by Cross, Amy
“My dog,” I whisper, feeling a fresh flush of sorrow at the realization that Bob is gone. “He... He died.”
“And what's wrong with your leg?”
“Nothing!” I snap defensively. I'm still not quite sure what's been going on here, but I'm starting to think that maybe more time passed while I was writing than I realized.
“You're limping heavily!”
“That's none of your business.”
“There are old food cans everywhere,” she continues, swatting more flies away as she heads past me and stops to look into the study. “Have you been living off tinned food? And whiskey?”
“I ordered a month's supply of food,” I mutter. “I didn't want to have to deal with a delivery man every week. Maybe I worked through the food a little fast, or maybe the first delivery didn't come yet, or...”
I pause, and again I'm momentarily not quite sure what's happening.
“I'm fine,” I continue finally. “Don't worry about me. I'm doing just fine.”
“And you've just been sitting around writing?” She turns to me. “You're living in your own filth, Owen! You stink! The whole house smells awful!”
“I'm fine,” I stammer again, although I'm starting to realize that she might be right.
She stares at me, as if she's never seen anything quite so horrific, and now there are fresh tears in her eyes.
“I came because I need to talk to you,” she says after a moment, “but now I'm here, it's pretty clear that you need help. Owen, I'm going to clean this place up, okay? I'm going to start with the -”
Suddenly there's a loud bump over our heads. Looking up at the ceiling, I realize the sounds came from the room directly above us.
“Is there someone else here?” Vanessa asks.
I shake my head.
“Owen, if -”
“There's no-one,” I mutter, leaning against the wall in case I collapse. I'm starting to sweat again, but hopefully she won't notice. “I just want you to leave. This is my house, and I want to be alone.”
I wait for her to say something, or better yet for her to turn around and walk away, but she seems to be staring at me.
“Have you been talking to him again?” she asks finally.
“Who?”
“You know who.” She pauses. “Have you been talking to Charlie?”
I shake my head.
“You have, Owen. I can tell.”
“Not for... Not for a while,” I stammer.
“But you still blame yourself for his death,” she continues. “Owen, how many times do people have to tell you this? What happened at your bachelor party wasn't your fault. Charlie was an alcoholic, he'd been an alcoholic since long before either of us met him. He'd left the party by the time he went to see those other people, you weren't anywhere near him when he fell off that balcony. His death was the consequence of his own choices.”
“I should have kept an eye on him,” I whisper, easing myself down onto a chair. Suddenly I feel much weaker than before. “I should have looked after him.”
“It was your bachelor party,” she replies. “ He's the one who should have been looking after you for once. Instead, he pulled his usual shit of getting wasted, and he ran off and abandoned you. And this time, he managed to get himself killed.”
She steps closer and then she crouches in front of me, looking up into my face. After a moment, she reaches out and puts a hand on my shoulder.
“I know you think it helps you to imagine that he's still around,” she says as a tear runs down her cheek, “but in the long-run, you need to find some other way to get over it. When you canceled the wedding, I thought you just needed time, but now I see that the pain goes much deeper. Don't take this the wrong way, Owen, but I think you need serious, professional help. And if you won't get it for yourself, I guess we'll have to try some other approach.”
She pauses, before leaning closer and kissing me on the forehead.
“I'm going to help you,” she whispers. “You're going to get over this. Running away was never the answer.”
“I wasn't running away,” I spit back at her, “I was -”
Suddenly a fresh ripple of pain runs through my leg, and I let out a faint grunt. There's no way she missed that.
“I don't need you here!” I hiss. “Just leave me alone!”
“Owen -”
“I'm fine!”
Even as the words leave my lips, I know she'll never be convinced. And as I take a look around the room, I can't deny that she might have a point. Still, I can sort everything out without her help, so I just need to be smart here and figure out a way to get rid of her as quickly as possible.
“First,” she says after a moment, “I'm going to call an ambulance, because -”
“No!” I say firmly. “Absolutely not!”
“Owen, your leg -”
“Is fine!” I hiss, before realizing that I need to change the topic of conversation. The last thing I want is to see a doctor, since a doctor would take one look at my leg and realize that something's seriously wrong. At least while my leg remains covered and un-examined, I can stay in control of the situation. “Sometimes it helps to pretend that Charlie's around,” I tell her. “It's a coping mechanism. That's what you told me to find, isn't it? A way of going through things in my head?”
“Talking to Charlie all the time doesn't seem healthy.”
I can't help sighing.
“And while you're talking to him,” she continues, “do you always remember that he's a figment of your imagination? Or do you sometimes forget that he's been dead for six months, and instead you think he's really here?”
I want to tell her to leave me alone, but suddenly I turn and look over at the open doorway. I can hear flies still buzzing in the kitchen, and I'm starting to wonder who killed Bob. Until now, in my addled mind I was somehow convinced that it must have been Charlie, but clearly that isn't possible. So who picked my dog up off the floor and broke his neck?
“I really need to call an ambulance for you,” Vanessa continues.
“No.”
“And then I'll help you tidy up.”
I shake my head. “No.”
“And then -”
“I don't want to see a doctor!” I snap. “I'm fine, I just...”
