An Episode of Remnants.

Content Warnings

• Discussion of death
• Scenes with nudity and references to sex
• Descriptions of artwork depicting violent scenes, including dead animals
• Violent death
• Depictions of pain and panic
• Scenes with heavy emotional distress
• Depictions of extreme panic and fear

Transcript

[WHOOSH] 

Sisi checks her reflection in the mirror before she opens the door. Queenie is standing on the doorstep, her neat bob pinned back with a velvet band which perfectly matches the dark blue dress she’s wearing under her brown coat. ‘This is ridiculous,’ she pouts. 

Sisi laughs. ‘Well, you look wonderful! I knew that dress would fit you perfectly.’ 

‘Hardly. I had to buy an actual corset, you know. It’s so stiff it may as well be plate armour. I feel like one of the knights in your paintings.’

‘This wouldn’t be a problem if you’d have just let me buy you a dress.’ 

Queenie rolls her eyes. ‘No, thank you. Especially not after you paid to get me here, and for a stay in a hotel.’ 

‘It’s just money,’ says Sisi. 

‘See, that’s the thing. It’s only rich people that get to say stuff like that, you know.’ 

‘Oh stop,’ Sisi sighs.

‘Maybe I should go.’ 

‘Where? You’ve come all the way to Milan to be here!’ 

‘I know, I know. And I’m happy you’re engaged, Sisi, I am, but—‘ 

Sisi waves off Queenie’s protests. Sisi has been dying to get Queenie to a party like this for years. She’s so clever and funny, she’d add some much needed variation to the tempo of conversation, which can often be dry and circular with the usual society crowd. There are a few exceptions, of course, Harry and whatever woman he had on his arm being one of them. 

Sadly, one man who is not an exception is David, Sisi’s fiancé. But she’s thirty five and hasn’t exactly had a queue of suitors for many years now. It’s never really bothered her before, but it’s inconvenient to be a single woman, even one so wealthy as Sisi. 

Queenie looks nervous at first, but eventually settles into the party’s rhythms. Sisi promised nobody would ask who she was or where she came from; an invite to a party like this more or less guarantees one’s pedigree. Besides, all the attention would be elsewhere; the young Lord du Perier is in town. 

Sisi knows that Perry is the main reason she was able to convince Queenie to come. She’s been regaling Queenie with stories about him since they first met in Vienna weeks before. Queenie kept joking that du Perier sounded like he would be a better match for Sisi than David is, but that’s ridiculous. He’s can’t yet be thirty, not by looking at him, and he’s already married. 

Still. There’s something about him. It’s not just his cloudy origins – the bastard son of the old Lord du Perier whose mother was paid to abandon him, taken under the wing of the widow Charlotte Chatterly, years his senior, and they’re rumoured to have had an affair. He’s clever, a talented conversationalist, and distinctly abrasive, but not in the way of most upper class men. He’s not off-putting, nor dismissive, and does not treat those he speaks with as though they’re lesser than him. It’s more like he deliberately agitates people. Like he’s petting their fur against the way it lies with every exchange. It’s fascinating. 

It’s almost midnight when Sisi feels a hand on her arm. She turns; it’s Queenie. Her eyes are wide. ‘I have to go,’ she says. 

‘What? Why?’ 

Queenie glances over her shoulder. In the corner of the room, du Perier is sitting next to Harry. He’s smiling, talking, seems perfectly engaged, but he’s looking right at them. His deep brown gaze does not waver even slightly. 

‘What happened?’ asks Sisi. 

‘He knows I’m not supposed to be here.’ 

‘You are; it’s my party and I invited you.’ 

‘No, Sisi. He knows I don’t belong here.’ 

‘What did he say to you? I’ll speak to him, make sure that—‘ 

‘Sisi. He’s not meant to be here either.’ 

Sisi frowns. ‘He’s odd; he was raised outside of society, but he’s—‘ 

‘No. Sisi. No. It’s something else. He said something, and I just—‘ 

‘What?’ 

