The Versatiles

by Alex Duncan

  ‘No? What then?’

  ‘That,’ he pointed at Steadfast’s left hand. He looked down at it and wondered what the man meant. There was nothing there except the ring around his third finger, his wedding band. Then it became clear.

  ‘That’s the price of my discretion. You see,’ said Thump, smiling even wider, ‘silence is golden.’

  ‘Oh no, no, no. Not my ring Thump. My wife’s been dead not three years. I’m hardly ready to part with it yet. Look I’ve got money here to buy ten such rings…’

  ‘But I want that one,’ Thump insisted. ‘If you don’t want to give it to me it would be no trouble to make sure that you and that bumblin’ son of yours…’

  ‘You leave my son out of this business!’ he shouted, instantly regretting it when Thump burst out laughing.

  ‘Doesn’t know what his daddy gets up to after dark does he? Ha ha! We could soon enlighten him…’

  ‘No! No, leave him alone. I don’t want him involved. You can take the bloody ring, just leave him alone!’ He pulled off the ring, only a white line on his finger remaining as a reminder, and pushed it into Thump’s hand.

  ‘That’s my boy,’ said Thump, pocketing the ring and snatching the handful of banknotes as well. ‘That wasn’t so bad, was it? Now be a good’un and go and fetch me the rest of last night’s Thoughts will you.’

  Steadfast turned from the man, rubbing his empty hands together, feeling utterly miserable and left through a door with the word DELPHI embossed upon the woodwork in fine brass letters.

  Left alone Thump sipped his tea and whistled an old shanty as he slumped back into his chair and got himself comfortable. He thought he would miss the high winds and the rolling open seas but it turned out that he missed neither. There was plenty of fun to be had on dry land and plenty of profit too. Apollo was a decent, if somewhat secretive, boss and his talents were serving him nicely. Who’d have thought that Thump would be a land lubber? Yet here he was, having the time of his life, and helping Apollo with the greatest act of social reform England had ever seen. Hope was soon to become the beacon that every town, village and city in the country would follow, and he had been a part of it. He imagined the faces on the audience at the theatre the following night, the wonders they would be shown, the secrets they would be told and the fat purses they would willingly dip into to help Apollo in his cause. Yes, indeed, life was good.

  The door marked DELPHI opened again and Steadfast returned, dragging his feet and holding a large bundle of documents in his arms. Every page was crammed with scribbles and etchings and diagrams that would look to anyone else like a complete load of nonsense.

  ‘Last night’s Thoughts,’ he announced, dropping the heap of parchment on top of Thump’s desk.

  ‘Ah,’ said Thump, selecting a page and pulling a quill from the jar. ‘Let’s see what the future holds for us today.’

  The man pulled up his sleeves, dipped his quill in the inkpot and commenced reading the barely decipherable document and writing his translations down on a separate blank page. He continued to whistle and work away, leaving Steadfast standing there as though he was quite invisible. Steadfast tapped his foot on the polished parquet floor and huffed loudly.

  ‘And what should I do?’ he finally asked.

  Thump’s hand dropped the quill and in a flash he had caught Steadfast by the wrist, twisted it painfully towards him and pulled him down to his knees. Steadfast landed awkwardly and slipped onto his side as the heavy man stood up and looked down at him.

  ‘I suggest you go and look for the slave that got away. Don’t you agree?’ he smiled and Steadfast nodded. He could smell the man’s hot breath and tried to struggle free but the man held him in a firm, vice-like grip. They looked at each other for a moment, until Thump released his hold and pushed Steadfast towards the door they had come in from.

  Steadfast rubbed his wrist and hurried out, only stopped by Thump’s gruff voice calling out behind him.

  ‘After all Steadfast,’ he shouted, ‘he can’t have got very far!’

  ◆◆◆

  The end of the day was hours away but there was still an uncommon air of midnight about the room; a stillness and a quiet that came only in that time when the world was sleeping.

  Rosie slapped Sam on the shoulder and they waited anxiously as Henry stepped over the line of salt under the doorframe and into the room. Rosie felt her heart quicken. How peculiar it was that silence could conjure such fleeting phantoms in the mind, she thought, that out of nothing she could feel fear and put a form to it nowhere but in her own imagination.