Pausing, I realize I need to let her think she's helping. That'll be the quickest way to get rid of her.
“You can stay,” I stammer finally. “Just for today, just... Just so you can see that I'm okay, and then I want to be alone.”
“But -”
“Look!” I get to my feet, forcing myself to smile even though the pain in my leg is excruciating. I damn near topple over, but somehow I manage to push through the agony and remain standing. “See? There can't be that much wrong with me, can there?”
She seems skeptical, but finally she takes a step back.
“I'm going to clean the kitchen,” she tells me. “After that, I'll get started on the rest of the house, and then I'll go into town and fetch some actual food, okay? If you don't want me calling an ambulance, you have to at least put up with me hanging around until tomorrow.”
“Fine,” I mutter, even though I hate the idea. “But then you have to leave!”
“Wait here,” she adds, heading to the door. “I don't want you to strain yourself too much.”
I wait until she's left the room, and then I ease myself back into the chair. I feel like a goddamn child, but at the same time I can't help recognizing that I might need a little help. It's hard to believe that I spent several weeks sitting here typing, barely stopping at all, and I can only assume that I was going to the kitchen and fetching food. Nothing else makes sense. It's not as if there was anyone here to look after me. The whole period is a complete blur, and I think I even forgot for a while that Charlie wasn't really here.
And then there was the bride.
I have a vague memory of seeing my reflection in the window, and seeing the veiled bride right behind me. That can
't have happened, of course, but the image is still strong in my mind. I take a deep breath, trying to gather my composure, and then I get to my feet. Walking slowly and with great pain, I head to the window again and look out, although the bright daylight means I can barely even see my own reflection, let alone the reflection of some ghoul that I might once have imagined standing nearby. Obviously I let the house get to me for a while there, but now I'm back on the right track.
I'm not cracking up. Once Vanessa has left, I'll be fine again.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Katinka - 1859
“Keep adding the paraffin,” Mrs. Whitaker says as she slides a jar of congealed yellowish liquid across the pharmacy counter, “but add some of this. It's from the fat of pigs, but I dilute it with gooseberry flesh just to make the effect more subtle. There are some other ingredients, but I'm afraid those are trade secrets. The important thing is that your skin will clear up in no time. Not that you have a problem, mind. You look positively radiant, Ms. Ashbyrn.”
“You're too kind,” I reply, dismayed by the thought of rubbing pig fat on my face. Still, I suppose I must give it a try. “What about the scent? Will it be overwhelming?”
“The gooseberry counters that,” she continues. “Don't worry, I've thought of everything. I wouldn't tell you to use something if I wasn't supremely confident. You're going to look so utterly stunning on your wedding day, Ms. Ashbyrn, that people will never stop talking about your beauty.”
“You flatter me,” I tell her, although I can't hide a faint, blushing smile. “Do you really think so?”
“I know so! Why, look at you? You're the finest beauty for miles around.”
My smile grows.
“And one of the other ingredients in my little concoction,” she continues, leaning toward me as she lowers her voice to a conspiratorial hush, “is none other than -”
Suddenly there's the sound of footsteps coming from the back-room. Mrs. Whitaker hurriedly slips the jar into my basket, just as her husband comes into view. It's well known throughout Turthfeddow that he doesn't approve of his wife offering her own remedies to people who come to the pharmacy, but he tolerates her work so long as she doesn't make too much of a show.
“Ms. Ashbyrn,” he says, offering me a faint nod. “I was truly sorry to hear the news about poor Pippa. You must be in shock.”
“It's tragic, to be sure,” I reply.
“You will convey our condolences to your mother, I trust,” he continues, coming over to join us. “I cannot begin to imagine the heartache of losing a daughter, especially in so violent a manner. And especially in one's own garden, just yards from one's home.”
“Did nobody hear her scream?” Mrs. Whitaker asks.
“Violet!” her husband hisses. “Do not ask such indelicate questions!”
“It's fine,” I reply, forcing a smile. “Thank you both for your kind thoughts. Pippa was so looking forward to serving as my maid of honor next week, but I am sure she'll be with me in spirit. And even in death, she'll most certainly be happy for me.”
“Are you going ahead with the wedding?” Mr. Whitaker asks, clearly a little shocked.
“I'm sure it's what Pippa would have wanted,” I continue. “Why, I am sure that in her final moments, as that brute was beating her to death, she was hoping that I would now allow the tragedy to spoil my big day.”
I wait for them to tell me that they agree, but to be honest they both appear a little troubled. Staring at me, they seem to not quite understand, although I suppose I should not hold that against them. After all, they're fairly simple, docile folk, like most of this town's inhabitants.
Before I can say another word, however, I hear a general commotion erupting in the town square. Turning, I see several men hurrying past, and a moment later one of them spots me and comes back, pushing the door open and rushing into the pharmacy.
“Ms. Ashbyrn!” he gasps as the bell rings above the door. “It's good that you're here, for there's news! The man who murdered your sister has been apprehended! He's being taken to the gallows right now!”
***
By the time I get to the square, I find that quite a crowd has gathered. Half the town must have turned out to attend this impromptu meeting, and already one of the local men is readying the hanging post that stands outside the tavern.