‘I’m named after your mother, Sisi. You’re named after mine.’ 

Sisi studies Queenie’s gaze. Queenie pulls her back from the balcony into the hall. They stand in front of the mirror. Inside the confines of its gilded gold frame, they look like a portrait.

‘Remember in Cornwall, in the war?’ Queenie asks their reflections. 

‘What about it?’ 

‘Remember how people used to confuse us? How they called us the Twin Princesses?’ 

‘Yes. But what’s that—‘ 

‘Look at us, Sisi! Look.’

Their reflections stare down at them. 

‘There’s something I need to tell you, Sisi. There’s always been this rumour. I heard it a lot when I was growing up but I always thought it was ridiculous and my mum and dad always told me to forget about it so I tried. But there was a rumour that Mr Craven, your mum’s dad. There was a rumour he had an affair with one of his maids.’ 

Sisi sighs. ‘I’ve never heard that.’ 

‘Well you wouldn’t, would you? But I did. Because people said my mum, she was Mr Craven’s daughter. She never told me if it was true or not. I was too young when she died, I think, and I don’t know that my dad would’ve ever felt it was right to do.’ 

‘Why are you saying all of this, Queenie?’ 

‘Just. Be careful, won’t you? With Perry?’ 

‘Oh, so he’s Perry now?’ 

’Sisi! Please. Be careful. I… I don’t think he is who he says he is.’ 

Sisi looks across the party again. Du Perier’s focus on them has broken and he’s looking at Harry with an expression on his face that’s something akin to hunger. Sisi feels an answering 

She draws a breath to say more to Queenie, though she’s not sure what. But Queenie is gone. 

[WHOOSH]

Sisi stirs in her bed. For a moment, she’s out of place, out of time. Her body feels loose, full of pleasant aches she can’t place for a moment. She blinks in the dawn-light streaming through the open curtains. Besides her, someone shifts on the bed. 

Sisi sits up, looks down. There, lying next to her. Perry. The Lord du Perier. 

The night is a blur. New Year’s Eve. A whirl of conversation. An exchange of glances and words. Sisi traces a scar across the back of du Perier’s legs. There are dozens of them, thin lightning strikes of pearly white standing out against his skin.  There’s a rumour he was pulled out of a building in the blitz. But there are lots of rumours about Perry. 

‘Don’t,’ he says, into the pillow. 

‘Sorry,’ says Sisi. 

Perry rolls onto his back, stares at the ceiling. ‘You didn’t tell me that you paint,’ he says.

Sisi blushes. ‘Yes.’

Perry shrugs. He sits up, pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his trousers, lying discarded at the end of the bed. Sisi usually finds the things disgusting, but there’s something about the way his lips pucker as he holds it in his mouth which she finds oddly compelling. 

‘How did you know I paint?’ 

‘I can tell by your hands,’ Perry explains, sitting up, leaning close. He takes Sisi’s hand in his, tracing the lines of her fingers.

Perry turns his own hand sidewards. ‘See how the skin is smooth, almost shiny, where it’s been moving over a page?’ 

‘Yes?’ 

Perry, turns Sisi’s too. ‘You don’t have that. But there’s a bump on your knuckle, here. A callous. There’s one on my hand too, see? But it’s in a different spot. Mine’s from holding a pen. But yours is here, on your middle finger, not your index. Because you’ve not worn the skin on the edge of the hand, I assume you paint at an easel, and the callous is from where you steady your brush.’ 

Sisi looks at her hand in wonder. ‘You can tell all that just by looking?’ 

Perry scoffs. ‘No. By feeling.’ He takes Sisi’s hand, guides it to her neck. ‘You feel this, here? The way the muscle is defined?’ 

‘I think so.’ 

‘You were taught to sit up straight,’ says Perry. He slides their joined hands down Sisi’s side, across the soft swell of her stomach. ‘You’re soft, but your core is strong. You ride horses?’ 