  The silence was broken only by the crunch of smashed glass under Henry’s shoes as he carefully looked around the scene. There were dots of blood on the floor, no doubt from the sharp shards of glass cutting into the soles of bare feet, but no sign of any struggle, no sign of anyone else. The chaos of furniture and clothes and sheets and glass was all the work of one person out of control. It could be no one but the stranger from the night before.

  ‘I’ve no idea what possessed him to do this,’ said Henry, lifting up a piece of splintered wood and throwing it aside, ‘but if he did manage to get out of here, he can’t have got very…’

  Henry didn’t get to finish. He flinched at the creaking sound of the door closing behind him and swung round to face the stranger standing stiff and straight with his back up against the wall.

  ‘O ni lati gba pada!’ the man shouted, lunging madly for the old man. Henry wasn’t as quick as he once was and he had hardly lifted his cane as the stranger hit him and they both toppled to the hard wooden floor.

  ‘Mi ole wa ni bi byi. Oni lati ran mi lowo!’

  There was something of the disembodied spirit about the man. He was all distraction, like some raving animal frothing at the bit. Henry tried to free himself but the hard impact had shaken him and he was unable to get a good grip against the wild strength of his assailant.

  ‘To dami pada. To dami pada!’

  ‘Unhand me I say,’ Henry demanded, pushing upwards. ‘Unhand me this instant…’

  There was a great crash as Rosie kicked the door open and she and Sam rushed to the old man’s aid. They both hooked their arms around the stranger’s own arms and with once great heave, though it took all their strength, pulled him off and held him hard as he thrashed about. He hadn’t once stopped shouting in his native tongue and the noise was horrific.

  ‘Isabella emi nikan. Moni lati pada sodo e. Ko da laisi mi…Isabella!’

  ‘What’s he going on about?’ Sam called over the din, holding on to the man as tightly as he could.

  ‘I can’t make it out,’ said Rosie next to him, gripping on just as firmly as her grandfather pushed himself up and held his cane out in front of him. ‘You know what he’s ranting on about grandpa?’

  The old man faltered for a moment.

  ‘No…no idea…’ he said.

  ‘There was something about an Isabella,’ said Rosie. ‘Does that mean anything to you…Isabella?’

  The name seemed to strike a sharp chord in the stranger. He yanked his arms free of their grip and turned on Rosie with all the menace of a bloodhound. He reached for her shoulders and forced her back against the wall. Rosie had no time to retaliate and let out a small scream, turning her face from the man as he spat out his words at her.

  ‘So mo obirin yen, Isabella? O gobo ran mi lowo, tori ewo lo le ran mi lowo lati pada!’

  ‘I…I’m sorry…I don’t understand you,’ she said, but the man grabbed her by the throat and shouted yet more. There seemed to be no end to his persistence.

  ‘Oni lati ran mi lowo. Ko da laisi mi!’

  Rosie coughed as the she tried to take a frantic breath and reached up to grab the man’s wrists. She pulled hard but her captor had an iron strong hold on her and she felt herself choking. The man’s eyes bored into hers, but when she expected to see the wild gaze of a mad man, she saw only desperation and hurt. His dark eyes and creased brow spoke of an immeasurable pain, not only
rage. How could she let the man know she meant him no harm? She didn’t recognise his language. The only words she could think of were the haunting chants she had heard him utter on their first meeting out on the hillside. Was that in his tongue? She had no idea, but she had to try something.

  As Sam and Henry tried to pull the man free, she shaped the words in her mouth.

  ‘H-o-w-l-a h-o-w-l-a!’ she choked. ‘How-la-la how-la-la!’

  It worked. Almost in an instant the man’s eyes widened as though some terror had taken its hold of him and he released his grip from around Rosie’s throat. For all she could tell, the target of his fear was nowhere to be seen. He stared past her at nothing and waved his arms against no enemy but the thin air.

  ‘H-o-w-l-a h-o-w-l-a!’ he repeated, in his dreadful wail, ‘how-la-la how-la-la!’

  He tripped backwards on some piece of broken furniture and stumbled before slipping and landing on his side, shivering and sinking back into the feverish sleep he had spent the day in. As quick as a candle could be blown out, his passion had been extinguished and he was an unconscious soul once more.

