The Emily Taylor Mystery Bundle

by Catherine Astolfo

  Until she came along, I had never been seen with a woman other than my mother or those who come to talk to me by the canal. More than that, I had never been caught looking at a woman in a sexual way. The villagers concluded simply that I, in my great wisdom, knew that no girl would likely be interested in me because of my permeating ugliness. So I adjusted, they said, to a life of celibacy, content with hearing confessions on the bridge.

  Little do these kind-hearted, self-centered and simple people know that their worship of me, their constant attention to me, plunges me daily into hell.

  For I do look at women, and often, with lust and longing in my eyes, if only they took the time to notice. I am especially frightened of my feelings for her.

  The 'her' underlined twice, the pen leaving dark lines on the paper, it seemed that this was where Nat lost control—in the presence of someone he obviously admired and perhaps even loved. A small voice in the back of my mind kept saying, "it's you, Emily, Nat was in love with you." Who else asked him for his opinion? Asked him how he felt? Put a friendly hand on his sleeve? Later I was to wish fervently that I had listened to the voice and put the book away, given it to Ed Brennan, anything but keep reading. Yet continue I did, as if I somehow owed it to that other Nathaniel to find out what this Nathaniel had done to him. I still could not believe that 'my' Nat was this perverted, evil person who hated himself so thoroughly, who 'abused and was abused'.

  During those ten long years when I was away, I at first traveled everywhere, working at countless different jobs, even in the kitchen of a cruise boat to Europe, searching. Nowhere did I find love or acceptance. Ridiculed, used, degraded, hated, mistrusted, my outer shell proved too thick to penetrate. It was in this time, in each vast city with its impersonal cold, that the desire smouldered and grew and even now begins my struggle each day.

  In Burchill, I at least have the bridge. It is my link, my purpose. There is a reason to rise every morning. As the bridgeman, I am needed, relied upon. Inanimate objects have always appealed to me more than people did. Objects do not frighten me. I love that bridge. I enjoy stroking the machinery into action, take pleasure in helping it perform. Beside the bridge, I am small but treasured, needed for myself, not for what I ought to be.

  It is ironic that in the years after I returned, I began to attract the villagers' attention. I became aware of their interest slowly, shyly. I never sought their affection and certainly do not want their confidences. Terrified to speak, I would stoically avoid them. Instead of driving them away, my silence acts like a magnet. Now every day, I go through the torture, wishing I could hide away under the bridge forever.

  They are good people, though, and this makes my struggles worse. The sins that they confess to me are, in my estimation, as particles of dust in comparison to the mire of my dark soul. Yet I hate them, too, for they use me as all other people have. They have created their own bridgeman, love me for the man they want me to be, and not for who I am. Never do they consider me a person with needs and wants of my own. I am ugly, condemned to a 'priestly' existence through none of my own doing. And the people of Burchill, because they want to, believe that my lifestyle is one of my own choosing. My hatred, my desires, my resentment, well up each day and emerge in the way that I have come to see myself, twisted and ugly. Every morning, after cleansing myself with prayer, I start the day feeling strong and new. By seven, after numerous confessions, problems and confidences from my neighbours, the evil inside me dissipates.

  At least to her, I am visible. I am simple, I am kind, I am shy to the point of speaking and smiling little. She can never imagine another side of me. She would never believe that under the overalls of the competent bridgeman is a consummate actor, whose role is worthy of an Oscar. Every day I play my other part, the ill-educated speech patterns, the painful introversion, the asexual touch, the limited vocabulary and thoughts. If only she knew that beneath this cloth lies a man who has participated in evil, abuse, lies, and even murder. If only she knew the tortured ritual through which I go each evening when the bridge has been oiled and coated for the night and I am nearly consumed by the fire within.

  If only she knew that my tormentor, my 'partner in crimes' lives among the villagers, too, but unlike myself, accepted as one of the elite. If only she knew that I am the conduit that permitted this evil to leak into the little town of my birth, the innocent enclave unaware of the violence and abuse in its midst.