‘As often as I can.’ 

Perry drops Sisi’s hand, tips ash from the end of his cigarette into the empty teacup sitting by the bed. ‘It’s just a matter of paying attention.’ 

Sisi tilts her head, looking at him. ‘I’d like to paint you.’ 

Perry laughs. ‘Well. Thanks. But I’m afraid I have already hired a portrait artist once, and I shouldn’t like to do so again.’ 

‘Why not?’

Perry smiles, but does not answer. 

‘How’s your sister?’ he asks, instead. 

Sisi laughs. ‘Ah, so your skills of deduction are fallible after all. I don’t have a sister.’ 

Perry tilts his head sidewards, like a cat. ‘Is that so?’ 

Sisi shifts on the mattress. She thinks about Queenie, about their reflections staring down from their mirror. 

‘Why did you come home with me last night?’ Sisi asks. 

‘What? Do you need to be told how beautiful you are? You’re stunning. Pretty like a princess should be.’ 

‘But that’s not why you came home with me.’ 

‘No,’ says Perry, breathing out a lungful of smoke. ‘I wanted to figure you out.’ 

Sisi blinks. ‘Whatever do you mean?’ 

‘Be honest, Elisabeth Ronson. You brought me home so you could figure me out, too.’ 

Perry turns away, looking out of the window adjacent to the bed. Sisi wonder if he’s right. Things have been so suffocatingly dull for so long. David is a bore. Society parties are worse. 

‘Downstairs in the hall, there was a painting of Lancelot,’ says Perry. ‘One of yours, I presume.’ 

‘Yes. It is. Do you like it?’ 

‘I’m not sure. There’s something to it, absolutely. But something was missing, too. He’s a knight in armour on horseback. But the wounds in his chest looked like bullet holes.’ 

‘They’re supposed to be stab wounds,’ says Sisi, wondering how Perry would know what a bullet wound looked like. 

Perry hums. ‘It feels like you’re trying to say something, but you’re too afraid.’ 

Sisi feels scolded like a child. Perry looks up at her, smiling oddly. She’s struck at once by the fact he’s almost entirely dressed and she’s completely naked. That he’d stripped her bare but left on his shirt and socks. That he’d run his hands all over her, reading every piece of her body, but she’d hardly laid a hand on him. 

‘Those scars, on your legs,’ she says, uncertainly. ‘You were beaten, weren’t you?’ 

Perry’s smile shifts. He shakes his head. ‘I should go.’

‘Why?’ 

‘You’re cleverer than I gave you credit for. Can’t risk leaving you with any more pieces of the puzzle now, can I?’ 

[WHOOSH] 

Sisi leaves David on her forty-third birthday. There’s no fight, no heated exchange. She just says she’s going to leave, and David lets her. Three hours later, she arrives at the front door of Queenie’s little house in Cornwall. Before Sisi can even knock, the door swings wide. She has not seen Queenie’s eldest daughter for eight years. She’d been remembering a toddler, but now she’s tall, rangy like a half-grown dog. She looks just like Sisi, she thinks. 

‘Are you Auntie Sisi?’ asks the girl.

‘Why, yes,’ says Sisi, slightly breathless. 

‘Papa!’ The girl calls. ‘Auntie Sisi is here!’ 

She runs back into the house. Sisi follows her, closing the door softly behind herself. The little house is almost exactly as she remembers, though there are more paintings on the walls. Queenie’s work, endless stretches of skies in every colour you could imagine. It’s always been a wonder to Sisi how she could capture such feeling with what is essentially empty space, broken now and then by clouds, or the silhouettes of birds. 

Sisi wanders down the hall. She finds Queenie’s husband, Paul, in the kitchen. He’s wearing a polka dot apron. ‘Sisi, what a pleasure,’ he says. ‘Is Queenie expecting you?’ 

‘Um. No,’ says Sisi. 