  Rosie took in great gulps of air as she leant back against the wall. Sam raced over to her to help her upright, but she was quick to brush his hands aside.

  ‘For shame young man, don’t touch me, I’m not harmed,’ she spluttered, still catching her breath. ‘The man merely took me…took all of us by surprise. I’ve no need of your benevolence.’

  ‘Do as you like miss,’ said Sam trying to smile, though it was clear he was offended. ‘I was only offering a helping hand but I forgot that you can clearly look after yourself. I’ll not make the mistake again.’

  Rosie ignored him and looked down at the stranger by their feet. ‘What do you think grandpa…I mean Mr Homespun?’

  The old man leant on his cane and scratched his head.

  ‘I’m dumbfounded girl. But, curse me if I’m wrong, I don’t think he meant us any harm.’

  ‘I thought the same,’ said Rosie.

  ‘Oh yes,’ added Sam, ‘my thoughts exactly! It was perfectly clear that he meant neither of you any harm whatsoever. I’m sure he greets everyone he meets like that!’

  ‘Master Steadfast,’ Henry broke in before the young man could go any further. ‘Would you care to fetch us some rum, it has unending medicinal properties and I should like our man here to have some.’

  ‘But…’ Sam lifted his hand to protest but Henry quickly continued.

  ‘And since we missed our luncheon, would you also bring up two bowls of the beef stew. This is not work for an empty stomach.’

  ‘Yes, but…’ Sam went to speak again.

  ‘Hurry up boy, we’ve not got all day and I’ll still have need of you so please bring up the food yourself and don’t send one of the serving girls. Let’s keep this little incident between the three of us shall we?’

  Sam looked at both of them then down at the man lying faint on the floor, puffed his cheeks out and left the room shaking his head. Once the sound of his footsteps descending the stairs died away Rosie turned on her grandfather.

  ‘All right, you can tell me now. What was he saying?’

  ‘Tell you what girl? I’ve no idea what you mean, I’m sure.’

  ‘Alas, grandpa! You’re a hopeless liar, you always have been. What did he say? I know you understood him.’

  ‘As you wish,’ the old man sighed. ‘Though it won’t mean much more to you than it did to me.’

  Rosie folded her arms and waited.

  ‘I didn’t pick out every word,’ he went on. ‘It was an African dialect I’m not too familiar with, from the west of the country if I’m not mistaken.’

  ‘Go on,’ Rosie urged.

  ‘He wanted our help.’

  ‘I could have figured that out for myself grandpa! What else did he want?’

  ‘He said he didn’t belong here, and he had to get back. He said he’s been taken, kidnapped, and this Isabella he mentioned, he said she wasn’t safe without him. That was about all I could understand. I was trying to defend myself if you failed to notice.’

  ‘What do you suppose he meant? Get back to where, Africa? Do you think he’s escaped from one of those awful slave ships on the way to the Americas?’

  ‘It’s possible I suppose, but that would mean the slave ships would be stopping off in England on their journey. I’ve not heard about any slavers on our coasts for years. No, no, it’s something else.’ The old man ran his fingers down the line of his jaw.

  ‘Whatever it is, I’ve never seen such a rage in anyone before,’ said Rosie. ‘I’m sure I saw a thousand fires burning in his eyes when he was staring at me.’

  ‘Rage you say? Oh no, I’m afraid it’s far worse than that. It’s love he’s full of. The most dangerous humour of all.’

  Henry threw a sheet back over what remained of the mattress and they both knelt to take hold of the man. Rosie went to take his ankles and instantly recoiled.

  ‘Look grandpa. I hadn’t noticed before, but his skin here, it’s all burnt or something.’

  Henry looked to where she was pointing and saw the curious wounds. The skin was marked in a way he couldn’t recognise. It wasn’t gangrenous or fetid, there was no evil smell coming from it, but there were grey lines running all around his ankles as though the skin in that area alone had aged.

  ‘Why, for the life of me, it looks…’

  ‘Dead,’ finished Rosie. ‘No shackles could have caused those marks. What on earth did?’