  Again, I stopped, looking up and squinting into the darkness beyond my lamp. I could hear Will's snoring, the waves lapping the shore, the distant hoot of a lonely bird. I shivered in the cool of the storm's aftermath. I wanted desperately to think of this diary as a novel.

  What if Nathaniel had enjoyed writing this fiction? What if his hints to me about the diary had been purposely given, hoping I'd read it so he could laugh at me the next time I looked at him with different eyes? Although this explanation still felt like a betrayal, it made more sense than the one these words implied. A partner in crimes? What crimes? In the village? Accepted as one of the 'elite'? In our Burchill? Give me a break, Nat, or whoever you are. Going on seemed easier now. This had to be the work of a sick imagination.

  My tormentor found me in Toronto. It's easy to find people like yourself in the alleys and darkness of a big city, under cover of garbage and stench that keeps all others away.

  This particular club was in a narrow alley, the back part of a seedy restaurant that fed cheap greasy meals to people who couldn't afford much else. Unless you had been told, you wouldn't know the place existed. The entry looked like the door to a garbage shoot, which in many ways it was. By this time in my life, I had given in to my desires to hurt and abuse, but stopped at killing. In my twisted way, I actually thought I was being good! What a kind, thoughtful human being I was and still am, torturing and injuring and even maiming, but not killing. How generous and restrained!

  She would never set foot in a place such as this, nor would I ever wish her to! When I met her, everything she did and said put my life into a different perspective and I have regretted my past and my present more deeply than ever. Most people, as I said, do not know these evil dens exist. But exist they do, even now, in this day of 'enlightenment' and 'civilized' behaviour.

  When you enter, you are struck by the aura of degradation, the smell of fear and anger and perversion. It is also the odour of power. The client here becomes the creator or the destroyer. The fate of the heart in your grip is under your complete control. This particular dungeon under the ground is an enormous cave. There is a large stage in the middle of the first cavern as you enter. On either side, long narrow passageways lead off into the darkness. The rooms on either side of these tunnels resemble stables, which, in actual fact, they are. The only privacy is provided by dark red curtains and behind those filthy pieces of cloth you can hear the sounds of cruelty and suffering.

  When I entered the Den for the first time, I had some idea of what to expect. I had visited these places in my short wanderings through Europe. Without being aware of it, I had reached the bottom. Here I was, back in my own territory, giving in to my depravities even when I knew I could be caught. I was tired, full of self-hatred and self-pity.

  Perhaps I wanted to be discovered. I had entered the den of hell. At this point, had I known, I could have saved myself. I could have made a different decision. But I did not. I had no idea that my action—or inaction—was about to cause a set of circumstances that would involve so many lives.

  The show is about to begin, so the strings of lights are dimmed even further, and we all perch expectantly on the folding chairs in front of the stage. There are about twenty of us there, all furtive, staring at the stage, avoiding anyone's eyes lest they see the need mirrored there. Right now there is not much to look at. The only prop on stage is a gleaming stainless steel table. The curtains part and the women stand there, two of them, tall, thin, emaciated creatures, their faces covered with masks, their bodies oiled and hidden in shadow. For it is not the
women we come to see.

  It takes only a few moments for the donkey to be led onto the stage, clopping heavily on the wooden planks, its fur standing straight up on its head and back, quivering in the dampness of the dungeon. For most of us in this room, we of the ugly inclinations, the animal is the part of the show that we have been waiting for.

  This time the breath left me and I choked, rising quickly and walking away from the book as if it were alive.

  Chapter 13

  When I got to the washroom, I glimpsed my face, flushed and blotched, in the mirror. I was uncertain as to whether I could keep reading, whether I could ever touch those pages again. I felt nauseous and teary, sad and terrified. Pictures of the Nathaniel Ryeburn I once thought I knew—shy smile, generous, simple, thoughtful, hard working, walking by my side, speaking in low tones, spare but delightful chuckle—kept flashing through my mind. Completely at odds with the vicious, ugly, remorseful yet somehow proud, visions of the writer of this diary.