‘She’s up in the attic. She’s got a new show opening next week. She’s been working like a dog for months.’ 

Sisi nods. 

‘Will you be staying for dinner?’ Paul asks. 

‘Oh. That would be lovely,’ she says. 

‘Wonderful. We always make extra, anyway. Never know who might drop by.’ 

Sisi almost bursts into tears. 

‘If you want to go up, I’m sure Queenie wouldn’t mind.’ 

Sisi’s not sure, but she allows herself to be led upstairs by Queenie’s eldest, who has dozens of things to tell her about school and going for walks on the beach and everything that can pop up inti her head. She stops at the foot of the wide-tread ladder that leads to Queenie’s attic studio. 

‘Mum doesn’t like us going up there,’ she says. 

‘Right,’ says Sisi. She makes the final ascent alone. She feels small and stupid as she emerges through the hole in the floor. Queenie’s studio is a mess, but in a charming kind of way. Drop cloths stained with every imaginable colour, stacks of the raw wood Queenie paints on lining the walls. There are crates half-sealed, the work which will no doubt be part of Queenie’s next show.

Queenie is crammed in by the small, round window, curled around a plank of wood. It rests on her lap as she plucks stars out of the dark sky. 

‘Leave my dinner in the oven, Jen,’ says Queenie. ‘I’ll be down in a bit.’

‘Sorry to disturb you. I can pass on the message,’ says Sisi. 

Queenie looks up at once. ‘Sisi?’

‘I’m sorry,’ says Sisi. She’s not sure what, exactly, she’s apologising for. The intrusion. For stopping by. For hardly speaking with Queenie for years. 

‘You’ve broken things off with David,’ says Queenie, at once.

Sisi laughs. ‘How could you possibly know?’ 

‘He was always too boring for you, darling,’ says Queenie. She turns back to her painting. 

‘I’m sorry; I should have written first instead of just showing up like this.’ 

‘Nonsense,’ says Queenie. ‘We promised each other, didn’t we? We promised we’d be there for each other.’ 

‘I know. But I’ve not been there for you.’ 

‘When have I asked for you?’

Sisi blinks. ‘Queenie, I—’ 

‘Stop it. You’re family. This is where you come, when you need somewhere to go.’ 

‘I love you,’ Sisi whispers. 

Queenie smiles. ‘I know. I love you too. Now, hush. I need to finish.’ 

[WHOOSH] 

Sisi fusses with her dress, glances in the mirror. ‘I can’t do this.’ 

Queenie scoffs. ‘Don’t be daft. You’ve already done it!’ 

Sisi shakes her head. ‘I feel naked.’ 

‘Hmm. Well. To me it looks like you’re definitely wearing a satin dress, if that helps at all.’ 

Sisi laughs. ‘A little. But it’s just. What if it’s ridiculous? Painting knights alongside troops in the war, I just…’ 

Queenie folds Sisi into her arms. ‘Your work is good. It’s evocative. I promise you, you’ve done something good. You should be proud. I’m proud!’ 

‘Thank you for being here.’ 

‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Tonight’s about you, celebrating you, showing off everything you’ve done. Okay?’ 

Sisi nods. ‘Okay.’ 

She lets Queenie open the door of the gallery staff room, and they step out into the exhibition space. Sisi’s knights ride through the ruins of Europe, blood on their hands. They stand with their horses next to the bombed ruins of Coventry and Dresden, lie among the dead in pits next to men in bloodied coats. 

‘I like that there’s no glory, here,’ says one of the guests, holding his champagne. 

By the end of the evening, Sisi is almost feeling proud. She hangs around to help the staff at the gallery close up, though she’s paid them well to be here. Queenie stays too, chattering, praising her, reminding her that everything went so brilliantly well, but she had to go before the tidying is done; she has to get home to her children. 

