch onto their head. Had Lady M’s remains been found on a beach, or other body of water, it may have been more convincing. “Air kraken,” Doc Willoughby suggested. “Tree lobsters. Sky sharks. Lots of options.”

There have been no reported sightings of any such things in a while, and the last occasion was just after Armitage Chevin’s seaweed cider party. That was the night people claimed to see the Devil rising from the sea, there were eleven rather awkward instances of mistaken identity, and I ended up with a small stain on my collar.

What makes me suspicious was the way in which Lady M’s body had been carefully laid out, her hands folded neatly across her chest and her skirts straightened and smoothed. It all points at one person – Mrs Beaten, who I recently suspected of murdering poor dear Fiona.

I am not alone in my suspicions. I spoke with a gentleman who wishes to remain anonymous this morning, and he told me he was afraid that his relationship with Lady M may have led to her death, because Mrs Beaten had taken to staring at him in the street and following him round. The anonymous gentleman in question has gone into hiding for the time being, in light of what happened to Nimrod.

Someone needs to sit Mrs Beaten down and give her a stern talking to. She can’t go round wiping out beloved members of our community in this way, it isn’t proper – and that may be the most persuasive thing anyone can say to stop her. It is undignified behaviour to murder one’s rivals, it is unbecoming and unseemly. I sincerely hope that there are no further incidents of this nature.

It has been mooted that we might best honour Lady M by pickling her in gin and installing her at a public location. The consensus however, is that we want to keep all the gin we’ve got. A more conventional burial will take place in a few days time. In the meantime, careful searches continue for any paperwork that will enable us to keep her gin-making wisdom alive.

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Kit Cox had no one to blame but himself

By Mrs Beaten

Kit Cox, dandy and self-proclaimed ladies man got no more than he deserved, if you ask me. He has been flirting his way round the island for some time, making a nuisance of himself and lowering the tone with his immodest behaviour. While his shirts are indeed immaculate, his manners are sadly lacking and his wanton antics have clearly led to his undoing.

As far as Kit Cox knew, he went as he might have wanted to go – dying in the arms of a beautiful monster. For the rest of us, it was a somewhat different experience.

I do not blame the mermaid. They are not human creatures and cannot be held to the same standards. Anyone not ruled by the uncivilized lusts of the body can see them for what they are – hideous, hungry and persuasive. They are not to blame for what men do in response to them. Perhaps they are here to judge us, and bring down those who are too involved with their own base instincts. In this way, I feel some empathy with our water-dwelling neighbours. I would not object to being such a creature.

We had all gone down to the beach to watch the Mari Lwyd’s shout at the sea. It is a perplexing ritual, but a good opportunity to see, and be seen. Kit Cox had positioned himself so as to be seen, in a waistcoat of such bright colours as to be wholly indecent. Standing near to the sea – where all attention was then directed, he was rather close to the mermaids.

She surfaced, turning a terrifying visage towards the land. I thought that her long teeth sparkled. Seaweed tangled in her hair and fell down across her chest, failing to obscure the exposed bones of her desperately thin body. Anyone could see she was hungry. Kit turned towards her, his expression one of rapture. And thus began the most shocking litany of improper statements.

“I love you…. you are the most beautiful creature I have ever seen! What exquisite eyes you have! Will you not come closer? How have I lived so long without you in my life? What are your plans for the evening? Would you like to see my other waistcoats?” And so on, and so forth. Those of us who have experienced his courting behaviour before were all too familiar with these lines.

The mermaid opened her mouth wide so that we could all see her teeth. Several gentlemen rushed forward, while averting their eyes from the sea monster, to try and pull Kit away. To no avail. He walked towards the surf, crying out his ever more ridiculous expressions of love and longing. We watched, powerless to help him. Or too entertained to help him. Or in my case, too delighted by the poetic justice inherent in the scene, to help him. He splashed in the surf, protesting his love, while the mermaid wriggled and gyrated in the water, and licked her lips in evident anticipation.

He kissed her with shocking abandon, right there in front of everyone. It was as well, for the moral defence of the islanders, that the mermaid did not toy with him longer, and we were not seduced into watching anything worse. She plunged with him beneath the waves.

Some hours later, the remains of his waistcoat washed ashore, and we gave it a decent burial on the beach and made a little cairn next to the other little cairns for people who have not listened to warnings about mermaids.

 

This death was brought to you by the Hopeless Maine kickstarter, in which there are now stretch goals and extra rewards… https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/countrostov/tales-of-hopeless-maine 

Mrs Beaten’s Beast

I have complicated feelings about men. Horror, naturally, for they are despicable beasts and I know only too well what they are capable of. Fascination, because they are so alien, so incomprehensible. Their facial hair. The state of their collars. The noises they make.

I have noticed how powerful these forces are, how horror and fascination combine to draw you in. How these inclinations can bring you to offer yourself up to the indignity of horror and fascination.

He is a man of mystery. The first time I saw him, his gloveless hands were stained a dark and ominous red. I felt it then – the thrill of repulsion, the power of disgust. What had he done? And to whom? If I paused and gazed for long enough, would I draw his eyes? Would I discover by most unwholesome means the true nature of his stained hands?

On subsequent investigations I noted similar marks on his clothing. I wondered so long if he smelled of blood that this morning, I was overwhelmed by my own, most bestial compulsions. I deliberately stumbled into him outside The Crow.

He smells of beetroot. Not of death. Not the heart aching smell of old gore on a woollen jumper. I may never smell that again in all my life. Beetroot does not have the same effect upon me. It does not call forth suppressed memories.

But still, the man is a beast, and one stain is very much like another.

 

I see dead people

Of course I see dead people. We all see dead people, although no one seems clear about the proper etiquette for such meetings. It only seems polite to acknowledge them – at least when they themselves are polite. There are a few it feels vulgar to acknowledge in the street. The one who haunts the… smaller room at the back of… the drinking establishment.

