No Mercy

by J. T. Brindle

  ‘Don’t be defeated,’ Ellie told him, leaving the boy and joining her father at the door. ‘You heard what Alec Harman said… “Go to the house,” he said… “be patient”.’

  ‘That’s all very well. But, he should have waited. He knows these people… he must be able to reason with them.’ He raised both his arms high into the air in a gesture of surrender, afterwards crashing his hands to his head and groaning aloud as he ran his outstretched fingers through his hair. ‘That’s it!’ he said. He started down the steps. ‘You two stay here. Don’t wander from this spot. I’m going to the estate… got to ‘phone… somebody’s got to get that bloody door open!’ The anger had returned. Ellie despaired. Suddenly, there was movement behind the door.

  ‘Wait… Dad!’ Ellie’s cry stopped him in his tracks. Slowly, disbelieving, he made his way back. Yes! It was opening. The door was opening. He gestured for Ellie to step away. She did, but only a small pace. She glanced down at the boy, thinking he might be afraid. He was not. His bright blue eyes stared back, intense, unnerving. Now, he was coming up to the door.

  ‘Must we go inside, Ellie?’ he asked, sliding his fingers in hers, and waiting, like the others, for the house to reveal its secrets.

  ‘Ssh.’ Ellie was astonished to find her heart fluttering uncontrollably. ‘It’ll be all right now… you’ll see.’

  She did not hear his returning whisper, ‘They’ll kill us, Ellie… they will.’

  Now, her father was tempting the occupant to show himself. ‘Nobody here wants to hurt you, George… we’re only here to do a job, you know that. We have to talk. We need to get this thing sorted out… Alec Harman did tell you who I am, didn’t he?’ The door inched open when he mentioned the young man’s name. ‘I’m the new caretake… Jack Armstrong. You must have had instructions about me?’

  When the door was opened wide, it was to send out a stench so bad, so shockingly evil that both Ellie and her father momentarily turned away. ‘I know… who you are.’ The voice was only a whisper, its owner remaining hidden behind the door. ‘The darkeye told me. He said I had to let you in.’ A pause, then a soft rush of laughter before the voice went on in that same forceful whisper, ‘He won’t punish me though. He doesn’t know… I didn’t tell him what I’ve done.’ Again the furtive laughter. The door began to close.

  ‘No! Wait, George.’ Ellie sprang forward, touching the door with her shoulder, and softly pleading into the black interior, ‘We have to come in… you said yourself that the “darkeye” told you to let us in.’ She wondered whether Alec Harman and the ‘darkeye’ were one and the same. ‘We can come in, can’t we?’ She could hear the other person breathing; feel the trembling on the other side of the door. Fearful, she moved her eyes to see her father watching, confused and apprehensive. She sensed the boy’s keen, glittering eyes on her. He would be fine, she promised herself, once they were accepted. Once they were accepted. Strange, she thought, had she really meant that…?

  ‘Maybe I will let you in.’ The whisper was closer now. In the gloom, the claw-like hand reached out, gripping Ellie’s forearm. Now it was she who was trembling. But, suddenly, she was not afraid. Only sad, and relieved, and curious. The whisper became a frantic hiss, ‘Only… you mustn’t tell him what I did.’

  ‘We won’t tell,’ Ellie promised. She did not imagine for one minute that the old man had done anything so terrible that Alec Harman would want to punish him. To her mind the old fellow was just afraid of strangers. Cautious and, perhaps, a little batty. Her own thought shamed her.

  Now, when the owner of the voice manifested itself, Ellie was riveted with shock. Here before her was a hideous form, bent and decrepit, a shapeless being with ungainly features and wearing what appeared to be a dark, loose shift about its form. The crooked, claw-like fingers were clasped tightly round the two edges of a coarse blanket. Drawing it together over his back and shoulders, he looked at Ellie with pale shifty eyes, all the while fidgeting from one foot to the other and creating little bursts of sound from the back of his throat. After suspiciously eyeing the man, then the boy – who did not flinch beneath his scrutiny – he feverishly nodded his head and chuckled. It was an unpleasant sound.

  Ellie was the first to recover. ‘George… can we come in and talk to you? You and… Rosie?’