  This Nathaniel Ryeburn held a dark secret for which he was sorry, yet obviously not ready to relinquish. He claimed to be held in its power. Yet wearing that secretive, spying mask was a choice he had made. Had he been peering at me from behind those dark, hooded eyes all this time?

  I shivered again, and suddenly, I no longer was able to hold it in. I vomited and sobbed at the same time, letting go of all the horror and filth that had slid down into Burchill and into my life over the last few days.

  When I regained a sense of calm, I checked to make sure Will and Angel were still asleep, then fixed myself a cup of hot tea. I stood for a long time in the kitchen, looking out at the sky, watching the lightning flickering over the trees as the storms moved east. Stirred up by the wind, the waves were still fairly rough, splashing against the shore, clawing rocks and sand back with them. Our wind chimes tinkled back and forth, a lonely tune in the stillness left by the thunder and lightning. My hands had stopped shaking. Warmed by the cup, my fingers no longer felt icy.

  For a moment, my mind was blank, mesmerized by the movement of the waves back and forth and the leaves swaying with the trees. It was one of those moments when time stands still, when you are aware of the beating of your heart and the breath as it leaves your body, when your life behind you and beside you is a jumble of images and words that have frozen into a mist. I stood for the longest time with my mouth slightly open, as if deeply asleep, unable to fathom what was happening to me or what I should do from here.

  When my thought process came back to me, it was a loud, angry voice in my head. I could no longer deny that this diary might have clues to Nathaniel's death. If this writing had actually been penned by Nat, which I still, irrationally perhaps, tended to believe that it could not have been, then his references to his 'tormentor' and the fact that this person lived in Burchill could not be ignored. Yet I was not ready to turn it in just yet. I wasn't sure that I was finished reading.

  Despite feeling nauseous and afraid, there was another force that seemed to be propelling me back to those pages, as if obsessed with a horror flick that you watch with one eye, unable to take it in fully yet unable to let it go. Thus I went back to reading. I had to uncover the mystery. I had to know what had led Nathaniel back to Burchill, led him to become someone he was not—and curiosity, disbelief, whatever emotions there were—still remained greater than my fear and disgust.

  God help us, we watch and take pleasure in what we see. And when the show is over, we are offered any number of rooms for ourselves. We pay our money and slink off to do whatever hideous deeds in the dark and dankness of the caves.

  I turned the page of the diary only to discover a series of lines and drawings, obviously made by the writer, which made no sense to me at all. It seemed as if the author—as if Nat—were letting out his emotions and self-recrimination in some kind of code known only to him. The lines screamed out disgust, fear, anger. The small drawings seemed to curl into themselves, as if he were trying to return to a womb of safety and sanity.

  Despite my revulsion at his sexual proclivities, my heart cried out for this Nathaniel, the one tormented and unloved, the one who had succumbed to this power over those poor animals because he could find it nowhere else. When no human being will touch you, when there was no opportunity to become one with another, did it seem so odd that your mind and heart and soul could become twisted and so easily turned to evil? These drawings before me seemed to be a cry for help, a begging of forgiveness. There was something childlike and pathetic about them, as if no words could describe the torture that he went through day after day.

  It was almost dawn and the first tentative rays of the sun had pierced through the clouds, orange and pink on the horizon. The birds were ruffling their feathers, calling out softly to make sure everyone was there, beginning the hunt for food.

  I heard Angel's paws clipping softly across the floor and I put my arms out for her. She snuggled next to me, head on legs stretched out in front, and sighed contentedly. Had Nathaniel abused her? This sweet, loving, innocent dog? I snuffled my face in her fur, tears edging through again, feeling pity and anger and grief all at once. One hand resting on Angels' silky body, I turned the page of the diary.