The staff pack up, and Sisi cannot quite bring herself to let it be over. They leave her with the keys. She walks up and down the displays, staring at the paintings. Did it matter that only three of the twelve sold? What did it say that those paintings were the least graphic, the ones she felt were the least meaningful? 

She stops at her favourite one of the paintings. Lancelot rests against his horse, her golden fur stained red. Her tongue is pink and impossibly big as it bulges from her slack jaw. Lancelot’s arms reach above him, as though he might have been grasping the edge of the tank they’re sprawled against. Its guns bleed smoke across the orange sky. 

Behind Sisi, there’s a noise. 

‘Hello?’ Sisi calls. 

There’s a man in the dark. ‘Hello,’ he says. 

‘Sorry. The show’s finished.’ 

‘Oh, I know. I wanted to speak with you. Elizabeth Ronson.’ 

‘Were you interested in buying something? I’m afraid I can’t set that up without the staff. If you come back in the morning, they’ll be able to arrange that for you.’ 

‘Oh, no. I’m not interested in buying.’ 

‘What do you want to talk about, then?’ 

‘Some years ago you met a man. Theodore du Perier.’ 

Sisi scoffs. ‘Oh, barely.’ 

‘I’m trying to find him.’ 

‘Well. I don’t think I can help. I didn’t know him well. We only really spoke once.’ 

‘Did he tell you?’ 

‘Tell me what?’ 

‘Who he was.’ 

Something about the man’s tone chill’s Sisi. ‘I think you should go,’ she says. 

‘Why?’ 

‘The gallery is closed. I need to head home myself, I think, but—’ 

‘So he did tell you who he was, then?’ 

‘He’s Theodore du Perier.’ 

‘Sometimes. When it suits him,’ says the man. 

‘Really. It’s late. I should be getting home.’ 

The man steps out of the dark. His eyes are misty blue, narrowed as they study Sisi. She half-recognises him, somehow. ‘Do I know you?’ 

‘My name is Stephen Grenville. Theodore du Perier ruined my life. I am trying to find him.’ 

‘I’m sorry, whatever quarrel you had with Perry—‘ 

Stephen laughs. ‘Perry, now, is he? You see? He’s a chameleon. I thought he might come here tonight. He likes to show off. You think I’ve not noticed how many of the men in these paintings look like him?’ 

Sisi frowns. ’Do they?’ To her, they all looked like her father, who didn’t much resemble Perry at all. 

‘Oh yes. But he has this effect on people. He’s like a poison, infecting the mind. He did it to my aunt. Stole all of her money. Left me destitute.’ He’s standing very close now. Too close. Sisi can feel his breath on her skin. 

‘Did he fuck you?’ says Stephen. 

‘Really, Mr Grenville. It’s very late. I should go home.’ 

‘So he did then. That’s another thing he likes: Claiming people. Marking them. Does it to all sorts. Men, women, anyone he can convince to get naked. Makes himself their little whore. You don’t know you’re paying for his services, but you are. More dearly than you’ll know.’ 

‘How dare you.’ Sisi stands up straight. ‘I thought I recognised you. I remember now. Perry didn’t steal your money, did he? Here you are, making claims that he’s the one lying to people, but you’re not even a real Grenville, are you?’

Stephen strikes Sisi hard across the face. So hard she staggers back from him. Her cheek is stinging, the skin flushing hot. When she looks up, he’s holding one of the empty champagne bottles. He taps it against his empty hand, like it’s a club. 

Sisi scrambles backwards, bumping against one of her paintings. She glances up; Lancelot despairs next to the bloodied remains of his golden horse, her tongue hanging out of her mouth, eyes already beginning to fog. Behind him, London burns. 

She takes a breath. 

[WHOOSH] 

[THE APPRENTICE GASPS] 

SIR
I have you.

APPRENTICE
It’s because of me!

SIR
It’s alright. 

APPRENTICE
No it— ach. Fuck, my head, my head. Argh. I— it’s my fault. It’s my fault. 