  The pale eyes grew wide as they seized on Ellie’s face. ‘Rosie!’ Laughter again, then a disturbing span of silence, before, ‘Rosie’s been bad!’ The pale eyes shrank to slits in a deep frown. There was instant fear, and suspicion. He pushed at Ellie with surprisingly strong hands, the blanket slithering from his shoulders to the floor. ‘Can’t come in!’ he croaked. ‘You will tell… I know you will!’ When the door began closing, Ellie felt herself snatched away when Jack Armstrong leaped forward, frantic to stop the old man from slamming shut the door against them. He saw the aged face leering at him; then the pale eyes, looking beyond. At once they became softer, afraid even. He was speaking to someone. ‘They told you… didn’t they?’ Tears tumbled from the pale eyes and ran down into the toothless, gaping mouth. ‘… wouldn’t listen, you see… I was afraid. Don’t punish me. Please… don’t punish me.’

  ‘It’s all right. I won’t punish you. Nobody will ever punish you, I promise.’ Alec Harman tenderly took the cringing figure into his arms, all the while soothing, pacifying the unfortunate creature; reassuring him as one might reassure a child. Together they went deeper into the house.

  The bedraggled procession went slowly along the gloomy, narrow passage, each purposeful figure occupied with its own thoughts, its own fears. The young man with the dark, silent eyes kept his gaze ahead; he knew why the recluse beside him was afraid of being punished. Or, at least, he suspected. If he had not been so preoccupied earlier with the girl’s fascination for him and entranced by those splendid amber eyes that stirred him deeply, he might have realised that there had been mischief made in this house. But, he had not realised. And now, he only prayed it was not too late! He could feel the wizened, bent figure trembling beneath his touch. Just for a second he slowed his steps to turn and glance on it. The old man swivelled his pale eyes up to peer into the other one’s face and, seeing the condemnation there, he hurriedly looked away. He knew the darkeye had guessed. He also knew he would not be punished this time, because the darkeye always kept his promise. He wasn’t sorry, though. Oh no! He had done it for the best, and he would do it again. He wasn’t afraid either. It was not his fault if nobody listened. Suddenly, he was aware of the footsteps following behind, and his whole body stiffened. Strangers. Intruders! Thieves, come to take what was theirs. He knew. He was not fooled. Another thought pierced the hostility in his fevered mind and, for the briefest moment, he relaxed, a small, wild chuckle moving his features. The darkeye had told him to let these people in, and he had done as he was told. But only because he knew that to keep them out would cost him dear. In this place he could watch them closely, the man and the girl. And the boy in particular. He could not be certain, not certain. But, there was something about that one – something about the way he had looked at him. It was the eyes, those shrieking eyes that put him in mind of… Oh God above, help me. He shivered inside, trying to shut away that certain look in those staring eyes. Eyes that were too invading, too rich in blueness. When he had looked into that sea of vivid blue, he had seen something there to make him tremble. He had seen the lavender! And now, its scent was all around. Overpowering. ‘Send them away!’ he screamed. ‘I don’t want them here.’ The fear inside collapsed, and he was a child again, hiding from the world. He heard the darkeye’s soothing voice and thankfully he leaned into the strength that moved beside him. There was a time when he could not even trust the darkeye, but, that was in the beginning. In the beginning, when he knew the face of the one who tortured him. He knew the face, and all there was to know about the thing that stalked him. But, there had been so much pain, so much fear and running, hiding; always hiding. Now, he had forgotten what it was that he was hiding from. There was no
face any more. No name. Only the terror. And the smell of lavender. Lavender. A small, involuntary cry escaped his lips.

  ‘If you ask me, the old fellow should be locked away.’ Jack Armstrong leaned towards Ellie, his voice a soft, astonished whisper in her ear. ‘One thing’s for certain… I’ve no intention of living under the same roof as that one, not for a minute longer than is necessary. The sooner we get the pair of ’em out of this house and into the cottage… the better!’