I do not like to speak of body parts, or to name them. But it is more an issue of absence, with the dead people. While I see dead people I do not see (their ankles). Not for reasons of propriety, decency or even careful not noticing on my part.

They don’t have any!

Most of them don’t even possess (feet) as though their ephemeral forms could not quite bear the sordid process of touching the ground.

I am undecided as to whether it is more becoming to have those unmentionable body parts under proper control, or whether it is a blessing to do without them. I dare not speculate as to whether they have (legs) or are just innocent manifestations of clothing with no human indecency left inside.

Lost souls
Lost Souls

Why Mrs Beaten makes so much jam

Sometimes, when it is late and she does not sleep, Mrs Beaten misses her husband. She thinks at great lengths of the things they did together, late at night, when there was no one else to see, or judge. She considers it important to be clandestine about some things. It is a gesture of respect to your neighbours to make sure that they have little or no idea what you do. One should have multiple lines for laundry so that items revealing too much can be hidden from viewing.

Mrs Beaten notes that it is curious how one can hate a thing at the time and miss it when it is gone. This is true of both her late husband, and the things he liked to do in the night. She does not regret his absence.

Sometimes, when the town is too quiet, and there is no sound of wind or wave to distract her, Mrs Beaten stalks her own kitchen at night. She reaches for the jams that did not quite work. For the fish jams, and the crab jams that of course aren’t sweet, or pleasant, or anything at all like jam, but which keep through the winter… She opens them, and painful compulsion takes over. She smears the contents onto her skin, her clothing or even her hair. Sometimes she wails aloud as she does this, but only very quietly so that none of the neighbours will notice her keening sounds as anything distinctive amongst the night cries of the island.

On the following morning she will have to clean herself and her home, as she always did. It feels less shameful, now. She does not judge herself for these compulsions.

Mrs Beaten’s Secret Vice

Mrs Beaten slept for a long time. It was a deep, unmoving, dreamless sleep into which nothing intruded from the waking world.

She awoke, eventually, with two thoughts in her head: Firstly that she must have tea. Secondly, that she must have oil. This had happened before.

Mrs Beaten took her gnii hunting net on its long pole, and went out after dark. Their fondness for little lights always gave them away. She caught one with ease, then pulled it forcibly from  the stone it had been clinging to. It squirmed in discomfort, but not for long.

Always best to press them fresh.

You couldn’t get any fresher than still alive. The oil looked more golden than green as it dripped into her glass, accompanied by those final, muffled screams.

Mrs Beaten drank the oil slowly, and felt herself rejuvenated.

Gnii are shy and charming creatures.

Mrs Beaten is judging your night-time activities

Despite the cold, Mrs Beaten lies with her arms outside the covers, pressing her hands against the side of her body in the hopes that they will not go numb. She understands that it is important to keep the arms, and therefore the hands, outside the covers.

People who put their hands inside the covers may end up fiddling about with their own bodies.

Mrs Beaten is not quite sure what the fiddling about would involve. She has a feeling that the body at night, the body under the blankets, is not the same as the body by day. Something happens down there. Something it would be better not to fiddle about with.

As she tries to distract herself from the cold, she wonders who else on Hopeless Maine has the decency to sleep in this way. So many of the islanders seem indecent that she supposes most do not. She imagines the decadent snuggling of limbs beneath covers. The lustful indulgence of putting personal ease ahead of morality.

She supposes other islanders fiddle about in the night with the unspeakable things that go on with their own bodies. She supposes that it is terrible, and the terribleness holds a fascination for her that she cannot help but revisit, over and over again.

Mrs Beaten is judging herself

Mr Beaten. He had a face, I feel certain. I suppose there must have been all of the usual features in about the expected size, number and locations. Surely, if his face had been peculiar, I would remember that much, at least.

A woman should remember her husband. It is a terrible thing to have had a husband and not quite feel certain about why one does not have a husband now. There is a hole in my mind, and I do not know what may have fallen into it. Were we happy? Did he love me? I feel certain that I did not feel any great passion for him, only that which is decent and dutiful. From what I have seen of other people’s great passions, I am fairly certain that I have never entertained any such excitement of the nerves in any context whatsoever.

I feel reasonably certain about myself, but he is mystery and absence. I remember his voice. I think. A remember a voice, that told me what to do, and was stern and sensible. It told me essential truths like ‘always hang the socks in pairs on the washing line, one must have order in all things,’ and ‘none of us are meant to know what we look like on the inside.’

It is not that I miss him, not precisely. How can one miss what one barely remembers? It is more that I feel I should miss him, that there is something indecent in my not remembering, and not grieving. It is not proper, to be the wife, or is it widow, of an uncertainty.

In which Mrs Beaten does not see a Punch and Judy show

A man set up a booth outside The Crow.

I think he is a man. He has a beard. I used to think that beards signified men, but there is a Mrs Jones who has a beard and all is now uncertainty and dismay in this regard. What hellish place is this where a person cannot put their faith in the implications of a beard?

There was a puppet show. I think I have seen such a thing before but have no memory of where, or when. The red curtains, the sausages, the crocodile. There is a meaning here. I do not remember there being so much screaming, either from the puppeteer, or the audience.

I do not remember the crocodile breaking out of the booth, and savaging someone in the front row.

I do not remember crocodiles having so many legs, or eyes.

And yet, an hour later, many of them returned to watch the whole process again. I did not stay to see if the crocodile had come back, or if new sausages had been made, or what sausages in this macabre theatre might be made of. The children, revolting beasts that they are, seemed very much to like it. I think one of them may have eaten the sausages. And the crocodile. I closed my eyes at the critical moment.