SIR
You didn’t kill her. 

[THE SOUND OF WIND RUSTLING AROUND THEM IS BEGINNING TO BUILD]

APPRENTICE
I remember! Stephen Grenville did. Because of me. He’s killed so many people, and it’s all my fault. 

SIR
I heard him blame you for what he did, and I heard Sisi tell him he was wrong to think it. 

APPRENTICE
He can’t help who his parents were! He’s not good, but he— He didn’t deserve, he, ah… 

[A PAUSE] 

SIR
Apprentice?

APPRENTICE
I feel…My head.  Ach. It hurts to think. It hurts to remember. So many pieces, they just. They hurt. They hurt to touch. 

SIR
You are bleeding. 

[THE WIND IS LOUDER]

APPRENTICE
It doesn’t… I have to. To do something. I ruin things, I… Celine. Another painter. She died, and it was my fault and I— I come into people’s lives. I leave like it doesn’t matter. They die and it’s my fault. It’s my fault. 

SIR
How are you accountable for this? 

APPRENTICE
Because! They. They died. 

SIR
And everyone dies, in the end. 

APPRENTICE
The judgements. The remnants. Shelve or discard. You were asking why it’s these remnants. Why it’s these parts of them I see. It’s because of this. Maybe it’s about people who I— the people… that I need to atone for. 

SIR
Not all of these people have known you. And Sisi, her memory of you was a good one, wasn’t it? 

APPRENTICE
Mngh. Maybe that’s what it’s about. 

SIR
What what is about?

APPRENTICE
I… I hurt people, Sir. I still can’t see the whole thing, but I’m not a good man. Mffmmn. I know this pain. I’ve felt it before. I think I— I’m remembering. Mmnngh. Notes in tunnels. Rooms full of torn out pages. Waking again and again and again. My face, in a music box. I think I— ah, god. It hurts though.

[THE APPRENTICE SOBS]

SIR 
You are bleeding quite heavily. 

APPRENTICE
I thought you couldn’t see. 

SIR
I can’t. Not like you. But there is something coming out of you. 

APPRENTICE
What does it look like? 

SIR
Dust. 

APPRENTICE
Maybe it’s good. 

SIR
How could this be good?!

APPRENTICE
If I just. Argh. If I let everything fall. Dust through my fingers.  Let it fall away. Maybe this is how it ends. 

SIR 
That’s not what happens, no!

[THE WIND IS LOUDER THAN EVER, AND ANOTHER SOUND IS BUILDING, THE FLAP OF MASSIVE WINGS]

APPRENTICE 
But I can’t go on like this!

SIR
No!

APPRENTICE
Please, Sir!

SIR 
No!

[THE WING BEATS ARE LOUDER, AND THEN FADE INTO…]

[WHOOSH]

[WIND BLOWS THROUGH LEAVES… OR DUST… AND THE APPRENTICE WHIMPERS, DISORIENTATED, IN PAIN]

SIR
Did it help? Has it helped?

[THE APPRENTICE CONTINUES TO WHIMPER AND MOAN] 

SIR
No. It’s worse, it’s worse now, I’m sorry, I don’t know what I…

[THE APPRENTICE STILL WHIMPERS]

SIR
Here. Perhaps I can stymie the flow. Let me hold you.

[THE APPRENTICE’S WHIMPERS CHANGE, PANICKED NOW MORE THAN PAINED, AND A STRANGE DRONING SOUND IS RISING] 

SIR 
What?

APPRENTICE 
I can feel the— I can see I— 

SIR
Have I hurt you?

[THE APPRENTICE’S SOUNDS AND BREATHS ARE INCREASINGLY PANICKED]

SIR
What?!

[THE APPRENTICE SIGHS, LIKE HE’S GIVEN IN TO WHATEVER THING IS OVERWHELMING HIM. ALL OTHER SOUNDS FADE AWAY, LEAVING ONLY SILENCE]

[END]