  Henry sighed. ‘All these questions and not one answer from either of us. The King wouldn’t be very impressed would he?’

  Rosie moved her hands up to the man’s knees and Henry held him under his arms as they lifted him up and onto what was left of the bed. She took a torn piece of linen and wiped the sweat from the feverish man’s forehead. He continued to shiver as she patted his brow and moved down to his neck. Just above his collarbone, hidden under the torn and drab shirt, was the beginning of a white line, a scar, raised and prominent on his black skin. She gently unbuttoned the man’s shirt and opened it, revealing his bare chest, and held her breath.

  ‘What the...?’

  Both she and Henry leaned in and examined their new find. Across the whole front of the man’s body, from each collarbone down to his navel, was a large V shaped scar on his skin. The cuts were healed but didn’t look old and shone out like a snail’s trail.

  Rosie fell back onto her haunches and took a deep breath. There was suddenly too much to take in at once and she felt she needed to gather herself for a moment. Henry got up, walked quietly over to the window and took several slow breaths of the fresh air.

  ‘Grandpa?’

  The old man turned to her, his hazel eyes keen and piercing.

  ‘What do you suppose that means?’ she asked, tracing her finger along the scarred flesh of the unconscious man. Henry walked back over to her and stooped down to them both, combing his hand back through his grey hair. Rosie could clearly see the worried look on his face and felt her heart quicken once more.

  ‘I can’t recall it well enough my girl, but have I ever…’ he hesitated.

  ‘Have you ever what?’

  He locked eyes with her.

  ‘Have I ever told you about Voodoo?’

  ◆◆◆

  Thump took another sheet of parchment from the top of the pile and began to read through the spidery scribbles.

  ‘And what will tomorrow bring for you my pretty?’ he mumbled under his breath, gulping his tea and chuckling quietly away to himself. He gradually worked his way through the pile of papers, the Thoughts as he called them, making sense of any scratch of writing and translating everything as best he could, and not once did the smile leave his face.

  On one page he read, Pangloss the apothecary was mentioned. The prophecy on the page said Pangloss would shut up shop early after an unusually busy day, all the tourists unloading their purses in exchange for his curiosities. He would get hopelessly drunk and
dream of his endless childhood days on the coast. Mr Potts appeared on another page. He too would have a successful day, the writing suggested, but his mind was restless, he longed to leave the town and head for the lights of London where his coffee would no doubt make him richer than he could imagine. There was Hotchkiss the banker on a further page. He wished for the embrace of another woman and would argue with his wife all day long. William Pilgrim would slip in the bath. Jonathan Thomas would hit a man after a game of dice and that dullard Ezekiel would wish he had never been born. It was all there, thought Thump, all there on every page, a forecast of the whole town’s thoughts and dreams and wishes and foibles and dirty little secrets. Thump loved it.

  He threw another page aside and picked up the last sheet.

  ‘What ‘ave we ‘ere?’ he muttered, holding the sheet up to the light. It was a drawing, rushed and smudged, but still good enough to make out. It depicted two people, a young gentleman all in disarray and a lady of similar age with thick hair falling in ringlets down over her shoulders. The young lady was arched over around her waist and, if Thump’s eyes didn’t deceive him, she was holding what looked to be a sword. Next to her, the young man had a face all screwed up in anger and his clenched fist was planted in the stomach of the young lady. He looked closer and saw that it wasn’t a clenched fist at all; the young man was holding something. It was a dagger.

  The double doors leading to the corridor burst open and a man dressed in the most expensive tailoring money could buy, with perfectly frilled collar and cuffs, sauntered into the circular room throwing a small cigarette to the parquet floor.

  ‘Good afternoon to you Thump my old sea dog,’ said the man. ‘Might I trouble you for your notes on last night’s Thoughts, if you’ve quite finished.’

  ‘All done Apollo,’ said Thump, rising quickly to his feet and accidentally knocking his chair to the ground. ‘Sorry, Apollo sir, you ‘ad me startled, that’s all.’

  ‘‘Tis no matter Thump. The Thoughts if you please…’ he clicked his fingers impatiently and Thump hastily gathered up the sheets on his desk.

  ‘Here sir,’ he said, handing them over. Apollo flicked through the notes, scanning them once over.