  Although she was loath to admit it, her father’s words had echoed her own thoughts exactly. It was plain to see that the old man was sick. Very close to insanity. She had compassion for him, it was true, but she had known enough insecurity these past few months, and she had been made to battle with her own demons, as had her father and the boy. This was a new start for them all. A chance to recover and to grow strong. They could not, would not, be made to suffer for others! A great sense of outrage welled up in her, as silently she stayed close to the old man and the one he called ‘Darkeye’. They must be made to see the way of things. Smiling reassuringly, she looked on the boy’s face. It was set like chiselled marble. His cold gaze scoured ahead; his steps were faultless, determined. Strangely disturbed, Ellie looked away, her eyes glancing about the room they had just turned into.

  Only now did the boy seem to relax, his aqua-blue eyes roving the place in which they were standing. He had been angered by the old man’s cry, ‘Send them away… I don’t want them here.’ He had secretly wished that Ellie and his father would heed the old man’s words and take him far away from this house… from the demented stranger and his hateful looks. Now, he was very tired, and his stomach was growling for food; he wanted to punish the old man for what he had said. He wasn’t sure exactly how, but he could bide his time. He felt the warmth of Ellie’s hand in his own. Suddenly, he was no longer terrified by the prospect of living in this isolated place, or of staying in this big house that reminded him of a fort he had once made out of sand when they were holidaying in the North. A sense of loss pervaded his senses when he recalled that his mother had helped him to build that fort with her own hands. Now, she was gone and he was here, in this strange place. But, he was not afraid, not now. Nor was he excited or curious. He had resisted from the start; fought every inch of the way, until he had not known what to do next. Now, though, he was merely resigned to it all.

  ‘Are you going to tell me what you’ve done?’ Alec Harman had the old man by the shoulders. In the half-light of the room, his black eyes glistened as they bore down on the face with its lolloping wide-open mouth and the pale, surprised eyes beneath the shaggy brows. When the head shook frantically from side to side, the spittle from inside its wet, pink mouth slewed into the air.

  ‘Can’t tell you!’ The narrow shoulders slunk downwards, away from the pinching fingers.

  Alec Harman sighed, looking into the wizened features a moment longer. The features became cunning, challenging him with a devious smile. ‘Shan’t tell.’

  ‘Do you want me to go away, then? Do you?’ The black eyes were stiff with anger; threatening. ‘Do you want me to leave you… alone with these people?’… He flicked his searing gaze to where Ellie and her father stood. The boy was half-hidden behind them. Ellie’s surprised gaze encountered the dark fury in his glance; it set something alight inside her.

  ‘What’s that?’ Ellie was the first to hear it. From somewhere deep in the bowels of the house emitted a constant dull sound, rhythmic and insistent – like the beating of a heart, she thought with astonishment. The astonishment careered through her when she saw how the sound had affected the old man. He tore himself from the young man’s clutches.

  ‘You said you wouldn’t punish me!’ he yelled, the fear bouncing in his eyes as he backed away. Suddenly, he was scuttling across the room, shrieking and crying all at once. The young man followed him.

  ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph!’ Ellie felt her father’s hand grip her shoulder. ‘What the hell is that noise?’ There it was again, drumming into the air, seeming to echo all round them. In between each pulse, the span of silence was unbearable.

  Before Alec Harman pursued the old man from the room, he turned briefly at the panelled door some short way from the huge fireplace. ‘I must go after him,’ he explained, bestowing his warmest smile on Ellie. ‘You’ll find the kitchen back that way.’ He inclined his dark head in the same direction from which they had come. ‘Third door to your left along the passage.’ He glanced knowingly at the boy. Now, he was addressing Ellie again. ‘You must be hungry… thirsty. There is food in the kitchen. Help yourself. Afterwards, make yourselves comfortable here.’ Ellie was surprised when the timbre of his voice changed; he was suddenly afraid. ‘I must find him,’ he murmured, ‘or there’s no telling what he might do.’

  ‘He was right about one thing,’ Jack Armstrong told Ellie. ‘I, for one, am famished.’ He stretched himself, took a deep breath, and immediately wrinkled his nose in disgust. ‘This whole place stinks to high heaven!’ he moaned, striding across the room and reaching up to the curtains that were drawn over the long narrow window, shutting out the light of day, rendering the room dim and forbidding. Clutching the edge of each curtain he yanked them back amidst a shower of dust and fabric particles. At once the morning sun tumbled in through the grey, grimy window panes, filling every hitherto dark corner of the room with warm, brilliant sunshine.