  He caught me as I came out of the Den that night. Grabbing my arm roughly, he spun me around and held me against the wall of the building. Although I am much taller and larger than he, I couldn't find the strength to fight back. I was spent. My emotions had taken me to the heights of excitement, disgust, fear, and power. I was physically empty, exhausted, extinguished. I could not fight him.

  Even in my dazed state, I saw that he had found me and that he saw who I had become, knew all about what I had done, what I was compelled to do. He held the packet in his hand and leafed through them slowly, and even in the darkness I could see them clearly.

  "You're going back to Burchill. We have business. Make it soon. Or else." He slipped the package into his jacket and walked away, his footsteps echoing in the quiet night.

  I slid to the ground, the dirt and wet of the building seeping through my pants, the harshness of the bricks scratching through my shirt. Tears flowed down my face. A hacking cough of weeping erupted from my lips. I was completely out of control.

  His utterance was a command and a threat. I knew what he would do with the package if I did not return, and I simply could not risk it. I could not bear to think that my mother would die knowing her son was a depraved and sickening soul, someone she would never be able to look upon again. Although she had been a cold, unaffectionate mother, she was still mine. And I was tired, needy. He had chosen exactly the right time to appear. How had he known? On reflection after all this time, I believe that it was simply coincidence.

  If I had known what was to occur in Burchill, would I have returned upon his command? Would I have chanced that either his threat was empty, or that my mother would never have believed him? Even when he showed her the evidence, would she have turned him away, told herself that the pictures were faked? Of course I will never know, because after that brief, quickly uttered command in that alley, I was simply destroyed.

  I became another man, the one the villagers would have expected me to grow up to be. And I went home, sick and silent, malleable, simple, just the way he wanted me to be.

  Again the underlining was deep and cutting, almost tearing the paper, and the anger and aggression was alive on the page. I put my head down on Angel's silky fur. She turned and licked my face, compassionately, her big eyes liquid and soft, almost as if she could feel my grief.

  Was Nat referring to his father? Had that cruel, cold man—the kind of man who could ignore his wife's embarrassment and loss of dignity as he wheeled her around in a flimsy nightgown, the kind of man who could throw a beautiful dog into the arms of strangers—been his own son's tormentor? Had the cavernous walls of the bridgeman's cottage led inevitably to the Den of Nathaniel's hell?

  Rejection from everyone, including his own parents, had turned a confused little boy into a sadistic,
twisted man who needed to have power and degradation to feel sexually fulfilled. In some ways, it seemed a miracle, even a gift, that he had not turned to the rape and murder of women. And although I did not consider an animal's life less important than a human's, at the moment, my head buried in this loving little dog's fur, I could not feel the difference. Nat had indulged in torture and rape of helpless animals. I could not imagine the life those beasts had had to endure. I could not imagine that they could have lived very long in those conditions. Had Nat continued his depraved lifestyle here in Burchill? Was his father part of it? Did we have our own Den here in this sleepy, unsuspecting community?

  I knew about the land that he owned just north of Burchill. It is a perfect place for his operation. Surrounded by a huge bush of trees, it's accessible only through a dirt road that you can barely see from the road. He makes a great deal of money, much of which he has shared with me, and which I have taken. Blood money, yes, but in my perverse way, I have spent it in contributions to those organizations that fight what I have helped to create and maintain. Ironic, twisted of course, but that is who I am. I am a complete persona now.

  It seems that all my life I have been condemned to wear a mask that prevents people from seeing the real me. Even my parents did not love or accept me. They gave me only punishment and rebuke. I have always thought that their reaction to me was because of my great ugliness. I have never blamed them. Taunted and jeered as a child, told I should join a circus, I retreated, always avoiding looking glasses and store windows and the mirror of another human being's eye. Inside, behind the mask, is a sensitive, warm, affectionate boy now man, longing to be held and loved and respected. I had never met anyone who could look beyond my hideous exterior, until SHE came to Burchill. Would everything have been different if only I had seen that she might enter my life?