“Thank the Lord,” a woman mutters next to me. “I was going spare, thinking that some murderous brute was on the loose. At least now we know he's been caught. From what I heard, there was quite a chase, too. He had to be tracked by men on horseback.”
“And is it definitely the killer?” I ask, turning to her.
“Mr. Pollock says there's no doubt,” she continues, glancing at me, “and so -”
She stops as soon as we make eye contact, and it's clear that she had not hitherto realized to whom she was speaking.
“Ms. Ashbyrn,” she stammers, “I...”
“It's quite alright,” I reply calmly. “I accept your undoubted condolences. And you're right. If the venerable Mr. Pollock, our local magistrate, affirms the guilt of this miscreant, there can be no doubt. Evidently the man who murdered my dear sister Pippa has, indeed, been caught. For this, we must all give thinks.”
As the crowd erupts with a series of boos and cries, I turn and see that a scruffy-looking man is being led onto the platform next to the hanging post. It takes a moment, but I finally realize that I've seen this man before. It is the same vagrant I caught in the garden, back when he was stealing mushrooms a few days ago. He looks to be in a worse state now, as if he has been soundly beaten during his capture, and he stumbles slightly before one of the men gives him a shove in the back and sends him slamming into the post. Before the man can even begin to steady himself, a noose is slipped around his neck.
After a moment, I see that he's trembling so hard, his knees are actually knocking together.
“We caught the miscreant stealing apples from the vicarage orchard!” Mr. Pollock announces, as the crowd continues to bay for blood. “There was a boy with him, but the boy ran off before he could be apprehended. Still, no child could be responsible for the heinous murder of Pippa Ashbyrn. Only a man could have done such awful things to her body.”
“Hang him!” a voice calls out.
“Hanging's too easy!” adds another. “He should be burned!”
“Settle down!” Mr. Pollock says firmly. “We could call the proper authorities to town, and let them investigate, but I doubt anybody here wants to wait for justice to be served. There's no doubt whatsoever about this man's guilt, so I propose that we mete out a firm, fair and swift punishment. Does anyone object?”
“Kill him!” a voice shouts.
“Get on with it!” adds another. “Make him bleed first!”
“I didn't kill anyone!” the prisoner sobs, with the noose still around his neck. “Please, you have to believe me! My son and I were merely -”
Before he can get another word out, one of Mr. Pollock's assistants hits the prisoner hard on the back of the head, causing more cheers to immediately erupt from the crowd.
“Weasel words to the last,” Mr. Pollock mutters, before making eye contact with me. He hesitates, as if shocked by my presence. “I see that Ms. Katinka Ashbyrn is here with us,” he continues finally, and now the crowd hushes as faces turn to me. “If she wishes to beg for clemency, and if she wishes us to call the authorities so that a proper trial can be arranged, I shall of course defer.”
Now there is silence around me, as everybody waits for me to speak.
“No,” I say finally. “I think, Mr. Pollock, that you have excellent judgment. You must do as you think is best. I shall leave the matter entirely in your hands.”
“You know I'm innocent!” the prisoner shouts. “You know I was picking mushrooms in your garden, but I left! I left several days ago and I didn't come back! I confess to stealing from you, and from several other houses in the area, but I never laid a finger on any girl! You must realize I'm not
the killer!”
I look at him for a moment, staring into his terrified eyes.
“I know no such thing,” I continue finally, before turning to Mr. Pollock. “I defer to your decision. You are, after all, wiser than anyone else here present. Do as you see fit.”
Mr. Pollock nods, before turning to his men. He hesitates, as if for effect, as the crowd continues to agitate for his verdict, and as the prisoner begs for his life.
“Hang the bastard!” he roars finally. “Let's get it over with!”
A cheer erupts from the crowd as the prisoner is dragged, still sobbing and protesting, to the front of the platform. The noose is tightened around his neck as he begins to scream, but suddenly he drops from view behind the heads in front of me, and I see the rope tighten.
A huge roar fills the town square, along with a smattering of applause, and it is clear that the miscreant has been hanged. There is a part of me that wishes to turn and walk away, but at the same time I know I might never again have the chance to witness such a thing at close quarters. I make my way around the edge of the crowd until I reach the hanging post, and there I stop as I see that not only is the prisoner dead, but the pressure of the noose has caused his bloodshot eyes to bulge almost entire from their sockets. And his neck is quite clearly broken. Some men have been pulling on his legs, just to ensure that the job is done, but now they step away.
High above, the hanging post creaks as the body swings gently.
“Served him right,” a woman sneers next to me, before turning and walking away.
The crowd is beginning to leave now, but I stay in place and watch the corpse for a moment longer.
“You don't need to see this,” Mr. Pollock tells me. “Ms. Ashbyrn? Perhaps you should return home. This is not for the eyes of a lady.”
“What will be done with his body?” I ask, still staring at the man's protruding eyeballs.
“Tossed in an unmarked grave,” he explains. “I'm minded to leave him hanging here for a day or two, though. Just as a warning to everyone else.”
I watch the dead man for a moment longer, before turning to Mr. Pollock.