  ‘It’s lovely!’ The transformation was incredible. In spite of the heavy, ornate furniture with its deep panels, fussy alcoves and formidable appearance – every piece coated in thick, layered dust – Ellie thought the room was the most beautiful she had ever seen. It was immense. On the far side was the panelled door through which Alec Harman and the old man had disappeared; the remaining, considerable length of that particular wall was taken up with a magnificent open fireplace measuring some fourteen feet across with the ornate, decorated mantelpiece sweeping up into a back dresser that covered the upper wall and touched the ceiling above. Carved and fluted columns flanked either side of the firehearth, and the interior of the entire structure was so cavernous that a small family could have dwelt in it. There were two windows, both of which were built into the wall on Ellie’s left. The windows were long and graceful but, like everything else in sight, were badly neglected and crying out for love. The wall opposite was finished in the same rich wood panels that encircled the whole room, but, on this wall, were hung many paintings. Ellie thought them to be deeply enchanting yet, by the same token, strangely forbidding. The paintings were of various shapes and sizes; twelve in all. Some were depicted in gilt cameo frames, and some encased in oblongs of purple velvet; others were housed in extravagant black frames with silver edging, and the largest of them all was hung centrally in a stark, blackwood frame some six feet long and four feet wide. Ellie found herself inexplicably drawn to the paintings.

  For a long, eerie moment Ellie gazed up at the paintings, her heart filled with utter delight, yet stilled by a feeling she could not understand; a feeling of dread. A feeling that she had seen these paintings somewhere before! Yet she knew she had not, for the subject of these paintings was so incredibly beautiful that a body could never forget them. There was something unique about them. They had an essence that was disturbingly spiritual and timeless. Every one of the paintings depicted the same woman. She was sometimes smiling, sometimes sad. Here, she was mysterious, there she was enchanting. Pensive. Beckoning. And in every one, she was ethereal in her beauty. Ellie could not tear herself away. There was a magnetism there, calling and holding her. Eagerly, her gaze drank in the details; the corn-coloured hair that spilled over the milk-white shoulders, the bright, laughing brown eyes that would not let go, and the features, so exquisite, so unreal yet so alive that at any moment a body might actually hear her laughing.

  ‘She’s so… bewitching,’ Ellie murmured, ‘like someone you feel you know… or have seen at some time, somewhere.’

  ‘Huh.’ Jack Armstrong had also been looking at the pa
intings. ‘A good painting is supposed to make you feel like that… or so they say. Yes… she certainly has… something.’ He gazed a moment longer, before deciding that he did not particularly like the woman in the painting. At first glance it looked as though her eyes were twinkling with laughter. Under closer scrutiny he decided that the eyes were hard, the ‘twinkle’ was more like the glitter of marble, or ice; or death. No! He must not let himself slide back into the nightmare.

  ‘She looks like you, Ellie.’ The boy’s voice cut into the air like a knife.

  ‘Nonsense!’ Jack Armstrong glanced nervously from the paintings to the boy, then back again. ‘Absolute nonsense. The woman in the paintings looks nothing at all like Ellie.’ He pointed to the various dresses that the subject was wearing; regal they were, and of the eighteenth century. The lady was also adorned with precious and exquisite-looking gems. In every painting she held a spray of flowers, so tiny and coveted that it was impossible to identify them. But, in each case, the flowers were a deep, vivid blue colour. She was pressing them close to her heart, cherishing them like a mother might cherish a newborn.

  Ellie gazed a while longer. She was intrigued, wondering why anyone would want to paint the same subject so many times. She said as much to her father now. His remark set her thinking. ‘Only someone who was besotted would do such a thing,’ he said scornfully. Ellie gave no answer. She felt sad that her father had grown so hard, so cynical, when the memories of how he had loved her mother were so alive inside her.

  Reluctantly she tore her gaze from the woman in the paintings. Her father was right, though. ‘Someone… besotted.’ It was true. The paintings were magnificent, alive and vibrant, as though the artist had poured his soul into them. The passion emanated from every stroke of his brush. So much passion. The kind that fuels a powerful love, or a powerful hate! Ellie shivered and hugged herself. In spite of the warm sunshine flooding the room, she was cold in every corner of her being.